Larry L. Dill's
New Hope Journal
Personal Essays and Public Opinions since 1979
February, 2006
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A Commonplace Book of Days for January, 2006:
"A Journey in Time"
from Larry L. Dill's Intimate Journals
January 9, 2006, 3:20 pm. Partly cloudy.
First day back at Rabbit Rock in the new year. Alone here in Rockledge (Le Petite Salon de Roc). Will spend first night here ever.
Had some broken water pipes at this and the big house over Christmas. Will repair tomorrow. Silent here and bare trees. Sun off and on. Down below, work continues on log home the neighbors are building. Brought my fresh washed clothes from town to hang on line outside. Tied up a line between two trees. Picked up mail at P.O. on the way out of town. Two New Yorkers and Harpers. No inspiration to write today but intend to make daily or frequent entries. Whistle at Canton Paper Mill over the mountain blows at 3:30 and rides here on the wind. Warm today. High 60s. As sun goes down behind Sugar Top, though, I feel a chill. Am drinking hot tea. Will build a fire soon.
Currently reading Stephen Greenblatt’s biography of Shakespeare, Edward Said’s “Orientalism” and Montaigne. A new study of Montaigne’s essays which I plan to call Montaigne et Moi, is part of this year’s plan. We’ll see.
Tuesday, January 10.
Worked on broken water line this morning and leaking drain under sink. Oatmeal for breakfast. Homemade chili mac for lunch..
Recipe for Hurry-up Chili Mac
Canned Pinto beans
Olive Oil
Chili powder
Chopped onions and garlic
Rotel tomatoes
TVP
Noodles
Listening to Samuel Alito confirmation hearings on the radio. A master of disguise.
Must go clear the silt from the spring and work on water line breaks at the big house.
Read Greenblatt for one hour. Past tense. Gave Greenblatt to Elaine for Christmas last year. Found it on a shelf in her house when I was laying tile there this Christmas. Started reading it to maintain my balance. Borrowed it to bring home and finish. Will send back soon.
Some sun now. Hunting dogs barking in the Gap this morning. Saws running on construction site below. Both sounds distant. Otherwise quiet.
Wednesday, January 11
Rain. Parallel universes. Real rain outside. Imaginary rain inside my head. Imaginary?
Dreams of X and her cluelessness. To awaken from a dream so unpleasant but so unimportant is itself refreshing. (No, it’s not you).
I have slept 10 hours. Unusual for me now that I have quit drinking.
Fire in woodstove roars and blazes.
Sitting in my grandmother’s rocking chair that I was rocked in as a baby. Brought it all the way back from Texas. It’s about to fall apart. It has had a long strange life. And that is just the part I know about. Thinking now of the family and the movie “The Straight Story.”
“You sleep there in my trailer. I’ll be alright here by the fire,” he said. Need to get hold of a copy of that movie. And Jessica’s too.
Good coffee.
The mouse keeps eating the peanut butter off the trap without springing it. Two days in a row now. Bad trap? Or smart mouse. I don’t know. Reminds me of the old Disney animated film, “Ben and Me,” about Benjamin Franklin and his pet mouse. Need to get that movie too. Haven’t seen it in maybe 50 years. As I recall, most of Franklin’s inventions had to do more with the mouse’s ingenuity than with Franklin’s. Need to find a copy of that somewhere.
Need to clean up the tiny droppings around the trap and reset it. Need to clean up the whole cabin. Need to sweep it out. Work on water pipes. Found new break last night.
Write about family. “We’re all family.”
Bob Dylan drops into the Blue Note one afternoon to listen to Thelonious Monk all alone at the piano. Dylan tells Monk that he played folk music up the street. “We all play folk music,” Monk replied.
“We All Play Folk Music”
(You gotta walk that lonesome valley, you gotta go there by yourself. Ain’t nobody here can go there for you. You gotta go there by yourself.)
I have a cabin on Deborah’s land.
I built her one there, too.
Hers is grand like the mountain it’s built on.
Mine is humble like a last little bit of hope.
I built it as an old camp house of logs and stone.
An extension of skin like the old leather jacket I wear around out here.
I sit by the fire in my grandmother’s rocker thinking
about the thoughts I could have thought,
the words I could have written down.
The clouds here are faint and misty.
The sun is far away.
The rain drops lined up on the bare maple limb outside the window make me want to get my camera out. I don’t. I’m not a Ludite y’all. In the end, though, I know that your life and your death comes down to nothing more than the way you look out the window at the world. That’s metaphor. You can’t do it with a machine.
January 12
How long can the cracked glass in the lantern last? Up at 3:45 am. The mouse licking peanut butter from the applicator knife next to the trap turns it over to get the last morsel. Flipping the knife over sounds like the trap being sprung and he is caught. But when I look I see that he has evaded me for the third night in a row. Through two different traps set on three different nights he has stolen the bait without springing the traps.
It is 6:30 now as I begin to write. I’ve been up and reading and drinking coffee for 2 hours and 45 minutes and still another hour to go before daylight. These lines have no use except for me here now. I have turned out the noisy propane lanterns and sit with only a kerosene lantern with a cracked glass. Still functional, but for how long?
I have stoked up the fire so hot that the loft became almost too hot to breathe. I removed some clothing, shut down the stove and now am once again feeling the chill of the morning air. It is probably in the mid thirties outside. Clear with a full moon that has already gone down. From my loft window, sitting in a rocker, I can see the glowing blue light in the east, behind the dark mountain as the sun comes around, the faint glow of pink still only a whisper in the blue. My whole life has been a series of mistakes and miscalculations, one after the other. And now this. Hold up in the Great Smoky Mountains like Eric Rudolph. Waiting for the judgment day.
(Notes for Montaigne et Moi)
Montaigne’s essays are always clearly illustrated with stories and references to historical figures and by the use of metaphors, conceits and figures of speech. For example, in the essay “Of prompt or slow speech” written around 1572 he uses the term “smells of oil and lamp” to refer to writing that seems labored. And always personal references. In the same essay, with the intimacy of a modern writer he begins a paragraph, “I have little control over myself and my moods.” In 1572 Shakespeare was only 8 years old. Harold Bloom, considered perhaps America’s greatest living literary critic, subtitled his book on Shakespeare, “The Invention of the Human.” What is “I have little control over myself and my moods,” meant to imply if not Montaigne’s humanness. Shakespeare was inspired by Montaigne, not the other way around. Wouldn’t Bloom know that?
Saturday, January 14, Marshall Street, Waynesville.
This morning light snow. Snow and bad weather predicted all day today. Yesterday was Friday the 13th. No real bad luck except for waking from another bad dream about Y (different person from X but still not you). Y continues to occupy more of my dream life than any other person I have ever known, living or dead excpt for my father who is always showing up so realistically and plesantly that I often wake up believing that he is still alive and am saddened when I remember that he isn't. The Y dreams are almost never pleasant. But Y’s personality is strangely distant in the dreams as it was in real life. She seems to be more of an observer of my hectic and complicated dream life than a participant. I developed all these strange theories about Y’s behavior including the idea that she sometimes almost deliberately projected certain of her own traits on to other people—especially me. But the place that this collection of dreams plays in my psyche leads me to think that perhaps it is I who was doing the projecting. (I have to leave some parts of this journal entry out for now but I can go on without them). I awoke yesterday morning with the strange sense of a kind of “victimization,” that often accompanies the memories of my dreams of Y. "La Belle Dame Sans Merci," Keats poem, always comes to mind.
Pale Warriors, death pale were they all,
They cried—“La belle dame sans merci
Hath thee in thrall!”
I saw their starv’d lips in the gloam
With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke and found me here
On the cold hill’s side.
But I had been reading Greenblatt’s life of Shakespeare, “Will in the World,” and had been fascinated with his discussion of 16th century English anti-Semitism that included the fictionalized demonization of an almost completely absent Jewish population that had been driven out of England 2 centuries earlier. The Jews were treated in Shakespeare’s time, Greenblatt says, the way wolves were in children’s stories. But the Jews, even though absent, were inextricably bound up in the Christian culture through the Old Testament foundations of Christianity and through the fact that Jesus himself was a Jew.
I think about Philip Roth’s writing about the Jewish psyche and about a Jewish person I knew once (Z, we’ll call him) who, as it turns out, was a mutual acquaintance of Y’s and mine and who was always talking about his sense of victimization. To hear him tell it, it was not so much that he himself had ever been badly treated but that his knowledge of his heritage was itself enough to cause him grief. I find that perfectly understandable, though always troublesome.
When I awoke yesterday morning after the umpteenth Y dream, I had the natural human feeling, “Why me, Lord?” that Job (and, in a sense, Z) had had--a sense that I was being punished unfairly for the sins of others. Yet on the other hand it all seemed like a kind of reverse projection in which I did not seem so much to be projecting my faults onto others as that I was projecting others’ faults back onto myself. There must be a clinical term for this other than “guilt.” Because guilt can imply culpability or it can imply just a fictitious “sense of guilt” the way some criminals can come to believe that they are responsible for crimes they didn’t commit. Maybe other than their bizarre inverse projections they aren’t even criminals at all. Paranoia is not the word I am looking for either since it is (to quote one dictionary definition) “the systematized delusions and the projection of personal conflicts that are ascribed to the supposed hostility of others.” This might describe Z's self diagnosis and it might also describe Y's. But my problem seems to be something else. I’ve never had the money to seek first rate psychoanalysis and this self analysis sucks.
Waynesville, Sunday, January 15. 8:00 am. Sunny, clear, 22 degrees.
When I got up the dog was lying in the kitchen floor instead of his usual location on his bed. I thought perhaps he wanted to go out so I let him out the front door. I do this at night sometimes and he usually takes a quick pee and runs back in. This morning he took off down the street as he sometimes does unexpectedly. I had to get in the car and drive down the street to find him. He always leaps into the car eagerly, his adventure acknowledged as over. I am always angry and vowing to punish him with no walk or banishment to his outdoor pen in the chill morning. My anger stems from the sudden, blatant defiance of my authority. Eventually I calm down. I have built a fire now and made coffee and have settled down to read.
Wednesday January 18
Will stay in town this whole week. Handyman stuff. Distractions. Sunny, cold, sitting by the fire now finishing up “Will in the World.” Worrying as usual about my health and about my ever more precarious financial situation. Still 8 months to go before I can begin receiving my meager Social Security check. These last few nights I have been looking at ways to travel cheaply. Out to New Mexico, say. What if I bought a small travel trailer and parked it in dead storage at a small town in eastern New Mexico? Pick it up on the way out and not have to haul it half way across the country. These are the kind of silly fantasies that haunt me. These are the thoughts that distract me.
But then back to work. Look at these lines from “Will in the World,” that provide the historical context for a theory I have been harboring in my head for years: Art has replaced religion in the minds of modern intellectuals in ways that retain the elemental human qualities that religion had heretofore served.
Shakespeare grasped that crucial death rituals in his culture had been gutted [by the Reformation]. He may have felt this with enormous pain at his son’s graveside. But he also believed that the theater—and his theatrical art in particular—could tap into the great reservoir of passionate feelings that for him and for thousands of his contemporaries, no longer had a satisfactory outlet.
The Reformation was in effect offering him an extraordinary gift—the broken fragments of what had been a rich, complex edifice—and he knew exactly how to accept and use this gift. He was hardly indifferent to the success he could achieve, but it was not a matter of profit alone. Shakespeare drew upon the pity, confusion, and dread of death in a world of damaged rituals (the world in which most of us continue to live) because he himself experienced those same emotions at the core of his being. He experienced them in 1596, at the funeral of his child, and he experienced them with redoubled force in anticipation of his father’s death. He responded not with prayers but with the deepest expression of his being: Hamlet.
January 20
Woke with a cold coming on at 4am. First cold in 5 years if it comes. I will take some Echinacea and a zinc lozenge and put on an extra sweat shirt and a fresh pair of socks and go back to bed.
10 am. Feeling much better. May have beaten back the cold. We’ll see.
Letter to a columnist in the local newspaper.
Dear Kathy,
You ask for your readers to respond to your "controversial" opinions. It is harder than you might think for one to disagree with you. You are usually sensible, rational and express yourself with humor and vitality. The ten controversial opinions you listed in your recent column are no exception. But some of these remind me of the old linguistic trap, “Do you still beat your wife?” If you say “yes,” you are a confessed wife beater. If you say “no,” one could conclude that you are a former wife beater.
Let’s discuss for a moment number 10 on your list: “I do not believe that the King James Version of the Bible is the only God-approved English translation, nor is it the most accurate.”
Like the assumption trap in “Do you still beat your wife?” there are unspoken assumptions in this “opinion” of yours, which in my opinion are far more controversial than the overtly stated one. First of course is the assumption that there is in fact a God. Second that he/she or it approves or disapproves not only of translations of the Bible but that his approval or disapproval can be generally known.
We also seem to be assuming here that God’s opinion about a translation of the Bible into English is somehow more significant than his opinion of a translation, say, of Harry Potter or Macbeth into Hebrew. And finally, if one accepts all these implicit assumptions in your “opinion,” one is forced to assume that God had some hand in writing the original version of the Bible, either by scribbling it down himself or dictating it to some chosen one like Moses or Pat Robertson or George W. Bush.
You know what? Forget all this. I’m not going to mail this anyway.
January 21, Saturday, 9am. Grey, rainy, 58 degrees.
Poring over maps of New Mexico. The Iranian scholar, Azar Nafisi, author of “Reading Lolita in Tehran,” has said that when she was studying in the US, she moved for a time to New Mexico because the landscape and the climate reminded her of the country of her birth. I am simply trying to conjure up the perfect place to live on $600 a month outside the Third World. Portales, New Mexico: population 11,000. Elevation 4,000 feet. High desert. Has a small university that offers master’s degrees in English, Journalism, Anthropology and History among others. Must have some sort of library. Has a public television station and a public radio station. You can rent an apartment there for under $300. Santa Fe is 200 miles away. 300 to the Gila.
You know what? Forget all that. In the summertime it will be 110 degrees in the shade out there. You’ll go out there this summer and get your fill of it in a few weeks and beat a path back to Rabbit Rock. You are a mental traveler. You go out to New Mexico because it reminds you of the New Mexico in your head. That parallel universe. Get back to work now. Get back to work.
January 23, Monday morning, 8am. Rain.
Not only does your known historical past haunt you throughout your life, but your published writing does as well. Your writing after all is part of your historical past and your published writing (even when there is precious little of it) becomes a kind of chronicle, for good or ill, of the public record of your past, which unlike the oral legends you devise or are devised for you about your past, has the force of stone tablets—a legal and moral account of who you were and what you thought at a given period of your life.
The human elements of legend and lie, not to mention the literary devices of fiction, obscure the truth in literature no less than they do in the oral tradition. Yet for me the things I wrote (and published) decades ago come back to haunt me every time I sit down to write again on the same subject.
The subject now is the Muslim world. At this time last year I published an essay in the local newspaper here excoriating another writer in the paper who had claimed that America’s role in the Tsunami relief efforts proved (or at least suggested) that we were more generous, humane, etc. than Muslims. (You can read that essay, “Tsunamier than Thou,” elsewhere on my website along with the original essay by my adversary and his published response to my response to it.
But 25 years ago (December, 1979) I published an essay in the Nacogdoches Sentinel shortly after the overthrow of the Shah of Iran and the establishment of the Islamic Republic of Iran. It wrote it in the form of a letter to the editor and not as one of my regular New Hope Journal columns for reasons I can no longer remember. I have reprinted it on this web page under the new title “Religion and Revolution in the Modern World,” but otherwise as it was originally published. Looking back on it now, it looks more like the sort of ecumenical sermons I have written over the years which I now find embarrassingly preachy, ill informed and intellectually ambivalent. Still it sounds like me. It is me. Or the ghost of the former me. What is scary about reading myself like this is that I have the clear feeling that if I live 25 more years (which is unlikely) I will feel the same way about what I am writing now. Sometimes it doesn’t take 25 years. Sometimes it only takes 25 minutes to make that kind of judgment.
January 24
Now that I could not call myself a teacher, a writer, now that I could not wear what I would normally wear, walk in the streets to the beat of my own body, shout if I wanted to or pat a male colleague on the back on the spur of the moment, now that all this was illegal, I felt light and fictional, as if I were walking on air, as if I had been written into being and then erased in one quick swipe.
--Azar Nafisi
Reading Lolita in Tehran
January 26, Waynesville. 9am. Sunny. 24 degrees.
What Nafisi gathered from “Lolita” was the idea that someone could steal another person’s life and make it into an extension of themselves. Humbert had done that with Lolita, Y had tried it with me (or at least that's how I felt--that "victimization" thing) and the Islamic revolution in Iran had done it with Nafisi and with many of her students. Only, as in “Lolita,” it hadn’t quite worked out the way it was intended…for any of us.
We exchanged stories as we walked that day. Nassrin [Nafisi used fictitious names for the students and others mentioned in her memoir. This was the period when the student revolutionaries had taken the American hostages during President Carter’s administration. It was a time of internal purgings of westernized intellectuals like some of Nafisi's students. Like Nafisi herself.] Nassrin told me more about her time in jail. The whole thing was an accident. I remember how young she had been, still in high school. You’re worried about our brutal thoughts against “them,” she said, but you know most of the stories you hear about the jails are true. The worst was when they called people’s names in the middle of the night. We knew they had been picked for execution. They would say good-bye, and soon after that, we would hear the sound of bullets. We would know the number of people killed on any given night by counting the single bullets that inevitably came after the initial barrage. There was one girl there—her only sin had been her amazing beauty. They brought her in on some trumped up immorality charge. They kept her for over a month and repeatedly raped her. They passed her from one guard to another. That story got around jail fast, because the girl wasn’t even political; she wasn’t with the political prisoners. They married the virgins off to the guards who would later execute them. The philosophy behind this act was that if they were killed as virgins they would go to heaven. You talk of betrayals. Mostly they forced those who had “converted” to Islam to empty the last round into the heads of their comrades as tokens of their new loyalty to the regime. If I were not privileged, she said with rancor, if I were not blessed with a father who shared their faith, God knows where I would be now—in hell with all the other molested virgins or with those who put a gun to someone’s head to prove their loyalty to Islam.
--Azar Nafisi
Reading Lolita in Tehran
January 29, Rabbit Rock, Sunday morning, 6am. High winds and rain. 42 degrees
Awoke to high wind gusts and feeling the big cabin swaying slightly in the wind. Could sleep no more. The loft felt vulnerable to a tree suddenly crashing through the roof. Got up. Put on coffee, stoked up the fire and went out on the porches to check the temperature and survey for any damage. Front porch wet. A damp seat cushion blown to the floor from the swing. An empty ice chest moved a few feet. Back porch dry. firewood on back porch dry. Wind must be out of the southeast.
When Jessica, Elaine and Camen were here last summer, a rainstorm blew in and we sat on the front porch and took it all in. The rain beating on the tin roof. The lightening flashing all around and loud thunder claps you could feel. Jessica said, “You feel much closer to the weather up here.” Yes you do. And you feel a safe connection to the shelter you are in and you think about the creatures out in the weather. The birds in the trees and everything down under the logs and leaves and rock.
This summer I will go to New Mexico. Paris in the spring. It is snowing now in Paris. Freezing in Santa Fe. What am I doing? How can I tell you who I am? How can I tell myself?
Nafisi says that for Henry James it all comes down to empathy for others. That, she says, is what was missing from the Islamic Revolution in Iran. The Islamic Revolution, though, is no different in the end, from any other revolution. Men come to power by force and force their will and their vision on everyone else. In Elizabethan England, Shakespeare’s time, the Protestant Reformation was in full force, sweeping away the injustices of the Catholic Church and replacing them with new injustices—intolerance, superstition, lack of compassion. Modern Islam is Medieval? Then so was the Renaissance. No one seems to realize how religious belief is so marginal to the will to power. In a revolution, religion becomes a mere excuse for evil. But religion itself is irrelevant to the revolution. Any idea—Marxism, capitalism, democracy, freedom--any idea can be used as an excuse for the will to power over others. Self preservation, national integrity, truth, beauty, culture, family, race, revenge. Any excuse.
It is light outside now. The bare trees sway in the wind and rain against a grey sky.
A great deal of hoopla surrounds the so-called “outing” of James Frey, the writer whose memoir turns out to contain a lot of fiction. Much ado about nothing, I say. There are conventions of course, but most writers, I would venture to say, know that writing about yourself is going to be mostly fiction. The creation of your own sense of your own victimhood at the hands of life is going to be relative to a larger world which you are not even likely to fully understand. So you write about yourself as if you did understand. Whether you place the blame on others or on yourself you are only likely to be partially right. Who will ever know? The techniques of psychoanalysis are like the techniques of fiction or religious mysticism. They are so real that they have to be believed even if they are only the true recounting of one’s own imaginary landscape. The philosopher, Wittgenstein said of Freudian psychoanalysis, “It is a powerful mythology.” For those inside the myth, though—whether it be religion, art, addiction, revolution, psychoanalysis, self-deception, madness, or “creative non-fiction”—the myth is real. It is not a myth.
OK, so James Frey is the jerk who duped Oprah. Who is Oprah duping? Let him who is without jerkiness and dupinghood cast the first stone. Let those who have never lied about their pasts or covered up their deceptions or forgotten to confess their sins, cast the first stones. Lets start with Oprah. Tell us the truth Oprah. We all want to know the truth.
January 30, Waynesville, 8:30 am. Sunny. Cold.
Reading New Yorker essay on John Ashbery. I return immediately to my nearly lost affection for Ashbery’s poetry and understand, for the first time, I think, why. The article talks about the way Ashbery works random thoughts and events into poems. I have done that for years, since the very first time I read one of his poems. But I keep forgetting that it is possible. I keep forgetting to write like John Ashbery. It feels so comfortable while I’m doing it. Like driving an expensive sport car through a beautiful landscape. But I look back at old Ashbery-like poems I have written and they just look like crap. Crap on a page. But then years go by and I read a new Ashbery poem in the New Yorker or take one of his books down off the shelf and read something from it or I read some little piece about him in the newspaper and I remember that if I can’t think of anything else to do I can just write like John Ashbery.
Of course to me when I have written an Ashbery-like poem, it doesn’t sound like Ashbery. Ashbery seems to know so many words and so many things that I don’t know and so many ways of describing his emotions that I don’t know, that I am sometimes depressed by Ashbery-like poems I have written because unlike some of my more conventional poems that will die honorably in a trunk in the same room that I myself am likely to die in (or be living in when I die) I have some hope, even after all these years, that the conventional poems might somehow manage to rise from the dead and make their way to the New Yorker or into a book by a real publisher and be found someday in bookshops in Manhattan and Santa Fe.
My Ashbery-like poems are more like things you leave in the bathroom—hair that has fallen out, nail clippings, and worse. There can be another conventional poet, my deluded imagination tells me, and it could be me! But there can never be another Ashbery. Just like there can never be another Jackson Pollock. So the Ashbery-like poems have nowhere to go. They aren’t even welcome in the trunk with the unpublished conventional poems. “We don’t want you in here,” they seem to be saying. “You belong in the bathroom.”
Photographic Memory
He thinks often of that childhood photograph
Where she is looking so earnestly up at her sister
As if trying to appreciate the subtleties of a particularly
Complex scene in a movie.
Now a grown woman,
She moves through loves and localities with the same
Commitment, the same intensity and awe.
You still want to hold her tight and say to her,
“It’s OK.”
“What’s OK?” she might query.
“I don’t know… Life, I guess.”
We work in the dark—we do what we can—we give what we have. Our doubt is our passion and our passion is our task. The rest is the madness of art.
--Henry James
(Quoted by Azar Nafisi in Reading Lolita in Tehran)
January 31, Waynesville. 9am. Sunny, cold.
Difficulty getting a fire going. Using junk mail for kindling. Finishing up article about Ashbery. He lived the life I would like to have lived. I probably wouldn’t have liked it if I had lived it. I’m not even sure I would have liked Ashbery if I had known him. Or maybe I mean his erudition would have made me uncomfortable. Ashbery’s poetry is the exception that proves the rule I’ve been trying to establish in a theory of the modern word. The way the language of modern literature—I mean, going back to well…as far back as whenever someone stopped believing in the literal truth of the Bible and substituted secular literature as sacred. It could have been Shakespeare, caught up as he was in the crossfire of the reformation and traditional Catholicism or it could have been, for instance, just my own discovery of literature—my sending of a passage by Hemingway about bullfighting to my former pastor 40 years ago because I thought it had more power than anything I had ever read before. Somewhere along the way… (and maybe there was even an unbroken line of secular literature treated as sacred going back even before the Bible)… somewhere along the way, writers and critics (critics in particular) began to worship the secular printed word exactly the same way that fundamentalists worship the Bible.
Oh, hell. Now the damn fire is going out again.
.
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