Choice

One has to laugh

Either that, or cry

I choose to laugh.

Sequitur

I sat alone in somber wakeness

Perfectly aware of my innate weakness

Too frail for frankness

Too scared for greatness

 

And pondered then my thankless

Though every so often, painless

Act of remaining gracious

In the defeat of my own candór.

Clear to Venus

I took this picture, of the sky clearing after the rain, on the way home from Edisto Beach last summer.  The picture, which I call, “Clear to Venus” (borrowed from an Andrew Peterson CD of the same name), reminds me that the best is yet to come; that the storm I am weathering is not indefinite—nor am I walking it alone.

This was an impressively-stressful month for me.  I was laid off on March 1st, and since that time I have been endeavoring to both keep the lights on and reinvent myself (no small task, I know).  It seems to me I have spent the last decade of my life (since college) floating from one job to the next, never really finding the place where I belong.

The picture keeps me going.  I use it as the wallpaper on my cell phone, and it has inspired me to do something truly extraordinary:  I am going to South Korea to teach English for the next year.  Granted, there is a lot to do beforehand, and I’m not exactly sure when I’ll be able to leave (documents, money, etc.), but everyone I’ve talked to is gung-ho about the idea.  That alone is encouragement enough.

So, let us (me) begin again.  Let us celebrate and anticipate our future plans:  may they be unbounded by fear and undimmed by failure.

 

Clearer Still

An update, if you will:

March’s optimism has bloomed into late-May reality for me; meaning, I am going to have to get a job if I want to take that job in Korea.  The question now presented me is, where?  Granted, I reside in Greenville, South Carolina, where I’ve been anchored since graduating from college some ten years (almost) ago.  But why should that hold me?  Why pay rent and electricity and water in Greenville, South Carolina, when I could do that anywhere?  So, I’m thinking outside the box:  if you, or someone you know, has a sofa I could crash on for a few weeks, I might just be on your doorstep.  Either way, I’ve got to get busy livin’ and workin’ so I can meet that oft-ether goal of getting to Korea.   Stay tuned…

Merry Christ Mass

Just a word of greeting to you on this, Christmas Eve 2008:

I hope your year has been merry,

And I pray it has been bright —

My thoughts go out to you,

Dear readers,

On this most holy night.

May this season give you joy,

That your worries are not in sight,

And the new year bring you peace,

For Christ has brought us Light.

Merry Christ Mass.

Away

Just in case you’ve wondered where I’ve been, I’ve been away. 

Every so often, the Father takes us away from the normal flow of our lives to tell us or show us something critically important.  Thus have been the last few days of my life.

In spite of the pain of this particular lesson, the outcome is my faith is much stronger than it has been in a very long while.  So, if even for that alone, I am thankful for this time. 

I’ll be back again soon, when I feel the verve to write something pithy.

Be good,

MBH

 

Et Cetera

My cat, Austin, died yesterday.  He was fifteen, a ripe-old age for a feline, but it makes his departure no less difficult to comprehend.  As of Sunday he was fine; then, yesterday afternoon, he was gone.  I miss him terribly, so much so if I write any more it will get to me.  At any rate, changes are inevitable in life, and this is just one more. 

In other news, I’m almost done with The Beautiful and Damned, which I think is a much better book than Paradise Lost.  You can see Scott Fitzgerald’s literary talent blossom, especially in the second half (once Anthony and Gloria get married, for those of you familiar with the book).  Nonetheless, I think it’s an incredible literary leap from Beautiful to The Great Gatsby–some strike of genius must have seized Scott between the two to make him write such a masterful work.  All I know is I can’t wait to get to Gatsby again.

Well, here’s to my dear old friend.  Rest in peace.

MBH

Elogy for a Young Actor

Australian-born actor Heath Ledger, star of such films as “The Patriot” and “Brokeback Mountain,” died today of an apparent drug overdose.   He was 28.

I write of Ledger’s death not to add to the  inevitable grieving, but to pause on the odd juxtaposition of a promising life ended all too quickly.

We Americans have a lasting fascination with such stories, the “what-might-have-beens” of history, from John F. Kennedy (dead at 46) and James Dean (24) to JFK Jr. (39)—vibrant young individuals whose celebrity burns brightly until it is suddenly, dramatically extinguished. 

We will never know the cinemagraphic heights James Dean may have risen to, what a second term might have portended for John F. Kennedy, nor the distinguished film career Heath Ledger may have enjoyed.  All we are left with—the fits and starts of an unfinished life, snippets suspended in time–are an unsatisfactory response to a question we cannot answer.

And so we mourn, we remember, and move forward.

M B H

Dana Reeve, 1961-2006

Dana Reeve, aspiring actress and talented vocalist, wife of the late actor and paraplegic Christopher Reeve (of “Superman” fame), and tireless advocate for the foundation which bears his name, died today of lung cancer.  She was 44.

I was never much of a Superman fan, and I only really shared the common respect for Chris Reeve’s gallant determination following his tragic accident, but hearing of Dana Reeve’s death this morning has deeply moved me.  In that grand irony that affects all of humanity, it seems we never truly appreciate the people who impact our lives until they are gone.

Dana Reeve was just such a individual.  A lesser person would have been wrecked by the struggle, first to aid her husband in his nine-year battle to recover from paralysis, and then less than a year after his death to face her own personal health crisis.  She had never smoked a day in her life, but was diagnosed with life-threatening lung cancer.  Still she battled on, furthering her husband’s cause as her own health rapidly deteriorated.  Just as she had been a bullwark for her husband, she remained passionately–and bravely–devoted to Christopher Reeve’s memory and to their family.

I do not know of the Reeves’ personal faiths, nor of the inner-strength which steadied and supported them through their lives, but it is inescapable to me that, perhaps in some final mercy, the two people who loved and adored each other above all else should be reunited.

Rest in Peace.

Alles Gute zum Geburtstag, Wolfie

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, who needs no introduction, was born on this day 250 years ago, January 27, 1756, in an apartment in Salzburg, Austria.  He died thirty-five years later in Vienna.

Mozart first composed at the age of five; his last work, the Requiem, was not completed in his lifetime.  For a complete biography, go here.

All day today, NPR is broadcasting a celebratory program from Salzburg, featuring live performances of Mozart’s works.  You can listen to a recording of the broadcast here.

Happy listening.     

Happy Birthday, Mr. Poe

Journalist, poet, and writer Edgar Allen Poe was born this day in 1809; nothing he published gained him much attention until 1845 when the poem “The Raven” appeared in the New York Evening Mirror. So popular was the poem that children would follow him down the street chanting ‘never more.’ Here are the verses of that famous tale:

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
`’Tis some visitor,’ I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door -
Only this, and nothing more.’

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; – vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow – sorrow for the lost Lenore -
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me – filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
`’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; -
This it is, and nothing more,’

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
`Sir,’ said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you’ – here I opened wide the door; -
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore!’
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore!’
Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
`Surely,’ said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -
‘Tis the wind and nothing more!’

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door -
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
`Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,’ I said, `art sure no craven.
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore -
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!’
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.’

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning – little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door -
Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as `Nevermore.’

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only,
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered – not a feather then he fluttered -
Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before -
On the morrow will he leave me, as my hopes have flown before.’
Then the bird said, `Nevermore.’

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
`Doubtless,’ said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
Of “Never-nevermore.”‘

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -
What this grim, ungainly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking `Nevermore.’

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
`Wretch,’ I cried, `thy God hath lent thee – by these angels he has sent thee
Respite – respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!’
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.’

`Prophet!’ said I, `thing of evil! – prophet still, if bird or devil! -
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -
On this home by horror haunted – tell me truly, I implore -
Is there – is there balm in Gilead? – tell me – tell me, I implore!’
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.’

`Prophet!’ said I, `thing of evil! – prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us – by that God we both adore -
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?’
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.’

`Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!’ I shrieked upstarting -
`Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! – quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!’
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.’

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted – nevermore!

(—with my thanks to The Writer’s Almanac for biographic notes)