The Art of Good-bye

The Art of Good-bye

or The Sixth of May

   The astonishing finality of what just happened took my by a languid surprise. I was finished, now. After several definite conquests, executing a gesture (pleasant, at that) of mere friendship was immensely satisfying and filling.

---

   No, ceremonius good-byes are my thing. I was going to say that they weren’t, but that would have been a lie. I suppose I really do adore the carefully-chosen words, the expertly-crafted last impression (which, skillfully-executed, can make a passing acquaintance or even an often-snubbed feel like he not only matters in your conceptions of the universe, but that he holds a special place within it), and the (in the case, usually of a very pretty girl) satisfied emptiness of spirit which accompanies it.
   There is something worshipfull in a good-bye — no matter to whom it is spoken — and it cannot be treated lightly even to scorn one most deserving. Indeed, the power of a good-bye is at its best and most reverent when it is also necessarily insincere.

This was written on May 6, 2004. It is actually a combination of two journal entries related in idea.
Crosspost: The Random Quill and Harbour in the Scramble

A Broken Hero

. . . Hugh’s body lying in a gush of slime and blood. . . . He lay on his back, both legs bent to the side, his face masked, effaced with blood. She tried to clean the stuff off his face with her hands, to get his nostrils and mouth clear, for he was breathing, a gasping shallow breath at intervals; but he lay motionless and his face felt cold. . . . He was broken.

— Ursula K. LeGuin, The Beginning Place

   When an author sets up a situation which has already been run to completion by dozens and hundreds of other authors, he is asking for trouble. Ursula K. LeGuin did so in her Beginning Place, a story which runs terrible risks of becoming stereotypical at every turn.
   The final operation of the plot, in which Hiuradjas (Hugh) and Irena are trekking from Tembreabrezi to the High Stair in an attempt to find and confront the mysterious fear which is controlling and destroying the little mountain town, seems at every turn to run a now-straight path to Standard Fantasy Plot 41-Q. However, at each apparent “out”, LeGuin craftily inserts a “not yet” which elegantly directs the plot in a new direction.
   When the climax arrives and the two face the monster, Hugh could have killed it with a single stroke and left. Now, as I read, I had been waiting for something to disappoint me: I had countless predictions for the outcomes of any situation. As I read on, it became apparent that if I were able to predict something, the odds were poor that it would actually take place: just like life. (And since Art imitates Life, I suppose that would make this book one of the few works of art within the entire Fantasy Literature genre.
   Well, surprisingly, Hugh does end up killing the monster with a single blow. However, in an unexpected turn (with which LeGuin is a master) he is trapped beneath the monster and left in an indeterminate state while Irena’s psyche is explored through her responses to the situation.

Philosophy: What Is an Artist?

I am
a scribe
and a reader
and a poet
and an artist.

So I write
and I read
and I write
and I live.

2002

   I wrote that, as you can see, quite a while ago, but it still holds true. I believe that one does not truly live, or get all of life there is, if one is not an artist in how one lives one's life. In trying to explain to people what I mean by “artist”, and why I feel honest in taking that title to myself, I usually use the following definition and illustration.

   An artist is one who sets things as they must be, not as they merely can be.

   When I was taking a creative writing class in college, the instructor looked over our first papers and made some comments so we could change things before we turned them in for a grade. In my paper she pointed out two things, one “minor” and the other “major” which I would do well to change before turning the paper in.
   First was diction. She disliked the word “phosphorescent” as being too cold and technical. Her suggested replacement was “glowing”. Needless to say, since “phosphorescent” had to be there, and “glowing” was merely permissible, I left the word in its proper place.
   Second was point of view. My point of view character was unconscious in the last few sentences of the story, but rather than have him awake a captive, I switched point of view briefly to show him being taken an unwitting captive. Of course, she [the instructor] thought that a fixed point of view was absolutely necessary, so that too was to be axed. I left it as well in its proper position.

   I received a C+ on that paper. Later in the semester, after she had often commented about how my writing tended to be gloomy and depressing, though not downright dark, I wrote a story which could be construed as happily-ending. Though pensive, it was not gloomy. For that effort I received an A+. If you were to ask me which story I am most proud of, and which grade I am most proud of, I would tell you that it is the first. I am more proud of the C+ I chose than of the A+.
   Many people have told me I should have made the changes for her, and kept the originals for myself. That is not an artistic thing to do. An artist would, on grounds of artistic integrity, never put out something not how it was of a necessity, rather than how it was requested to be. And that, in my definition of the term, is an artist.

Crosspost: Harbour in the Scramble and The Random Quill

Philosophy: Vow of Silence

or, Love is a secret thing.

. . . in all that divided them, in the distance that held them apart, there was room for desire without terror, there was room and time for love without effect, without penalty or pain. The only price was silence.

She was silent.

— Ursula K. LeGuin, The Beginning Place

   The price is silence, isn’t it? The price for desire without terror, and for love without penalty, is silence. Loving, without asking anything in return, is free. Only, you must be very careful to truly ask nothing in return, and that includes asking the loved to know of your love.
   One of the most difficult things to ask someone to do is to knowingly allow themselves to be the object of your dreams and affections. For love is above all a secret thing. Love does not display itself, and love overtly displayed is merely pride making use of another.
   Love is a thing which must always be acted upon. One cannot knowingly be loved and do nothing. When the discovery is made, one must choose to allow it or to disallow it. There is no way, no matter what the previous situation, to remain neutral: which is why it is such a grave demand to make of someone that they know that you love them.

   If someone knows that you love them — and believes that you have a true and deepening love, rather than simple infatuation — it is very likely they will be taken aback. “Thrown for a loop” might be one way of phrasing it. In fact, whether their reaction ultimately will be accepting or not, a disappearance on their part may likely be in order. When she returns, it will be definite. If she does return, no matter what she may say, some degree of acceptance exists.

And to a heart that has broken the vow of silence, whatever little there is, is enough.

Crosspost: Random Quill and Harbour in the Scramble

Things Which Are No Waste

   Some things I can do without doing: I'm sure there are some things which are a genuine waste of time. However — and this list may reveal to you something of my temperament — there are certain things which I do not think, however untimely they may be, I could ever classify as true wastes of time.
   Reading a book is one. No time spent reading would I ever call a man into account for, even had much loss occurred because of it. Reading, and in a general sense, learning is in my view one of the truest acts in which a man can engage, since it makes use of the very faculty which separates him from the animals: reason. (My apologies to Aristotle.)
   Writing is kin next to reading, and provides for learning and improvement in much the same way. Writing not only fits when something as pragmatic as learning is to be shown, but as well it is an art, I would say, above all others. Though a painting can very nearly tell a story, no two people will see the same story. Though a piece of music may carry the heart on high emotion and low; be it never so well-played, two men will hear two different songs. I do not mean to say that by writing I can produce an identical impression on two different men, but certainly I may come closer to it than an artist of any other medium.
   Another thing which is no waste is time spent with nature, wheter in the roaming of woods and deserts or the watering of a garden. Again, like learning, the self-betterment which such provokes is worth, I think, more than anything which may be missed because of it, whether it be supper, or a train, or a thirty-thousand dollar bequest. (My apologies to a wise philosopher.)
   Time spent with a beloved I was going to say is no waste. However, that is neither strictly nor consistently true. Very many times, too much time spent with a loved one may destroy what time apart would build up; and too much doting may make for accidental bitterness towards the one doted upon. No, as cold as it may sound, time spent with one's beloved has a far greater danger of becoming a waste than does time spent alone with nature and nature's God, and even than time spent with Estella and Miss Havisham — as cruel as they are.
   There are certain needful things: things without which life, lived for its own sake, would not be worth the paper it would be printed on if a biography were to accidentally be written about such a life. There are certain things which are no waste, and if I don't hurry, I may miss them instead of dinner.

Crosspost: Scraps, Harbour in the Scramble, and Random Quill

Travel: Chippewa Square, Savannah, GA

     James Oglethorpe gazes south from his permanent residence in Chippewa Square. Daniel Chester French placed the Spanish Invasion there forever in his eyes. You see, Oglethorpe is weathered bronze, French is long dead, and the Spanish are only in the statue's cold bronze memory.
     To the General's right is the First Baptist Church of Savannah. During the Civil war, while every other church in the city was being used for hosptial duty, First Baptist saw itself become the only house of worship available to “Savannians” of any creed. “Baptists, Catholics, Presbyterians, Blacks, Whites,” as Harry put it. I suppose race was very nearly a religion in that place at that time, though, wasn't it . . .
     “Are you Catholic or Protestant?”
     “Protestant,” I said. Baptists are not actually an historical Protestant denomination, having never been affiliated with or part of the Roman Catholic Church; but I decided that particular history lesson had little place there, and let it be.
     “You probably sing a lot of hymns, then?” As I affirmed, he went on, “Lowell Mason wrote his five hundred hymns from that church.” That was something I did not know. A prolific and beloved hymnwriter (q.v. “When I Survey the Wondrous Cross” and “My Faith Looks Up to Thee”), was actually a member (in fact, the chorister and organist) of Independent Presbyterian, rather than First Baptist (this I found on further study). I had no idea he was even an American. That shows how little of even the history which should matter to me I know.
     Next on the slate was North. Independent Presbyterian stands there, stone and imposing as ever it has been. Actually, that is one of the interesting points of its story. It has not always been stone. In 1889 (Harry thought it was around 1870 or ‘80), the original church burned. Its replacement was erected in stone, really precluding (in my opinion) the possibility of a second trial by fire.
     A second point of interest is the marriage of President Woodrow Wilson, a devoted Presbyterian. Actually, that is a first point of interest, since his marriage to Ellen Louise Axson took place in 1885, four years before the fire.
     Moving around the square to the east, you'll see the Savannah Theatre, the oldest continuously-operating theatre in the United States. True, during a dark time (artistically speaking . . .) in its history it was a movie theatre. However, it is now a live theatre hosting true performing arts on a regular basis. (Sorry about the little rant there: I feel rather strongly about art.) Now, in the grand tradition of giving a story for each location, let me tell you about Charles Coburn.
     It's not exactly “rags to riches”, but have you ever had a friend tell you they work in the film industry, only to find that they are ushering or sweeping at the local theatre? The actor Coburn got his start that way. Beginning as an usher at the Savannah Theatre, Coburn eventually rose to become its manager. Once managing the company tidily, he decided to open his own play on his premises — you get to do that if you own the theatre. Moral: If you can't act, buy a theatre so you can cast yourself for any rôle you please.

     There you have Harry and what he told me, beer on his breath. (How does one come to have beer on one's breath at ten in the morning, anyway?)

Crosspost: Scraps and Random Quill

Writing: Funerals and Poetry

   Now, you have to understand something of a writer and an artist. Something of the melancholic temperament in general. But, the idea first. I'm at work, and just got a labwide email that an employee's mother died. It contained the death notice from the Augusta Chronicle:

AUGUSTA, Ga.- Graveside services for Mrs. M___ D___ D___ of 1229 __th Street will be held 11 a.m. [date removed] at Mt. Olive Memorial Gardens. Survivors include a daughter, V___ D___; two sons, G___ E. D___, R___ I. D___; three sisters, R___ H___, O___ Spears, B___ D___; four grandchildren and one great-grandchild; a host of other relatives and friends. The family will receive friends from 7-8 p.m. today at the funeral home. G. L. Brightharp & Sons Mortuary, 614 West Avenue, North Augusta, S. C.

   The message sparked an immediate, odd compulsion to attend the graveside service. Then the idea: "These notices are in every newspaper everywhere. Whenever I want, I can go to a funeral."    Like I said, you have to understand something about an artist. My attraction to a funeral is not flippant. I'm not going to crash a party. It's not dark (Goth-style), or a fascination with death. It's merely a writer's need to absorb real-life circumstances as experience upon which to base his interpretations of life; for a writer has the responsibility — not that I necessarily agree with this situation — given him by those who do not wish to interpret life themselves, to provide an interpretation of life and its circumstances.    I have been blessed by not having funerals come into my life often on their own. My maternal grandfather, a distant friend Michael — years after I knew him — an elderly lady from my church, and two friends of my parents whom I hardly knew are the only funerals I have ever attended.    So don't think it strange if a sombre and reverent stranger shows up at the graveside of one of your friends or loved ones, paying his respects to someone he never knew. He is merely experiencing the human condition, and is a "scout" of sorts for all whom his work will reach. He is a writer. Crosspost: Scraps and Random Quill (Posted on Scraps Monday, July 25, 2004.)

Travel: Solomon's -or- Soda Fountain Bloodlines

   And the place where I now sit, the Gryphon Tea Room, has a little personal history of its own — it and the Armoury across the way. You see, Harry is a "Savannian", as he puts it, throughly and thoroughly. That's where the history comes in.
   The Gryphon was once — and not too long past — Solomon's Drug Store, owned by the old Savannah family, aptly enough, the Solomons. This was one generation ago. Another generation past (Harry's parents) Solomon's was still here; but the generation prior to that (his grandparents) drank their sodas at Solomon's four blocks North.
   Three generations of Harrys, growing up at Chatham County High School, going to Solomon's for sodas with their sweethearts, and dancing their graduations at the Armoury. (See? I told you the Armoury was part of it.)
   And here I sit, paying nine dollars and twenty-eight cents for a potful (or two, since I got some more water) of good white tea and three of the best cinnamon-pecan scone (none of these Starbucks things pretending to be scones) that Victoria probably never could have gotten; with the old soda fountain (which looks oddly like a four-poster bed missing its curtains), converted to a platform at which you might hold a high tea, staring at me from the mirror.
   Cannonballs, soda jerks, and nervous, giggling, uncultured (oh, it makes me sick to think of it!) high schoolers — now mostly tourists and pseudo-artistes telling themselves they're cultured.

My goodness! How will I be able to eat potato chips and pretzels after this?