The Nonsense Room (Part 2)

SHORT STORY MONDAY

Picking up where we left off, the home Greg and Leslie Moore found in Stillwater MN was an enormous handyman's special with an appealing price and a strange history. "People get deranged in that house," the grocer told Leslie at Thanksgiving. "The place either finds 'em cracked or leaves 'em that way." When they moved an old refrigerator in the spring, they found a door.

The Nonsense Room
Part 2

"Where do you think it goes?" Greg said.

Leslie reminded him of the rumors that circulated in town regarding the house.

Using a hammer and chisel, Greg mangled the hasp. As he turned the knob the motor kicked in on the fridge, giving them both a fright.

The room was little bigger than a closet, no more than four feet deep and perhaps six feet wide, the walls and ceiling completely overspread with pictographs, calligraphy, scribbles and assorted mystical inscriptions seemingly as countless as the stars.

"It gives me the creeps," Leslie said.

Greg found the writing on the walls intriguing, but he didn't say anything. After Leslie had gone to bed that night, Greg found a lantern that he could set on the floor to study the closet room in more detail.

For a long time he simply stood scanning, taking in the big picture, much as a man might take in the immensity of a night sky upon his first experience of it away from the bright lights of the city. His first impression, which he suppressed - reasoning that it was impossible - was that it was infinite, that the closet scribblings simply had no beginning and no end.

Even his initial cursory study of the closet's walls instilled in Greg a sense that there were relationships amongst the clusters of words and images. He was reminded of the early cave men who studied the celestial heavens, noting and naming its constellations. Sections of the closet seemed to contain whole galaxies of graffiti.

What first caught his attention and attracted him to the room's details was a tiny pyramid on the far wall opposite the door at the top of which was drawn, with a fair amount of exactitude, an eye with lines radiating out from it. Above the eye, in a medieval German script, were the words, En Sof. Greg was on his knees inside the closet studying the detail in the pupil of the eye. Upon closer inspection, he observed that the spokes which shot out from the eye were in actuality lines of fine print, much of it readable, though some too minute or too poorly scrawled to decipher.

With both apprehension and wonder he became absorbed with reading bits and pieces of text, some of it hinting toward meanings, albeit obscure ones at best, but most of it elusive and cryptic. Thus he read, "an esoteric religiosity of the Unconscious"and "Powers, the abyss, Numen and Tremendum" and "This is the God that the sense of the sacred feeds upon" and "This same God is often shown in an opposite way" and "Infatuated with the awesome and the fascinating" and "in speaking of Him we celebrate our ignorance."

There were also Latin and Hebrew texts, hieroglyphic symbols, and codified images which appeared to have some sort of ceremonial significance.

What happened after that began to disturb him. It was the pyramid with the eye and the inscription En Sof which first captivated him, and he returned to his knees in order to find it, but could not, and it frustrated him. It had been a small icon for sure, but not so small as to be impossible to locate again, and he began systematically examining the region of the closet where he had first observed it, to no avail, and it set his nerves on edge so that the night's sleep which followed proved fitful and unsatisfying.

Before leaving for the bank the next morning (he worked as an auditor there) Greg resisted a strong urge to return to the closet room for "one more little peek." This did not relieve him of its influence, however, as he spent much of his day distracted by the effects he experienced in the closet the night before.

"Honey, I'm home," he shouted that evening upon coming in the door. Hearing no greeting in reply he tensed up and walked hastily to the kitchen. "Leslie?" he called again. He hurried to the closet room and was opening it just as his wife entered the kitchen from the yard.

"Is something wrong?" she said.

"I, well, you didn't answer when I came in. I just-"

"What would I be doing in that stupid old closet?" She recognized by the uneasy fear that revealed itself in his face that the closet had made an impression upon him as something dangerous, something to be reckoned with. This realization made her uncomfortable.

All through supper he was absent from her, waiting to be finished with the task of eating. What he found dreadful was the role-playing, pretending nonchalance about both what had happened and about his plans for the evening. When the dishes were washed he proceeded to the closet room. She said nothing to dissuade him.

He set about directly to locate the original Eye with the words En Sof above but his determination was only half hearted. Instead, playing explorer-philosopher Greg began reading again the varied and unusual collage of inscriptions, at first casually, and then with a growing desire to comprehend. Unfortunately, the sentences fluctuated between legibility and illegibility, leaving him with only partial meanings and suggested texts. Nothing was complete, nothing wholly cohesive.

CONTINUED

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The Journals of Andre Gide

"Too many projects in my head. And desire to work on all of them at once." ~Andre Gide, Journals, March 6, 1927

A literary critic once observed that in a mountain range composed of the great Nobel Prize winning authors of the first half of the 20th century, the three highest peaks would be Thomas Mann, James Joyce and Andre Gide. How quickly people fall into the shadows of history and become forgotten. The influential French writer of more than 80 books of fiction and non-fiction, who sat at the center of French literary circles for decades one hundred years ago, is today pretty much an unknown in most circles.

Several things stood out for me regarding Gide's work were that his writing was beautiful, his themes profound and his range as vast as the landscapes of this world. A complicated and gifted man, Gide was to literature as Dylan today is to music. Neither would be happy to get tagged in a specific category or style. Both were perpetually exploring. Each continued to produce original, honest work over long, significant careers.

If you are a writer, of any stripe, I commend to you The Journals of Andre Gide.

I myself have kept journals for more than three decades, beginning in 1974. (I do not count here the dream diaries I kept in junior high and high school.) It wasn't till I discovered Gide's journals that my own began to deepen.

Of special value are all the ways in which we glimpse the inner workings of the mind of a great writer. We often see only the finished work, and seldom see the great inner battles that preceded the final presentation.

Here are a few quotes from these pages.

"Get in the habit of gathering the idea as soon as it is formed; and cease to let it ripen too long on the branch. Some of them, under this treatment, have become soft. When the brain that bears them is itself ripe, all its fruits are ready to be gathered." 2 October 1927

"This morning, as soon as I awake (much too early) my brain, despite me, begins to construct sentence. Some of them are quite well turned out but mean nothing. There are some that I should not like to lose, that I try to learn by heart, to remember; and it's all up with sleep.

"Good God, how complicated everything is becoming! Lines in all directions; and no guidance. No way of knowing what to believe, what to think!" 3 July 1927

"I have never produced anything good except by a long succession of slight efforts." 24 October 1915

We all have different purposes in our journaling. For some it is just keeping a record of one's days. For others it might be a tool for self-analysis. In 1990, when I came across the following statement in Gide's journal, I found it so liberating that I put it inside the front cover of my own: "It is a mistake to intend to write only very important things in a journal." This mistake leads to paralysis.

Journal writing is a great way to prime your pump, and to produce fodder for future projects. The journals of great writers also offer great rewards. Gide, in this writer's opinion, is perhaps as good as it gets.

So Long, Frank Lloyd Wright

On Simon & Garfunkel’s last album together, Bridge Over Troubled Water, there is a quiet, tender song called So Long, Frank Lloyd Wright. At the time it came out I knew nothing of who Wright was, and though the tune was nice, I never really got what it was about.

Off Topic: One of my favorite tunes on the album was The Only Living Boy In New York, which seemed to contain the somber alienation of youth theme into yet another haunting reflective space, something Paul Simon’s music did easily and well. But for now, our topic is the architect.

While in Sedona, AZ this past spring the Chapel of the Holy Cross (right) which Frank Lloyd Wright designed was suggested as an attraction not to miss. Turns out that last night while gathering more information on this building I discovered that the Chapel, which was quite striking, was not designed by Wright at all, but rather by a student inspired by the great architect.

Here are a few more things I learned. The great architect was also an author of 20 books. Also, Wright’s birth name when he entered the world in 1867 was actually Frank Lincoln Wright, but he changed his middle name to Lloyd during his teen years after his parents’ divorce.

By the time I’d moved to Northern Minnesota in 1986 I was quite familiar with some of his innovatively designed homes. Little did I know that right here in my back yard was a gas station designed by Wright. Of his more than 500 buildings, this was his only filling station. (It wasn’t actually in my back yard, but down the road a piece in Cloquet. I drove there and took a few photos, including this one.)

So Long, Frank Lloyd Wright

So long, Frank Lloyd Wright.
I can't believe your song is gone so soon.
I barely learned the tune
So soon
So soon.

I'll remember Frank Lloyd Wright.
All of the nights we'd harmonize till dawn.
I never laughed so long
So long
So long.

CHORUS
Architects may come and
Architects may go and
Never change your point of view.
When I run dry
I stop awhile and think of you

So long, Frank Lloyd Wright
All of the nights we'd harmonize till dawn.
I never laughed so long
So long
So long.

If you want to find out what the song is really all about you can read the interpretations here. In the end you may know less than you knew to begin with.

As for Mr. Wright himself, the Wikipedia overview appears fairly accurate. His personal heartbreaks did not keep him from achieving his ultimate dreams.

Reflections on the Sixties

One reason a show like Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous with Robin Leach was popular was undoubtedly because the audiences were neither rich nor famous themselves. Leach, the host, also had an interesting accent, which did not hurt the ratings either. In other words, people like watching, or reading about, experiences different from one's own.

This might be why war books like my father-in-law's memoirs And There Shall Be Wars have such appeal. Even within the context of the war two veterans will have differing experiences, and perspectives.

So it is that the Sixties was an experience which we all experienced, yet all experienced differently. As veterans of the Sixties, we had some shared experiences, but being in such a range of spaces and places, there is much which may be uniquely our own and occasionally, as those are shared, we gain additional illumination as regards our own experience. These diverse shared experiences not only help us connect to others, but also assist in our own self-understanding.

Christella, who has recently made contributions to this blog, started blogging this summer to share memories from her seven decades of life experience. Her writing is rich with life and you might wish to bookmark it for future returns. This week she has been sharing some of her memories of the Sixties at her own site which she has called Meandering Moody Memories. It's worth a visit if you have some time and is what prompted me to grab this off my original website to post here today.

In 1993 I wrote an essay called "Reflections on the Sixties" for a book that someone was trying to assemble for publication. AOL was just emerging and everyone there was thrilled by the power of connecting with so many others. I remember one AOL virtual community that had a former member of the Sixties band Strawberry Alarm Clock in it.

Several years passed and I was contacted again by this fellow who had me sign something that gave him permission to publish what I'd written, but I never learned what became of the project or whether it ultimately found a publisher.

Reflection on the Sixties

"No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear. I am not afraid, but the sensation is like being afraid. The same fluttering in the stomach, the same restlessness, the yawning. I keep on swallowing.

"At other times it feels like being mildly concussed. There is a sort of invisible blanket between the world and me."

These are the words with which C.S. Lewis opens A Grief Observed, his personal reflections on the loss of his wife Joy Davidson. Can it be that our nation itself received this same concussive blow on the day John F. Kennedy was assassinated in 1963?

•

I find it interesting that C. S. Lewis, Aldous Huxley and John F. Kennedy all died on the same day in 1963. The deaths of Lewis and Huxley, whose personal lives were more remote from most of us, were eclipsed by the dramatic assassination of our president... and the subsequent events surrounding his passing.

There have been few more powerful events in our personal histories. Television brought this president into our homes like none before him. His PR-created persona made him out to be more than a man. He was a mythological god. He rode a white horse. He was a knight in shining armor. With the vitality of Youth, he provided a euphoric hope that seemed necessary after two world wars, a major depression and the brooding tensions of the Cold War.

•

I was in sixth grade that day, Stafford School, Maple Heights, Ohio. There was an announcement over the loudspeaker that we were all to go to the auditorium for an assembly. This was the same room where we assembled to see men from NASA demonstrate how a rocket would within the next ten years carry men to the moon.

As we shuffled along toward the nearly filled assembly room, I was distracted by a janitor who was stepping in from outside. I remember the grey November sky. And the janitor's tears, the janitor standing there, cap in hand, tears streaming down his wrinkled cheeks, looking back toward the flag he had just lowered to half mast.

I don't remember the assembly, or much of anything else. Only the image of that janitor weeping.

•

Few people knew it then, but that day was a portent of difficult times ahead for America. Medger Evers, Martin Luther King, Robert Kennedy, Kent State, My Lai -- the decade, stained with blood, left a generation of parents concussed and children confused.

Wrote Lewis in A Grief Observed, "I find it hard to take in what anyone says. Or perhaps, hard to want to take it in."

And when Nielsson sang: "Everybody's talkin' at me, I can't hear a word they're saying"... did we not find a resonance in our hearts because we, too, were grieving? What was it we had lost? What is it we were looking for? What was Joe Buck looking for? What did Joe Buck find?
•

I believe it was Gurdjieff who compared life experiences to the food we take into our stomachs. Eventually the food is digested, but it takes time, and some foods longer than others. Likewise, our experiences take time to digest before they are assimilated to nourish or poison us.

Even though more than 25 years have passed, sometimes we still don't know what to say about what we saw and heard and felt. We are still processing our experiences. While some of the experiences were uniquely ours, many were shared. For this reason it is my conviction that when we have gained a measure of understanding, we have a responsibility to share the light we have received. In this way, our pain becomes redemptive, a healing influence in an otherwise broken world.

copyright 1993 ed newman

Is Happiness A Choice?

When you’re smiling, when you’re smiling, the whole world smiles with you;
When you’re laughing, when you’re laughing, the sun comes shining through.

The cover of my Wired magazine this month has the words Cheer Up emblazoned on the top left, referencing a story by Jonah Lehrer on happiness. According to new research, which Lehrer shares in an article aptly titled The Buddy System, happiness is contagious.

Intuitively we have all known this, but it behooves science to not accept the obvious as true until it is demonstrated scientifically. As an example, picture a board room and everyone is serious. Then someone comes in smiling and the room lights up. It could be a scene in a bar, or any kind of setting, actually.

When I was a kid growing up in NJ my dad used to turn on the radio every morning at seven and listen to the news on WOR, followed by Rambling With Gambling. What I remember is that the show always began with or played upbeat music like Zippidee-Doo-Dah and When You’re Smiling.

Well, this new research attempts to specifically quantify the impact of happy people on others. In an L.A. Times piece last December titled Happiness is contagious, research finds based on the same research, “Knowing someone who is happy makes you 15.3% more likely to be happy yourself, the study found. A happy friend of a friend increases your odds of happiness by 9.8%, and even your neighbor's sister's friend can give you a 5.6% boost.”

In other words, if you’re feeling blue, you can actually increase your odds of getting a lift by choosing to surround yourself with happy people.

In the B.F.Skinner model of life we’re pretty much victims of our upbringing, conditioning, etc. Freudian psychology’s pop misapplications lead us to accept that we are victims of our subconscious drives. New genetic research shows how much of who we are is encrypted in our DNA. All this begs the question, Is happiness really a choice?

There is a sense in which this is what Plato’s metaphor of the man in the cave is about. If we move out of our dark, holed up existence underground and climb out into the light, the new circumstances will be enlightening. One way to do this might be to go share an evening with a cheerful friend.

And to some extent that's what the social networks are about... According to Lehrer, joy is indeed contagious, both off line and on the net. Let's crank up the volume: Oh Happy Day!

Mugwumps and Other Miscellaneous Musings

Bizarre as it seems, the Mugwumps were an actual political party in the United States at one time. I can't help but associate the word with Puddleglum, a C.S. Lewis character in one of the Narnia books. Essentially they were activists who broke off from the Republicans because they wouldn't be associated with the Republican presidential candidate James G. Blaine.

Blaine had been Speaker of the House under U.S. Grant and two-time Secretary of State, a dominant force in the post-Civil War era. It was a period fraught with corruption and Blaine was right in the middle of it. The Mugwumps broke off because they'd had enough. Even though they failed to get their candidate into office, they influenced the election by drawing enough votes away from Blaine to get Grover Cleveland elected as the 22nd president of the United States.

Because I myself was born in Cleveland (Ohio) I liked Cleveland as a president even though I knew nothing about him (as a kid). In fact, most of the presidents between Cleveland and Teddy R. are pretty unmemorable. Cleveland was born in New Jersey, where I moved to at age twelve, so you might say I scored a double connection to the man.

What most people remember, more than his deeds, is that he was the only U.S. president to serve two non-consecutive terms. In other words, he was defeated after his first term, but won re-election again to become the 24th president.

Political smear campaigns are nothing new and Cleveland was on the receiving end of a Republic promotion that he had fathered an illegitimate child while a lawyer in Buffalo before becoming governor of New York. The GOP taunt, repeated everywhere, was, "Ma, ma, where's my Pa?"

The reality is that Cleveland had indeed been paying child support to the woman. The back story is that she'd been involved with a number of men at the time. Since the others were all married, and he the only bachelor, Cleveland chose to take responsibility so that she would not be left carrying this burden alone.

One can only imagine how this would play out on the Internet and in today's media.

What's your favorite Grover Cleveland story? I'm sure everybody has a half dozen.