Monday, February 16, 2004
Peas in a Pod: Victor Hugo, Otis Redding, and Me?
Victor Hugo speaks at length about "l'abîme," literally the precipice, or the infinite unknown. It is nothing and everything and only reveals its secrets to a few worthy prophets. Of course, in the discourse of Hugo, he and all other "qualified poets" are the prophets, responsible for communicating its offerings to the rest of humanity in order to help guide us on a path to a brighter future.
Yeah, I know it is lofty stuff, and the idea of a bottomless hole separating here from there was kind of nullified when Nietzche killed God, but this hasn't stopped poets from, as Kerouac wrote, "contemplating the void." While the infinite something of the precipice was replaced by the infinite nothingness of the void, replacing an external search for truth with an internal one, there still seems to be this fascination with living on the edge, with being close to this mystery. As I am incapable of conceiving of a constantly expanding universe or the idea behind "forever," I have always envisioned this tableau of whiteness into which the universe grows. I had a recurring dream when I was little that I was standing on the edge of it. The whiteness counteracted the darkness of the universe (which in my child's mind was made entirely of celestial bodies). I could not and still can not comprehend infinity.
I think this is why I feel calmest next to a body of water. I remember spending a sunny afternoon at the Parc de la Ciutadella in Barcelona, sitting next to the little man-made lake smoking cigarettes and writing and noticing that, no matter how beautiful the rest of the park, almost everyone had congregated next to this little lake. It was at this point that I made note of the natural phenomenon that draws people to water. But it is the frontier, not the element that interests me. Yes, there are some among us who find the sounds and feel of water calming, but for me I realized that the comfort lies within the ability to situate myself when I am near a waterfront. I am on one side, not the other. I exist on land, not in water, in one reality and not the other.
Victor Hugo, during his exile on the island of Jersey, also equated the shoreline with the edge of reality, the border between the known and the unknown. It was here, waiting for it to be safe for him to return to France, waiting for revelations, that he composed the second part of one of his best known collections of poetry, Les Contemplations. So in other words, he was just "sittin' on the dock of the Bay, wastin' time" while the Second Empire played itself out.
And as much as I have always loved Victor Hugo, I think I have to identify more with Mr. Redding on this one. Maybe it is because I am a nostalgic American who can't get enough of the oldies station, or maybe it is because I am not one of the great poets of the world who are given special treatment by the muses, but the idea of sittin' on the dock of the Bay, watchin' the tide roll away, seems much more appealing than being airlifted to the top of a megalithic structure by a holy ghost who wants to lecture me on the ways of nature. Hugo expected to be approached by supernatural forces who would reveal there secrets. Redding didn't expect anything from the world, "Look like nothing's gonna change. Ev'rything still remains the same. I can't do what ten people tell me to do, so I guess I'll remain the same, yes." And although the approaches and conclusions diverge, both men found their way through roaming and wondering.
Me, I don't want to know the path to a better future like Hugo. I am content just watching the ships roll in and away again. There is nothing more beautiful than the present. And it is for this reason that coming 5000 miles, from my oh-so-comfortably suffocating life to one that is definitely lonelier, scarier, and more satisfying, was the only path to be taken. So here I am, sittin' on the banks of the Seine, wastin' time.
Yeah, I know it is lofty stuff, and the idea of a bottomless hole separating here from there was kind of nullified when Nietzche killed God, but this hasn't stopped poets from, as Kerouac wrote, "contemplating the void." While the infinite something of the precipice was replaced by the infinite nothingness of the void, replacing an external search for truth with an internal one, there still seems to be this fascination with living on the edge, with being close to this mystery. As I am incapable of conceiving of a constantly expanding universe or the idea behind "forever," I have always envisioned this tableau of whiteness into which the universe grows. I had a recurring dream when I was little that I was standing on the edge of it. The whiteness counteracted the darkness of the universe (which in my child's mind was made entirely of celestial bodies). I could not and still can not comprehend infinity.
I think this is why I feel calmest next to a body of water. I remember spending a sunny afternoon at the Parc de la Ciutadella in Barcelona, sitting next to the little man-made lake smoking cigarettes and writing and noticing that, no matter how beautiful the rest of the park, almost everyone had congregated next to this little lake. It was at this point that I made note of the natural phenomenon that draws people to water. But it is the frontier, not the element that interests me. Yes, there are some among us who find the sounds and feel of water calming, but for me I realized that the comfort lies within the ability to situate myself when I am near a waterfront. I am on one side, not the other. I exist on land, not in water, in one reality and not the other.
Victor Hugo, during his exile on the island of Jersey, also equated the shoreline with the edge of reality, the border between the known and the unknown. It was here, waiting for it to be safe for him to return to France, waiting for revelations, that he composed the second part of one of his best known collections of poetry, Les Contemplations. So in other words, he was just "sittin' on the dock of the Bay, wastin' time" while the Second Empire played itself out.
And as much as I have always loved Victor Hugo, I think I have to identify more with Mr. Redding on this one. Maybe it is because I am a nostalgic American who can't get enough of the oldies station, or maybe it is because I am not one of the great poets of the world who are given special treatment by the muses, but the idea of sittin' on the dock of the Bay, watchin' the tide roll away, seems much more appealing than being airlifted to the top of a megalithic structure by a holy ghost who wants to lecture me on the ways of nature. Hugo expected to be approached by supernatural forces who would reveal there secrets. Redding didn't expect anything from the world, "Look like nothing's gonna change. Ev'rything still remains the same. I can't do what ten people tell me to do, so I guess I'll remain the same, yes." And although the approaches and conclusions diverge, both men found their way through roaming and wondering.
Me, I don't want to know the path to a better future like Hugo. I am content just watching the ships roll in and away again. There is nothing more beautiful than the present. And it is for this reason that coming 5000 miles, from my oh-so-comfortably suffocating life to one that is definitely lonelier, scarier, and more satisfying, was the only path to be taken. So here I am, sittin' on the banks of the Seine, wastin' time.
