The Return

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It was one of the last great ironies of the adventure that he chanced to be reading a particular book at such a fortuitous moment. The book was “A Hero With a Thousand Faces” by Joseph Campbell, a book that famously inspired George Lucas to write Star Wars. Chapter 4 titled “The Crossing of the Return Threshold,” of Part 3 “The Return” has these opening paragraphs:

“The two worlds, the Divine and the Human, can be pictured as distinct from each other – different as life and death, as day and night. The hero adventured out of the land we know into darkness, there accomplishes his adventure or again is simply lost to us, imprisoned, or in danger; and his return is described as a coming back out of that yonder zone. Nevertheless – and here is the great key to the understanding of myth and symbol – the two kingdoms are actually one. The realm of the Gods is a forgotten dimension of the world we know. And the exploration of that dimension, either willingly or unwillingly, is the whole sense the deed of the hero. The values and distinctions that in normal life seem important disappear with the terrifying assimilation of the self into what formerly was only otherness…
How teach again, however, what has been taught correctly and incorrectly learned a thousand times, through the millennia of mankind’s prudent folly? That is the hero’s ultimate difficult task. How render back into light-world language the speech-defying pronouncements of the dark… How translate into terms of “yes” and “no” revelations that shatter into meaninglessness every attempt to define the pairs of opposites? How communicate to people who insist on the exclusive evidence of their senses the message of the all-generating void?
Many failures attest to the difficulties of this life-affirmative threshold. The first problem of the returning hero is to accept as real, after an experience of the soul satisfying vision of fulfillment, the passing joys and sorrows, banalities and noisy obscenities of life. Why re-enter such a world? Why attempt to make plausible or even interesting, to men and women consumed with passion, the experience of transcendental bliss? As dreams that were momentous by night may seem simply silly in the light of day, so the poet and the prophet can discover themselves playing the idiot before a jury of sober eyes. The easy thing is to commit the whole community to the devil and retire again into the heavenly rock dwelling, close the door, and make it fast. But if meanwhile some spiritual obstetrician has drawn the rope across the retreat, then the work of representing eternity in time, and perceiving in time eternity, cannot be avoided.”

Thus I found myself reading these pages in the Dublin airport having just arrived from Munich, awaiting my flight back to the States after being away for over a year. Seven years prior I left Iraq for the second time, stopping in Munich before catching the last flight home.I couldn’t help feeling something had gone full circle in the seven years since. And so with inner expectations that I might miss home, I found myself at the US border clearance in Dublin surrounded by other Americans awaiting their departures to a place most of them probably called home:

I went to get some food prior to boarding; Standing in line, I can feel the presence of America; a crowd of poorly dressed and overweight people complaining through horrible American accents (one I regrettably share) about how fast the food is being served. I shudder at the thought of going home as the reality of it crashes down onto me. I desperately begin thinking of a future where imagination alone constructs the parameters of one’s home. I think about my level of French, if it’s any good, how fast I could reach fluency if I decided to move to France. I go through the other countries I’ve been to and those I have a desire to see; could I live in them; doing what; surly something? Is there a foreign woman I could marry to save me from this place?

I board the plane and chance to find myself next to an American gentleman. Unable to hold in my frustration I tell him, “I don’t want to go back to the States.” “Why?” he responds, “You don’t like it?” “No,” I reply. We start talking. It just so happens this man lived in Europe for seven years and moved back to the States in 2009. “ I know exactly what you’re going through,” he says; “I felt the same way when I came back; I still do, but you can’t escape it. It will always be home.”

These are comforting words, but I can’t help and think how none of this was ever about escape. There was nothing to escape from; the trials one must go through, experience, and reflect on, will follow one until the end. Nonetheless I find a bit of respite. I sink into my chair and let out one of those exhalations where the air exits in one loud smoldering tuft, as if the breath itself felt fatigued.

There is no doubt that I’ve come to know of certain characteristics of myself that are a result of the culture I was born into, characteristics that could be called ‘American.’ Amidst crowds of people from other culture and backgrounds one’s own set of attributes and impulses stand out like candle light in a dark room: I am eccentric and passionate; I say things like very delicious or very very delicious – At a gathering amongst both French and English, a French woman told me it’s correct to just say ‘delicious’ and not ‘very delicious.’ I replied that I often say something was ‘very’ or even ‘very very delicious’. An Englishman overheard the conversation and said, “Of course, you’re American.”

I have a sense of humor that can’t resist the possibility of a good laugh even when my sense of humor itself knows it’s a bad idea i.e. Hitler jokes.

I’m unreserved and unrepressed about my thoughts and feelings; an admirable quality I noticed in other Americans abroad. There is a problem of course in that most Americans, although comfortable with voicing an opinion, express views that are often uninformed and ignorant.

Perhaps these are to some extent “American,” perhaps not. Nonetheless, going home I think of possibility. I remind myself of the willingness and drive I have to leave, wander, and explore, and how such qualities will always give me the option to get up and leave when the lust for other worlds becomes too strong to put off, and where ‘home’ can mean more than just a particular culture one was born into.

Life in Exile

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Feelings of loneliness and fears of isolation sit at the core of being human. These are feelings I and most people are reluctant to embrace at times, feelings that are a necessary part of becoming a complete individual, comfortable with how one lives and with what he or she believes. I think it is the prospect of such loneliness and how one is willing to face it that decides how original and genuine a person’s life can be, and of what lasting importance a person’s accomplishments will have. Anything of any lasting significance has always had to arise against the backdrop of resistance, reluctance, and difference with the consequence that those willing to affect change have been faced with prospects of dire isolation, not only on account of their ideas and beliefs, but on account of the very lifestyle that is inextricably linked to the ideas and beliefs they breed. Yet what is more difficult is that such isolation can cause one to feel isolated from one’s self, isolated from the kind of person one knows themselves to be.

Clichés become clichés for a reason. That nothing is won without sacrifice, despite its common use, is a cliché that has poignant truth to it. Many great writers, artists, musicians, and mystics have suffered bouts of sadness and isolation because the ideas and beliefs they had were so different that they became isolated from many of those around them. Some of these such as Camus, Nietzsche, and Hemingway, were able to give the world something great at the cost of losing themselves. Others such as Bertrand Russell, St. Teresa of Avila, and Ludwig Wittgenstein barely got out alive. Still others such as Carl Jung, the Buddha, or Eckhart Tolle, managed to not only overcome feelings of isolation, but to return and flourish, continuing to give the world something great, and to tell everyone that there are necessary feelings which must be felt and embraced if they are to become something more lasting.

In “The Thin Red Line,” Sean Penn’s character is asked if he ever gets lonely. His reply is, ‘Only around people.’ There is a tinge of pessimism in his response, but there is also a poignant truth. After all, many a sage and mystic have said that the wise person is one who finds the best company to be one’s self. This does not exclude all kinds of social life, but it does exclude one based on co-dependence instead of actual friendship. Such co-dependence relationships are ones where it seems everyone engages in activities they no longer enjoy or find valuable. Yet they continue to engage in them because the alternative would mean isolation. It is as if certain groups act as self-denial support groups where everyone comes to reinforce the illusion that what they are doing is the only outlet, the only answer, and the only way to be happy.

For me it has been frustrating at times knowing that so many people are still content to be occupied with getting drunk, staying out late and sleeping in, eating bad food, or fooling around with people whom they know and care little about. More than frustrating, it is lonely, but it is a loneliness of a different kind, a loneliness that can have the affect of isolating myself not just from other people but from the very person I am; I start to feel estranged from the kind of person I know myself to be.

There are times when I doubt myself. For me these doubts are feelings that I am somehow weird and fucked up for not wanting to engage in or not deriving the same kind of enjoyment from the activities of everyone else; times where I feel I must be strange for wanting to stay in on a Friday night to read a good book around a nice candle, drink some good tea, and go to bed early to seize the next day. There are times when I feel I’m the stranger; times when I convince myself that I must be depressed and pessimistic because I’m unhappy with what’s wanted or expected of me by friends, family, and mass culture.

Faced with such feelings the fight becomes a struggle to remain true to what I know deep down: that my passion and appreciation for all aspects of life is unmatched; that my drive to feel things deeply, openly, and full-heartedly has allowed me to experience the world in a way that most people never or rarely will; and that my desire for truth and lasting peace are the only pursuits I know to be of real value.

I’m quite certain that some people see me not smiling and use it as an excuse to assume that the kind of life I’m living is a sad and pessimistic one. Such people are intent on making such an assumption that they refuse to see how often I can and do smile. There are no illusions; I am not always happy. But those that are afraid to acknowledge loneliness and other feelings are unable to see them as temporary states to something higher. Moreover, it is a sensation, and all sensations are there as guides, they draw one’s attention to things that the body both mentally, physically, and emotionally needs to deal with. Many people, however, think the acknowledgment of unhappiness, dissatisfaction, or loneliness means an existence where such states become permanent characteristics of one’s existence; probably because they struggle to see a bright light at the end of the tunnel.

People sometimes say to me, “I wish I could motivate myself like you. I wish I had your discipline. I wish I had your drive to experience things.” When I ask them why they don’t they usually say they are lazy. But I don’t think laziness is the problem. I think it is feelings of loneliness that have to be overcome, feelings of isolation born of standing outside the crowd, feelings that all great accomplishments have had to arise from. I have known other people who are more open about the possibility of feeling alone and blatantly state that living a different life and making changes would come with price of being lonely, and that such loneliness is not something they are prepared to face. Such people are waiting for others to be the catalyst for change.

A while back I was at a social gathering where I observed two friends engage in what appeared to be a serious conversation over relatively personal matters; their glossy eyes were intent to listen, and the expressions on their faces were devoid of anything that could be said to resemble a smile. As they were talking, a friend came by to take pictures. Once the two people realized they were about to be photographed they turned to the camera with huge smiles. This change from one look to the other was so extreme that I felt I went temporarily mad; it was a kind of lightning flash. After the picture they went back to talking to each other with the same previous barren expressions. It seemed there was such a strong attempt to deny any possibility that they were anything but happy and content; an attempt born of a fear that one might be caught with hard proof in the form of a photograph that one’s life is anything but “picture perfect.”

The incident was extremely profound. I was bewildered by the attempt to hide what was being felt under the guise of a smile that can only be called fake. It is a metaphor for how people can be reluctant to face certain emotions, to hide them from one’s self out of fear and misunderstanding of what emotions are or can be. Feelings of isolation and loneliness are emotions that people run from the most, but they have to be faced at some point. Otherwise who we are will never be able to fully blossom, while those one loves will never be more than tools that one uses to escape feelings of loneliness, a task that in the end cannot fall to anyone other than one’s self.

What Poetry Means to Me

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It has been over ten years since I composed my first poem. The original composition, now lying somewhere on my closet floor, along with just about everything I have ever written; original drafts, stories, and philosophy. I can’t recall any of the lines, I don’t know how long it was, if I were to walk into my closet and determinedly attempt to find it, my eyes would not recognize the words. But I do remember writing it, and most importantly, I remember what it was about; love, a concept and feeling that recently had new meaning for a young naïve sophomore in high school who was trying to get over his first girlfriend, his first love. I remember the feeling of helplessness in trying to convey to myself, and understand everything I was experiencing and feeling; how to make sense of an experience that was so unfamiliar, brutal, and powerful.

And just as in any art, it was feeling that drove me to express, and moved me to create. This was art as a kind of frustration that arises in trying to understand the world; It is imagination for the heart. A way to be free; free from one’s self, where one can express what they do not think people will understand (though we want them to try), where one can be genuine about something that they cannot bear to admit; a way to relieve one’s self of the pressures that have built up inside  because of the fears one has about who one really is; a way to make sense of life. It is poetry that attempts such things and succeeds as well as any art form. These are the feelings I remember when I recall myself frantically writing down the lines as they shot out of me; trying to compose them with some sense of order; trying to give them life.

Poetry, more than any other art form, is abstract by the very nature of its composition. Other forms of writing, such as literature or philosophy, begin with having something to teach. It was Ayn Rand who said in her guide to writing fiction that one must work out the theme, moral, conflict, and resolution before one can write the story. This is a testament to literature as an attempt to convey a message, to expound on “reality,” but it also serves to highlight a distinction between such forms of writing and poetry itself, for poetry has little to teach because there is little the writer knows. The poet has a swelling of feeling, an experience of great emotional magnitude. Poets then stand in awe of such feeling, exploring the deepest levels of sensation, while probing the depths of a new kind of world that has opened up to them. These are feelings that don’t make sense, that destroy logic, and leave one speechless. Yet one feel’s they must do something; one must act, and through one’s resolve, one reconciles themselves to an activity that becomes the very definition of abstraction.

In carrying this task out, poets treat language in ways that greatly differ from other styles of writing. Language for poets has little to do with using words as markers or symbols for actual things. Obviously, a poet will use words like, ‘sun’ or ‘sky,’ but in mentioning and describing such things words are used, not as representatives, but as doors; words are used by poets to convey, not a world of things, but to dismantle ‘thing-hood.’ Words are used to critique language, not to diminish the power of it, but to show that language is powerful precisely because it is without form. That is, poetry critiques language in order to undermine language, not to demonstrate it as a triviality, but to show that language is powerful precisely because it can be undermined.

Words hold a power that goes over and above their ability to be useful as designators or categorizers. Words carry the emotions that people invest them with. When a poet creates a piece, he or she relies on elements of sound, syllable, and timing in ways that bring out the “hidden” or disguised elements of feeling. Because poetry makes use of elements apart from language as a marker it tears down the wall of impressions built upon bare observation. The consequence is that basic perception gives way to pure imaginings, where the later holds the power, or in fact, asks of the reader to reflect on the world in a way that removes any barrier between it and the person who is reading.

In everyday life, language is often used to disguise thought or feeling. It is odd to talk of language as having the capacity to fundamentalize and imprison human thought, while at the same time, holding the power to open one up to a world of experience-possibility. None the less, it is true. It can become all too typical for one to use words such as ‘love’ ‘freedom’ ‘justice’ ‘good’ and ‘evil.’ Words such as these can become so common, not because people understand them, but because they have left them perplexed. Such words, however, only represent shortcuts at times; cheat sheets into a comfortable world where trains of thought come to a halt. They represent the contentment of perpetual procrastination; they represent things one thinks they understand but fails to explain; the failure to expound upon something and how it affects a given person. So one says ‘love,’ ‘freedom,’ ‘equality,’ etc. and feigns comprehension. It is poetry that reacts against such procrastination through its deep application of language. It is never content with leaving words transfixed. Thus the ability of language to express and expand upon the wonders associated with existence is preserved.

It was the feeling of tapping into a new kind of existence that I surrendered to when I first fell in love; that in-turn became the catalyst for writing my first poem. It was feeling that I wanted to understand; that had left me mystified, and it is what continually inspires me to write poetry.

Eight Years Later

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It has been eight years since I left for Marine Corps boot camp. Although I am proud of those I served with and thankful for the lasting friends I made, I am ashamed to have participated in the Iraq war. For me the conflict has become nothing but a blatant example of political aggression and imperialism. It accomplished nothing and achieved nothing. There was no political right to wage it and no moral superiority to justify it.

As for my motivations, they were largely absent of political beliefs. Instead, from an early age I wanted to go to war. As a phenomenon, war is something that still attracts me. War is a primordial demonstration of lived experience, life in the moment, as both crisis and wonder. It is lived irony.

But the most gratifying irony, is knowing, that, despite being sent to Iraq as a representative of a government that assumed it had a culture and democracy worth spreading, Arab and Muslim culture ended up influencing me more than I influenced it. I find consolation in knowing I was humbled by a culture distinct from my own, and grateful to have walked along the banks of the Euphrates river, in the land often referred to as the Cradle of Civilization.