Capable of Love

You should not let yourself be confused in your solitude by the fact that there is some thing in you that wants to move out of it. This very wish, if you use it calmly and prudently and like a tool, will help you spread out your solitude over a great distance. Most people have, with the help of conventions, turned their solutions toward what is easy and toward the easiest side of the easy; but it is clear that we must trust in what is difficult; everything alive trusts in it, everything, in Nature grows and defends itself any way it can and is spontaneously itself, tries to be itself at all costs and against all opposition. We know little, but that we must trust in what is difficult is a certainty that will never abandon us; it is good to be solitary, for solitude is difficult; that something is difficult must be one more reason for us to do it.

It is also good to love: because love is difficult. For one human being to love another human being: that is perhaps the most difficult task that has been entrusted to us, the ultimate task, the final test and proof, the work for which all other work is merely preparation. That is why young people, who are beginners in everything, are not yet capable of love: it is something they must learn. With their whole being, with all their forces, gathered around their solitary, anxious, upward-beating heart, they must learn to love. But learning-time is always a long, secluded time, and therefore loving, for a long time ahead and far on into life, is: solitude, a heightened and deepened kind of aloneness for the person who loves. Loving does not at first mean merging, surrendering, and uniting with another person…for what would a union be of two people who are unclarified, unfinished, and still incoherent? It is a high inducement for the individual to ripen, to become something in himself, to become world, to become world in himself for the sake of another person; it is a great, demanding claim on him, something that chooses him and calls him to vast distances. Only in this sense, as the task of working on themselves, may young people use the love that is given to them. Merging and surrendering and every kind of communion is not for them; it is the ultimate, it is perhaps that for which human lives are as yet barely large enough.

But this is what young people are so often and so disastrously wrong in doing: they, who by their very nature are impatient…fling themselves at each other when love takes hold of them…they scatter themselves, just as they are, in all their messiness, disorder, and bewilderment. And what can happen then? What can life do with this heap of half-broken things that they call their communion and that they would like to call their happiness, if that were possible, and their future? And so each of them loses himself for the sake of the other person, and loses the other…and loses the vast distances and possibilities, gives up the approaching and fleeing of gentle, prescient Things in exchange for an unfruitful confusion, out of which nothing more can come; nothing but a bit of disgust, disappointment, and poverty, and the escape into one of the many conventions that have been put up in great numbers like public shelters on this most dangerous road. No area of human experience is so extensively provided with conventions as this one is: there are life-preservers of the most varied invention, boats and water wings; society has been able to create refuges of every sort, for since it preferred to take love life as an amusement, it also had to give it an easy form…cheap, safe, and sure…as public amusements are.

It is true that many young people who love falsely, i.e., simply surrendering themselves and giving up their solitude (the average person will of course always go on doing that), feel oppressed by their failure and want to make the situation they have landed in livable and fruitful in their own, personal way. For their nature tells them that the questions of love, even more than everything else that is important, cannot be resolved publicly and according to this or that agreement; they are questions, intimate questions from one human being to another, which in any case require a new, special, wholly personal answer. But how can they, who have already flung themselves together and can no longer tell whose outlines are whose, who thus no longer possess anything of their own, how can they find a way out of themselves, out of the depths of their already buried solitude?

They act out of mutual helplessness, and then if, with the best of intentions, they try to escape the convention that is approaching them (engagement, marriage, pregnancy, etc.) they fall into the clutches of some less obvious but just as deadly conventional solution. For then everything around them is convention. Wherever people act out of a prematurely fused, muddy communion, every action is conventional: every relation that such confusion leads to has its own convention, however unusual or immoral it may be; even separating would be a conventional step…an impersonal, accidental decision without strength and without fruit.

Whoever looks seriously will find that neither for death, which is difficult, nor for love has any clarification, any solution, any hint of a path been perceived; and for both these tasks, which we carry wrapped up and hand on without opening, there is no general, agreed-upon rule that can be discovered. But in the same measure in which we begin to test life as individuals, these great Things will come to meet us, the individuals, with greater intimacy. The claims that the difficult work of love makes upon our development are greater than life, and we, as beginners, are not equal to them. But if we nevertheless endure and take this love upon us as burden and apprenticeship, instead of losing ourselves in the whole easy and frivolous game behind which people have hidden from the most solemn solemnity of their being, then a small advance and a lightening will perhaps be perceptible to those who come long after us. That would be much.

We are only just now beginning to consider the relation of one individual to a second individual objectively and without prejudice, and our attempts to live such relationships have no model before them. And yet in the changes that time has brought about there are already many things that can help our timid souls.

This advance will transform the love experience, which is now filled with error, will change it from the ground up, and reshape it into a relationship that is meant to be between one human being and another, no longer one that flows from man to woman. And this more human love will resemble what we are now preparing painfully and with great struggle: the love that consists in this: that two solitudes protect and border and greet each other.

And one more thing: Don't think that the great love which was once granted to you, when you were a boy or girl, has been lost…how can you know whether vast and generous wishes didn't ripen in you at that time, and purposes by which you are still living today? I believe that that love remains so strong and intense in your memory because it was your first deep aloneness confronted on your own and the first inner work that you did on your life.

A perfect life cannot be found in a world that is imperfect.

We construct our days, bit by bit, month by month, year by year. Our lives take on a routine, and then we bemoan that routine. Predictability, it seems, is a double-edged blade of comfort and boredom. We long for it, we build it, and when we find it, we reject it.
Because while change is not always growth, growth is always rooted in change. A finished person, like a finished house, is a static thing. Pleasant, perhaps, or beautiful or admirable, but not for long exciting.
I desire change, though I refuse to phrase it that way, admitting only my love for the adventure. I seek, because inside of me I know I must seek to grow. Not all people are possessed of such spirits. Some desire to cling to the comfort of the routine, to the surety that comes with the completion of the construction of life's details. On the smaller scale, they become wedded to their daily routines. They become enamored of the predictability. They calm their restless souls in the confidence that they have found their place in the universe, that things are the way they are supposed to be, that there are no roads left to explore and no reason to wander.
On the larger scale, such people become fearful and resentful--sometimes to extremes that defy logic--of anyone or anything that intrudes on that construct. A societal change, a ruler's edict, an attitude shift in the bordering countries, even events that have nothing to do with them personally can set off a reaction of dissonance and fear.
There is a line that we all straddle, between comfort and adventure. There are those who find satisfaction, even fulfillment, in the former, and there are those who are forever seeking.
It is my guess, and can only be my guess, that the fears of the former are rooted in fear of the greatest mystery of all, death. It is no accident that those who construct the thickest walls are most often rooted firmly, immovably, in their faith. The here and now is as it is, and the better way will be found in the afterlife. That proposition is central to the core beliefs that guide the faithful, with, for many, the added caveat that an afterlife will only fulfill its promise if the here and now remains in strict accord with the guiding principles of the chosen deity.
I count myself among the other group, the seekers. There is no light in my eyes greater than when a new road is there before me. It seems that I cannot be rooted nor confined. I hold little faith that I will live out my days in the course currently set before me. It is not just boredom that propels my steps along paths unknown, but a firm belief that the guiding principles of life must be a search not for what is, but for what could be. To look at injustice or oppression, at poverty or slavery, and shrug helplessly, or worse to twist a god's "word" to justify such states, is anathema to the ideal, and to me, the ideal is achieved only when the ideal is sought. The ideal is not a gift from the gods, but a promise from them.
We are possessed of reason. We are possessed of generosity. We are possessed of sympathy and empathy. We have within us a better nature, and it is one that cannot be confined by the constructed walls of anything short of the concept of heaven itself. Within the very logic of that better nature , a perfect life cannot be found in a world that is imperfect.
So we dare to seek. We dare to change. Even knowing that we will not get to "heaven" in this life is no excuse to hide within the comfort of routine. For it is in that seeking, in that continual desire to improve ourselves and to improve the world around us, that we walk the road of enlightenment, that we eventually can approach the gods with heads bowed in humility, but with confidence that we did their work, that we tried to lift ourselves and our world to their lofty standards, the image of the ideal.

7 hours in a car tends to stir the thought barrel...

As the title suggests, I've done a lot of thinking and a lot of analyzing behind the wheel today. As driving is the one true passion in my life, today was not an altogether un-enjoyable day...I've had so many thoughts swirl in, out and around, I had to get on here and let some of this out...



Buckle up...the top is off and it's about to get heavy.



One of the consequences of living an existence in today's age of information is the inescapable curse of continually viewing the world through the focusing prism employed by a historian. I say "curse"--when in truth I believe it to be a blessing--because any hope of prescience requires a constant questioning of what is, and a deep-seated belief in the possibility of what can be. Viewing events as might the historian requires an acceptance that my own initial, visceral reactions to seemingly momentous events in my life may be errant, that my "gut instinct" and my own emotional needs may not stand the light of reason in the wider view, or even that these events, so momentous in my personal experience, might not be so in the wider world and the long, slow, inevitable creep of time.

How often have I seen that my first reaction is based on half-truths and biased perceptions! How often have I found expectations completely inverted or tossed aside as events played out to their own accord!

I believe this to be because emotion clouds the rational, and many perspectives guide the full reality. To really view and analyze the people around you is to account for all perspectives, from the loved ones around you, the friends closest to you, even those of your enemy. It is to know the past and to use such relevant history as a template for expectation. It is most of all, to force reason ahead of instinct, to refuse to demonize that which you hate, and to, most of all, accept your own fallibility.

And so I live on shifting sands, where yet more absolutes melt away with the passing of another year. It is a natural extension, I expect, of an existence in which I have shattered the preconceptions of so many people. With every stranger who comes to accept me for who I am instead of who he or she expected me to be, I roil the sands beneath that person's feet. It is a growth experience for them, no doubt, but we are all creatures of ritual and habit and accepted notions of what is and what is not. When true reality cuts against that internalized expectation--there is created an internal dissonance, as uncomfortable as the worst case of poison ivy.

There is freedom in seeing the world as a painting in progress, instead of a place already painted, but there are times my friend...

There are times.

Conflagration

You see, women are like fires, like flames. Some women are like candles...bright and friendly. Some are like single sparks, or embers...like fireflies for chasing on a summer night. Some are like campfires, all light and heat for a night and willing to be left after. Some women are like hearthfires, not much to look at, but underneath they are all warm red coal that burns a long, long while.



The one I want to find is like a waterfall of spark pouring off a sharp iron edge that God is holding to the grindstone. You can't help but to look at her, can't help but to want...Could I touch her for more than a second?

Could I hold her?

West-by-God-Virginia

I WASN'T THERE AT THE TIME, so I have no way of knowing for certain, but I believe the trouble all started with the name. Naming a baby is damn-near impossible. But naming a state? Who does such a thing? They don’t even have those handy books you can flip through for inspiration. It really is uncharted territory.

But still, they got some good ideas down, including a handful of decent options: Columbia, Allegheny, Monongahela, Potomac, and the one that was actually on the charter at one point—Kanawha. Then they got the yips. Forging a new state was a pretty bold maneuver, especially since they were carving it out of a rather popular and populous state already in existence. Was it necessary to come up with an entirely new name as well? Couldn’t there just be some type of happy medium that didn’t confound everyone? And there it is, the problem. In the spirit of making things less confusing for themselves at the time, they forced countless generations to have endless exchanges that go something like this:

“I’m from West Virginia.”

“Really? I have a cousin in Roanoke.”

“That’s in Virginia.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m from West Virginia. It’s a different state.”

It’s frustrating to come from a state that most people can’t be bothered to remember. The only thing worse is when they do. They get that mischievous twinkle in the eye, and then out pour the jokes—the barnyard jokes, the banjo jokes, and, everyone’s favorite, the incest jokes. I’m not sure what response people are hoping for when they accuse me of screwing my sister, but I can assure you it never endears me toward them. But, these sad stabs at humor can’t be unique to West Virginia. I’m sure it happens to people from all sorts of Southern states: Alabama, Mississippi, Arkansas, Kentucky. Hell, to be perfectly honest, I’ve made those sorts of jokes about people from Kentucky. But it all leads up to a bigger question. These are attitudes about the South, so is West Virginia a part of the South?

The geography would seem to say so. There’s the Mason-Dixon Line, forming the better part of the northern boundary of West Virginia. It’s common knowledge that everything below the Mason-Dixon is the South. But then there’s Maryland. Every square inch of that state lies below the line, and there’s hardly a soul on earth who would claim to be in the South while traipsing through Baltimore. So, the Mason-Dixon isn’t exactly foolproof as a Southern indicator.

You could argue that West Virginia belongs to the South through a simple process of elimination. It’s not the Northeast. We’re not high-falutin’ enough to hang with that crowd. And it’s not the Midwest. We’re a tad too…colorful for their tastes. So we’re below the Mason-Dixon. We’re not the Northeast. And we’re not the Midwest. Riddle cracked. The scores have been tallied... West Virginia, welcome to the South!

Except, well, there is that one other thing.

The Civil War was serious business. War always is. People on one side don’t generally care for people on the other. And the only thing worse than being the enemy is switching sides in the middle of the fight to become the enemy—which is exactly how West Virginia was born.

Virginia was a big state. The biggest state in the Union for a long while. In fact, it held that status until just forty years before the Civil War erupted—before they started doling out boxy parcels of land and calling them states. But, from the very beginning, there were two different cultures emerging in Virginia. In the southeastern part of the state were the blue bloods with their fields and farms and coastal lands. In the northwest were the mountains, an entirely different place populated by an entirely different people.

You can’t talk about West Virginia without talking about the mountains. The science books say the land was once flat, but if you’ve ever stood on top of Cupp Run and watched the hills rolling out—piled atop one another, cut through by a glacier long ago, mellowed with age, and quiet—you’d be hard-pressed to drum up the necessary mixture of imagination and trust to ever believe it. The mountains are there and, as far as any human history is concerned, always have been. They were certainly there in the early days of America when people were deciding where to live. One surveyor, in examining parts of what would later become West Virginia, wrote, “It seems very strange that any person should have settled there at that time when the whole country was almost vacant.”

But that’s exactly the point. People had their choice of the entire country, and some of them chose to live right here. In the mountains. It may have been one state, Virginia, but it was clearly occupied by two very different sorts of people.

This leads some to say that the separation between Virginia and West Virginia was preordained, to some degree. Different land, different societies. Even the rivers flowed in opposite directions.

But I’m not sure I buy it.

Conflicts have always existed between different regions in the same state. The Hatfields and McCoys, enough said. It took guns, bloodshed, and a country ripped apart to provide catalyst enough to make Virginia finally come apart, the only time in all of U.S. history that a state has split in two.

I digress. So now the Civil War starts up. The "bumpy" part of Virginia raises its hand and asks to be excused from secession. In doing so, it actually secedes from one of the original thirteen colonies. And the mad-dash land grab begins to form the newest member of the Union. It starts with the obvious counties, the northern ones that have more in common with Pittsburgh than Richmond. Then it spreads. A few counties here, a couple more there. Until West Virginia is formed, looking more like an ink blot than a state. But in the end, everyone—save Virginia—seems relatively happy. Lincoln gets a fresh batch of allies for the fight. The mountain people get their own state, with their own government, AND THEIR VERY OWN NAME!

But damnit! I know there was a lot going on—a war being fought, some pretty shady circumstances under which to form a new state—but if they were dead-set on calling the place “West Virginia,” they honestly should have thought it through a bit more. See, the name implies it sits to the west of Virginia—a little north, maybe, sure, but entirely to the west. Unfortunately, that isn’t the case. The current state of Virginia actually extends ninety-five miles further west than the westernmost part of West Virginia. I don’t care whose side you’re on, this is an oversight. If, when they were grabbing land, they’d snagged just four extra counties in the bottom, left-hand corner, the name would have at least made a bit more sense.

But that’s the way things seem to be in West Virginia. We’re a bit of a black hole for all things conventional, tidy, and easily explained. Take, for example, the presidency. Virginia proudly bills itself as the “Mother of Presidents.” Eight U.S. presidents were born there. Ohio forms our other largest border. They’ve managed to have seven presidents born on their soil. To the north, Pennsylvania. They’ve had one. Southwest of us, that’s Kentucky. They’ve had one, too. The only state that borders West Virginia that hasn’t birthed a president is Maryland. And frankly, that’s just a matter of bad timing. Spiro Agnew was from Maryland. If he could have held off just a bit longer on his resignation—outlasted Nixon by a few months—he could have been president, if only for an afternoon.

But, by the official count, that’s seventeen presidents born on the perimeter of West Virginia. Nearly forty percent of our presidents to date. And not one born on our hallowed soil. I even checked to see if any of the Virginia presidents had been born in a part of the state that later became West Virginia, hoping for a de facto presidency to which we could lay claim in some way. Alas, our mountainous terrain is—and apparently always has been—inhospitable to presidential timber.

Which isn’t to say we haven’t had people born in the Mountain State who have gone on to do great things. Ask anyone from West Virginia to name the fame that’s sprung forth from our land and you’ll witness an eager litany that will both surprise and delight. Chuck Yeager (Take that, sound barrier!)—Jerry West (The NBA logo himself!)—Pearl S. Buck (Nobel Prize!)—Mary Lou Retton (Perfect 10!)—Bill Withers (That’s right, we got soul!)—Darryl Talley (NFL lineman great) and then--Don Knotts (!). Somehow it always ends up there. In our desperate hope to cram in one more name—to prove that folks go forth and make something of themselves from our fair state—we end our case with Barney Fife. Which, no offense intended toward the late Mr. Knotts, always seems to hurt the argument more than help it.

But that sort of “eager to please” attitude seems to come with the territory. We’re a defensive people. Always have been. Coming from a state that was conceived in controversy doesn’t make for a relaxed citizenry.

There’s more to it than that, of course. There are the jokes. The predilections. The seemingly unshakable poverty. Read any history of West Virginia and it plays like a Rodney Dangerfield act—without the laughs. People came in and took our coal, then went elsewhere to create true industry (Matewan). They took our timber, then shipped it away to make furniture and floorboards and other goods to sell. They gutted our mountains for the minerals, then left us with industrial swimming pools filled with equal parts poison and regret. Or better yet, with no mountain-tops at all...

You have to let these things happen to you, though. West Virginia did. Partly out of trust. Partly out of hardship. Partly out of that timeless bringer of endless sorrow—greed. But greed exists on a smaller scale in a land like ours. The people who would sell the mineral rights to their land weren’t hungry for a mansion or a yacht or anything as grandiose as that. They were hungry for some food. Maybe a new wood stove so they could both heat their house and cook for their family. A little extra meat to feed those many mouths. They wanted to be able to stand upright for a while—let their backs straighten and rest—instead of hunkering over, or inside of, the land in an exhausting attempt to just make ends meet.

I think this is part of the reason no president has been born in West Virginia. People are too busy working and loving and living in a forgotten land like ours. There just isn’t enough time to picture yourself sitting in the White House. You’d honestly just as soon be sitting in your own house, enjoying what you’ve earned that day. Then resting to earn up for the next. Older cultural, social, and economic conditions tend to survive—even thrive—in the mountains. They say if the world ever ends, you’ll want to be in West Virginia. It’ll take twenty years for it to catch on there. But that’s the thing with deep roots. They tend to keep you off the cutting edge.

People have been taking their jabs at West Virginia since the day it was born. “To admit a state under such a government is entirely unauthorized, revolutionary, subversive of the Constitution and destructive of the Union of States.” This from Jefferson Davis—a guy who tried to peel half the country away from itself, lined up armies, and started a war in order to do so. Even with that under his belt, he felt qualified to wave his hypocrisy in the face of a handful of mountain folk who didn’t care to play along.

The South is probably the best place for West Virginia. Our geography, our mentality, our accent, they’re all a lot more Southern than not. But, due to the War between the States, we have an eternal asterisk next to our name. If we’d remained a part of Virginia, we would, without argument, be considered a Southern state. But now, no one can be certain. West Virginia will likely always exist outside of geographic pigeonholing and regional arrangement. But I really think it better that way. If history serves as any indicator, no one will be lining up to welcome us into their provincial fold any time soon. No one really wanted us back when we became a state. We were just warm bodies in a moment of national desperation. I know, when desperate, I’ve certainly been less than discerning about the company I’ve kept.

All I know is, if I’m less Southern than some of the people I meet, I’m a hell of a lot more Southern than others. Which leaves me in a unique spot. It’s a small state, after all, so there aren’t many who can proudly say, "I’m from West Virginia." But as for the 1.8 million that do reside here, it's always said with pride when asked....

“I’m from West Virginia.”

“Oh, yeah? I have a cousin in Roanoke.”

“No, I’m from West Virginia. It’s a different state.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

Coppernicus

We are the center. In each of our minds-some may call it arrogance, or selfishness-we are the center, and all the world moves about us, and for us, and because of us. This is the paradox of community, the one and the whole, the desires of the one, often in direct conflict with the needs of the whole. Who among us has not wondered if all the world is no more than a personal dream?
I do not believe that such thoughts are arrogant or selfish. It is simply a matter of perception; we can empathize with someone else, but we cannot truly see the world as another person sees it, or judge events as they effect the mind and the heart of another, even a friend.
But we must try. For the sake of humankind, we must try. This is the test of altruism, the most basic and undeniable ingredient for society. Therein lies the paradox, for ultimately, logically, we must each care more about ourselves than about others, and yet, if, as rational beings we follow that logical course, we place our needs and desires above the needs of our society, and then there is no community.
I live in America. I have seen first-hand this selfishness. I have seen, and am watching, it fail miserably. When self-indulgence rules, then all of the community loses, and in the end, those striving for gains are left with nothing of any real value.
This is because everything of value that we will know in this life comes from our relationship with those around us.Because there is nothing material that measures against the intangibles of love and friendship.
Thus, we must overcome that selfishness and we must try; we must care. I have seen the failure of self-indulgence; I have run from such a world. I would rather die because of another's past, than have him die because of mine own. I would suffer the physical pains, even the end of my life; Better that than watch one I love suffer and die because of me. I would rather have my physical heart torn from my chest , than have my heart of hearts, the essence of love, the empathy and the need to belong to something bigger than my corporeal form, destroyed.
They are a curious thing, these emotions. How they fly in the face of logic, how they overrule the most basic instincts. Because, in the measure of time, in the measure of humanity, we sense those self-indulgent instincts to be a weakness, we sense that the needs of the community must outweigh the desires of one. Only when we admit to our failures and recognize our weaknesses can we rise above them.
Together.

Flow

Hold on just a second, let me go put Jimi on...ah, there, much better. Well, we both know it's been far too long with no writings...Last time I did this was September...damn; but, look what can happen in 6 months. Different job, different cars, different women, different perspectives...So much has happened in the time that has passed...that fucking deer Halloween night, a pretty good family Thanksgiving, having to watch Megan and her first ever boyfriend (Mr. Ballarino) visit the house, going to ALL of the Mountaineer football home games this year, a great stop in Hotlanta with true Southern Belles on the way to Jacksonville, FL and Gator Bowl trip II, a surprise season at Snowshoe yet again, got ridiculous fast and ridiculous high on skiis, me a Sushi Chef, yeah, I know...who would would have ever thought in 5 million years I would be a fucking Sushi Chef..., no mas Ana, watching the Mountaineer basketball team in Motown beat UMass on their way to the NIT championship, getting to see all three of my "bras" (Dawg the Bounty Hunter) together which hadn't happened in years, drove my Subaru until the wheels fell off literally...very proudly at 201,800some miles, and now here we are 2 days away from my Mom's birthday. I have a siesta of about 6 weeks now that are totally free, and I think I'm gonna road trip it. I was on top of a mountain for the last 3 months with splotchy cell service and no computer and I lost contact with pretty much everyone. Now I'm back in civilization feeling better than I have in a long long time, and I will be getting in touch with you all.
OK...that said, moving on...I didn't have an Ipod for most of the season this year so when I was out skiing everyday I had a lot of time to do a lot of thinking. I also took that time to get back in touch with myself and figure things out in my life. I've still got a couple more months to go, but I again have a purpose, and again have a goal of something to work towards. I think I took the most comfort in finding those. But, to be real for a second, don't ever forget that tomorrow is not guaranteed. Every day, I woke up and strapped on my boots and skis before going to work...and I stood on the edge of Cupp Runn and at other times at the top of Western Shay's Revengeand got to look out upon three valleys carved out by glaciers millions of years ago and were once great river beds...and EVERY day it took my breath away. I didn't realize it then, but those moments every day were when I was at the most peace. Everything for miles was laid out before me and the slope was always free of congestion. I always said my thanks to the Big Guy uptairs for giving me that moment and giving me another day and then proceeded to tear down Cupp balls-to-the-wall in total communion with my skis and the trail. I am happy again, and I didn't find it in a woman...I found it in myself. It feels good to write again; I am sure there will be more to follow in the days ahead. However, tonight's ride on the midnight express has pulled into the station and Jimi has put his guitar back in his case. A good night to you all.