Dreaming Away

Woke to my alarm clock registered (enough decibels to raise the dead) for terrorist attack or a nuclear explosion.

The problem is that it takes this kind of alarming sound at full volume to bring me back to consciousness after a long sleep. All through my life, sleep and dreams have always been deep, sometimes reaching the depths of the comatose, sleeping through 4pt to 6pt earthquakes while living in California through the eighties. The apartment coming down around us as my girlfriend at the time, panicked and, as always, dramatizing the event like a B-grade actor in a lame seventies film.

Once awake, though, the soul comes alive, and no matter what the hell is happening, self-preservation prevails, scrambling outside while paintings fall off the walls and the ceilings begin to crack. Though my girlfriend was, and probably still is, a drama queen, if she didn’t wake me that morning, I’d have slept through the entire earth-shaking affair.

Remembering a most chilling incident, house-sitting for my boss with my girl friend, shaken awake to a terrified whisper….

“There’s someone in the house.”

Crawling on the floor in the dark, peering around the corner, not seeing anything at first then, a shadow, and the sound of boots on the wood floor of the kitchen…there was not only one person in the house but two or perhaps three.

The kitchen is next to the door to the garage, where my boss, an amateur carpenter, had tools to the worth of thousands.

Crawling again to the front window, their truck was parked outside, as these thieves conveniently stacked my boss’s tools in their vehicle, casually and without fear.

My girlfriend was already on the phone talking to a 911 operator:

“Alright darling, don’t panic! What ever you do, please stay on the phone. Now, tell me your address. Good girl, tell me what is happening now?”

“But we have children in the house! You need to come now, please…”

Watching through the corner on the floor on hands and knees, I could see they were satisfied with their takings. The smaller one of the three, said something that was just out of earshot, but it sounded like,

“Let’s have some fun.”

These thieves, a coven of criminals, all laughed and it was at that moment that my stomach decided to reject everything that had been put into it in the last 24 hours.

While retching, I heard: “ON THE GROUND!”

One of the threesome attempted a getaway over the back fence, hitting it hard, ending up on the ground, handcuffed.

The sound of him smashing against the fence, an extremely loud scrambling bang, at that point I knew that it was finally over.

Interestingly and thankfully, the two young children, aged two and four, slept through the entire harrowing experience.

My boss’s tools were saved and his children were safe, but the question always remains:

What if my girlfriend hadn’t been there at the time?

Would I have slept through the entire ordeal, possibly causing, inadvertently, something terrible, an event much more sinister?

In fact, this is useless speculation, the pointless “what if’s” of a past event.

Sleep is a wondrous, natural and necessary aspect of our lives, mine, unfortunately or otherwise, is all consuming…

Thus I continue to put the alarm at nuclear or terrorist mode because it would be a shame to miss life while sound asleep…dreaming away.

Yukio Mishima – The Sailor who Fell from Grace with the Sea – Review

 

Yukio Mishima (1926-1970) was a novelist, poet, screenwriter, actor, fashion model, right wing militarist and Japanese Nationalist. Probably his most famous novel in the west is Confessions of a Mask. (see my review below) Just as popular is The Sea of Fertility tetralogy,  a collection of four novellas. Mishima predicted that when he finished the last novel of the four, he would meet his death. This became a self fulfilling prophecy when he committed seppuku in November 1970.

The Sailor who Fell (1963) is a beautifully written tale, (the Times called it 'A major work of art') that is at once poetic and under the surface, deeply sociopathic.

The young lad Noboru is the son of a wealthy widow. They live in a seaside town where the boy is fascinated with the great ships, sailors and imagining their adventures. Noboru is a very intelligent boy with strange ideas as to what it means to be human. He belongs to a gang led by a boy they call the Chief. This group have a particular view of existence, mainly despising the lies adults engage in and their weaknesses. One's conscience must be eradicated at all costs because to have one is weak and opposite to “heroic”.

There is a particularly disturbing chapter where the gang engages in the murder of a young animal. Noboru kills the animal and the Chief eviscerates the corpse as a twisted method of removing the fur, skin and muscle to reach the core truth of existence. To practice actions to rid one's conscience to achieve a level of purity of character is insane. (The boy's are practicing to be full blown psychopaths).

Noboru's mother is a wealthy and beautiful woman who inherited a high end clothing store who's clientele are only the wealthy. Since her husbands death she has becomes lonely and finally meets a sailor, where they begin a relationship. Ryuji is a life long serving member of the Japanese merchant Navy. He is only at port for short periods of time, preventing any serious long term relationship.

Noboru discovers a peephole into his mother's bedroom behind his chest of drawers. When his mother and Ryiji are together, he watches them in silence. This kind of voyeurism for a pubescent can be chalked up to mere curiosity. Though Noboru knows it's wrong, revealing this behavior as obvious perversion and the actions of a sexual pervert.

The ending of the novel is a picture of mob psychopathy.

Mishima pushes the boundaries of his subject matter in this novel as he did in Confessions of a Mask. Certainly not for everybody, Mishima's work, however, provokes thought and issues that many would rather not read or talk about. Personally, worth the read.

Confessions of a Mask- review :  https://sychronicity1.blogspot.com/2020/10/yukio-mishima-confessions-of-mask-review.html

Childhood Memory of Lost Time

 

A time in my old neighborhood during the change of the season from spring to summer.

So many years ago, I recalled riding my bike through the fog, closing my eyes, then stopping abruptly because it was too quiet and still. As ten-year-old boys' do, being alone in the dark and fog, mainly when there is no one around, can be terrifying.

On the curb next to my bike, I sat quietly, listening to the sounds of, well, nothing, total silence. The fog turned to a thick, white wall on the curb, and seeing two feet in front of you was impossible.

The thunder and lightning began their diatribe. Finally, I was lost in a cloud.

Panic set in as my orientation was lost... was I to go right or left?

It began to rain, then rain harder as the raindrops hurt my face, so rather than sit there like a scared rabbit, I rode in a direction that I hoped would lead home.

The rain was unrelenting. 

In the distance, I saw multi-colored lights, thus headed in that direction.

I skidded to a stop in front of the house (though never seen this house before) and decided to knock on the door and get some directions. The door was surrounded with lights like it was Christmas, and easy to see through the rain and fog. I rang the doorbell and waited, wet, cold, and shivering.

The door opened, and there stood a strange old lady. Her hair was pure white, swept back in a long ponytail. She looked like a gypsy, with too many earrings and bracelets, too much make-up, and her dressing gown one would associate with hippies. (Of the eastern variety).

Walking into her house, I detected the scent of violets and sandalwood incense...candles sat on every shelf, all lit, burning bright, though the best memory is the room's warmth...I felt safe.

"Sit here, little one." She wrapped a blanket around me.

"What is your name and phone number, so I can call your Mother to come for you?"

I gave her my name and phone number, and she disappeared into another room.

While she was away, an old cat sat on top of an old, overly stuffed chair, yawned, stretched, and meowed at me. Then, the old cat sauntered over and merely sat and continued to stare into my eyes.

"Go away, cat!" I said.

The old woman then entered the room again with a surprised expression.

"I spoke with your mother...how long have you been away from home?"

Strange question, I thought.

"No more than a couple of hours."

She laughed and suddenly turned serious.

"According to your mother, you have been missing for three days, and the police have been looking for you, too."

"Crap, I just got lost in the fog and found this place!"

Then she asked, "Do you know where you are?"

"Yea, Northglenn, where I live..."

She smiled and said,

"Well, little one, you are in Pueblo, over one hundred miles from where you live."

"That can't be right. I've been riding my bike for only a few hours..."

Drinking sweet tea and wrapped in a smelly blanket, my father arrived.

He placed my bike in his trunk and said nothing during the trip home.

Now the rain had stopped (there was no fog), and the evening's last glimmer of light floated in the distance through the windshield of my father's car.

Once home, strangely, my mother did not yell or anything, but put me in the shower, fed me warm chili, and duly sent me to bed.

Over all these years, nothing has been mentioned about this incident again...

Though even today, this experience continues to confound and disturb. 

The Naiad

 

If one attempts to immerse into a certain artist, writer or poet, will discover a theme or motif that casually travels throughout their particular body of work.

The Pre-Raphaelite, J.W. Waterhouse, had at least two obsessions, his model, Muriel Foster, and his focus on water spirits, nymphs, sirens and other mythical water beings.

Although most his female subjects were characters or representations of ancient myths and poems, his model, Muriel Foster, appeared as the main star, the leading lady in all his work. She was the "Marilyn Monroe" of the 19th century art movement...though her true identity was kept secret because of the social mores and hypocrisy’s of the time period.

Muriel was indeed a classical beauty.

This painting, The Naiad, has always intrigued me because the Naiad has the expression of pure wonder and curiosity, almost intently surprised as if the boy is hurt in some way. She has seen a human being for the first time: and luckily, while he sleeps by the river.

What is a Naiad?

Always connected to a body of water, it is their world and they depend on the water for their existence. The ancient Greeks believed after many encounters with these beautiful beings, that they had inspirational powers and the knowledge of healing. Some also believed they could predict the future…they were special divine beings connected with divinity and growth.

I love this painting for many reasons: the beauty of the Naiad and her cautious curious expression as she peers at the half naked human, covered in what appears to be an animal skin: perhaps a leopard or something more mundane.

The Naiad are divine spirits of a natural existence. They are shy, humble and fearful of the out side “real world”. Thus this painting is special as it is a first encounter between the human and the divine. (Of course in the pagan sense).

One of my all time favorites.

Preston & Child – City of Endless Nights – Review

This novel is the next in the series after The Obsidian Chamber. The tale kicks off with the discovery of a gruesome murder by two kids raising havoc in suburban Queens. After egging an old mans car in the middle of winter, he decides to give chase following the boys into a an industrial area. Hiding inside a vacant building, the boys find the naked body of a young woman. This is not an ordinary corpse, though nude and frozen, the body is missing a head.

A familiar character enters the crime scene: Lieutenant Commander Detective Vincent D'Agosta. Reader's are aware of the detective from almost the very beginning of the Pendergast series. He's a no nonsense cop who prefers to play by all the rules. The man puts his heart and soul into every homicide case, sometimes at the detriment of his health and relationships. Pendergast and D'Agosta go way back and now find themselves partnering on a case that should be a simple homicide, but turns out to be something far more insidious.

As partners in an investigation, D'Agosta and Pendergast are like chalk and cheese. Where Pendergast is caviar and expensive Champaign, Vincent is steak and potatoes, drinking a cold beer on a hot day at a baseball game. Their differences seem to compliment each other, and their loyalty and friendship for one another is rock solid.

The decapitated young woman turns out to be a tech billionaires daughter. She had been reported missing a few days prior to her body being discovered. Because the case is now 'high profile', by orders of the mayor, the detectives visit Anton Ozmian, the father of the deceased. Ozmian turns out to be a menacing character, having a violent fit when told of his daughters death. Ozmain takes the term 'wealthy eccentric' to levels never seen before. Because the case is high profile, the pressure and heat from the top is strong, thus solving the case for the NYPD and the FBI is high priority. Then another murder is committed.

In most or all of the Pendergast series is a dogged journalist on the heels of the investigation. Bryce Harriman once worked for the NYT and now works for the Post. The man's ethics are sketchy, but he always seems to get the scoop. When the second victim is found headless, there's talk around town of a serial killer. Because both murders were members of the 1%, Harriman makes a link. There must be a 99% crusader making examples of the 1%. When this story makes the headlines, all of New York's elite are seen fleeing Manhattan in droves.

The mark of a great crime/thriller is it keeps the reader guessing as to the killers identity until the end. This tale is no different. One would never deduce this killer's identity and their motive for the murders.

For fans of this series, this installment will not disappoint. For readers who read City of Endless Night by itself without knowledge of the series will also be entertained from start to finish.

Shakespeare's Sonnets - Short Comment.

 

Shakespeare's Sonnets come from the Bard's deepest thoughts, passions, suffering and the expression of the ultimate Joy of Beauty, and Love.

Here are the words of a suffering soul, in love with "someone" much younger than himself, thus his references to age being no barrier to true Love in many of the verses.

All or most scholars agree, the Sonnets were written about and to a single person. The argument, of course, is who this person was...Oscar Wilde speculated the object of the Master's heart was a young male actor, due to the law, had to play all the female parts as acting in the 16th century was purely a man's job.

Shakespeare himself has become a mystery as to his true identity for many years. Interestingly, Sigmund Freud's "free time", was devoted to revealing the Bard's true identity

For me, when reading the Sonnets, Who wrote them or Who they were written For makes no difference. Because the Sonnets are the most beautiful Ode to Poetry, the Muse and Real Love and its Tragedy, that all too often, is true Love's end result.

Over the last three nights, reading or more acurately 're-reading' these wonderful verses, my admiration for the English language, its beauty and cadence, its ability for subtle irony and truth is astounding.

One of my favorites: LXXV.

So are you to my thoughts, as food for life, Or as sweet-season'd showers are to the ground: And for the peace of you I hold such strife As 'twixt a miser and his wealth is found: Now proud as an enjoyer, and anon Doubting the flinching age will steal his treasure; Now counting best to be with you alone, Then better'd that the world see my pleasure: Sometime all full with feasting on your sight, And by-and-by clean starved for a look; Possessing or pursuing no delight, Save what is had or must from you be took. Thus do I pine and surfeit day by day; Or gluttoning on all, or all the away.

"Feasting on your sight", just to see (her) brings on so much joy."Thus do I pine"... but saving her image in his mind like a glutton, a wanting, a Love deep and experienced from afar...

Merely to remind yourself of the beauty of the English language read the Bard's Sonnets and Poems.

Erich Maria Remarque – The Night in Lisbon – Review

 

Remarque (1896- 1970) is best known for his WWI novel, All Quiet on the Western Front. (1928). The author in known for creating a new genre of literature, the modern war novel, where many of his texts were scooped-up by Hollywood. After WWI, like many German writers and artists, he escaped the oppression of the Nazi party and the rise of Adolph Hitler.

This novel is certainly not a “cheer-up society”, but an expose', a depressing narrative of the ordinary men and women caught-up the machinations of war. As we know now, war only benefits the world's elites, earning billions of dollars while millions are murdered or placed into camps. Nothing has changed in war except the efficiency of the weapons deployed to destroy.

A young man looking to escape Europe and sail to the United States, spends his last cash on gambling in order to buy tickets for him and his wife. He meets a fellow refugee from Germany and they begin a conversation. The man offers our gambler two cruise tickets to New York for free because he says he doesn't need them anymore. He offers our gambler one condition: stay with him through the night and listen to his story.

Thus begins Schwartz' tale, taking an entire night and morning to tell. The men travel from restaurant to bar, drinking wine and eating delicacies while our German narrates his extraordinary tale of war, relationships; being a refugee in Europe at the start of WWII; the evils of the German Nazi party and most of all, the love he has for his wife.

Because Schwartz (not his real name) denied the ideology of the Nazi Party, he was immediately placed in a concentration camp. After spending two years in the camp, he escapes the camp and Germany, and travels through Europe for five years in constant fear of being captured by the Gestapo. The mass refugee crises in Europe that the Nazis created should be well known. We're aware of the Jewish exodus, but any person denouncing the thousand year Reich was hunted down and killed or imprisoned.

Schwartz decides to risk going back to Germany to see his wife again. Danger at every turn, he manages to travel through Switzerland into Germany. He finally tracks down the beautiful Helen. After the awkward meeting, (they haven't seen each other for five years) they spend a night of wine and re-acquaintance. At the last moment, Helen decides to leave Germany with Schwartz and live the dangerous refugee life on the run.

For the most part, The Night in Lisbon is a love tale against the backdrop of war.

The reader feels the desperation of the many people escaping the brutal oppression of the Nazis: standing in long lines in front of consulates, trying to obtain a temporary visa. The educated and once privileged, now work in the fields for a pittance or merely food and a place to sleep.

If you've never read Remarque before, I'd recommend All Quiet of the Western Front. Though The Night in Lisbon is an informative and interesting read. Truly a window into the early 20^th century, revealing the ravages of war.