Sunday, August 24, 2008

Who is the third who walks always beside you?

Yesterday I finished a book I’ve blogged a bit about before--Maria Coffey’s Explorers of the Infinite, which came out earlier this year and has the subtitle: The Secret Spiritual Lives of Extreme Athletes-and What They Reveal About Near-Death Experiences, Psychic Communication, and Touching the Beyond.

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Well, first off, it was a really entertaining, page-turner of a read, with lots of cool stories, mostly about mountain climbers. Stories about ghosts, premonitions, telepathy, NDEs, hallucinations, and such. She does a very nice job of agnostically putting forth scientific explanations for things while keeping an open mind and respecting the experiences of her subjects. It’s fairly clear, on the other hand, that she believes in a lot of what she’s describing....

I’ve never been particularly interested in mountain-climbing myself given that, for one thing, I sure as hell don’t plan on doing any of it. It seems an even more dangerous and deadly endeavor than I thought. I think perhaps the majority of the stories in the book--including Coffey’s own--are told by those who lost loved ones to climbing....

The most interesting chapter, though, dealth with hallucinations. Contrary to what you might perhaps think, I don’t have a lot of experience with such. I had one definite auditory one. Two visual ones that come to mind, strangely, were both shared with one or two others, and so, who knows, may have been real. There was the standard Breathing Sidewalk one....

Anyway, my mom had some during her Alzheimer’s, and even--I guess, especially--secondhand, it’s disturbing. It’s often easy to ascribe them to some physical basis. Alzheimer’s, schizophrenia, seizures, drugs. Still, when my mom saw dead people, it creeped me out. When my great uncle, in the late stages of Alzheimer’s himself, said, “I’ve seen what’s it’s like on the other side, and I don’t like it,” that was even creepier.

Not just mountain climbing, but enduring arctic conditions seems to lead to a particular type of hallucination where one sees and even interacts with another being. I was surprised by Coffey’s explanation of the mysterious lines in T.S. Eliot’s Waste Land:

Who is the third who walks always beside you?
When i count, there are only you and i together
But when i look ahead up the white road There is always another one walking beside you....

Coffey says these were inspired by the extreme Antarctic experiences of the explorer Ernest Shackleton, during which he believed a mysterious presence guided him and his crew to safety. (Perhaps Eliot mentions this in his footnotes. I’m too lazy to get out up and check.)

Apparently, it is not uncommon for these apparitions to act as guides or aides. Anyway, Coffey discusses some research by Dr. Charles Houston that suggests that, in the case of mountain climbing, for instance, such hallucinations may be due to “miniature temporal lobe seizures, triggered by fatigue, low blood sugar, personal crisis, and anxiety.” To keep baggage to a minimum, mountaineers usually carry very little food and sometimes less than adequate clothing or shelter.

Similarly, BTW, as Coffey herself points out, Jesus, Moses, and Mohammed had their visions on mountains, each talking to devils, angels, or God. I know Jesus was subsisting on the usual locusts and honey diet, Moses had been living on manna, and Allah only knows what Mohammed had been ingesting. And while there is a long tradition in several religions of mystics and holy men living hermitic lives on mountains, there are also modern mountain climbers and other extreme atheletes who practice their sports for the express purpose of experiencing altered states of consciousness.

Surely there must be easier ways....

Thursday, August 14, 2008

The Spoken Word Revolution

During commercials or boring parts of the Olympics, I’ve been reading. I finished--which is to say, read most of--a book I’ve had kicking around here since the New Year when I was getting ready for my poetry reading: The Spoken Word Revolution: Slam, Hip Hop & the Poetry of a New Generation, edited by Mark Eleveld.

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When I started reading at that event, it was something of a slam atmosphere, although not really a slam. It’s less so now. But I’m always interested in poetry read aloud, and this book comes with a CD of poetry readings, which actually, I haven’t listened to yet, although I added it to my iTunes....

I’m not sure what’s up with the whole poetry slam thing these days. This book (which came out in 2005) has several memoirs of the movement’s beginnings in Chicago and elsewhere (like Taos). I definitely think it was very cool that the slam thing generated so much interest in poetry. I have no problem at all with mixing poetry with other media or using it as almost stand-up comedy or performance art. On the other hand, as just poetry, most of what is in this book is just so-so. I made some notes as I read it and then tonight I went through it again and, really, the only ones that stood out for me were Yusef Komunyakaa--who has won the Pulitzer Prize--and Regie Gibson. Interestingly, when I went looking for online versions of their poems, I found Gibson’s poem in a blog that reviewed The Spoken Word Revolution, and that blogger also singled out Gibson as the best poet in the book.

I liked the Komunyakaa so much, that I checked his book of poems, Pleasure Dome, out of the library, and that’s the next book of poetry I’ll be reading. I think “Anodyne” would sounds quite nice read aloud, too, as you can hear for yourself here:

http://www.ibiblio.org/ipa/poems/komunyakaa/anodyne.php

Anodyne

By Yusef Komunyakaa

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I love how it swells
into a temple where it is
held prisoner, where the god
of blame resides. I love
slopes & peaks, the secret
paths that make me selfish.
I love my crooked feet
shaped by vanity & work
shoes made to outlast
belief. The hardness
coupling milk it can't
fashion. I love the lips,
salt & honeycomb on the tongue.
The hair holding off rain
& snow. The white moons
on my fingernails. I love
how everything begs
blood into song & prayer
inside an egg. A ghost
hums through my bones
like Pan's midnight flute
shaping internal laws
beside a troubled river.
I love this body
made to weather the storm
in the brain, raised
out of the deep smell
of fish & water hyacinth,
out of rapture & the first
regret. I love my big hands.
I love it clear down to the soft
quick motor of each breath,
the liver's ten kinds of desire
& the kidney's lust for sugar.
This skin, this sac of dung
& joy, this spleen floating
like a compass needle inside
nighttime, always divining
West Africa's dusty horizon.
I love the birthmark
posed like a fighting cock
on my right shoulder blade.
I love this body, this
solo & ragtime jubilee
behind the left nipple,
because I know I was born
to wear out at least
one hundred angels.

http://www.ibiblio.org/ipa/ is a nice little site, featuring the very fine poetry of Seamus Heaney, Philip Levine, Czeslaw Milosz, Robert Pinsky, Margaret Walker, Richard Wilbur, and Komunyakaa.

Here’s the Gibson poem I liked:

from The Spoken Word Revolution:

in the year i loved your mother
(for my daughter safiya who needs to know this)
by Regie Gibson

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in the year i loved your mother
i lived a glorious death
i was satellite traveling between blood and star
a planet evolving through rage and grief

in the year i loved your mother
was a time of drought and deluge
a season of rain and ruin

between us much soil and water
an illiterate ocean of language and diction

i arrived to her half broken half breaking

in the year i loved your mother
we were drum and drone
a volley of polemic and ideal

once i glimpsed you
waving at me from her mouth
as dawn met our shoulders
she whispered your name

we became the thin line
between sea and mountain
valley and sky

in the year i loved your mother
gravity abandoned me to her
she was vortex-a black hole
sewn into the belly of a continent
crushing all into singularity.

grapewaswinewas
soundwassongwas
motionwasdancewas
dovewasvulturecirclingwaslandingwas
all that was : was herYYY

the year I loved your mother
was the year tragedy tamed tongues

we served ours stitched them into
one anothers mouths we grew fluent
in speaking pain.

we brought stones from our pockets
traded them hurled them back towards
each others wounds and those that missed
were gathered later were used to build our walls

she was an equinox of razors when i found her
an autumn of featherless wings
caught in this gale of a man

your mother was: soft lips cutting calluses
from my knuckles

a silk fist logged hard in my mouth
where it opened into a sunflower
widening in the crag of my throat

in her skin i was cryptic blasphemy
transparent decoded holy