Saturday, April 24, 2010

Falling Into the Sack

(Short Essay I wrote for Russian Lit on Tolstoy's The Death of Ivan Ilyich...it is a good story about not living a life devoid of meaning...the prompt for the essay was "Was Ivan converted, if so to what extent and from what to what?)
   

      “The expression on the face said that what was necessary had been accomplished, and accomplished rightly.”  So it seems to Peter Ivanovich as he gazes at the corpse of Ivan Ilyich in the parlor on the day of his funeral.  It also seems that Ivan’s face speaks a reproach and a warning back to the living, a warning that disturbs Peter so deeply that he flees the room.  But what was this warning?  What message is Tolstoy sending to Peter Ivanovich, and though him also to us? 

    When Tolstoy introduces Ivan’s life he begins with a strange statement: “Ivan Ilyich’s life had been most simple and most ordinary and therefore most terrible.”  As he takes us through this ordinary man’s life, he proves this statement to be true and even more tragic for its ordinary accepetance. Ivan’s pleasures in life were few “the pleasures connected with his work were pleasures of ambition; his social pleasures were those of vanity”  and even these were meaningless and empty, for nothing much stood out about him.  His ambition? He was passed over for promotion like any man would be; and as for his social life “just as his drawing-room resembled all other drawing rooms so did his enjoyable little parties resemble all other such parties.”  Ivan loves neither his wife nor his children, and like all men of society “with clean hands, in clean linen, with French phrases…and consequently with the approval of people of high rank” he visits dark allies and houses of questionable reputation. Ivan has reached the height of happiness in his life – and it is a sad happiness.

    However, Tolstoy offers a very different perspective.  When Ivan’s illness settles into his body, what torments him most is the deception with which everyone seems to approach him. It is poison to him. Yet Tolstoy shows that this falsity is not only external, but is also internal to Ivan’s state of mind and that “this falsity around him and within him did more than anything else to poison his days [italics added].”   For weeks, Ivan suffers – unwilling to address the source of his internal mental anguish and his impending death. He asks only why he suffers so much, “and whenever the thought occurred to him as it often did, that it all resulted from his not having lived as he ought to have done, he at once recalled the correctness of his whole life and dismissed so strange an idea.”  

     Physical pain builds and finally drives him to call on God who answers him by asking him what he wants and what he lives for.  God takes Ivan on a journey through his life showing him the good he had done and the happiness he enjoyed. Tragically, “the further he went the less there was.”   Finally, Ivan is driven to ask questions…to ask the question: “What if my whole life has been wrong?”  and suddenly “it occurred to him that his scarcely perceptible attempts to struggle against what was considered good by the most highly laced people….which he had immediately suppressed, might have been the real thing, and all the rest false.”   His eyes are finally opened to the falsity of his life.  But now he only has hours left to live and must answer the next question, “What is the right thing?”   It is through this question that Tolstoy saves Ivan.  For even while he only has hours left to change his life, he still labors.  Ivan sees his wife and son and “felt sorry” for them, sincerely pitying them he tries to speak to them “forgive me”.    He sees that his death will best relieve them of pain and so chooses to act, in a way, for them.  He bravely faces his death, defiantly confronting the pain, “stretched out, and died.”  

Now his face is sealed with the expression of his final thoughts.  So what is the message he sends to Peter Ivanovich?  As Ivan died, he became aware of the fate of his family, “in them he saw himself – all that for which he had lived – and saw clearly that it was not real at all, but a terrible and a huge deception which had hidden both life and death.”   This, I believe, is the message that Tolstoy places in Ivan’s face as “a reproach and a warning to the living”.   Men cannot live for ambition and vanity alone – the only way a man can live with purpose is to think of others, and if necessary to even die if it be for their good.  Ivan realized this; and like the last laborer to come to the field he received his full wages.

Thursday, April 22, 2010

Wind

A whisper blows through the cold-empty home
The child’s laughing has now all slipped past
The boy wants to know why he’s sent off alone
But his answers are just biting cold-empty wind.

The same whisper drifts through library’s crypt
Sampling and saving cold-empty ideas
It’s silently tracked and now seeks a new home
And finds the lost boy-man’s searching still-empty ears.

The boy’s now become an inquisitor grand
He sits in the tavern and waits
For his brother, though the other seeks his comp’ny that night
And all ‘round the tavern blows the cold-empty wind.

The wind’s now inside, swirls and freezes his soul
The whispers are ravings and speak now void-true
With talon-vice grip swings around on his hip
Are you there?
I am here.  You will never be dear to anyone least of all me.
Frantic throwing and falls
Whispers blow through it all
Wind takes shadow-form
Tears at him, breaks glass-shatters his mind
It’s only fitting your cold-empty soul.

(This poem was written for a pull question that asked us to write creatively on the state of the soul of Ivan Feyodorovich Karamozov from Brothers Karamozov by Fyodor Dostoyevsky)

(hmm...Russian names are much nicer to say and look at than ours)

{songs from LA}

You are my sunshine, my only sunshine, you make my skin peel when out all day.

Old Poem...Newly Revised

The Wife of Ponce de Leon

She calls him deeper, the boy with dark black curls-to play in the woods, to be lost in her branches. He hears the call. Tender feet crunch leaves and twigs, young fingers touch coarse bark and he peers deeply.

The mountain calls him higher, the man with dark curls masked by grey. His weary eyes peer down at old parchment, the waters call to him. They said he’d never find it -  now he must, else she dies.

Leaves shake from hands peeling bark from her branch. Reluctantly it flakes away. Her pure, smooth bark shines; his breath quickens, heart pounds, twigs crack at slow, retreating footsteps

The map cannot be read for the shaking of weathered hands, as hers so often do. Needles lay unused on the table. Her face weathered, body weary, her wrinkled, gentle face protects what is within, but he cannot see it.

Her brilliance lures the boy. Tender fingers both tear and caress. She pleads with him, the layers protect what is precious within, but he cannot hear it.

The crest of the mountain disappears, mist flows down the crevices and valleys, down to the lake. It’s surface smooth with reflections of barkless trees. The man steps into the water, lowers his hand cautiously and rejoices.

She had pleaded with him not to go but he could not hear her
So fixed he was upon her face. 

He rips the bark away, strips her. Poping and cracking, insects that once took refuge must flee, the wood is too hard to provide a home. She pleads with him to stop, but he cannot hear.

The man stumbles through the door and offers her the water.  Poping and cracking echoes through the house, wrinkles taking refuge within her flee; her face pulled taut, the skin flat across her face.

The bark is completely stripped away, he steps back and sees the smooth wood beneath.

The wood creaks from slow, withdrawing footsteps. Weariness has gone, youth returned. She lowers her eyes, ashamed, exposed as her wisdom turns brown and flutters down. Her eyes harden, as years flee, gentle touch and knowing caress leave her now supple hands. The tremble of her voice vanquished and her youth shines forth.

The tree shakes as wind blows against it the boy is gone and she is
Dead.

[Photo Credit: mandragolaa at http://fc02.deviantart.net/fs12/f/2006/327/5/1/tree_by_mandragolaa.jpg]

Tuesday, April 6, 2010

For She Loved Much

The bed creaked and in a few moments she was finally alone.  He had taken it out of her this time…she knew soon she would die.  She pushed her hair sweat stuck from her forehead, and she shivered occasionally - though not from cold.  Eventually, she stood up and walked to the window overlooking the city.  It was just beginning to wake up…he had taken longer than she had thought.  She wrapped her shawl a bit tighter around her bony elbows.  As much as she ate, she kept losing weight…she knew she was sick with something, soon she would die.  Maybe that wouldn’t be all bad…

    Was this the life she was escaping from?  The woman who came to Jesus in Luke’s Gospel, anointing his feet and washing them with her tears and hair?  She never said a word to him…only entered the room and standing behind him at his feet, weeping, she began to wet his feet with her tears and wiped them with the hair of her head and kissed his feet and anointed them with ointment.
   She dared not even speak to Jesus, but her love took her to wash his feet, for she knew that he alone could save her.  And if he could save her…
    Do you see this woman? He said.  I entered your house; you gave me no water for my feet, but she has wet my feet with her tears and wiped them with her hair.  You gave me no kiss, but from the time I came in she has not ceased to kiss my feet. You did not anoint my head with oil, but she has anointed my feet with ointment.  Therefore I tell you, her sins, which are many, are forgiven– for she loved much.  But he who is forgiven little, loves little.  Your sins are forgiven.  Your faith has saved you; go in peace.     In that moment, peace…and perhaps even more than just her sins had been healed. She had found her savior, at last she felt safe. And for this she loved him all the more: her love had meant something to him.  No, he had not forgiven her because of her love…but see how he had spoken to the Pharisee? He had almost praised her for her love.  Never had she known it could be valued so much. 

Our Savior’s healing is the rock of our salvation – tell me, whom shall I fear?  The Lord is my strength and my life.

(Scripture from Luke 7)
(photo credit: y0j1m80 at  http://y0j1m80.deviantart.com/art/Broken-Window-81440105)