Succession & the West Now: Character Is Destiny

(Ceramic sculpture of the Greek Fate Clotho by Leslie Fry)

Character is destiny. We associate the idea with the Greek tragedies, where we long for the protagonist to escape a tragic fate, even as something internal and inescapable, it seems, drives them them toward this end. The relationship between character and destiny is portrayed poignantly in the show Succession, which had its series finale in June of this year. In it, Brian Cox portrays media tycoon Logan Roy in such a way that we see the brutish, leviathan will that defines his character as deeply embodied and animating the fibers of his being. Similarly, the character of each of his potential heirs is evident throughout the series in how they speak, how they relate to the world, in how they physically inhabit their bodies and in the decisions they make or fail to make.

Today, as smoke from Canadian wildfires inundates large swaths of the US and an unforgiving & anomalous "heat dome" grips parts of the southern US, we have to wonder if the concept of "character is destiny" may also apply to entire societies and even civilizations. What is it in the character of our Western civilization that is forging this grimmest and most destructive of fates for us and the rest of the planet?

What is fundamental and common to the characters of the Roy children is their inability to fully individuate from their father. Their full individuation and development into independent and dynamic selves operating not in relation to their father was the only thing that could have molded different destinies for them. The prevention of his children's development was largely the sadistic design of Logan Roy. It was his demented plan to stifle the development of his children into true individuals and, as of the show's conclusion, his plan succeeded. Had any of the children been able to exit the shadow of their father, their character and therefore their destiny, would have been other.

And so we must ask ourselves: What is Western civilization's version of character transformation that might alter the course of history and thus prevent the annihilation of the biota of the planet? This seems to me the fundamental question that we need to be asking ourselves. Humans are storytelling animals. Narrative may be our greatest strength and innovation as a species. We must learn to alter the narrative of our own tale or we will find ourselves composing and enacting the final tragedy.

Composers in You

(for Christine)

The Arvo Pärtness of your contemplation

The Ligeti cloud of your painting mind

The Bach river rapids of your night dreaming

The Mozart cathedral of your longing

The Henry Threadgill wishbone of your risks

The Debussy circumference of your fields of thought

The Thelonious Monk playground of your wonder

 

Decades of Christian Deconstruction: Understanding "JC Died for Your Sins"

If you grow up Christian and the religion is not a match for you, there is a good chance that you will spend decades of your life unmaking that which was constructed in you - so fibrous and complex are the thought clusters that make up the religion and so malleable was your mind when it encountered the faith. Indeed, as part of my lifelong project of Christian deconstruction, I've spent all of my cooking/cleaning/doing dishes & exercising time over the last several months listening to scholars of early Christianity and of the Hebrew Bible (the "Old Testament") as they critically analyze the formation of the religion and its founding texts. The work that is being done by scholars (both in the academy and without) in this field in recent decades is impressive and inspiring, as they take a multidisciplinary approach to the study of Christianity - relying not on theology but on the fields of history, archaeology, philosophy, philology and literary criticism to understand the religion.

As for many, the central stone forming the foundation of my Christian malaise is that seemingly eternally elusive concept of: "Christ died for your sins." Taken at face value (which is how a child or a desperate person so often takes things), how could you say no to that? It is, as they say, "the ultimate sacrifice." It is only in recent weeks that I have begun to understand the religious tradition out of which that apocryphal sacrifice arose, and it is the understanding of this background that is permitting me a dislodging of that central stone within me.

Blood sacrifice, of animals and sometimes of people, in order to appease a god or to feed a hungry god has been a religious practice of humans in Asia, Europe, Africa and the Americas going back at least 5000 years. It is a complex phenomenon, involving varied roots and motivations. In the Hebrew Bible, as in many sacred traditions, the deity is seen as a temperamental punisher, continuously exasperated with the shitty and sinful behavior of humans, and who ancient Jews felt required regular sacrifice at his central temple. More broadly, whether in the ancient Near East, India, ancient Greece or the Americas, one way to view rituals of blood sacrifice is to see them as a response to trauma. How to explain precarity, deprivation, extreme changes in weather, sieges due to warfare & natural disasters? One explanation is that they are expressions of the wrath of a god who is punishing us for our shitty and sinful behavior. Offering such a god a blood sacrifice is an attempt by humans to gain some agency in a realm within which they otherwise feel helpless.

The Second Temple in Jerusalem is destroyed in a war between the Romans in the Jews in A.D. 70. According to scholarly consensus, this precedes by a few years the writing of the first gospel, that of the anonymous "Mark." Options to animal sacrifice to Yahweh - long a complicated affair and now very difficult practice to pursue, lacking a central temple - were being considered throughout the Jewish faith. Jews of the Jesus movement, likely taking inspiration from both Hebrew Scriptures and from stories of dying and rising gods in neighboring religions, conceived of the idea of the final sacrifice: that of God's son, the sacrifice of both a human and a deity or a human deity. The sacrifice of both a God and a human at the same time is the ultimate sacrifice and one that would obviate any need for further blood sacrifice.

And so, this is where the somewhat puzzling, abstract and yet very coercive phrase, "Christ died for your sins" ultimately comes from. Understanding this background and understanding blood sacrifice as one response to the trauma of being alive as a human on Earth has demystified and defanged somewhat the grip that the iconic phrase has had up on me for lo these many decades. I believe none of it. I believe not in the wrathful Yahweh, nor in any of the stories about a guy named Jesus somehow being his son, getting sentenced to death by the Roman state and enduring this death as some kind of ultimate blood sacrifice obviating the need for any further blood sacrifice. I believe none of it. And yet. And yet, weakened though it may be, the psychological hold the story has on me remains. And that is not a good thing. It is debilitating and causes me, as it does so many, to feel inadequate and permanently stained.

2 Fash Pundits, 1 Fash Pol

Cruel, craven Ann Coulter Haunts the Earth

Like the gaunt, hungry ghost

Of a scavenger bird

***

Mendacious Matt Walsh

Believes in nothing

Tries to remember

When he last felt well

In a dream he draws doors on a wall

With white chalk

He tries to open them

And cannot

He wakes up

Spends another day

Acting, pretending, not remembering

When he last felt well

***

Hapless Josh Hawley speaks

Says little & speaks some more

He sees himself reflected in a shallow pool

And tries to think

But thoughts elude him

He speaks some more

listening to "metamorphosis" by glass

If there have been 10,000 composers since the arrival of Philip Glass to write music for film/TV/media that simultaneously "sounds like Philip Glass" and sounds nothing like Philip Glass, well what is the difference? One answer is: pathos, brokenness. Philip Glass music sounds like it is made by a person who's wounded by the ravages of time and aware of his mortality and the larger life/death cycle of existence and who is seeking transcendence or healing or episodes of release and joy through the composition. The people who mimic Philip Glass sound like they are trying to depict somebody in that state, rather than experiencing that state directly and intensely themselves. Paradoxically, if they were to get in touch with that deeper level of experience, their way of expressing it would not sound like Philip Glass. Philip Glass evolved a language to express his state, his wounds and his longings. Each of us has a slightly different language to express our own experiences of these universal struggles.

Makin' Art: De Chirico, The Wasteland, 10,000 Maniacs

Most artists I know, myself included, have created throughout our lives in a way that echoes what the Fisher King says in Part V of The Wasteland (What the Thunder Said): "These fragments I have shored against my ruins." I first encountered the phrase in the song "Poor De Chirico" by Natalie Merchant & 10,000 Maniacs. In the lyric, it is something that the artist says to describe his paintings. In such a context, the phrase immediately conjures Giorgio's silent, nearly abandoned dreamworlds of sun-parched town plazas and eerie pastel towers casting long shadows. Even as a senior in high school, I thought: those de Chirico landscapes really are what we can salvage from this life - places beautiful, but uncanny and permeated with an inexplicable loss.

***

What I and many of the artists I know have been unable to do beyond creating and shoring fragments against our ruins is also diligently pursue & integrate into the infrastructural support that comes from applying for grants, fellowships, residences and involvement in the edifice of academia, not to mention the corporate publishing and entertainment edifice. In other words, writing/playing/performing/imagining has been part of a prolonged act of survival and I am grateful for art and all the artists preceding and contemporary to me who've made my survival and even internal flourishing possible. But the the parallel bureaucratic navigation that well-known and well supported artists achieve has always felt abstract and distant to me. That's unfortunate. And in my case, it may be due to something as banal as undiagnosed ADD. My mind all but shuts down in the face of things that are not immediately present and tangible to me. Well, the brain is plastic and there may be time for me yet to acclimate my mind to the landscape of forms and institutions that are far less real to me than the landscapes of Giorgio de Chirico...

weed

weed in the 70s smelled like transgression

dark sour funk aroma

the smoke snaked upwards and around

cardboard boxes stacked

in my friend's brother's bedroom

steve miller band

white stratocaster sound

pete stood up

his head above the boxes

like a cream-colored gumball

i was afraid for him

would he ever return

from wherever he was

weed in the 1980s already more furtive

wire fence dead leaves

jesuit high school parking lot

("i don't wanna be an eddie

it's a waste of time")

smelled like aggression

like flight from family madness

in front of the oriental theater

rocky horror picture show

the wind from the lake chased the weed smoke

down the street

like it was a villain

i don't know if people smoked weed in the 1990s

well there was that one time that the tamburitza player

convinced me to try weed and dark beer together

bliss and then panic

the expansive lawns along the great lake

sparse clouds above

like tossed gunpowder crackling

in the 2000s weed smelled like

the final puff at the end of time

like fear and rage

it smelled like life lived

with a hot plate and a water bottle

either that or you join the army

for the meals and the money

and you do things in the east

that no amount of weed will obliterate

from your mind

in the 2010s weed is comestible

gone the fungal dank odor

it's efficient round sweet and spongy

foil pouches plastic wrappers

getting through days chewing weed

watching dogs leap in the park

run around the grove in the sunshine

in the 2020s the weed from the house next door

smells like dread

something brewed

by fierce metallic birds

like a void in the web of the time

the pale smoke

the architecture

of the last prayer spoken by the last person

on a drifting vessel

become now a ghost ship