Not another of those nights!
By those I mean wakeful, fearful, anxious, distrustful, self-distrustful, zestless, helpless, wondering why on earth I or we are here. A mini-onslaught of depression, you might say, which I’m pretty sure will pass – it’d better! – but oh, the outlasting it, the tedium, makes me want to wring its neck – or my own. I know all the arguments to counter this assault – I need only reread my own buoying advice – only, sense is no defense against self-pity. I’m in for it, this common cold of the soul, it must run its course while I buckle in for the ride.
Writing helps – Right yourself by writing yourself, Carll’s adage number one – but not all that much. God forbid anyone should read the groaning pages in my journals – at least while I’m still around to poke fun at. Literary and spiritual sludge – worse than worthless – which I knew as I scrawled – yet sometimes words like vomit or volcanoes must erupt – and it’s vile – but one feels better after, though still glum.
Reason, being reasonable, inquires what’s the matter. We may feel for a cause, select some innocent irritant to blame. The weather, a mistaken delivery from Amazon, a snub, any scapegoat will suffice. But even while we rail, we know this isn’t it. Our grievance is not circumstantial but existential. Life isn’t adding up – then we’re gone. Yikes!
Mustn’t everybody endure such bouts, I wonder while I writhe, even saints, even the Pope? God can be goddamned annoying, if that’s your mood. Start cataloguing the wrongs you’ve done – and those done to you. Why, for the love of mike!
The ingratitude of my grousing grates. I’m the luckiest guy ever – I believe that – my being brims with thanks – the nearer the finish line, the luckier I get. I don’t deserve this jackpot – I repeat that often – also in private. The nerve of me to kvetch! Yet kvetch I must, my scolding notwithstanding, God help me, God forgive.
Some shake off their tantrums as aberrant – something came over me, no matter, I’m better now. Others treat their dismay as determinative – existence is horrible, we’d be better off dead! I try to neither dismiss nor indulge my gloom. Yes, human life is tragic – death makes no sense! – but glorious, too – look to the sky, the birds, your loves, all that humans have made! The more you think, the higher you soar, the lower you sink. Hug your despair, I urge myself – how can we know joy if we’ve never wept?
What rescues humans from the slough of despond is purpose. This is a mind-trick, of course – all purpose is delusory – life will get along without us; but no delusion is more essential to survival. Other creatures don’t demand a reason to live so don’t miss one. Dog-pal Henry is happy just being. His master, in his dark hours, wonders why bother. Brains, responsible for our misery, must remedy it.
You matter, Carll, say I to me, because:
· Jane would miss you
· Your kids and grandkids would miss you
· Your readers would miss you
· The makers you admire would miss you (for art would not exist without its audience)
· The enemies of tyranny would miss you (for in this war, every soldier counts)
More to the point, poor baby, if you weren’t here, think of all you would miss. Not only your loved ones, but Bach, Shakespeare, Handel, Caravaggio, Thoreau, Dickens, Monet, Mozart, Spinoza (new to my list), Dr. Johnson, Jane Austen… You’d never see Rome again – never, oh, this exercise in subtraction is intolerable, so live, live, live!