to persever
In obstinate condolement is a course
Of impious stubbornness; 'tis unmanly grief;
It shows a will most incorrect to heaven,
A heart unfortified, a mind impatient,
An understanding simple and unschool'd:
For what we know must be and is as common
As any the most vulgar thing to sense,
Why should we in our peevish opposition
Take it to heart? Fie! 'tis a fault to heaven,
A fault against the dead, a fault to nature,
To reason most absurd
My gloom about our new administration startled me. I couldn’t work, think, joke, write, frolic for days, wallowing in a cesspool of impotent self-pity. Snap out of it, I exhorted myself: you lost an election, leaders have changed, nobody’s died! My life likely wouldn’t change. It’d be a slow day in D.C. before the goons started stalking a pipsqueak like me!
I used all the arguments Claudius uses with his nephew to dispel this “unmanly grief.” Nothing doing. I was sunk in a funk obstinate as Hamlet’s. Groan, moan,
The time is out of joint, o cursed spite
That ever I was born to set it right.
etc., etc.
What’s eating Hamlet is not so much practical concerns for the well-being of Denmark as disillusion with mankind. Can his uncle really have murdered his dad to seize the throne? For half the play, he doubts it’s true. What a dupe and dope he’d been about human nature – what an idealist! – and with his college degree, he’d thought he was so smart! He’d loved his dad, sure, but more, he’d loved the idea of order and decency his dad represented. Now that was gone.
The reelection of the Nameless One shattered my idea about America. America was my first love. Few showed love in my boyhood home, but America invited my fervent affection. I loved our story, revered our leaders. When I ran away from home, age fifty, it was to visit the graves of our Presidents and Vice-Presidents and say hi. I believed the Oval Office purified its occupants. These lofty hopes buoyed me through forlorn days.
Turns out the cynics were right and I was wrong. Americans were as nasty, greedy, grubbing as anyone else. The high ideals of the Declaration, Gettysburg Address and countless Fourth of July speeches were so much rubbish. The star was ripped from my sky, impossible to refasten.
Poor Carll, poor Hamlet. It hurts, confronting one’s naivete. I hated my innocence as much as I hated these thugs for their turpitude.
I sat shiva for my shattered dream. Now enough already. Had I not read my own exhortations – Make the most of your time? That’s our moral obligation – to loved ones, neighbors, ourselves – the only guidance that makes sense. Moping benefits no one; it isn’t even fun.
So yes, I’ll snap out of it, dammit, focus on what I can do, not what I can’t; live in the world that is, not my Candyland dream; be grateful for what I have, not regretful for what I haven’t. I hereby eschew caterwauling and sniveling if I can help myself. Let’s assume the worst, stipulate Armageddon – then get busy doing and being our best under the circumstances. If America survives the next four years, hurray; if not, it’s what I expect. The milk has been spilt, no use blubbering.
What does it mean, to make the most? To each, their idea – there are no wrong answers. Making love is my inspiriting purpose – in person and with words. I will be better and write better – and vote the villains into hell, if I get the chance.