In a recent blog post a friend of mine pointed out that I never answered the question 'who are the Haradrim.? I laughed; I edited the original post to take out all references to the analogy and forgot that one line, with the result that I ask the question without answering it. This is the answer, without the question.
My mood fluctuates wildly these days between hope and despair, and largely rests somewhere in the general realm of resignation. I can see Death close at hand; I can see, barely, a continuation of life, albeit differently. I am enjoying work more than I have in years, even enjoying in some ways my stays in New Hampshire, enough that I could keep doing this for a couple more years.
In feeling the breeze of Death's approach, I find myself intensely grateful for all the love I have received in life. I think I have received far more than my share. I actually made a list, as best as I can recall it, of all the women who said, seriously, that they love me, not counting family. There have been ten. I think that's more than one lifetime's worth. I have loved four in return.
No love ever just 'goes away', at least not for me. Part of that person is loved forever, no matter how stupid it was to love, no matter how it ended, no matter how unsuitable or socially unacceptable. It is easy to focus on the losses of love lost- wounded pride, betrayal, embarrassment at emotional nakedness spurned, sexual peccadilloes revealed, personal weaknesses exposed.
Weakness exposed. I think we all have, as Eliot put it, a face we put on to meet the faces that we meet. We all put on armor, hide our feelings. We are all weak in some way. Mine is my past. For those who read this blog you know as much about it as I am willing to write. There is plenty of ugliness there. Hence the Haradrim.
In The Lord of the Rings, the assault on Gondor begins with a battle in the Pelennor Fields, the space enclosed by the Ramas, the wall surrounding Minas Tirith at a distance of 1-10 leagues, running down to Anduin. Here an army of Orcs, Easterlings (men from Rhun and other eastern areas) and the Haradrim, the army of Harad to the south, converge to lay siege to the city. As they break into the gates the Rohirrim arrive on horse and charge into the fray. They are badly outnumbered and surrounded, when Aragorn arrives in ships taken from the enemy, to fall on them from the river. Sauron's army is almost completely destroyed, as is (very poorly) represented in the movie. Tolkien writes of the battle-
"And to the land of the Haradrim there came only a tale from far off; a rumour of the wrath and terror of Gondor."
In thinking of the various loves I have had the great blessing to receive, I was playing some Beatles songs from their early albums, beautiful songs with beautiful associations. Since I am alone in a hotel room, it is more pleasant to dwell on these than on my current surroundings. I was brought up short in playing "All My Loving". When I first heard that song I had never heard anything much by the Beatles. I was a 9 year-old child, and I heard the Tijuana Brass arrangement. That was a straight shot from love to a far less pleasant past.
I have many memories associated with music, and that song brought forward vividly the appearance of our living room, the old mono sound system and the new stereo one from Sears, the chairs, the books I used to look at, learning Greek dances from my father. Also fear, numbness, rage, sickness, smells, blankets, dark rooms, screaming, hitting, crying. Faster than I can think I can feel, I can remember. Those events are a video on an endless loop, its soundtrack the various songs that will take me right to that time. It is always dark and fearful there. In my mind, I am always the Haradrim, Tolkien's one sentence describes exactly what is there. I am always returning to the wrath and terror of Gondor, of my own past, of worthlessness, pain, loss, fear.
Every loss of relationship, every rejection, every house sale, all of it is a return to Gondor, to devastation. That loop memory conditions behavior and self-image, becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy of pain. Stability, relationship, 'roots'- everything is temporary, pointless. Everything always leads back to the same hell.
Almost always.
The losses of love ignore the blessings of love. Every person, place and relationship I have ever had has endowed me with a little of their kindness, love, and praise. I can't make the memory loop go away; it happened, it is there. But I can think about the many, many kind and beautiful things said and shown to me that say I am not the ugly, forgotten child ignored in a corner. More than any face shown to the world, those kind words and acts, the acceptance of my soul and body, are the internal shield that keeps me from dwelling constantly in the imagery of my own memory.
As I face in very immediate and real terms the likelihood of death, I feel freer than ever before of the construct of the past. I am grateful for every love I have ever had and received, no matter how brief, flawed, inappropriate, or unrequited. Every bit of it has been and is the bread of heaven for a starving man, a trans-substantiation of self-concept that lets me face death calmly.
Ted
My mood fluctuates wildly these days between hope and despair, and largely rests somewhere in the general realm of resignation. I can see Death close at hand; I can see, barely, a continuation of life, albeit differently. I am enjoying work more than I have in years, even enjoying in some ways my stays in New Hampshire, enough that I could keep doing this for a couple more years.
In feeling the breeze of Death's approach, I find myself intensely grateful for all the love I have received in life. I think I have received far more than my share. I actually made a list, as best as I can recall it, of all the women who said, seriously, that they love me, not counting family. There have been ten. I think that's more than one lifetime's worth. I have loved four in return.
No love ever just 'goes away', at least not for me. Part of that person is loved forever, no matter how stupid it was to love, no matter how it ended, no matter how unsuitable or socially unacceptable. It is easy to focus on the losses of love lost- wounded pride, betrayal, embarrassment at emotional nakedness spurned, sexual peccadilloes revealed, personal weaknesses exposed.
Weakness exposed. I think we all have, as Eliot put it, a face we put on to meet the faces that we meet. We all put on armor, hide our feelings. We are all weak in some way. Mine is my past. For those who read this blog you know as much about it as I am willing to write. There is plenty of ugliness there. Hence the Haradrim.
In The Lord of the Rings, the assault on Gondor begins with a battle in the Pelennor Fields, the space enclosed by the Ramas, the wall surrounding Minas Tirith at a distance of 1-10 leagues, running down to Anduin. Here an army of Orcs, Easterlings (men from Rhun and other eastern areas) and the Haradrim, the army of Harad to the south, converge to lay siege to the city. As they break into the gates the Rohirrim arrive on horse and charge into the fray. They are badly outnumbered and surrounded, when Aragorn arrives in ships taken from the enemy, to fall on them from the river. Sauron's army is almost completely destroyed, as is (very poorly) represented in the movie. Tolkien writes of the battle-
"And to the land of the Haradrim there came only a tale from far off; a rumour of the wrath and terror of Gondor."
In thinking of the various loves I have had the great blessing to receive, I was playing some Beatles songs from their early albums, beautiful songs with beautiful associations. Since I am alone in a hotel room, it is more pleasant to dwell on these than on my current surroundings. I was brought up short in playing "All My Loving". When I first heard that song I had never heard anything much by the Beatles. I was a 9 year-old child, and I heard the Tijuana Brass arrangement. That was a straight shot from love to a far less pleasant past.
I have many memories associated with music, and that song brought forward vividly the appearance of our living room, the old mono sound system and the new stereo one from Sears, the chairs, the books I used to look at, learning Greek dances from my father. Also fear, numbness, rage, sickness, smells, blankets, dark rooms, screaming, hitting, crying. Faster than I can think I can feel, I can remember. Those events are a video on an endless loop, its soundtrack the various songs that will take me right to that time. It is always dark and fearful there. In my mind, I am always the Haradrim, Tolkien's one sentence describes exactly what is there. I am always returning to the wrath and terror of Gondor, of my own past, of worthlessness, pain, loss, fear.
Every loss of relationship, every rejection, every house sale, all of it is a return to Gondor, to devastation. That loop memory conditions behavior and self-image, becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy of pain. Stability, relationship, 'roots'- everything is temporary, pointless. Everything always leads back to the same hell.
Almost always.
The losses of love ignore the blessings of love. Every person, place and relationship I have ever had has endowed me with a little of their kindness, love, and praise. I can't make the memory loop go away; it happened, it is there. But I can think about the many, many kind and beautiful things said and shown to me that say I am not the ugly, forgotten child ignored in a corner. More than any face shown to the world, those kind words and acts, the acceptance of my soul and body, are the internal shield that keeps me from dwelling constantly in the imagery of my own memory.
As I face in very immediate and real terms the likelihood of death, I feel freer than ever before of the construct of the past. I am grateful for every love I have ever had and received, no matter how brief, flawed, inappropriate, or unrequited. Every bit of it has been and is the bread of heaven for a starving man, a trans-substantiation of self-concept that lets me face death calmly.
Ted
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