Moving Day

Hello all. Happy August to you and yours. As you may have noticed, I reverted this blog to its original template of bland green and white and orange and black and gray. The reason for this unattractive makeover is that I'll now be using it as a sort of archive for past posts. That is, I've finally made the transition to Wordpress.

Honestly, the only change happening here is the location and appearance of my blog. I'm still writing The Lonely Old Man, Caleb and I are still exchanging prompts, and I'll still use this account to read the work of you lovely people. If you'd like to continue to follow my writing, feel free to subscribe via email. It'll send each new post straight to your inbox.

Here's the link: jdluse.wordpress.com. Thanks for reading!

Another Poem

     Despite several poems finding their way onto this blog, I realized today that I've yet to introduce one. Ironically, the poem you're about to read is a narrative one and presents itself fairly literally, so whatever introduction I'd give will likely be echoed in the work itself. I will say, however, that I recommend reading this on a desktop computer (as opposed to a mobile device). The mobile version of my blog compresses the text, as would be fine, but it so happens that the formatting (spacing, verses, ect) of the poem is also squished to fit thy telephone. So for best results, please read on a laptop or desktop—something civilized I BEG you.

     As always, thank you so much for reading.


In The Garden

I read The Bell Jar in the garden one afternoon.
Lemongrass and spearmint fought on the breeze
and I walked slowly, thumb and index finger holding
and left hand turning page after New York Plath page.
Absentminded and content, I grazed on sugar snap peas
half-ripe blueberries, and crimson raspberries. The incessant
whir and chip of hummingbirds harmonized with whispering
birch, alder, maple and I pause; I squint into the forest,
pick a seed from my teeth, and mock the cackling jays.
Solitude indeed, yet hardly alone—the ever-beating
heart of nature thrives, drives its gouts of green life
to the soil under bare foot, the nettle avoided beside,
and murmuring heads of lettuce, regal in their ruffled
purple gowns. I breathe deep and read, walking still,
listening still to the forest’s choir and the field’s buzz
and the garden’s hum. I would capture, if I could,
this peace, imprisoned in a bell jar for all to know.

                              The Beginning


The spark—lifted by invisible ropes to future flames
In evergreen Elysium—I am.
I am the breath that sails the tempest into indifferent rage,
Embracing the mountain and the cowering hare
In her damp earthen tomb.

                         I am the beginning;
                             Curse before the cry,
                             
                             Once a listing sigh,
                         Now mankind’s thunderous sob.

I will witness kindred affection
In mutual forever—caressing, gazing, content to belong
And to charmingly own. Like chuckling oaks, limbs lovingly
And hopelessly tangled beneath golden heavenly hues.
I form each new start
Until fallen leaves mourn in chilled drifts, and you,
In cold embrace, welcome lipless grins pressed in
One eternal kiss: another beginning.

The Lonely Old Man: Part VIII

“Something potent, Connor dear,” Alice sighed, throwing herself against the bar.

I caught Rosie’s eye and she moved slightly, allowing the girls to join in conversation. They did so gradually, stepping back and forth between us and the bar counter until Connor slid across two very strong Cuban colas. Rosie introduced herself as well as Deborah’s lack of social prowess would allow. Alice responded politely, but she seemed uninterested in pleasantries. She clutched her drink tightly and rapped her fingernails against the glass. Small finger first, moving up to her index finger, each nail struck and sang, and I watched in bored fascination.

“Your friend doesn't drink?” Alice asked.

I nodded and then shook my head, turning slightly towards Rosie. “Not tonight. Not tonight?” My concentration felt tired, so I dumbly repeated, “Not tonight.”  

Rosie furrowed her brow. If there’s one characteristic I remember from our childhood, it was that Rosie never showed frustration. Instead, she appeared thoughtful and usually replied with a vague compliment that danced on the line of sarcasm. In hindsight, probably she was always sarcastic and I never knew it. Either way, she looked to be deep in thought upon hearing my not tonights.

“I never drink.”    

Deborah laughed too loud. “Nobody never drinks. Unless they’re Quaker. Are you…?”

“She’s Methodist,” I answered. “I’m Methodist and Chet’s Methodist.”

Alice seemed unconvinced. “Chet’s Methodist?”

I raised my eyebrows from behind my glass.

“I don’t believe it.”

“Why not?”

“Chet’s Irish. I’ll bet he’s Catholic.”

“Not all Irish are Catholics. Plus,” I added, “nobody in Missouri is Catholic.”

“That’s a lie.”

“What does it matter?” Deborah whined. “Catholic, Methodist, what’s the difference? I’m tired of this place. Let’s go to The Branch!”

Ignoring the request to leave the apartment, Alice smirked. “Only one lets you plan ahead.”

I nearly choked on my scotch. Managing to swallow, I reached back and slid the empty glass to Conner. My elbow brushed against Rosie and I felt her move closer. I don’t know why, and despite years of intentional distance from the people of old Canton, a sudden urge to be alone with Rosie washed over me. It struck my stomach and electrocuted the whiskey plummeting through my esophagus.

I turned and faced her.

She touched her necklace and stared up at up me.

And just like that—the feeling was gone. Completely and utterly gone. So I flashed an unsure smile and pointed at Deborah. “For an hour,” I said, “and then we come straight back to Chet’s. We’re here to celebrate his apartment, not tour Manhattan.”

Though she was clearly excited, Deborah rolled her eyes. “Oh please. Chet didn't earn this place. His parents…” she waved her hand “...like everyone else.”

Alice sighed. “Maybe I’ll hang myself before next year.”

“Oh do come along,” Deborah pleaded.

“Only because you’re going,” Alice said, looking at me.

“Really.”

“Yes, really. I know Chet won’t get upset with you for leaving.”

I grunted in agreement. “Yes; he trusts me, myself, and nobody but I.”

Rosie didn't smile. Deborah, however, burst into laughter and flew to the dining room to collect a few others.

The stale smell of city drifted over the street and sidewalk, and the air was bitterly cold. A steady stream of cars passed on the road, most of them noisy taxis with anonymous hats and hair bouncing around in the back seat. Steam rose from a manhole in the center of the street; it mixed with car exhaust to create a frigid bouquet of what I imagined to be the very breath of Manhattan. I sighed deeply and watched my own breath wither into the nighttime air.

Deborah’s group of seven or eight shivered and huddled their way down the walk. As not to be overwhelmed by their incessant chatter, I chose to walk slowly and trail from a distance. Just before we left Chet’s party, Rosie stepped in front of me and asked about my studies. I replied well enough, but I was in a hurry to go out and come back. Leaving a warm place on a cold night is always worth the feeling of coziness upon return. Not that Chet’s apartment was especially homey, but a place’s decor doesn’t matter to tingling fingertips and red noses. So I answered Rosie and left with a promise to return shortly.

“Come on!” came a cry from ahead. “Quit dawdling!”

I raised my hand and waved good-naturedly.

Rosie clearly wanted me to stay. I never understood why she insisted on seeing me that night, but it was obvious that she hadn't come for the food and drink. Each word she spoke was carried on an expectant air, as if she felt I was about to reply with something entirely out of context of the conversation. But I always replied normally and she simply nodded and responded in turn. Accepting Deborah’s plea to leave the apartment was likely an excuse to clear my head and return with a better grasp on Rosie and her existing in New York. Sure, she had crossed my mind in previous months, but a thought is nothing close to the pining that she seemed to expect.

I took another deep breath and broke into a full stride. It really was quite cold.

An Enquiry Concerning What?

I'm taking a philosophy class, so that's cool. I enjoy it. Three weeks ago the instructor assigned a short essay. We were to choose from a list of philosophic concepts, explain the one we chose, and then give reasons for either agreeing or disagreeing with it. The list was full of topics that we had learned in class, so nothing was super unfamiliar, but the whole "agree/disagree" thing was a little rough. For example, here's what I chose:

Explain Hume’s “empirical test” of ideas. How do ideas arise? What does Hume’s test imply about ideas such as God and the soul? Do you agree with Hume’s empirical test? Why, or why not?  

Oh. Sure. Let me form a yes or no stance on empiricism. No big deal. Sarcasm, that was. Yoda. What? Seriously though, here's why that is a big deal: Hume's copy principle (empirical test) is the golden child of empiricism. Now, empiricism states that knowledge is gained through experience; everything we know, we gathered after birth. It stands in direct contrast to rationalism, which holds to reason and innate ideas as our main source of knowledge. They're two opposing schools of thought. And apparently I'm supposed to agree with one or the other. Considering the centuries of development on both sides, I hardly think I'm adequately informed to kick one to the curb.

I ended up throwing cosmology into the mix and calling it good. Honestly, I think it's a horrid idea to attempt one argument or the other in a two page essay, but the instructor didn't mind my little cosmological rabbit trail that wasn't actually...very...cosmological. In fact, Owen, you would know better, but I believe arguing God in relation to His incommunicable attributes would be an ontological argument. I think Anselm used something like that in his theistic proofs. But I did bring it back to creation, so maybe it was a sad combination of the two.

Anyway, here's the essay for what it's worth. If anything, you can learn a little about Mr. Hume.

*ahem*

Scottish philosopher David Hume stands as a monumental figure in the development of modern philosophical thought. His work A Treatise of Human Nature and its revision, An Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding, helped establish empiricism – one of the two primary epistemological schools of thought. In classic empiricist form, Hume’s fundamental concept maintained that all true knowledge is gained through sensory experience alone. In other words, immediate, physical sense experience is the sole source for true ideas.

Hume defined the empirical source of knowledge through his Copy Principle, stating that each and every authentic idea is a copy of some past impression – a sensory experience – or a combination of multiple ideas that also are copies of impressions. One might test the legitimacy of an idea by pinpointing the impression from which the idea is copied. This empirical test led Hume to reject the rationalist concept of innate ideas and, instead, affirm John Locke’s Tabula Rasa, or “blank slate” state of mind. That is, a newborn mind is a fresh canvas awaiting strokes of life experience and sensation. Ideas arise through that sensation and create what Hume called in Section VI of A Treatise of Human Nature, “a collection of different perceptions”, or the mind. This position, therefore, argues that no one is born with a pre-established knowledge of divinity, free will, or the soul.

Indeed, Hume’s empiricist foundation leaves very little room for God or an eternal soul. This is particularly evident when, in An Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding, he states the aforementioned empirical test: “When we entertain, therefore, any suspicion that a philosophical term is employed without any meaning or idea…we need but enquire, from what impression is that supposed idea derived? If it be impossible to assign any, this will serve to confirm our suspicion”. When we recognize that ideas of God and the soul are generally considered to be innate, the empirical test quickly labels them as illegitimate. After all, as Hume would contend, we have no immediate sense experience of a perfect deity, and thus no genuine idea of one.

The empirical test, however, is flawed insofar as it neglects cosmological arguments. For when an idea is traced to an impression, it is necessary to assume that the impression was experienced physically – be it internally or externally. The issue arises when one takes a step past the physical world and considers its origin. In the case of an eternal creator, we must assume that its existence is independent of immediate physical sensation. Granted, Hume held that we acquire ideas of God from “reflecting on the operations of our own mind, and augmenting, without limit, those qualities of goodness and wisdom”.  However, God as a creator cannot be derived from a collection of augmented human characteristics, for such a deity, in fact, possess incommunicable attributes. That is, qualities that are unique to his being and unshared by anyone else.

Understanding the Copy Principle and using the empirical test is very practical for examining the legitimacy of ideas. In his Enquiry, Hume writes, “By bringing ideas into so clear a light we may reasonably hope to remove all dispute, which may arise, concerning their nature and reality”. This goal is admirable. But physical experience alone cannot account for anything beyond itself. As a result, the empirical test fails to accurately refute a divine source of the physical world we experience. So while it is practical in many ways, we cannot depend on the empirical test to provide or disprove metaphysical knowledge.

The Lonely Old Man: Part VII

         
“For old times’ sake,” I grinned.

Chet grasped my shoulder and nodded fervently. “Exactly, my friend. Exactly!” He paused and leaned in close and said, “You know, I almost regretted sending my note with Deborah. She’s so cluttered and all, you may’ve never gotten the slip.”

I couldn't help but laugh as he ducked his head shamefully and wrapped an arm around my shoulder. “Come on, pal,” he said. “Laura Henley is here. You remember Laura, dontcha?”

“Of course.”

I looked over my shoulder and caught a glimpse of Alice lighting a cigarette by the window.

The kitchen was full and very loud. A patchwork of platters lay atop the island counter in the center, with an array of appetizers that’d put the president to shame. I scanned the endless plates of olives, crackers, cheese, and mushrooms and wasn't hungry. A window connected the kitchen and dining room, and a tall man was passing dishes of food to waiting hands on the other side. I recognized him from another event, but I didn't care enough to ask for his name.  

Laura Henley remembered me with an exaggerated hug and nearly spilled her drink. She was hardly drunk, but the loud atmosphere had her excited and foolish. Nodding politely, I left her to hang on Chet and found my way through the opposite walkway.

The bar was rectangular, and would have been identical to the sitting room if not for a severe lack of furniture. Cabinets had been installed against the narrow wall to my left, and a counter stood in front. While certainly not vacant, the room held a more relaxed air, and the people in it were talking in calm tones.

“Whiskey and soda, please,” I said.

Chet’s good friend Connor was making the drinks that night. He was proud of his alcoholic knowledge and innate ability to mix anything perfectly. Any of us were wealthy enough to hire a bartender, but he insisted on manning the station all night. As he chose a glass, I leaned against the oak counter and looked to my left. The dining room activity rivaled that of the kitchen. A chandelier shone brightly above the table, and many young people sat around it, eating, drinking, and laughing.

“I heard you might be here,” said a voice behind me.

I thanked Connor for the drink before turning around.

She was wearing a crimson sweater over a blue dress. And not a light, childish blue, but a deep, navy color that looked like an empty night sky. Her chestnut hair was rich in the bar’s dim light, and her eyes smiled.

“Hullo, Rosie,” I said.

“Hello,” she replied.

She was standing quite close.

Despite my best expression of boredom and reserve, I could tell she knew I was surprised. On account of my schooling in New York, it had been two years since Rosie and I had last spoken. Honestly, I never expected her to come east at all, let alone attend a party in the city.

“I was sorry to hear of your mother’s passing,” she said.

“So was I.”

“You never came home.”

“My mother was rarely sober after Sand died. You probably know that better than I do. When she died, it just wasn't worth going back and remembering it all, you know?”

I was sorry for telling the truth. It was obvious that Rosie, having offered simple condolences, was very uncomfortable by this point. I retreated to my drink and studied her over the rim.

“I’m here with Laura,” she explained at length. “My aunt lives in Maine, and Mother decided that I should spend the spring with someone cultured.”

Voicing my initial surprise, I replied, “Wouldn't have expected you to stop by New York.”

“Laura convinced me to stay a few days before Maine.”

“Your mother approves of Laura?”

Rosie laughed. She had a bright laugh, but it was surprisingly soft and pleasant to hear. “Oh no,” she said, looking at her hands and then back up to me. “Mother has no idea I’m in New York. My aunt is the adventurous type. She’ll write my mother and say I arrived a week before I did.”

“So I suppose you’re officially in Maine tonight.”

She smiled and wrinkled her nose. “Officially.”

“Wanna drink?”

“No.”

I felt bad for drinking, but I took another sip anyway.

She broke the silence again, saying, “It’s good to see you.”

I nodded and said, “You look very nice,” and meant it.

“Thank you,” Rosie said. She paused for a moment, and then asked, “Is there a place we can get coffee? Is anyone still open?”

“It’s New York, everything’s open.”

“And the coffee?”

I shrugged. “There’s a cafe on this block, but it’s old. Are you sure you don’t want a drink? Connor can make anything in the world.”

“Is there a place you like?”

“I like it here just fine.”

A burst of feminine laughter entered the bar and Alice waltzed in with Deborah at her heels. Alice moved with a graceful sort of confidence; a walk that drew one’s sight first to her hips and then to her piercing grey eyes. I gazed over Rosie’s shoulder, completely missing her soft reply.

Something potent, Connor dear," Alice sighed, throwing herself against the bar.

I caught Rosie's eye and she moved slightly, allowing the girls to join in conversation.

The Lonely Old Man: Part VI

                        Start of Tale #2    

The Tenth Avenue snow was furious at the sight of me. It shouted in my ears and forced itself into angry little dervishes that skipped around my feet and across the pavement. The taxi had cost more than I expected, but I brought extra for thievery like that. To be frank, my pockets were very well lined since my mother’s father had died. When everyone fought in Europe, he was at home making money in the riveter industry. I’d say he hired ol’ Rosie and painted that canvas himself.

Anyway, the money he left was enough to fill my account and send me to Columbia. When Chet decided to show off his fancy West Side apartment, I was living a cab ride away. He sent a note through a mutual friend, begging me to attend his party for old times’ sake. So I took the cab from my own apartment and suffered two melodramatic stories from the driver. Don’t get me wrong—I despise parties. But I’d much rather drink myself blind out of boredom than sit in a rancid taxicab and listen to crazy Joe whine about his estranged former wife.

Chet’s flat covered nearly a quarter of the sixth floor. It had everything: parlor, dining room, kitchen, bedroom, full bath and shower, and an east-facing balcony with decorative rails. I left my shoes in the tiny foyer and stepped gingerly into the parlor. It was furnished very modernly—that is, modern as modern could be in 1951. Large, cushioned sofas sat against the wall to my left, with polished coffee tables and brass lamps flanking each one. Doorless walkways led to the dining room on the left and the kitchen on the right, both connecting in a bar next to the balcony door.

I knew most everyone in the place. Some had preceded me from the university, others lived with their parents in northern Manhattan, while still others traveled from New Jersey and Philadelphia. Those from abroad had already found a hotel for what night was left after the party. As a whole, it was a wealthy, entitled group of 20-somethings who, as most at that age, felt drawn to empty excitement and the taste of alcohol.

Granted, I was no different. But throughout my tenure at the university, I had myself fully convinced that I was somehow different; aloof, unique, and mysterious. I tried to convince the people around me that I knew something they did not. Quite successfully, I might add.

Almost immediately after entering the room, I was approached by two girls my age. The first was the mutual friend through which I had been invited. She was a nervous blonde gal who never seemed to finish her sentences. She had an unfortunately long face with a look of constant panic. “I’m glad you made it,” she said, flashing a smile and then swallowing it. “I was beginning to worry that...”

I nodded hesitantly and glanced at the other girl. Her name was Alice, and I had spoken with her many times before. She was tall, dark haired, very beautiful, and very, very rich. If not for her sharp wit and sense of humor, she would have been the epitome of those whom I tend to avoid.

“You’re not dressed like a beat,” she observed.

“Not this time,” I said, straightening my tie.

She smiled.

The nervous blonde gal began to say something, but was distracted by the arrival of more guests behind me. Stepping out of the way, I again turned my attention to Alice. She was recovering from a dainty coughing fit.

“How are your lungs holding up, Miss Walker?”

She pursed her lips and raised an eyebrow. “Only as well as your liver.”

“I’m impressed.”

“Always the optimist, aren't you.”

It was my turn to smile.

“We’re both going to die young, you know,” she said matter-of-factly. “I bet everyone in this room will go insane by next year and hang themselves. Don’t you think?”

I shrugged and didn't reply, for I could see Chet approaching to my left. He greeted me with a loud shout, a great hug, and his trademark silly grin. Alice stepped back patiently.

I had always liked Chet. While many of us from old Canton left the farming life—often to places of wealth and prestige—Chet remained his jolly, genuine self. He got a kick out of everything remotely funny or interesting. I still remember the late parties where he’d laugh until his face turned as red as his hair. He was the type of fellow who could fill a flat with people from two rival schools—simply because they all liked Chet.  

“I knew you would come, I just knew it!” he was saying.

“For old times’ sake,” I grinned.