The art of living: What Person Will We Be?

Parte Prima

To be, this…Human…
is to exist in dissonant counterpoint.
Is to be a vagabond melody flying between compositions.
A watercolor of weathered joys, rapturous griefs—
unexpected blendings of ache & grace
painted on a canvas both fresh & frayed.

How much of this is our choosing?
If, in fact, we do choose—
Perhaps it’s like Picasso deciding which hue of blue.
Michelangelo— what movement to hew alive from rock.
Handel— which note juxtaposes which silence.

Ach! there I go talking like one of those… philosophers:
Confused fools foolish enough to fall in love with their own confusion.
Or, worse, yet– A Poet: one of that blind brood of starry-eyed book-buggerers,
extending tin cups— hoping for a coin from some miserly Muse’s pinch-pennied,
padlocked purse!

Well, once-upon-a London there was such a poet.
He felt called by God to pen the Great Poem (They all do).
For him, every poem he wrote before it— was in preparation for it.
He’d eventually get around to it—but, first, he had to get inside himself—
had to understand & stand beside himself. So, he cleaved himself in two & gave each
of his halves a name.

One, was a lover of laughter— mad with daylight, dance, the polis & frolic of friends.
His was a busy life lived outward– heliotropic– always turning toward sun. The Poet
called that one, L’Allegro—Worshipper of Mirth, Joy, Wiles, Smiles & any Music that
would set the fantastic toe a-tripping.

The other—was a lover of dusk. Sought only lonely solitary towers of the solemn
mind, cloistered study & low-lit lamps. His was an austere life lived inward–
noctifloral— blossoming in moonlight. The Poet named him, Il Penseroso— Devotee
of the Pensive —of emotion recollected in tranquility¹ —Ardent Admirer of all things
Melancholy.

The Poet refused to choose between the two. So, he had them argue it out— diss,
dismiss & damn what the other desires & delight in what the other damns:

L’Allegro Begins:

Get out, loathed Melancholy! You who were born in a forlorn stygian cave where brooding Darkness
spreads his jealous wings & the Night-Raven sings. Go there & dwell in some dark desert. But,
come thou goddess fair & free, who, in heaven, is called Euphrosyne—& by humans, heart-easing
Mirth!

To which, Il Penseroso Conversely Retorts:

Get out, you vain & deluding Joys. You brood of Folly bred without a father! How you dwell in idle
brains & fancies as numberless as dust motes floating in sunbeams. But, hail thou goddess, sage &
holy, hail divinest Melancholy,

Cain & Abel? Jacob & Esau?—Well, I wouldn’t take it that far—
they aren’t quite like that.
More like two differing voices wanting to strong-arm for control of an aria.
Two slightly off-rhymed lines of a couplet.
Feuding siblings, chiding one another.
Each seeking to sing the self…
& slightly savage the other.

Parte Secondo

Il Penseroso Scolds:

So, L’Allegro, you actually delight
in the jocund rebecks, the merry bells–
the youth, & many a dancing maid!?
You actually enjoy being with young & old
on a sunshine holiday
till the live-long daylight fails!?

Well, yes, L’Allegro says, I do! & then, he balks:

But, YOU, Il Penseroso, actually wish to walk
the staid & studious cloisters?
Love cathedral-high ceilings & all of that ecclesiastical dight!?
The mass of antique pillars, & the stained-glass windows
casting dim religious light!?

Brother… are you alright!?

Something in one longs for Work & Sun–lives for Larksong, ringing bells,
& the Shepherd-told tale.
Something in the other must have Moon, quiet rooms— books & visit
the Flutingnightingale.

One needs town & city busy-ness– greets & is greeted
by everyone he sees.
The other needs forest & the shade of trees…
to commune with honey-bees & Platonic philosophies.

Vita Activa, L’Allegro sings loudly—
Find who you are in the hum of community!

Vita Contemplativa— Il Penseroso sighs dryly:
One’s true self is discovered in solidarity with one’s sacred solitary.

Introvert/Extrovert—Nun’s Habit/Miniskirt
Night/Day—Youth/Old Age
Nature/Religion—Asceticism/Hedonism
Laughter/Sorrow—Vanity/Modesty
Bacchus/Apollo–Tragedy/Comedy

One, is a Bon Vivant who haunts all the social clubs.
The other, more Puritan, digs any old church.
One only writes fixed-form poetry.
The other, quite fond of free verse.

One reads devotional elegies.
The other ovational odes.
One prefers the aeolian minor scale.
& the other—lydian mode!

One wants to turn up every light.
The other, turn down every noise.
One is always just to the left of annoying.
The other—always on the cusp of annoyed.

With one it’s perennially Springtime–
& with the other—forever Fall!
The tension between the two of them continues…
as it does within us all.

Parte Terza: Il Moderato

To be, this…Human…

Is to be a Both & an And, & a Never & an Always.
It is to one day wake up & smell the coffee on the wall, realize you are constantly
being confronted with an ever unfolding kettle of fish– & decide whether
or not to burn the midnight oil at both ends— even as you take arms against a sea
of troubles till the cows of a different color come home to roost.²

Go ahead, pick any horrendously mixed metaphor,
barely scratch the surface, & it’s very likely you…will find…you!
Find your multifaceted, constellated, paradoxical self sitting, like a syllable, waiting to
be melismatically warbled & wailed from the throat of both Nightingale & Lark.

The Art of Living is to be painted in vibrant darks & loud hues,
heaven-rich shades & earthy-pastel-tones.
It is to be Paramour to both Pensive Merriments & Jocular Moans–
An instrument played by both Twilight & Daybreak.

Sometimes you are French Horn—other times Oboe,
Organ, Transverse Flute, Cello—Harpsichord, Casted brass bells–
or a swell of Voices: Bass, Tenor, Soprano all in need of achieving
equipoise between each other.

Perhaps L’Allegro & Il Penseroso need each other.

Maybe that’s why The Poet refused to choose between the two of them:
Each was a strand of the double helix of his being.
Each, the rail of a ladder he needed to climb or descend.

Perhaps he discovered when Mirth is absent Melancholic Musing,
it is but an anorexic joy— an emaciated laughter.
&, sans Mirth & Connection to Community, Melancholic Musing
is but the dry lip of a well filled with unreachable water.

So, in times of…extremes– limiting binaries– & restrictive 2-dimensionalities— maybe
we are all in need of a bit of balancing—expanding— & an openness to accepting we
all contain multitudes—
are all chimeric creatures– part marble, part cloud—
un-classifiable, hybrid things
that are whatever a moon has always meant
& whatever a sun will always sing!³

All needing to find the middle way between
our own L’Allegro & Il Penseroso
— our Il Moderato
— our Balanced Selves
—our own Golden Mean.

¹ Lifted from William Wordsworth’s Lyrical Ballads, published in 1802

² This run of mixed metaphors is a mashup of metaphors folx have been mixing up for quite a long time.

³ Cribbed from e.e. cummings’ "i carry your heart with me(i carry it in my heart)," published in 1952

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