THE WORST ARE FULL OF PASSIONATE INTENSITY?

"Turning and turning in the widening gyre
    The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
    Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
    Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
    The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
    The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
    The best lack all conviction, while the worst
    Are full of passionate intensity."


- W. B. Yeats, The Second Coming

These past few days embroiled in an escalating and finally pointless argument have left me wondering about the nature of friendships and maybe human relationships at all. How does one know the rules and the boundaries? Are there any out there besides "do unto others as they would do unto you?"

Although my contact with R has been sparse, I think we both feel like that Yeats' stanza.

When I re-read our correspondence, I continue to be astonished at the tones and turns a seemingly solid relationship can take. I have known R for almost twenty years. We have been through some difficult and challenging times, including a "fling-ette," living across the country from one another, his marriage and divorce, my long term affair/relationship, and gosh, the Bush administration and 9/11.

He has always been competitive, as well as kind of cantakerous, but I have always liked curmudgeons (there, something else I liked about my dad!). R is an excellent artist, sharply intelligent and probing. He was the kind of person who likes to be argumentative.

I have posted this many times before, most notably when my brother Carl died. But here I am in further mourning, thinking about Barbara and her pain. And now having lost R and mourning that.

A Ritual to Read to Each Other

If you don't know the kind of person I am
and I don't know the kind of person you are
a pattern that others made may prevail in the world
and following the wrong god home we may miss our star.

For there is many a small betrayal in the mind,
a shrug that lets the fragile sequence break
sending with shouts the horrible errors of childhood
storming out to play through the broken dyke.

And as elephants parade holding each elephant's tail,
but if one wanders the circus won't find the park,
I call it cruel and maybe the root of all cruelty
to know what occurs but not recognize the fact.

And so I appeal to a voice, to something shadowy,
a remote important region in all who talk:
though we could fool each other, we should consider—
lest the parade of our mutual life get lost in the dark.

For it is important that awake people be awake,
or a breaking line may discourage them back to sleep;
the signals we give—yes or no, or maybe—
should be clear: the darkness around us is deep.

-by William Stafford

I value my friends who push and challenge me. If those near and dear to you won't question you and hold you to a higher, or high standard, then who will? As far as I am concerned, we, those of us who band to together to combat the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, can spar and battle (and that can include bleeding and crying) to keep us sharp and focussed, and, if you will, even righteous, when the darkness gets too deep and there are difficult actions for courageous hearts to take.