The Mental Traveller

Were I to enumerate the times I have talked myself into situations from which I some time, usually shortly, thereafter wished myself free, this entry would require reformatting the blog to accommodate thousands, if not millions of lines. I picture a mobius strip of looping miscalculations. I'd like to think my natural ebullience and my native civility explain my participation in so many half-assed ideas and unrealized projects, that I am an enthusiastic, unhesitating "team player;" content to contribute as needed, happiest when setting out the chairs and making the coffee, but such is not the case. If in fact my light were brighter, but kept more modestly under a bushel basket, I would be a happier, and more accomplished man. In truth, I am most often, all talk, and far too much of that. When asked for "suggestions," I offer mine without thinking. As with my opinions, I am inclined to scatter these on soft or stony ground with an equal, mad abandon, little concerned with the potential husbandry that may thereafter be required. Easily flattered, and gabby, I do not so much volunteer, as keep spinning blithely forward until I find myself not in front so much as alone. Finding myself so, I usually attempt retreat too late. No one to blame but me. The lesson not learned in childhood or since, clearly, is when to sit down, shut up, and only murmur assent when absolutely required. I've seen this done, quite successfully, by any number of people considerably smarter and better behaved than myself. Such people, I'm convinced, lead contented and accomplished lives. It is a behavior I've tried, time and again, to emulate; in meetings, on committees, at work, in politics, at play. But then, I'd have to stop talking. Seems I can't. Not because I think I know best. Not because I think I am right. Not even because I am so enamored of the sound of my own voice. (Actually, I've always rather hated the sound of it in my own ears and wished that annoying tenor shrill would stop. I can't stand my voice recorded, though I've stupidly volunteered just that, more than once, even giving recorded readings as gifts, despite watching and listening to these myself in writhing embarrassment.) No. It's panic, at not being seen to participate, at being thought less than friendly, at being thought dull -- the singular terror of my life -- that drives me. I am not ambitious. I am not confident. I am childishly hopeful of notice. It is not ego. It's need. If liked, I will fight to retain that affection. If applauded, I will not get off stage. If asked, nicely, I will do almost any unfortunate thing. Emotional immaturity and the avoidance of disapproval explain more that I've done in this life than enterprise.

Which may explain why I organized and hosted a reading of William Blake, in commemoration of his 250th birthday in 2007. I had already hosted a series of poetry readings, which, if not exactly popular, had proved good clean fun for myself and a small group of others, largely strangers. The only rule for participants in these had been that the poet to be read, must be dead, the idea being that I might avoid listening to earnest, unpublished poets read from their own work. Entirely selfish, that. Had I left the idea at that; an annual reading, hosted by me but not wholly my responsibility, I might still be in the habit of reading poetry aloud at the bookstore. The whole evening was harmless enough. If my preparation tended to the frenzied and over-elaborate, that is just my way. (Like me, damn you.) It was once a year, like my Christmas readings, when those were still welcome, and there was always time for me to forget my labor once the event was over and before the next was planned. But I can not leave well enough alone. I did so like people laughing when I read Edward Lear, and noting the title of the Auden poem I'd read. Everyone was so terribly nice to me after.

Well, you see the pattern emerging, don't you? If I could organize such a reading once, then once a year, then more than once, then for the birthday of my beloved Charles Dickens, then why not... And so I came to Blake. A thoughtless urge to bath again in the polite applause of coworkers, friends and the families of friends, to be thought awfully clever by complete strangers, it was all too tempting. Who else might have a birthday worth celebrating?! Why, look! There's William Blake, aging all but unnoticed in the calendar to a nice round number. How's about a bit o' Bill Blake, then? I could do that, I thought.

So I did. In the end, it was a successful evening. A friend who works in the bookstore on campus, mentioned my planned reading to an instructor in English literature, who in turn suggested attendance to her class. Again, friends, and the parents and friends of friends were recruited in their dozen or so, and an occasion was born. The good and loyal people on the Events staff at the bookstore pitched in, promoted the reading on the store's website, provided slides of Blake's paintings, even read a poem or two , in one case. Coworkers allowed themselves to be bullied into reading brief poems for the bookstore's blog. Everyone, as usual, was far too nice about the little I had to say on the subject, and about such reading of the poems as I did before calling for volunteers. (Thanks be again to my friend and to that dear teacher, who sent me such willing and unafraid students. The best of the evening proved to be hearing young, even very young people, up on their hind-legs, reading English poetry out loud. That was pure joy.) As I said, the evening went unexpectedly well.

But before it came to that, I spent a month walking with Blake in Hell. Of all the poets whose work I might have celebrated, I can not now imagine a less likely choice than Blake. As I eventually said in my introduction that evening, I found him to be, "an uncongenial personality." Not his fault, you understand. The poor man's been dead for ages, I dug him up for the night. But again, I spoke without thinking. Again, more eager to be applauded than right, I undertook a task to which I was not equal. I read Blake. For the first time I read not just the few poems common to the anthologies, but Blake at length. With increasing desperation as the date of the reading approached, too late to call it off, I read a real biography of Blake at last. I read such criticism as I could understand. Again, I read Blake. As the day came near, my fear planted "many a thicket wild." I did not, as it turned out, much like William Blake. I'd know only the barest biography before; that he hated slavery, that he believed in the equality of the sexes, that he was, perhaps, the greatest, and certainly the most individual English artist of his century, if not ever. I knew that he was little known, and less appreciated in his own time, but that his reputation as a poet and a visual artist have grown with each passing generation. Reading more, I was more and more impressed, and intimidated. Truth be told, I was as often lost as I have ever been in written English, and that, my dears, is saying something.

Blake was a mystic. I have only a distant, and frankly resentful awe of mysticism. I've never had so much as a memorable dream, let alone a vision. Blake was prophetic. All prophets, I confess, tend to bore me when they don't make me impatient. Blake, as a prophet, did both. Blake believed in nearly everything I don't, and mocked many things in which I most fervently do. Blake was never, so far as I could tell from weeks of hard, sweated reading, anything less than a genius, or more than very difficult company indeed, except with babies. Common ground, it seemed, at last: we both like babies. As you might imagine, that was not enough. I did not, as it turned out, and do not still much like William Blake. I'm glad I read all that I did. I certainly would not have read it otherwise. The idea that Blake ought to be celebrated was a good one. That his poetry deserves to be heard as well as read is true. That I ought to be the person doing either, proved to be painfully false. But I did it. Why?

Because I'd said I would. No one to blame for that but me. That the evening came off at all was something of a miracle. Blake, should his ghost have been present, would certainly have seen it as such. I ought not to have done it, that reading. I ought not to have done any such thing, without at least knowing my subject a little less superficially than I knew William Blake. Having spent so much time, in preparation for the reading, with him in his mental travels through the bewildering interior landscapes he described with such terrifying beauty, I should have admitted my error and called the evening off. But I was too embarrassed to admit my failure, again, and my hubris, yet again, and so...

The moral of this little story should be that I learned my lesson, that the reason there was no poetry reading hosted by me this year for National Poetry Month was that my experience reading Blake, and reading Blake aloud, left me properly chastened at last. Such, sadly, is not the case. I'd do it again, if asked. I'd volunteer tomorrow, even to read for Blake's next birthday, if anyone told me I really ought, and donated the use of the hall. If I'm home quietly tonight, typing, it's only for want of the opportunity to talk. Hopeless.