Eight
La DisputeLa Dispute - Eight
1978. San Diego. I’d just come out the other side of a relationship that blew up. I was angry, and disillusioned, and ultimately self-destructive. I’d lost everything I believed in. I was as utterly, completely alone as I’ve ever been. So I began going on walks.
I started taking late-night walks around the San Diego suburb I was living in at the time. I’d start walking early evening, and come back close to midnight, sometimes later. Walking and thinking and chewing over what had gone wrong with my life. One night, at Fourth and E Streets, I got mugged and beaten by a street gang—sent me to the hospital with serious intimations of mortality. When the ER techs asked what my religion was, I refused to answer. I made my private peace with the universe, content with whatever was going to happen. Then something happened. I got angry. I got angry because I still had stories to tell. So I fought back.
It took two months to fully recover, but two things came out of that incident. First, I have no fear of death. None whatsoever. Second, as soon as I was well enough, I started walking again, sometimes until 3 or 4 in the morning, through parts of town that made even street people nervous. When people asked what I was doing out there, the only answer I could give was, “I’m looking for something.” So I kept walking through some of the most dangerous parts of San Diego, before it got cleaned up, when it was still home to hookers and drunks and gangs.
Finally, one afternoon, I came to the same areas I walked through at night and I was struck by the dichotomy between that corner at night, and the very same corner during the day. In the daylight, there were businessmen and kids and clerks, eager to get home to dinner and TV. Then, later, came the night shift, the lost people, emerging from shadows and beds of pain to walk the same streets in search of fixes, money, and bars, gradually fading away with the dawn.
Two totally different worlds, sharing nothing but longitude and latitude. There was the nation in the day, and the nation at night, existing side by side but each fleeing the other. A daylight nation. And a midnight nation. I saw a country bifurcated by more than just the presence and absence of light, but by lives cast aside and lost and uncared for; the walked away and the thrown-away on one side, and on the other, those who pretended not to see them, because not seeing is easier. And I saw someone forced to walk both sides of the metaphor, to learn that the greatest cruelty is our casual blindness to the despair of others, that there but for the grace of whatever god you subscribe to goes any of us.
And finally, I realized that I had found what I was looking for, without ever being quite sure what it was.
I found a story that would make my own life make sense again.
This story.
I still take long walks, and I still stop and talk to the people who stand at the corner and wait for something to happen to them, who wait for money to fall into a hat or a cup, who wait for someone to recognize their pain. Because the line between the midnight nation and the place where I sit right now, writing these words, is thin and ephemeral and can be crossed in an instant. And because the road to the midnight nation can be erased only through compassion.
I found my story, this story, on a hazy afternoon in 1978. Now it’s yours. The keys to the midnight nation are in your hands. What you do with them is up to you.
Five
La DisputeOur educational system tells us
that we can all be big winners
But it hasn’t told us about
the gutters or the suicides.
Or the terror of one person aching in one place
Alone, untouched, and unspoken to.
eight
La DisputeEight - La dispute
“1978 - San Diego: I'd just come out the other side of a relationship that blew up I was angry, and disillusioned, and ultimately self-destructive. I'd lost everything I believed in I was as utterly, completely alone as I've ever been. So I began going on walks. I started taking late-night walks around the San Diego suburb I was living in at the time. I'd start walking early evening, and come back close to midnight, sometimes later Walking and thinking and chewing over what had gone wrong with my life. One night, at Fourth and E Streets, I got mugged and beaten by a street gang Sent me to the hospital with serious intimations of mortality. When the ER techs asked what my religion was, I refused to answer. I made my private peace with the universe, Content with whatever was going to happen, live or die. Then something happened. I got angry. I got angry because I still had stories to tell. So I fought back. It took two months to fully recover. But two things came out of that incident. First: I have no fear of death. None whatsoever. Second: As soon as I was well enough, I started walking again. Sometimes until 3 or 4 in the morning, Through parts of town that made even street people nervous. When people asked what I was doing out there that late at night, the only answer I could give was, "I'm looking for something." So I kept walking through some of the most dangerous parts of San Diego, before it got cleaned up, When it was still home to hookers and drunks and gangs Finally, one afternoon, I came to the same areas I walked through at night And I was struck by the dichotomy between that corner at night, And the very same corner during the day. In the daylight, there were businessmen and kids and clerks, Eager to get home to dinner and TV and family. Then, later, came the night shift - the lost people emerging from shadows and beds of pain to walk the same streets In search of fixes, money, and bars, Gradually fading away with the dawn. Two totally different worlds, Sharing nothing but longitude and latitude. There was the nation in the day, and the nation at night, Existing side by side but each fleeing the other; A daylight nation and a midnight nation. I saw a country bifurcated by more than just the presence and absence of light, But by lives cast aside and lost and uncared for; The walked away and the thrown-away on one side, and on the other, Those who pretended not to see them, because not seeing is easier. And I saw someone forced to walk both sides of the metaphor, To learn that the greatest cruelty is our casual blindness to the despair of others, That there but for the grace of whatever god you subscribe to goes any of us. And finally, I realized that I had found what I was looking for, Without ever being quite sure what it was. I found a story that would make my own life make sense again. This story. I still take long walks And I still stop and talk to the people who stand at the corner And wait for something to happen to them, Who wait for money to fall into a hat or a cup, Who wait for someone to recognize their pain. Because the line between the midnight nation And the place where I sit right now, Writing these words, is thin and ephemeral and can be crossed in an instant. Because the road to the midnight nation can be erased only through compassion. I found my story, this story, on a hazy afternoon in 1978. Now it's yours. The keys to the midnight nation are in your hands. What you do with them is up to you.”
—J. Michael Straczynski.
Six(1)
La DisputeThe gods had condemned Sisyphus to ceaselessly rolling a rock to the top of a mountain, whence the stone would fall back of its own weight. They had thought with some reason that there is no more dreadful punishment than futile and hopeless labor.
Nothing is told us about Sisyphus in the underworld. Myths are made for the imagination. As for this myth, one sees merely the whole effort of a body straining to raise the huge stone, to roll it, and push it up a slope a hundred times over; one sees the face screwed up, the cheek tight against the stone, the wholly human security of two earth-clotted hands. At the very end of his long effort, the purpose is achieved. Then Sisyphus watches the stone rush down in a few moments toward the lower world whence he will have to push it up again toward the summit. He goes back down to the plain.
It is during that return, that pause, that Sisyphus interests me. A face that toils so close to stones is already stone itself! I see that man going back down with a heavy yet measured step toward the torment of which he will never know the end. That hour like a breathing-space which returns as surely as his suffering, that is the hour of consciousness. At each of those moments when he leaves the heights and gradually sinks toward the lairs of the gods, he is superior to his fate. He is stronger than his rock.
The workman of today works everyday in his life at the same tasks, and his fate is no less absurd. But it is tragic only at the rare moments when it becomes conscious. Sisyphus knows the whole extent of his wretched condition: it is what he thinks of during his descent. There is no fate that can not be surmounted by scorn.
If the descent is thus sometimes performed in sorrow, it can also take place in joy. When the images of earth cling too tightly to memory, it happens that melancholy arises in man’s heart: this is the rock’s victory. But crushing truths perish from being acknowledged. Thus, Oedipus at the outset obeys fate without knowing it. But from the moment he knows, his tragedy begins. Yet at the same moment, he realizes that the only bond linking him to the world is the cool hand of a girl. Then a tremendous remark rings out: “Despite so many ordeals, my advanced age and the nobility of my soul make me conclude that all is well.”
“I conclude that all is well,” says Oedipus, and that remark is sacred. It echoes in the wild and limited universe of man. It teaches that all is not, has not been, exhausted.
All Sisyphus’ silent joy is contained therein. His fate belongs to him.
The rock is still rolling.
five
La Disputeflesh covers the bone,
and the flesh searches for more than flesh
Eight
La DisputeEight - La Dispute
I saw a country bifurcated by more than just the presence and absence of light, but by lives cast aside and lost and uncared for; the walked away and the thrown-away on one side, and on the other, those who pretended not to see them, because not seeing is easier.
And I saw someone forced to walk both sides of the metaphor, to learn that the greatest cruelty is our casual blindness to the despair of others, that there but for the grace of whatever god you subscribe to goes any of us.
And finally, I realized that I had found what I was looking for, without ever being quite sure what it was.
I found a story that would make my own life make sense again.
This story.
eight
La Disputeeight- la dispute.
when the ER techs asked what my religion was, i refused to answer.
i made my private peace with the universe,
content with whatever was going to happen, live or die.
eight
La DisputeLa Dispute | Eight
And I saw someone forced to walk both sides of the metaphor,
To learn that the greatest cruelty is our casual blindness to the despair of others,
That there but for the grace of whatever god you subscribe to goes any of us.
And finally, I realized that I had found what I was looking for,
Without ever being quite sure what it was.
I found a story that would make my own life make sense again.
This story.
Eight
La Dispute1978.
San Diego.
I’d just come out the other side of a relationship that blew up…I was angry, and disillusioned, and ultimately self-destructive. I’d lost everything I believed in …I was as utterly, completely alone as I’ve ever been.
So I began going on walks.
I started taking late-night walks around the San Diego suburb I was living in at the time. I’d start walking early evening, and come back close to midnight, sometimes later. Walking and thinking and chewing over what had gone wrong with my life.
One night, at Fourth and E Streets, I got mugged and beaten by a street gang—sent me to the hospital with serious intimations of mortality. When the ER techs asked what my religion was, I refused to answer. I made my private peace with the universe, content with whatever was going to happen, live or die.
Then something happened. I got angry. I got angry because I still had stories to tell. So I fought back.
It took two months to fully recover. But two things came out of that incident. First, I have no fear of death. None whatsoever.
Second, as soon as I was well enough, I started walking again, sometimes until 3 or 4 in the morning through parts of town that made even street people nervous.
When people asked what I was doing out there, the only answer I could give was, “I’m looking for something.”
So I kept walking through some of the most dangerous parts of San Diego, before it got cleaned up, when it was still home to hookers and drunks and gangs. Finally, one afternoon, I came to the same areas I walked through at night and I was struck by the dichotomy between that corner at night, and the very same corner during the day.
In the daylight, there were businessmen and kids and clerks, eager to get home to dinner and TV. Then, later, came the night shift, the lost people, emerging from shadows and beds of pain to walk the same streets in search of fixes, money, and bars, gradually fading away with the dawn. Two totally different worlds, sharing nothing but longitude and latitude. There was the nation in the day, and the nation at night, existing side by side but each fleeing the other.
A daylight nation.
And a midnight nation.
I saw a country bifurcated by more than just the presence and absence of light, but by lives cast aside and lost and uncared for; the walked away and the thrown-away on one side, and on the other, those who pretended not to see them, because not seeing is easier.
And I saw someone forced to walk both sides of the metaphor, to learn that the greatest cruelty is our casual blindness to the despair of others, that there but for the grace of whatever god you subscribe to goes any of us.
And finally, I realized that I had found what I was looking for, without ever being quite sure what it was. I found a story that would make my own life make sense again.
This story.
I still take long walks, and I still stop and talk to the people who stand at the corner and wait for something to happen to them, who wait for money to fall into a hat or a cup, who wait for someone to recognize their pain, because the line between the midnight nation and the place where I sit right now, writing these words, is thin and ephemeral and can be crossed in an instant.
And because the road to the midnight nation can be erased only through compassion.
I found my story, this story, on a hazy afternoon in 1978. Now it’s yours. The keys to the midnight nation are in your hands.
What you do with them is up to you.
J. Michael Straczynski.
Sherman Oaks, CA
July 21st 2002.
Seven
La DisputeSeven - La Dispute
