It's too bad that when truth is spoken or discovered, or stumbled upon, or chosen, lightning doesn't strike and thunder crash right then and there, so's we could check that one off, or set it like a building block. That a truth that resonates with one doesn't with another makes it so like quicksand. If something’s true godammit, it should be true, like in universally. The ineffability inevitably comes in and we’re forced to refer or resort to parables, or such descriptions as, “it’s like…” this, or this here.
One universal truth is everybody dies. There's a rock we can stand on. But then, damned if someone or something doesn't come along and bring varying concepts of eternal or after life into the mix, making it mushy all over again. Yes, everybody dies but then some, by adherence to this code no this one, are saved and some are condemned to… And the story begins. Or the war.
Jihad anyone?
It seems to be a human trait to strive for, to cling to, certainty. Often someone like Black with a checkered past, will realize, usually at some dark-night-of-the-soul point, they're not doing too well for themself or anyone else for that matter, going along free style as it were, with no belief or guiding principle, and will reach out for something known to hang on to, like a liferaft, a hitching post, a set of instructions or a code of ethics, or behavior; like, “I hang my belief on this hook, hook my wagon to this train. And Faith is born and will fill in the blanks.
Black’s one of those bad guys who got religion like Tooky Williams. Whether Mr. Williams after his execution was saved for his good works, or condemned for his earlier bad deeds, we don’t know. Some will claim to know. Basically, the whole argument is delivered into the realm of imagination. Sorry if that’s sacrilege: 99 virgins? burn in hell forever? eternal bliss? put on the shelf for a later return to earth…? Take your pick. Hell, it’s all true. Pat Robertson’s got him burning in hell - f able, the Dalai Lama’s got him ready on the shelf or already reborn - effable.
Mr. McCarthy was raised Catholic. Anybody who knows the slightest of that programming, knows how deeply imprinted a child who experienced it comes out, and that no matter what body of “knowledge” they later acquire to supplant or amplify those early building blocks, it’s nigh on to impossible to get truly loose from it. It’s like a haunting. But we can be grateful because it quite probably is why this artist, this great artist is so relentless in his probings of the deeper questions/motivations we’re all subject to. The Sunset Limited is, at the time it is written, a dialogue he’s having with himself, and a great one, a musing in passing, ongoing, posing questions, trying out answers, moving on through. The ending at the door, is a doorway.
The quest or insistence for certainty, is our undoing every time. Those Arab factions killing eachother in Bhagdad are each and every one in possession of the one true faith. They have, like many Christians, taken a beautiful piece of intricately, exotically woven fabric rippling in the breeze, and driven nails into it to preserve it, to hold it down, which of course ruins it. The Indians had it right calling it all the great mystery, letting it furl and snap in the wind, awesome – ineffable.
One night on beach in Mexico I was about to be murdered by a group of men when a light flashed three times over us. This had the effect of dropping the main guy to his knees, and crying with a quivering lip to his Mother Mary. My life and that of my woman companion were saved by this. I have no idea what it was or why. But I have to say, I fuckin well believe in it.
I fear Mr. White would be unaffected by my story because he has no such thing. Like Mr. Black, I would wish to convince him, but it wouldn’t matter much. I’m with McCarthy in that the greater mystery is that more people don’t have mystical experiences to refer to.
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