The Wandering Jew

“Standing apart from the busy doings of mankind and drawing close to the divine, most people think he has lost his mind; for they are not aware that he is possessed by a god.”

—Plato

“To never be born at all would be the greatest thing for man, never to endure the sun’s burning rays; but if he is born, then he is to go as quickly as possible to the gates of Hell, and relax there beneath the earth.”

—Theognis

“To live is to suffer. To survive is to find some meaning in the suffering.”

—Niezsche

“He read it for the same reason an animal tears at a wounded foot: to hurt the pain.”

―Nathanael West

“Make the lie big, make it simple, keep saying it, and eventually they will believe it.”

―Adolph Hitler

“It doesn’t matter what I say, so long as I sing with inflection, that makes you feel that I’ll convey some inner truth of vast reflection.”

―John Popper

“The curtain rises on a vast primitive wasteland, not unlike certain parts of New Jersey.”

―Woody Allen

Adeste Fideles (et Cave Canem1)

Invocation of the Muse2

[What is there left to write? Everything has been said already and by far greater voices than my own. Alas I doubt, as my attempts grow desperate, I will ever see my name, Matthew Hannigan, held in any great regard—no, I do not even believe that my contributions to Democracy, as I report for the local newspaper the happenings of the Municipal Mayor and Council Meetings in my small Garden State town each week where an exhausting old woman steals the spotlight by chastising her elected officials, as only an old woman can, will elevate me to any great renown.

Do I seek fame? Is that my motivation? No. That’s trivial, fleeting. I seek immortality. From the eternal reward in Valhalla to an inscription of a name on a dedicatory brick in a park: so do we all.

And so I write—the final resort of those who cannot do or teach—and try to say something to bring comfort and joy to a weary world, to bring purpose to my life, to live; but yet I have only dipped my toes into the shallow waters of banality.

My stories are like my dead father’s songs:3 forced allegory sung solemnly with the accompaniment of a surreally played banjo (and to this day I have yet to trace my New Jersey family’s banjo culture to any logical root). I ramble through themes of good versus evil in the

lives of the common man from which I hail and arrive at the same tired conclusions which are too mundane and obvious to mention outright, but I will say that evil is bad and gets what it deserves —sort of? —does it? —(feigned gasp!) —who cares? . . . . . ?

On the advice of the pillars of literature, I have glimpsed into myself and my life to find inspiration and substance, but I am, admittedly, too afraid to look too long. My generation has not created an abundance of heroes and I am no exception to that disappointment. Cynicism pessimism, underachievement all have ingrained themselves in us as a result of we children having had our future threatened by growing up with the visions of The Man Who Saw Tomorrow relayed to us by an old, fat Citizen Kane who I assume had crushed his sled and took the work to buy a new one; the impending doom of a likely nuclear holocaust The Day After that; and a disease we were probably never going to get unless we coughed while guest starring on a very special episode of Mr. Belvedere4. There is too much I’d rather forget, but the Medial Knight of Oblivion still cannot completely slay the Anamnesisant Braindragon5 of my temporal lobe.

It is only through the divine that I feel there is hope. The stories of God and gods that I have discovered through my Catholic upbringing, the mental child molestation from Evangelical Christianity, and education in Classical Literature have inspired me and I feel I may find something in that.

So I invoke the Muse6 in the manner of the antiquated courtier and I listen to her

inaudible response. For fortdays and fortnights I try to hear Her. There is prolonged silence and I stop, pour myself a drink(s) to open my mind (something in a Dionysic, rather than a Dianetic7), pace around the room, pace around the block, light a cigarette and imagine the exhaled smoke is holy incense as if to get Her in the mood for some mystical chitchat, and again I call to Her—always in the same manner—imploringly, sleepily, and at some point, a little drunkily:

Oh Muse, stick Your tongue into my ear.

Tell me all of Your secrets; I need to know them.

My life is empty without Your gossip. It is only

through You that I may find my meaning. Yes,

You know very well that I am trapped.

From the stories You recall, protagonists

are reborn; reborn into a life of trials, failures

and final victories—conflict, resolution, conflict,

resolution, ad infinitum.8 This is what makes

life bearable. I must be a protagonist, if only for

a moment.

Your song would empower me; Your

silence will shatter my resolve. If I could only hear

Your voice, I would treasure it. Alas, to my sorrow I

have not. So let Your lips assault me; I await them.

Nothing. For a long time, there is not a sound nor a movement. But then, just after noticing I’ve finished the vodka, it happens, finally. She happens. She appears and answers my prayer.]