i call that love

I Call That Love

Sometimes,

I’m in a place where words don’t work

Thoughts are flimsy

And feeling encapsulates me

If you can bear with me

Sometimes

And not mind,

I call that Love.

Chris

Enigmatic

Somewhat

He likes gadgets

Mechanics

Enthusiasticly

Energized by

Technological advance

With knowledge

That’s certainly

Marketable

 People-Independent
really,

amidst his computers

If he had a choice

Between his gadgets

And a wife

Well,

One can see

He’s very fond of

And very connected to

the plethora

of today’s

technological

network

systems

Business Man

Holding me at night

I’m wrapped in love

He strokes

Me all over

In the morning

And then

Makes love

To me

But when

The business

Day begins,

Chris

Is no longer

Really

Mine

multi-dimensional reality

Lily Field — May 14, 2011

I read True Hallucinations 3 times recently.
And I'll probably read it again.

The very strange (unusual) exploration into dimensional reality was fascinating to me. Also fascinating were Dennis and Terence's ideas, theories and experiments with chemistry and sound, and how the brothers blasted off together into some weird and strange dimensional reality 'schizophrenia'.

I've read a lot and thought a lot, and I found that Dennis and Terence are among the most original, creative thinker/explorers out there.
I find Terence's time theory very interesting, very original and I imagine there is some veracity there.

When I was young, (19ish), I went off into a sort of borderline schizophrenia. Ever since my experience, I've believed there exists a more dimensional reality then we acknowledge. I also think our limited reality/perception is connected with the reason why human beings are deeply conflicted within (and without).

Wish I could join this forum. I, like a lot of people, am struggling financially.
But I would like a transcript, if possible.
I am very! looking forward to Dennis' book.
LAF

50

No longer young
and I knew it today...

For more than a decade
I've been struggling
trying so hard to hold on

Really,
it wasn't the gray hair
the lines on my face
or the way my skin started to droop

it was insidious,
invisible
mortifying,
an unknown merciless threat

But today I knew
I was no longer young
and I also knew it was ok

more than the stars, planets, the cars and TVs

she came into my life like an energy force
impressing me right from the start
how could I have known
before she was born
how someone can capture your heart?

I remember the day I watched her run
when she was only two
And I noted with shock
that she was so small
than how was she bigger than you?

But that happens sometimes
I've noticed in life
how someone can come along,
who rocks your world
so it's never the same
and you never have felt so strong.

when she homeschooled,
she seemed to intuit
all day, all the things she could do!
Energetic and busy and filled
with ideas
for years, Never dull around you!!

With no trouble at all,
no assistance from me,
one project led into another
And you should have seen that
bright little girl!
and how she led all the others.

I guess I confess
she was a joy to me
because from the start I knew,
I knew I knew her
I knew she knew me
and how I knew that - I just knew

there's more to this life
than meets the eye
and this was one of those things
words can't explain
and I don't know why
but Love's past imaginings

And it's been a pleasure
along the way
to watch this child grow
from baby to girl to
young lady to woman
could I be happier -- the answer is No!

But ever anon I wished and I wished
I could give her the things that she wanted.
And even today as she turns 21,
I wish and I wish
and I wish

I know that she wants different things
than I want
the bling and the car and the condo
I want her to have all the things
she desires
however she can fanagle

But there's one thing I know
she was assured from the start
on that snowy post-Valentine day,
no matter what comes
in this life or the next
there's one thing that always will stay

there's somebody here
whose heart came alive
21 years ago to date, the same
for that was the day
that Ella was born
and 'Mommy' became my new name

regarding colin wilson's monomania

I've spent months now reading Colin Wilson's books, although I can honestly say, I haven't been able to read straight through any of them, but find myself invariably skipping here there and all over the place.

It has occurred to me that this is not my fault, but his. First of all he has written many many many books. From the long list of possibilities, I selected a number of titles that looked to me to be the most interesting. Some of these included subjects whose scope seemed impossibly daunting and bulky, such as "A Criminal History of Mankind" ('84).

Having had a taste of Colin Wilson's brilliance, however, I enthusiastically imagined I would gain many new insights, ideas and a more enlightened view of whatever it is that's wrong with humans and how this has evolved over time. However, just as Colin Wilson himself has repeatedly claimed -- he's written the same book seventy times over!

Colin Wilson certainly seems to have one lifelong obsession, albeit a provocative and endlessly elaborat-able one. Like many of us, he looks Existence in the face, and asks, "Why?", "What?", and "How?"

Beginning with his first published book, "The Outsiders" (1956), Colin Wilson looks to a certain type of individual in modern society who is reflected in many (then) contemporary works of literature, such as "Nausea" by Jean-Paul Sartre, or "The Stranger", by Albert Camus -- works that are classified as 'existentialist literature'. And indeed, the individual to whom he is referring, is the 'existential' one, he who finds himself a stranger in a vacuous society, able to witness, but unable to bring himself falsely to belong. This presents an existential dilemna for the individual, who tends to be unusually intelligent and sensitive, and who is then forced willy-nilly to spiritually and practically 'make do'.

So Colin Wilson's debut into the public mind is with a treatment of "Outsiders" which captured a vast audience (presumably of 'outsiders') and catapulted Colin Wilson to fame and high honor-- for a while anyway. But where Sartre, Camus, Dostoyevski, Shaw and everybody else highlighted in the vastly-referenced "Outsiders" kept their outsider depictions within the bounds of creative imagination, CW took it all much much further. CW seems to believe that the outsider symbolically as well as literally represents and accounts for an entire dark strata of human existence, history, evolution and meaning.

Something I must mention at this point, and which immediately struck me as singular-- upon reading "The Strength to Dream: Literature and the Imagination" ('61), which was book 3 for me, was that in addition to CW's flagrant intellectual gifts and capacious learnedness (all self-initiated, as he grew up in poverty and without education) was a willingness to explictly and unabashedly explore and treat with objective frankness some very dark subjects: sides of the human personality: individually, socially, historically and philosophically, that are usually reserved for horror movies or aberrent pornography. Hence, he doesn't shy away from in-depth treatment of such subjects as Allistair Crowley, serial killers, sex-killers, gurus-gone-mad and you name it. And that made me aware that with all our public enjoyment of horror and war stories, and for that matter of pornography, both explicit and the soft-kind that fills every PG-13+ movie and every bestseller, we skirt away from really wanting to know the man sitting on death row who killed people for no obvious reason -- we wash it over with wishful idealism, not really wanting to deeply consider and unravel his horror, his reality, his humanness.

But I like Colin Wilson very much! I like his open-mindedness. I like the fact that although he was famous for a short while and then rather infamous and looked down the nose upon and sideways at, he believed in himself and followed his own star. Sometimes it's clear to me, that a person is a Success in the truest meaning of the word, when he is true to his own self, especially when he's had and then lost public admiration.

In a book titled, "Rogue Messiahs: Tales of Self-Proclaimed Saviours" (2000), CW tells the histories of the individual progression of cult leaders such as Jim Jones and David Koresh, from the roots of self-delusion, to the growth of power, to the gruesome treatments and violations of devotees including the cult leader's strange extreme sexual dominence and abuse, and finally to some final horrifying apocoloypse.

as if from far away

as if from far away

i saw

the little boy

clutching his blanket

fist pressed to his mouth

big eyes

quiet little boy

I watched you walk away

with friends

and I knew

you were growing up

origin of consciousness...

I first discovered "The Origin of Consciousness in the Breakdown of the Bicameral Mind" by Julian Jaynes when I was 18, sitting on the couch in Mark Maclaine's apartment, flipping through an Omni Magazine. I found a review of this new book, which briefly described Jaynes' thought-provoking theory of an evolving human consciousness, a consciousness that had been altogether different back when Homer wrote "The Odyssey".

Now Mark Maclaine was a breathtaking boy. He was everything any 18-year-old girl could ever want. He was beautiful -- all boy -- strong, gentle. He had a motorcycle, a wallet, an apartment, nice roommates -- not quite as nice as Mark, but not bad -- and he adored me! A girl couldn't really ask for more.

Unfortunately for us both -- and I wasn't sure how it had come about, but at that time, I was literally in a different world. When I looked at Mark, I knew perfectly well how wonderful he was -- I also knew he didn't have the slightest, remotest inkling of the strange alter-dimension I had lately fallen into. Fallen into!! Yes! When Alice fell into the rabbit hole, down, down, down, landing in Wonderland, when the three siblings of "The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe" passed through a wardrobe into Narnia -- well these are metaphors and apt metaphors at that, for the 'parallel dimension' that exists right here somewhere, right down a rabbit hole, right inside a closet.

Unwittingly, I had fallen in, and I was living in another kind of reality.

So, with all due regret regarding Mark, the new book by Julian Jaynes captured my attention and piqued my interest much more than Mark or any other boy could have.

Although I suspected that I'd gone "crazy", all along I was aware that this 'place' had much much more depth and significance as far as "reality" than the world that Mark Maclaine and everyone else inhabited. The only world I'd ever known up 'til then.

Looking out at Mark and anyone else however, I was disturbingly aware that they knew absolutely nothing of this other place. And that made me very frightened and unsettled, because I didn't know where I was either, I only knew I was as all alone as anyone ever could be.

I resolved to rush out and find a copy of "The Origin of Consciousness" and read it.

Sojourn

Bags under the eyes

piercing encompassing

headache

no-- headache doesn't come close

to the pain of what we refer

to as migraine

no-- migraine doesn't do justice

What we are looking at here

is raw pain

torturous pain

think of Jesus on the cross

the Spanish Inquisition

think of mercilessness

think of marauders, barbarians

genocide

think of the devil having fun

gleeful with eyes bottomless, black

slapping you on the shoulder with a

cloven deformed hand

So you try an assortment of pills

none even approach the land of agony

other people are blank

they don't get it -- so, ok

it's abundantly clear

it's your Sojourn

Why?

God only knows

Once We Laughed Merrily

So many shattered illusions

all of them in fact

sadness disappointment

angst and effort

endless effort

What did it all amount to?

the pretense

the distances

the wishful thinking

How could it have been different?

They didn't know the world would change

the old ways would change

that the ground under our feet

would shift

We had lazy summers

of tennis

and jigsaw puzzles

Now a hazy dream

They didn't know we

needed much more

They didn't know what

or how

And now, broken people we

where once we laughed merrily

over little things

always there was an imperative inside

and always there was an imperative inside that went un-addressed in the outside world and even appeared to be something that Everybody tried, in their busi-ness to avoid, to escape.

She too, had learned better to escape it, because it had a very frightening, lurking kind of appeal, like a bottomless pit, an abyss or a labyrinthine nightmare....

fringe

and she was wearing fringe, long fringe. Her soft brown suede boots were sheathed in long thin fringe and her matching brown soft suede jacket had the same long fringe, two rows in the back and another row up and down the back side of the sleeves. And when she danced -- and she moved like she knew nobody and everybody was watching ---from the heart, from the soul, from pure why not?!-- her fringe grooved and swung and swayed in time. And it was all reminiscent of happy hippie sunny days of yore.

through the snowflakes

Rose's heart was breaking as she jogged through the gently falling snow. One enormous pain rent her heart right down the middle like a giant jagged lightening bolt sending off minor nerves of pain in every direction. It wasn't the first time in her life she knew and understood that a heart could be broken in an instant-- one moment it's a soft, beating, silent friend, barely noticeable, the next it's the whole universe, there is nothing else and it's pure scream, pure silent human agony.

The snow covered the ground in the twilight and everywhere flakes filled the air falling so gently, so softly, so indifferently. The porch lights of cozy houses twinkled and everybody else in the world, warm behind their curtains and shades, moved slowly around familiar rooms, dinnertime.

Roses ran steadily on, her mind echoing her heart with incoherent, garbled, half-thought screams of protest, "NO!! CAN'T BE!! GOD PLEASE!!... IT'S A BAD DREAM!! MAYBE A DREAM"

"Hi Mrs. Geiss!" a young husky voice sang out. "Hi Mrs. Geiss!" chimed a second child, his voice flat and obedient-sounding. Shadowy in the fast-fading light, two boys, friends of Rose's younger son, were wrestling and tossing snow at each other in the front yard of Carl, the bigger one's, home. Rose was momentarily deeply charmed by the little display of boy high-energy, happy in this Christmas-time snowfall. "Hi Guys!!" she returned, lovingly and enthusiastically.

Through the dark blanket of hurt, the shards of searing pain -- in spite of which she had decided to get outside, to get some air, to let it be and to jog -- had come a little joy, like a sliver of sunshine, breaking up what only one moment ago felt like an apocolypse.

"and that's what healing is," she was thinking to herself, as an old red and white Ford pickup truck passed her and then pulled over to the curb.

Out hopped a man, wearing an out-of-style down vest, jeans, and a boyish, impish grin. He looked like a cross between Kurt Russell and John Travolta -- in a word, cute... and somehow reminiscent of a previous lifetime. He bounded through the curtain of snow against the darkening evening toward Rose, who slowed to a cautious walk, presuming he was lost and wanted directions.

"Hi!" he said, "I've noticed you jogging around here before. Um, I was wondering if you'd like to go out with me sometime!" He said this with a winning smile, looking extraordinarily cute and boyish and ..... fun!

Shocked, Rose immediately reflected on her appearance which had been absolutely the last thing on her mind upon leaving the house. She had pulled her older son's winter hat (Homer Simpson, "D'OH!") over as much of her head as possible and the rest was mis-matched-whatever! In a split-second reflex, the thought that she couldn't possibly have looked worse dismayed her.

"Well, I'm married," she stuttered, noting to herself that she'd completely forgotten this -- being 'asked out'. The past thirteen years had been nothing but a progressively-deepening, busy mesh of pregnancies, babies, childcare and an ever-so-much-less-than-satisfying marriage -- "but thank-you so much! I would certainly consider it if I weren't married. Thank-you very much," she repeated, now feeling sincerely appreciative, but firm.

And then he was off, and she watched the tail-lights of his pickup truck through the snowflakes until they couldn't be seen anymore. And then she said, "wait"...

Nostalgia!! He had looked like a dusty, aging version of the boys of her childhood, as if some heartthrob from the 70's, along with his pickup truck, had been put on a shelf, collecting a little dust until this particular moment. And of all moments, why this one!

The extraordinarily shocking, tragic news she'd been given only one hour ago, was almost forgotten for the moment. Rose thought about Eric, her husband, all seriousness, practicality... Eric, who never smiled, never laughed and had developed a positive penchant for punishment. She couldn't help thinking about Eric, because right now, she wished more than anything in the world that she could have hopped right in the passenger seat of that red pick-up truck with a very cute man whose step was lively, whose smile sparkled, who was mischievous and boyish --and driven away. For even one hour. For even five minutes.

Rose walked over to the little park down the block. The whiteness covered everything now, all was still. The snow fell gently, slowly and the sky had become dark. At home, the kids would be hungry, Eric would be wondering why dinner wasn't ready. The kids would be noisy, Eric would be irate. Rose wandered a little way into the snowy park and then gave in to a sudden longing to just lie down on that freshly fallen snow blanket and rest. It felt good, she was still warm inside from jogging. She looked up, and everywhere, millions and millions of snowflakes drifted down, slowly, gently and indifferently against a black sky.

the Halloween Joker

and dressed up for Halloween as the Joker, he -- always so normal, always so correctly-behaved! -- began to feel unfamiliar stirrings deep within, disturbances, shadowed partial remembrances, dream-like and as if from long long ago, time before time....
and they had a thoroughly disturbing and yet compelling and, he had to notice delicious, diabolical flavor-- depraved, demonic...
this followed by creeping thoughts---definitely unbidden! definitely unwelcome! above all, horrifyingly reprehensible -- thoughts of rape, blood, murder, mass destruction, lust and the consummate satisfaction of unrestrained, uncivilized mayhem to the nth degree........

Crazy Women Writers

I remember a long time ago, my friend Renee mentioned that a mutual friend was enrolled in a college class called, "Crazy Women Writers". My interest was immediately piqued, because one of my very favorite, possibly my very favorite, kinds of writers and kinds of literature were the works-of-crazy-women type.

In recent years, I was unable to read books by crazy writers -- male or female. I was unable to watch disturbing movies, especially if the type of disturbance was psychological. Also, I had a lot of trouble listening to or reading the news, I avoided it and if I was exposed to a story that demonstrated man's tendencies to be less than humane or worse, I quaked in fear and horror.

But as of late and to my great great joy, I am once again enjoying and savoring the works of some of my old favorite crazy women writers, as well as some new, young ones. I found myself ordering all of Lauren Slater's books at the library... Lauren Slater's writing is notable I think first for it's creative language-play (and here I'm deeply jealous) and second for not letting any repression or fear of public opinion stand in the way of self-expression--and I admire that! But more than those things, I like Lauren Slater's writing because her personal experience and her mind have wandered to places far, far beyond-- places that seem magical, mysterious, frightening, interesting and unconquered -- uncharted territories.

The fact that once again, I can fully enjoy reading the books of crazy women writers, indicates to me, like nothing else that my own state-of-mind is more-or-less stable.

Yes, for a while there I was, well...at least kind of crazy! And that wasn't my first go-around, but my second! It was during the crazy time, that my mind was too intensely and precariously fragile--like the finest crystal or a gaping wound-- to even consider, much less indulge myself in and enjoy, any of the craziness outside myself--it was just too overwhelming, too perilous, too much!!

From the vantage-point today of ground that I can stand on, that has some solidity, a mind that can take things somewhat for granted and not see absolutely everything in its mysterious existential strangeness, I can assure you that there is a quality to craziness that is finer in experience than any known by the sane and normal world, more precisely-tuned, exquisite. As lost and as dark, as lonely and terrifying as the crazy place is, it has it's brilliant, hyper-spiritual, dazzlingly beautiful and deeply unknown side too.

No regrets here, no wishing anything had been different. Sometimes I really wonder how people who have been normal their entire lives can take so much limitation. For it does seem to me that the borders and boundaries of what is considered sane and normal by our society are frighteningly and blindly confining!!! It's like living inside a fishbowl which is located in a room, in a house, in a town, in a country, in a world, in a universe... and only recognizing, believing in, knowing and being aware of the fishbowl!!

Integrity

Speaking of Integrity, one day as I was observing my young daughter's elaborate, creative, all-the-time-in-the-world, complex make-believe, the word "integrity" popped into my mind. I thought about it. I observed some more. I thought about it some more.

What I was seeing, I believed, was Integrity. Realizing this, I also realized that natural child play was very moving, refreshing, vulnerable, concentrated, serious, purposeful and meaningful (other adjectives besides!) In a word, Integral.

Unlike adults in our society, she wasn't spending three-fourths of a day in intense preparation--utilizing whatever she found around the house for materials and props and proceeding to carry out a complete partly-planned, partly-inspired, always purely creative project--for any reason whatsoever other than the project's own longing for realization and fruition.

I wondered then, are children integral to begin with? Is integrity inherent in humans? Is it possible?! that through socialization, education and child-rearing, integrity begins little by little to erode and dis-integrate, until eventually the adult, by now thoroughly trained and encouraged to behave unethically and to take every advantage of others in the name of self-interest, comes to believe that the pursuit of money, things and social status is the end-all? That he/she and they can't even remember, don't even know what integrity is?

Integrity, Integrate, Integral... Dis-Integrate, Dis-Integration....

After I began to think about Integrity, I began to wonder who an Integrated, Integral Adult whose Integrity was fully uncorrupted and intact would be -- and here's what I imagined:

Integral meaning 'whole'-- I imagine an integral adult has the spiritual, emotional, mental and physical, both inside and outside, more or less in balance. I imagine an integral adult would generally, if not always, behave with consideration and kindness to others, because he/she would recognize the critical importance and responsibility of trying not to damage the well-being of self or others. I imagine the integral adult would know how to listen to him/herself and to others in an attentive, non-judgmental and open-minded way--not feeling threatened-- because the sense of self is peaceful to begin with. I also imagined the integral adult would know how to listen to and trust his/her own heart, knowing when yes is right, knowing when no is right. I imagine an integral adult would enjoy this day with a glad heart, being aware of the temporal nature of everything in this universe, being aware of the simple, gentle beauty in all creation, knowing well enough that whatever happens, in the cosmic scope, It's okay.

I don't know anyone...well the Dalai Lama does come to mind....

Dad's Home-Birth

I got to kiss my dad good-bye.

And that's not all, I was able to be present at his home-death, as I call it, so akin to my three home-births did it seem! Now,' death', 'dead', 'died', etc. aren't the right words for the passage from alive to wherever and whatever it is that transpires in that very strange event that we are all born to experience one day. But I think birth is a good word for both our entrance and our departure, birth being a word with positive and joyful connotations. So truthfully, even though I may call my dad's event, 'home-death', I think of it more as a 'home-birth'.

Now I must tell you, that my dad's home-birth was one of the most beautiful experiences of my life, my three home-births being counted right up there alongside it. Perhaps I would never have realized the many beautiful components, if it hadn't been for my own adventures in ultimate mystery!!.... Ultimate mystery....

I guess at this point, I must tell you that in my world, the spirit is first, physical manifestation flowing therefrom. Perhaps I'm deluded--probably, but living life from this perspective, one is able to allow life to be whatever it wants to be, to glimpse the spiritual beauty constantly, in a smile or gesture, in a flower or a cloudy sky, in water sparkling in the sun.... So even birth and death aren't really within our control, and whatever humans may scientifically deduce from the given evidence, life appears to have enormous will, creativity and determination all it's own!! That's the way I see it anyway.

stop, look and listen

When the kids were little, I read a Lot! of child psychology and child development literature. One book that made a big impression, was called "Drama of the Gifted Child" and it was written by Alice Miller. It was a simple, small book, but it made two important points: 1) a child's #1 need is to be listened to and taken seriously, and 2) the way an adult treats him/herself and others, is a reflection of the way that person was treated as a child by his/her parents.

Now that was interesting and actually novel. I thought about my own childhood. I was the middle child of 6 born in 8 years and even my mother always admitted she treated us as a group, not paying undue attention to us individually. When I thought really hard, I still couldn't remember my mother paying individual attention to me, unless I was being reprimanded or questioned. I thought about my dad, his perpetual sarcasm. My dad was a brilliant person~~top of his scientific technology field, but personally, he was a little stagnant and opinionated: for example, when discussing our futures, he would blithely and repetitiously joke that we should all become brain surgeons. Or, in a more serious moment, he would recommend a marketable future: accounting or computer science~~never taking our individuality into consideration.

I began to listen to my children and to take them seriously as unique individuals. Almost immediately, I realized that I consistently disrupted their play to drag them off on my errands or to whisk them off to their activities, or to preschool. How many times had my four-year old daughter screamed and cried, "You're ruining my game!!!", while I insisted it was time to go... it didn't matter... we had to get somewhere right now!!

Something that completely changed in my behavior and recognition and realization regarding my children was the critical importance of not ruining their game! I came to respect their 'game' and to believe that their play, especially make-believe, was more important then getting to the grocery store now, getting to the 2-year-old class, or even going to preschool at ages 3 and 4. As time went on, I listened more and more to my children and to other children and I observed their behavior and their play. I wound up homeschooling and even 'unschooling', because the more I let them play (and nowadays, it really is a matter of Letting Them Play!) the more I realized that children live in a magic wonderland!! which is slowly but definitely being eroded and decimated, pretty much like the rain forests and other forests of this planet... and being replaced by an impoverished kind of standardized, structured, adult-imposed, scheduled, conformed and hyper-controlled kind of existance... even at the ages of 2, 3, 4...

Simone

I've been thinking about Simone. Simone, to me, can mean Simone deBeauvoir or Simone Weil, or both, but Simone deBeauvoir has certainly figured much larger in my life and in my heart, than Simone Weil, whom I discovered much later in my life.

I was about 19 when I found and read, "All Men are Mortal". I remember how impressed I felt with the philosophical premise of the novel. The main character couldn't grow old or die, and lived through era after era, carried along through all the social upheavals and evolution. After only a few generations, he realized that immortality isn't after all, anything one would wish for.... "ennui" was a favorite word in French existentialism, and this character suffered from disabling and perpetual "ennui" (like depression, or stultifying boredom).

I was also enamored of Simone dB's passionate and exacting intellect which seemed to have both female and French qualities. When I found out that she and Jean Paul Sartre were best friends, lovers and inseparable lifelong intellectual colleagues, it only intensified and solidified my admiration. Later, when I discovered that Simone and Nelson Algren, a Chicago writer, fell madly in love when she was in her forties, and loved to visit the Chicago underworld together, she rose even further in my esteem. Here was one woman who lived life on her own terms, who reached for and expressed cutting edge philosophical thought, who lived side by side, but not together with, Sartre, who for maximum freedom, didn't marry or have children or settle for exclusive, possessive relationships. Most of all, I loved her mind. All of her work exposed a sharp, incisive, but extremely passionate, willing and open intellect. Throughout her writing, one perceives the attitude and inclination of French existentialism: a disdain for God and all things Christian, a radical sense of personal freedom and always the shadow and presence and contrast that death casts on life.