Samuel Scoville: The Sound of Two Hands Clapping

Tuesday, September 18, 2012

The Sound of Two Hands Clapping

Dialectic

Flannery loved her fundamentalists.

Hot and Cold: hell-fire concern with

eternal affairs, snake handling holy

rollers—better watch out, better not

pout. Nothing genteel or lukewarm:

she’d spit them out, her main stream
catholics.

Gregory preferred his Nu Age Esalen

mystics and massagers, Tarot readers

and I Ching devotees as counter and

refuge to logical positivistic empirical

scientism in which he grew up and

practiced all the live-long day.

Tight rope crossing Niagara.

The doctrine of hatred must be
preached as the counteraction of the
doctrine of love when that pules and
whines. I shun father and mother and
wife and brother, when my genius
calls me. (Ralph)

No comments:

Post a Comment

Auto Bio

I choose, as a determining POINT in my life, to acknowledge a bullet fired into the armpit of my grandfather, Samuel Scoville, Jr. by a thief in the night sometime in the late 19^thc.

The thief escaped, my grandfather having pulled his own pistol from beneath the pillow, squeezing off a couple of rounds and sending the burglar scurrying into the Connecticut night...

For reasons of family notoriety, the incident was reported in both New York and Philadelphia papers. A former roommate in Philly called up Young Goodman Sam, inviting him down for a weekend gala: The Yale-Penn Football game. “You can take my sister Katherine, and chaperone me and my fiancé, he said.

In those days couples were not advised to be alone. Unaccompanied.

Sam took a steam-driven locomotive train down to Philadelphia, escorted Katherine to the leather-helmet contest, fell in love, asked her to marry him. She did & they lived more or less HAP-ily ever after, generating a tribe of offspring who like wise generated in kind so that if it hadn’t of been for that bullet, well, it’s impossible to begin to consider how unimaginably different life-as-we-know-it would have been. No one can say.

For one thing: YOU, dear Reader, wouldn’t be reading THIS HERE right now, resurrecting these words to walk around in your skull-haus this very be-here-now moment. So even you are impacted forever by that bullet.

(I could drive up to Connecticut right now, retrieve the small bite of lead, drop it in your hand and remind you how co-incidental our life is—how inexplicable, how arbitrary & selective our accounts, how much we omit which is also absolutely necessary, how inadequate our because & affects.)

The bullet is a NECESSARY but INSUFFICIENT cause of who-I-am, without which any explanation would be incomplete. Sam Scoville

Samuel Scoville