Summer Paradox
My teacher Mary Holmes used to call Los Angeles the “last gasp of Western Civilization.” She might have expanded her geography to include San Diego had she known about this little poem that my friend found scrawled on the Mission Beach sea wall several years ago:
Surf, dooby, chow,
Party, helmet, sleep.
Say it over a few times. It has many virtues: simplicity, clarity, rhythm, honesty. It has become one of my favorites. Not only because in it one may, in Philip Thompson’s words, “Behold the darkness of one long good time.” The poem is an instance of a profound paradox. Its being says more than its words.
Why did the anonymous poet, whose words proclaim that he lives in the body, of the body, for the body, bother to compose this ditty, to write it on a wall? From whence sprung his affection for metaphor (“helmet”), his embrace of rhythm (trochaic trimeter catalectic), his fidelity to chronology, his generalizing of an ideal day? Why not just live it? What is the impulse also to say it?
The Mission Beach poet is a pagan, of course, worshiping nature and sensation. Or so he thinks. Yet is there a more devoted worshiper of the invisible in our time than such a surfer? He rises from sleep to surf, desiring to ride the perfect wave perfectly, to find his way into harmony with the mysterious nature of the land-longing waves, the sea itself, rhythm, beauty.
As in surfing, so in verse, something in him craves more than physical sensation. The poem exists because the poet craves to embody meaning in an artifact, to convey it to his fellow human beings. He may know nothing of the forms of Plato or the logos of John or the ordo amoris of Augustine, but being human like them, he cannot live without more meaning than the merely physical world can provide. And so he writes a poem, worshiping the invisible whether he knows it or not.
My teacher would not have been surprised by the poem’s paradoxical nature. In Mary Holmes: Paintings and Ideas, she calls paradox “the natural condition of the world. It is both the working principle and the mystery of life. . . . We are always surrounded by paradox because all of creation is the union of opposites. All energy comes from the union of opposites.”
By mysterious paradox the Mission Beach poet consoles me. Even as his words depict Western Civilization’s dying away into mere sensation, his poem cannot help revealing that there is more spirit to our life in the body than our body can contain.
Surf, dooby, chow,
Party, helmet, sleep.
Say it over a few times. It has many virtues: simplicity, clarity, rhythm, honesty. It has become one of my favorites. Not only because in it one may, in Philip Thompson’s words, “Behold the darkness of one long good time.” The poem is an instance of a profound paradox. Its being says more than its words.
Why did the anonymous poet, whose words proclaim that he lives in the body, of the body, for the body, bother to compose this ditty, to write it on a wall? From whence sprung his affection for metaphor (“helmet”), his embrace of rhythm (trochaic trimeter catalectic), his fidelity to chronology, his generalizing of an ideal day? Why not just live it? What is the impulse also to say it?
The Mission Beach poet is a pagan, of course, worshiping nature and sensation. Or so he thinks. Yet is there a more devoted worshiper of the invisible in our time than such a surfer? He rises from sleep to surf, desiring to ride the perfect wave perfectly, to find his way into harmony with the mysterious nature of the land-longing waves, the sea itself, rhythm, beauty.
As in surfing, so in verse, something in him craves more than physical sensation. The poem exists because the poet craves to embody meaning in an artifact, to convey it to his fellow human beings. He may know nothing of the forms of Plato or the logos of John or the ordo amoris of Augustine, but being human like them, he cannot live without more meaning than the merely physical world can provide. And so he writes a poem, worshiping the invisible whether he knows it or not.
My teacher would not have been surprised by the poem’s paradoxical nature. In Mary Holmes: Paintings and Ideas, she calls paradox “the natural condition of the world. It is both the working principle and the mystery of life. . . . We are always surrounded by paradox because all of creation is the union of opposites. All energy comes from the union of opposites.”
By mysterious paradox the Mission Beach poet consoles me. Even as his words depict Western Civilization’s dying away into mere sensation, his poem cannot help revealing that there is more spirit to our life in the body than our body can contain.
posted by G.Rap | 11:08 AM
8 Comments:
I like your analysis, though I have to admit that the metaphorical significance of "helmet" is beyond me.
If you consider which of the sensual pleasures is not accounted for by the other five words, you'll get it. As the poem indicates, it usually comes between party and sleep.
I really like this post! The idea of human beings being incapable by their very nature of living in a world without meaning is one that is so beautiful. Sooner or later everyone faces that question of what the world really means and what is worth living for, and you are so right! that one must inevitably do so, whether one realizes it or does so unaware (which I guess wouldn't exactly be "facing" it, now would it?). But I think that idea is so beautiful, and reading your post was so uplifting, because more often than not I find the harmony and mystery of the universe daunting and powerful. But I shouldn't feel discouraged, because that's just the nature of the world. So thanks!
I though helmet was a metaphor to the almighty Trojans and their campaigns past inpenetrable walls.
Let us hope that Anon is right about the Trojan reference. It would imply a degree of behavioral responsibility not otherwise evident in the poem.
This was taken from season 5 episode 9 of American Dad. The "poet" is Seth McFarland and each of those words is written on tablets as the commandments. It is satire.
Much as I appreciate North American Scum’s effort at correct attribution of the poem, and glad as I am that he is an attentive viewer of American Dad, I stand by my original attribution (except in one detail) for the following reasons: Episode 9 of Season 5 of American Dad, which aired on February 8, 2009, was co-written and produced by Chris McKenna, my friend and former student, with whom approximately twenty years earlier I and another friend and former student (another Chris) and his friend (Mike) had discussed this expressive poetic utterance in terms similar to those used in my blog on the subject. That McKenna remembered the poem and used it satirically as the six symbolic commandments of the non-ascendant on Rapture day is a tribute—he would call it an homage—to the anonymous poet of Carlsbad-by-the-Sea (not Mission Beach, as I had written in the blog). The other Chris saw the poem in 1988, written in wax on the newly completed and surfer-hated seawall at the Cherry Av. beach and “reapplied as necessary when able to fit in schedule.” It was there for years. In short, the life and the poetry antedate the satire.
McKenna (who points out that the correct spelling of American Dad’s dad is “Seth MacFarlane”) gets the credit for the poem’s hilarious use in American Dad; the other Chris gets the credit for first noticing the poem and bringing it to my attention; Mike gets the credit for repeating it as a mantra many times a day for weeks; I get the credit, I believe, for the fullest articulation of the poem’s significance; and you, dear North American Scum (whose moniker I hope is itself merely satirical) get the credit for causing an entertaining and nostalgic email string among all the characters mentioned above except Seth MacFarlane, who, he might be relieved to know, is totally out of this particular loop.
I should add that if anyone can further identify the original poet, I would be happy to emend my blog post.
wowie!
Post a Comment
<< Home