Constellations
Constellations shed gentle, pacifying light. Edifying might also be a good descriptor of the beautiful, soothing starlight shining down on the Earth and its inhabitants. And in a spiritual manner, the same applies to luminaries of a human kind and the legacy they have bestowed — although I may speak here as “a fool,” akin to Paul the Apostle’s manner in 2 Corinthians 11, or the psalmist adopting the natural posture of a “beast” à la Psalm 73.
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Notwithstanding, for me the first constellation influencing my “natural” life in a profound manner is Kafka. In him I find a kindred soul, where virtually every person I actually know is like an alien to me (and I to them). This is not at all by conscious design — as I never set out to “be different,” just for the sake of being different. But sometimes I feel that I only find harmony is society, generally speaking, when I play a character that is not me. And the loneliness and sadness this generates might be unbearable at times, had people like Kafka not shown me that I am not entirely alone.
Next, and speaking of a contemporary figure, the music of Bonnie “Prince” Billy, aka William Oldham, is often like a refreshing glimmer of heavenly joy from a distant (yet strangely near), warmly glowing, lucid nighttime sky. Listening to B“P”B might better reveal the effect that his lovely, enchanting, sonorous craft can have on a spellbound human heart. But if I were to attempt an even more prolix witness, think Kafka-style alienation — except in an often strangely happy, haunting spell of sound, at once both laconic and (un?)wittingly labyrinthine, ever leading friendly listeners upon an inviting, uncertain path of self-discovery and (partially) equivocal enlightenment. Clear enough, right? Oh, and B“P”B is not at all loath to mix in plenty of Christian metaphors.
Some constellations have a decidedly darker influence, however, even if calming and peaceable. Here, I think of the alluring and allaying power of “the stars of suicide”: since every time I read a story of a suicide, I feel bolstered in spirit. Of course, I don’t condone this for a second as godly thinking — as here, more than ever, I speak as a natural fool and a common “beast.” That said, the edifying feeling is not one of sangfroid or ill will toward the suicide. Rather, I am organically flooded with love and compassion for that soul succumbing to self-sacrifice, leading me to experience a profoundly deep kinship with the person. In fact, I am so buoyed by the knowledge of communion, in the objective assurance that someone else shares such an overwhelming deluge of hopeless sorrow, that I discover (somewhat, i.e., medium-term) enduring courage and strength to press on through the same blackness that had just been that person’s undoing. And this pretty much applies regardless of any personal characteristics or background of the suicide. In other words, even if I may have found them dislikable in life and could identify no commonality of interests or culture, their decision to commit suicide instantly equals unbreakable fellowship and heartfelt empathy. Among my favorites of the celebrity variety, here’s to Sylvia Plath, Chris Cornell, Richard Gerstl, Kurt Cobain, Francesca Woodman, and Ian Curtis. But the beauty of the constellation of suicides is that there’s no separation of worth between the unknown and well-known, and everyone in between. All are equally precious, influential, and beloved in my eyes.
