John Berryman’s poem from “The Dream Songs” presents a dry and humorous approach to the expectations one holds for daily thought, and the honesty behind not exactly adding up to the standards you hold for yourself. Berryman wittingly begins his poem by stating “Life, friends, is boring”. A line as simple as this automatically gives the reader a smirk, a connection to the author and a desire to see what comes next. Starting from my early adolescence, I continually questioned my reason for existence, always punishing myself for not representing a type of cultural definition. I could never conquer the process behind learning the French language, which always disappointed me because of my constant need to prove myself wrong, to impress myself and expect the same recognition from my parents and friends of whom I never looked up to. It seems as if Berryman and myself are stuck in a pickle; one end representing truth, and the other standing alone, looking into a reflection of self-pity, having to admit that perfection is just as distant as internal acceptance and even more distant than self recognition.
John Berryman continues his thought by adding, “We must not say so.” On a very fine line, the admitting of life being boring and at often times dull is a step toward reaching a lifestyle where popping Valium isn’t necessary. “We must not say so” digs deep into my core, where the memory of childhood comes about, picturing my mother on our back porch in Arkansas with a cigarette in her mouth, and a frown on her face because of her knowing that I would never reach the super-human expectations that she and everyone else in my life held for me. Berryman might have a had a common experience growing up, reaching a point where the brainwashing of perfection becomes so prominent that it’s almost unrecognizable, a mask that is glued upon our face, not allowing failure to ever enter into the organized life that we created due to the stupidity and emotional blockage that our family and peers pushed upon us. “We must not say so”? No, we mustn’t say so. If we recognize the fact that life is only worth living by not taking ourselves, or our expectations seriously, the only result would be failure, and after all, who would ever want to be buried under a tombstone that read “They didn’t give a shit, so of course they had it coming”.
I find it interesting that something as simple as being honest with yourself is one of the hardest terms to come to. After Berryman shares his confession of his mother considering boredom to solely represent the isolation of inner resources, he calmly states, “I conclude now I have no inner resources, because I am heavy bored”. Considering that the author could have left out the word “heavy”, but decided not to is a great representation of the honesty he is finally coming to as a human and an artist. I relate to this daily. In January of 2011, I assisted the head director of Marymount Manhattan College, weekly rehearsing with actors in the attempt to create a European world of contrast and isolation. The process was wonderful, and I felt as if I learned a great deal. I was happy as an assistant until the very end of the show, where the cast and crew gathered together in a small studio apartment in the West Village (how any college student can afford this still stands to be a mystery), where alcohol accumulated on the granite counter, and actors gathered around one another like newborn wolves, dressed as sheep with the worst intentions. I stood alone until I reached the point of intoxication where my boredom no longer seemed a predicament, where I, myself could gather around the pact, grinning to see another grin, laughing to show assertion. Under ordinary circumstances, that is, without the use of drugs and alcohol, I would naturally find myself on the breaking point of boredom where even the most beautiful of all creatures seemed to be as ugly as I considered myself. Whether I be ugly or not could be up for debate, but in this particular moment, ugliness wasn’t an issue. The annoyingly bright and disillusioned company I surrounded myself with became the issue. I could be bored because I could leave without considering myself another one of “those”.
Berryman concludes his poem with the connection between man and dog by using a dog’s tail as a representation of the joy behind living a life that doesn’t hold pessimism and boredom. He and I both recognize the outside viewpoints toward life and happiness, and have willingly adjusted to the conclusion that you can’t change who you are. As the dog drifts off into “mountains or sea or sky”, the author is left alone. I suppose that the quote “Happiness is in the eye of the beholder” could be an appropriate way to conclude the isolation that our kind hold truly, but after all, the choice behind living under truth, and raw, emotional behavior or living a simple life where boredom is a distant stranger, is a microscopic mystery that holds the idea of happiness. Maybe Berryman doesn’t need happiness. I know I’m perfectly happy without it.
