The surreal cacophony of Vegas reminds me of a soul
exploding--exploding with desires. Wandering into Vegas is like walking
into a collective waking dream painted by Heironymous Bosch. Look at the
casinos, with their fantastic signs and designs. The Luxor is a pyramid,
the only casino/hotel in the world modeled after a tomb (for the Great
Pyramid of Egypt, which is the Luxor's theme, is a tomb!) The New York,
New York is a single building imitating an entire city. Outside Treasure
Island is an enormous shining skull; fronting the Mirage is a volcano.
Icons of the culture, to whom we give the status of minor
divinities--their presence is everywhere, from the shades of Bugsy Siegel
and Frank Sinatra to the warbles of Barbra Streisand and the whispery
beauty of Diana Ross. You can find Merlin and King Arthur, Cleopatra, and
the entire spectrum of Egyptian gods. Every night at the Mirage magicians
cavort with white tigers. There are actual living ghosts--imitators of
the dead, from Elvis and Marilyn Monroe to Judy Garland and Roy Orbison,
prancing around the stages of the Imperial Palace. And all this is bathed
in the otherworldly tint of neon.
As for the cards, dice, and roulette, they were created long ago
not as instruments for gambling but as tribal tools for divination. Like
all things mystical, they still have the power to induce a trance--just
watch a roulette wheel sparkle as it spins, a little whirling galaxy unto
itself, tilting on the same laws of fate and chance as any solar
system.
And one often hears of people losing their souls in Las Vegas.
Surely, a thing that can be lost must exist. To my friends (and great
teachers) Hillman and Thy, I would say: Vegas ain't no workshop, baby.
This is soul in the raw.
Neon Souls
So I've taken my box of soul-books to a room at the Rio, a casino
that harkens back, in decor, to the Vegas of Bugsy and Sinatra, the Vegas
that was known as a city without clocks. Its gaming area has a seductive
dimness. If you wanted to read a paper, you'd have to lay it out on a
blackjack table--the only surface that's bright enough. Here at the Rio
people can still pretend they're in a black-and-white movie. I find
black-and-white movies soulful, so...here I am.
On the 19th floor, to be specific. The room seems vast because one
entire wall is a window, and I like to pull a chair right up to that
window--with its view of the entire Strip, all the neons of all those
casinos pulsating into the night--and ruminate. Right now, that means
reading.
I opened that damned box. Among the books contained within are
James Hillman's The Soul's Code; Neale Donald Walsch's Conversations With
God--a very soulful book, I'd been told; Robert Thy's Meditations on the
Insatiable Soul and The Soul Is Here For Its Own Joy; Richard Dawkins'
River Out of Eden: A Darwinian View of Life--soulful in its unrelenting
denial of the soul; Jim Wallis' The Soul of Politics; Bruce Goldberg's
Soul Healing; Margo Chisholm and Ray Bruce's To The Summit: A Woman's
Journey Into The Mountains To Find Her Soul; and of course the books,
tapes, and visitations by Thomas Moore that revived the literary use of
the word: Care of the Soul, Care-of-the-Soul Vs. Godzilla, Care-of-the
Soul Meets Abbott & Costella...
(I don't mean to be flip--oh, maybe I do--but I'm in Vegas after
all, and part of why I came here is to keep my sense of humor in the
midst of these sometimes profound but mostly humorless books. Why is it
that contemplation of the soul drains the humor out of writers?)
It's a large box, with many more books than I've listed. And I'll
be frank. It's difficult to tolerate most of them for more than a few
minutes. Take Soul Healing, featuring Bruce Goldberg's descriptions of
the past lives of celebrities. According to this doctor, Sylvester
Stallone was an American Indian in France beheaded by the Jacobins during
the Revolution. How does this stuff get published?
Neale Donald Walsch's conversations with a platitude-addicted
character he calls "God" would make my fillings itch no matter where I
read it. But here on the 19th floor of the Rio, I cant help hearing the
snap and inflection that Billy Crystal would give to "God"'s words: "God
suggests--recommends--that you put yourself first. Of course, determining
what is best for you will require you to also determine what it is you
are trying to do. This is an important step that many people
ignore."
Are you laughing yet? I was. Couldn't go on. But the book did make
a satisfying thud as I tossed it back in the box. My review, then: a good
book to throw across a room.
As for Margo Chisholm's adventures in search of her soul: Except
for noting that what I expect to find on a mountaintop is, well, a
mountaintop--that said, an over-40 woman climbing the highest peaks in
the world is not to be judged by a man sipping whiskey in Las Vegas. I'll
pass.
Tags:
America,
assertions,
back seat,
bandwagon,
books,
fad,
glare,
glitter,
henry miller,
improbable journeys,
james hillman,
Joseph Campbell,
Las Vegas,
materialist,
midst,
s box,
sampling,
soul,
soul on fire,
southern california,
thinkers,
viva las vegas,
word soul
