Synchronistic Reader

Where Life Intertwines With the Books I Read

Lauren J Barnhart

Lauren J Barnhart
Seattle, Washington,
April 11
Author & Publisher
Knotted Tree Press
My memoir 'No End Of The Bed' spans my search for truth through differing perceptions of sex, with some surprising parallels made between the fundamentalist church and the sex-positive movement. It is now available at most online retailers. You can also find my writing in past issues of Jersey Devil Press and Monkey Bicycle.


SEPTEMBER 23, 2011 3:42PM

Air Conditioned Nightmare

Rate: 4 Flag

After living in Paris for ten years, Henry Miller begrudgingly returned to New York at the cusp of World War II.  He was back in the country that had rejected him as an artist, surrounded by the sordid details of his past.  He thought maybe by experiencing it cross-country, the American way of life could be redeemed somehow.  With a $500 book advance that didn’t last him past the Holland Tunnel and a car that broke down every few miles, he began the trip and the book that became The Air Conditioned Nightmare. 

Through his travels he finds only a few rugged individuals left, tucked away in remote places, untouched in their solitude.  The rest of the country sickens him with industrialism, commercialism and poverty - a vast expanse where art can barely exist amidst the exploitation.

“… the middle classes pay admission to gape and criticize, vain about their half-baked knowledge of art and too timid to champion the men whom in their hearts they fear, knowing that the real enemy is not the man above, who they must toady to, but the rebel who exposes in word or paint the rottenness of the edifice which they, the spineless middle class, are obliged to support (Miller, 132).” 

Miller is such a voice of the future it’s hard to remember he wrote this in the forties, until he mentions such things as the sentimental emptiness of the music.  His title brings to mind the fake oxygenated A/C air that you experience in Vegas among a cacophony of blinking chinging slot machines and theatrical facades of gritty cities like New York and Paris all swept clean and serving bad food which looks delicious but never tastes good.

            “Disney has all kinds of temperature – a temperature to suit every fresh horror (Miller, 41).”  It’s in the kind of headache I get whenever I’m in a mall, surrounded by the vomit of over-manufacturing where nothing is of great value but it all sparkles and lures you and makes you feel you don’t have enough. 

            And then there is poverty.  Poverty is both hidden away and on every street corner.  I wear a mask over my own poverty, using small spurts of cash to look as though I am a success while the next day I am sitting in the waiting room of the low income clinic surrounded by homeless people who yell out their ailments, “I’m bleeding everywhere! Isn’t anyone going to help me?”

            “America is no place for the artist: to be an artist is to be a moral leper, an economic misfit, a social liability (Miller, 16).”  It’s in the blank stare I get when I tell people I am a writer, and I get the feeling that they think I’m too lazy to get a real job.   It’s the realization that no one will really give a damn until you either make a lot of money or gain the public’s recognition. 

“The young man who shows signs of becoming an artist is looked upon as a crackpot, or else as a lazy, worthless encumbrance.  He has to follow his inspiration at the cost of starvation, humiliation and ridicule.  He can earn a living at his calling only by producing the kind of art which he despises.  If he is a painter the surest way for him to survive is to make stupid portraits of even more stupid people, or sell his services to the advertising monarchs who, in my opinion, have done more to ruin art than any other single factor I know of (Miller, 129).”

            Art that I despise - the publishing world for example, disturbs me with its Disneyfied fictions, all historically cozy with a multicultural hero and the reminder that things were simpler then.  And when you do read a book set in our times it comes off as soulless, hopeless, desperate, all in all a barren future.  Technology picks up where we leave off.

            “We are mental dinosaurs.  We lumber along heavy-footed, dull-witted, unimaginative amidst miracles to which we are impervious.  All our inventions and discoveries lead to annihilation (Miller, 228).”

            We are both brought together and separated by thick layers of technology, while amidst the hamster wheel, the rat race, the treadmill that promises comforts, security and gadgets you never use – the sound of self becomes faint and far away.  And yet, self in all its complexity has more to offer than cog in a machine.

            “…  A state which dwarfs its men, in order that they may be more docile instruments in its hands even for beneficial purposes, will find that with small men no great thing can really be accomplished (Miller, 25).”

            The artist – unfiltered, pure, while not in the act of kissing someone’s ass is depressingly rare.  No one bought Henry Miller’s book when it came out.  The war had begun and patriotism was the new religion.  He didn’t give a damn, but on the other hand, he did.  Much more than he could handle.  He was a believer in life, art, love, existence. 

            It’s painful to read of Miller’s wasted energies at the Cosmodemonic Telegraph Company or as the hapless bartender never left alone with his thoughts with no time for sleep, unable to write a word.  To be an artist in America you have to become a warrior.  You have to build a skin so thick that hundreds of rejections won’t get through it – rejections of your work, your energy, your identity.  You have to let go of any pride or vanity, reject all the comforts you’ve been trained to crave, let go of any and all of societies material markers of adulthood.  You can never expect community, support or friendships to last.  You will be a nomad even if you never move.  Life will be up and down and all over the place.  But life would have no flavor without a voice.


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You make some very good, grim points here.
The only answer , for me, is to become a performance artist
first & foremost: go into every situation with clarity of imagination,
tweak and twist and turn the mangled machinery
of the minds i meet up with,
they are me.

(there is no escaping this fact: Identity in Diversity
is Nature's evolutionary fumblings to find

Emotions can be manipulated easily and with good conscience
if one is indifferent to the outcome: yet another paradox
of human experience.

Outcome must, must be Intensity. The creation of
Beauty from raw ugly wet

"The aim of life is to live, and to live
means to be aware, joyously, drunkenly,
serenely, divinely
Tropic of Capricorn (1939)
Take a good look at me. Now tell me, do you think I'm the sort of fellow who gives a fuck what happens once he's dead?
Tropic of Capricorn (1939)

good look at henry, and the wasteland.
Bravo! Miller is one of my favorites, and the Air Conditioned Nightmare among his classics. Of course, once he fled the Cosmodemonic Telegraph Company, which is to say, Western Union, he did find love and friendship among some great artists and writers.

I have several of his signed lithographs on my walls, and my favorite -- of Miller, Lawrence Durrell and Anais Nin -- hangs over my desk as a reminder of the very things you write about -- writers are a misunderstood and maligned bunch, writing in solitary confinement most their lives in one way or another. Very nice to read your hommage to him.
Call me old fashioned but I liked Henry Miller better when he was in Paris.
reminds me a little of thoreau or hunter s thompson.
I have felt the same way except substitute "inventor" or "researcher" or "academic" for "writer"....
actually its a pretty common feeling to feel that society does not value the occupation one values the most.....
writers are just better able to communicate this malaise....
as for the rat race, its an even deeper Corporatocracy than ever...
This article in the New York Times really sums it up.
Ah I am so relieved to find that I have high company in my rejection of air conditioning (exception: when temperature and humidity rise concomitantly above the 88% mark).

And, yes, an artist's is a lonely life.