Dancing
the
Wild
The
Emerging
Work
of
Chris
Tolian
by JOHN YATES
Writers
like
Tolian
emerge
from
stagnant
eras
like
a
flare
of
brilliant
light.
Invariably,
they
are
ignored
or
castigated
by
the
critics
until
many
years
have
passed.
Perhaps
Henry
Miller
is
the
most
striking
example
of
this
phenomenon.
Miller
struggled
to
write
and
simply
to
survive
for
30
years
before
his
best
work
could
be
sold
without
a
brown
paper
wrapper.
Other
examples
include
writers
as
diverse
as
Jack
Kerouac,
Walt
Whitman,
Anais
Nin,
Ayn
Rand
and
Henry
David
Thoreau.
These
luminaries
literally
reinvented
our
culture,
but
were
spurned,
ignored
or
laughed
off
the
stage
for
most
of
their
lifetimes.
Other
writers
(Lenore
Kandel
and
Alan
Watts
come
to
mind)
were
vanguards
of
change
and
enjoyed
brief
recognition
–
but
usually
as
rebels
rather
than
writers
-
and
then
faded
from
view.
Still
others
(I
am
thinking
of
Thomas
Sanchez
and
J.D.
Salinger)
showed
signs
of
brilliance,
but
simply
gave
up,
burned
out
or
sold
their
souls.
A
soul
that
has
been
sold
almost
never
can
be
bought
back.
There
always
have
been
a
few
–
a
very
few
–
writers
who
did
not
give
up,
burn
out
or
sell
out.
They
broke
the
rules
and
forged
into
unexplored
territory.
They
used
to
be
called
the
avante
garde,
but
now
the
term
has
been
appropriated
by
the
merely
hip
and
slick
who
revel
in
a
post-Warhol
climate
of
smug
chic.
Literary
critics
invariably
have
lagged
behind
major
changes
in
writing,
often
by
several
decades,
and
their
usual
role
has
been
to
reinforce
the
status
quo
and
keep
change
at
bay.
Few
critics
have
dared
to
look
deeply
into
the
lifeblood
of
their
culture
and
search
for
writers
whose
work
might
reinvent
literature
to
reflect
the
reality
of
the
times,
and
perhaps
to
come
a
step
closer
to
that
elusive
state
which
might
be
called
truth. If
honest
writers
whose
work
has
signaled
major
cultural
changes
have
one
thing
in
common,
it
is
that
all
of
them
have
had
something
to
say
and
saw
meaning
during
a
time
when
literature
was
devoid
of
meaning,
floundered
in
an
echo
chamber
of
purposelessness,
and
concentrated
more
on
appearances
than
substance.
Visionary
writers
also
share
the
trait
of
having
reinvented
language
and
style
to
propel
their
visions
into
a
reality
that
could
speak
in
a
way
that
makes
sense
to
their
readers.
Tolian’s
work
qualifies
as
visionary
in
all
of
those
respects.
It
has
not
come
easily
for
him,
however.
His
earliest
work
often
tried
to
find
a
niche
in
stale
genre
writing,
and
sometimes
he
has
been
overtly
imitative
of
writers
and
styles
that
have
influenced
him,
such
as
the
Beats.
Yet,
even
in
his
least
satisfying
work,
one
can
see
a
unique
and
vibrant
voice
and
perspective
struggling
to
emerge.
His
latest
work
abandons
any
pretense
of
trying
to
fit
in
to
existing
formulas,
and
the
voice
and
style
that
he
has
developed
are
uniquely
his
own.
He
speaks
purposefully
to
contemporary
realities
in
a
way
that
can
touch
people
deeply,
and
his
work
is
a
powerful
antidote
to
the
lifeless
sterility
that
defines
most
contemporary
poetry
and
prose. Finding
Tolian’s
work
will
not
be
easy.
Prior
to
this
month’s
edition
of
The
Divine
Animal,
only
four
of
his
short
stories
have
been
published
(in
three
online
journals:
Slow
Trains,
Clean
Sheets
and
The
Divine
Animal).
His
unpublished
work
includes
several
short
stories,
a
novel
in
progress,
a
poem
and
several
genre
pieces
written
unsuccessfully
for
fantasy
and
horror
markets.
Given
this
small
body
of
work,
a
critical
discussion
of
it
arguably
could
be
called
premature.
Yet,
the
voice
and
style
that
have
emerged
in
his
work
have
the
potential
to
play
an
important
role
in
liberating
contemporary
literature
from
the
strictures
that
have
made
it
virtually
meaningless
to
most
people,
inaccessible
on
a
human
level,
and
irrelevant
to
life.
Only
time
will
tell
if
Tolian
has
the
strength
and
dedication
to
persevere
on
his
path,
or
for
the
accuracy
of
my
opinions
about
his
writing
to
be
tested.
Yet,
it
also
would
be
foolish
to
deny
criticism
the
important
role
of
calling
attention
to
new
work
that
is
unique
and
powerful.
There
is
no
reason
why
a
critic
should
be
seen
as
an
adversary
of
emerging
writers,
and
no
reason
not
to
define
criticism
as
visionary
in
its
own
right. Tolian
as
Anti-Hero
Tolian’s
work
is
frankly
autobiographical.
He
is
the
main
character
in
his
own
stories,
in
the
same
sense
that
Henry
Miller
was
the
subject
of
his
own
work.
The
character
of
Chris
Tolian
often
is
confused
and
adrift.
He
has
no
easy
answers
or
formulas
for
meaning.
Sometimes
he
drinks
too
much
and
sometimes
he
is
stoned.
Sometimes
he
feels
hopeless,
and
there
is
a
thread
of
stark
despair
in
many
of
his
characters,
who
are
searching
for
a
reason
to
go
on
living.
In
every
story,
Tolian
and
his
characters
must
struggle
to
find
and
reconcile
themselves
to
the
realities
of
their
lives.
None
of
it
comes
easy.
His
characters
search
for
and
find
meaning
in
a
world
that
often
appears
meaningless.
A
unique
quality
to
Tolian’s
work
is
that
his
characters
do
find
meaning,
and
that
the
meaning
they
find
stands
the
test
of
reality
for
the
reader.
It
feels
real.
He
offers
no
panaceas
and
does
not
hide
behind
sentimentality.
He
also
spurns
the
easier
and
far
more
often
traveled
paths
of
wallowing
in
meaninglessness
and
despair,
or
of
being
a
romantic
rebel
without
a
cause. Taking
action
is
at
the
heart
of
Tolian’s
vision
of
life.
He
distrusts
philosophy
and
talking
about
life.
Instead,
he
lives
it.
That
is
a
message
repeated
over
and
over
again
in
his
work:
that
life
is
for
the
living.
For
Tolian,
music,
dancing,
love
and
eros
are
metaphors
for
being
alive,
and
they
also
are
life
itself.
They
are
“to
dance
the
wild,”
and
that
is
the
sacred
dance
of
life.
Wildness
and
dance,
love
and
eros,
are
the
meaning
of
life
Tolian
delineates
in
his
fiction.
His
personal
life,
however,
adds
another
dimension
to
life’s
meaning
and
also
to
the
necessity
for
taking
action.
In
real
life,
Tolian,
28,
is
married
and
devotes
himself
totally
to
providing
for
his
wife
and
four
daughters.
While
he
rebels
against
what
this
has
meant
for
him,
the
fact
remains
that
Tolian
has
been
a
dedicated
father
since
he
turned
18
and
his
family
forms
the
cornerstone
of
his
existence.
He
has
yet
to
reconcile
this
aspect
of
his
life
with
his
writing.
Perhaps
this
will
be
a
future
stage
in
his
development
as
a
writer.
In
both
aspects
of
Tolian,
however,
taking
action
is
the
key
to
being
alive. In
this
regard,
the
overall
feeling
of
Tolian’s
work
is
reminiscent
of
The
Rebel,
by
French
existentialist
philosopher
Albert
Camus
(although
it
is
probable
that
Tolian
isn’t
aware
of
this
parallel).
Camus
sees
life
as
essentially
a
choice
between
murder
and
suicide.
By
murder,
he
means
taking
action
in
life
according
to
one’s
needs,
values
and
perceptions,
even
in
the
face
of
doubt,
uncertainly
or
even
absurdity.
By
suicide,
Camus
means
denying
or
obliterating
oneself
by
yielding
to
despair,
ennui
or
meaninglessness.
The
basic
choice,
for
Camus,
is
between
living
and
dying
on
all
levels
of
existence.
This
is,
perhaps,
the
central
human
issue
in
living
in
the
modern
world
that
seemingly
has
obliterated
every
expression
of
life’s
meaning
that
has
been
seen
as
a
reason
for
living
for
most
of
humankind’s
history.
Tolian’s
work
reclaims
the
primal
human
essence
of
meaning
through
action,
and
through
the
powerful
forces
of
music,
dance,
love,
eros
and
wildness.
When
in
despair,
dance!
When
in
doubt,
allow
yourself
to
be
swept
away
by
music.
When
life
seems
empty,
seek
the
beauty
of
life,
love
and
lust.
Carried
into
his
personal
life,
devotion
is
the
answer
to
ennui
(even
if
it
comes
with
considerable
kicking
and
screaming).
If
there
is
a
message
in
Tolian’s
work,
it
is
that
life
must
be
lived
on
purely
human
terms
to
have
meaning.
He
simply
isn’t
interested
in
philosophy,
politics,
religion,
social
roles
or
other
external
ideas
that
are
imposed
on
people. “Love
is
love
is
sex
is
desire
is
passion
is
life,”
he
wrote
in
a
letter.
“I
know
of
no
other
pure
thing.” Tolian
(as
his
own
fictional
character)
becomes
the
archetypal
anti-hero,
who
stumbles
and
staggers
through
life
in
an
alcoholic
haze,
has
no
easy
answers
and
sometimes
becomes
destructively
obsessive
or
even
delusional.
Yet,
he
always
is
alive
and
seeking
life.
Music
enlivens
his
soul,
dance
captures
his
body,
beautiful
women
fill
his
heart
with
passion
and
love,
and
devotion
and
respect
follow
naturally.
Answers
and
certainty
aren’t
necessities
for
being
alive.
Life
is
its
own
justification. His
writing
does
not
duck
the
hard
questions
of
modern
life
and,
like
all
good
writers
I
know
of,
he
has
a
deep
but
understated
sense
of
compassion.
“The
industrial
world
is
ugly
and
beautiful
at
the
same
time,”
he
wrote
in
a
letter.
“…We’ve
come
so
far,
yet
destroyed
so
much…We
rape
the
world
and
each
other,
killing
and
taking
and
damn
the
consequences…so
much
beauty
tainted
by
so
much
death,
darkness.”
He
writes
of
weeping
when
he
sees
documentaries
of
landing
on
the
Moon
because
he
also
sees
news
footage
of
children
being
blown
apart
in
war,
which
he
defines
as
“a
collective
manifestation
of
the
monster
in
each
of
us.” Despite
those
dark
perceptions,
he
also
sees
love,
beauty,
hope
and
faith
as
“the
defining
aspect
of
humanity…I
cannot
look
into
a
child’s
eyes
and
say,
‘Fuck
it.
Game
over.
Good
luck.’
There
has
to
be
a
way
to
redeem
our
existence,
even
if
there
never
was
a
nobility,
a
purity
there
originally.
There
is
the
potential.
There
is
the
capacity
to
heal,
to
find
the
strength
to
carry
hope.” Dancar
Tempestuoso
The
setting
is
Christmastime,
and
Tolian
walks
past
old
memories
of
family
and
children
and
enters
a
speakeasy,
where
he
is
assaulted
by
a
crush
of
humanity,
rushing
energy,
lights,
smoke
and
scents
as
a
backdrop
for
crazily
alive
music
that
mixes
flamenco,
Mexican,
Gypsy,
Brazilian,
blues
and
jazz. Voices
lost,
consciousness
wavers
on
the
verge
of
becoming
something more,
or
less,
human.
Animal.
Primitive.
This
is
music.
This
is
dance… Dancing
among
gods
and
angels
and
monsters.
Not
caring
about the
previous
moment
or
the
next.
The
desperate
passion
of
the
music.
A
woman
presses
against
him
and
she
“moves
with
the
music
as
if
it
is
her
breath
and
blood.”
His
“flesh
burns
with
the
contact,
hot
and
alive,”
and
their
bodies
become
like
instruments
as
the
band
catches
a
“tribal
rhythm”
and
the
music
becomes
“a
surreal
thunderstorm.”
There
is
an
immediate
and
electrically
charged
connection
between
Tolian
and
the
woman,
Re
(not
her
real
name:
she
insists
on
anonymity),
who
is
from
Brazil.
She
says
she
must
leave,
but
asks
him
to
meet
her
at
a
coffeehouse
at
midnight.
Like
most
of
Tolian’s
women
characters,
Re
is
small
and
slim,
almost
waif-like,
with
dark
eyes
that
he
sees
as
“deep,
mysterious.”
Tolian
meets
her
at
midnight
and
feels …a
vague
desperation,
maybe
for
some
deeper
connection.
Doesn’t
happen
often
these
days.
Most
relationships
are
knowingly
shallow
or
have
a
half-empty,
apathetic
quality…Without
that
connection,
faith
and
certainty,
conviction
or
any
sense
of
humanity
tend
to
quickly
diminish…this
connection
is
something
I
crave
too
much.
I
pray
that
I
am
not
imagining
it. Re
cements
the
connection
by
calling
the
music
“amazing…Spirit
rebellious,
to
dance
the
wild.”
When
Tolian
tries
to
put
those
thoughts
in
formal
language,
she
chides
him
for
being
“too
philosophical.”
The
connection
established,
Tolian
and
Re
enter
the
city
and
the
night.
They
go
to
a
party
in
the
midst
of
utter
decadence,
where
money
and
expensive
wines
flow
in
a
room
filled
with
drag
queens
and
prostitutes.
They
escape
to
the
streets,
where
Tolian
paints
a
wonderful
scene
of
them
dancing
in
the
snow
to
a
Salvation
Army
band
playing
“Silent
Night.” The
lovers
take
a
hotel
room,
filling
it
with
lit
candles
and
the
sounds
of
the
blues.
They
drink,
smoke
(Tolian
is
refreshingly
politically
incorrect)
and
talk.
Re
won’t
tell
Tolian
her
real
name,
and
doesn’t
want
to
know
his.
“Names
are
like
a
mask,”
she
says.
“I
don’t
want
you
to
wear
one.”
She
asks
him
only
to
be
real,
in
the
here
and
now,
and
to
make
no
promises,
but
then
beats
his
chest
and
beseeches
him
to
“know
me.”
She
weeps.
Tolian’s
writing
takes
on
the
understated
tones
of
Hemingway
(but
not
imitatively
so)
as
she
asks
him
to
tell
her
that
he
loves
her.
He
tells
her
he
does
and
tells
himself
that,
odd
as
it
may
sound,
he
does
love
her.
She
asks
him
if
he
has
ever
felt
deep
regret,
and
he
tries
to
reassure
her
with
hollow
words
about
acceptance
and
becoming
one’s
self.
She
silences
him
gently
and
ironically
calls
him
“confidant
and
beautiful,”
and
then
asks
him
again
to
tell
her
that
he
loves
her,
and
that
he
would
die
for
her.
He
speaks
the
words
a
little
too
quickly,
and
she
says
sadly
that
he
is
lying.
He
tells
her
again
that
he
loves
her,
and
she
leans
into
him. |
It
is
customary
to
restrict
literary
criticism
to
established
writers
who
are
either
well
known
or
at
least
poised
on
the
brink
of
success.
Emerging
writers
are
an
unknown
quantity,
and
critics
regard
them
as
untouchables
until
either
publishing
or
commercial
success
has
been
attained.
The
flaw
in
this
practice
is
that
writers
who
achieve
success
usually
conform
to
the
fashions
of
their
time.
They
walk
known
paths
and
don’t
stray
too
far
beyond
explored
territory.
On
occasion,
a
writer
emerges
who
happens
to
catch
the
wave
of
cultural
changes
and
is
propelled
into
the
forefront
before
he
or
she
has
had
time
to
season
and
develop.
This
is
rare,
however,
and
has
been
non-existent
in
the
current
era
when
our
culture
seems
to
be
mired
in
confusion
and
timidity,
and
new
directions
are
not
emerging
from
the
mainstream.
Yet
there
are
a
few
contemporary
writers
–
for
the
most
part,
they
are
almost
completely
unknown
–
who
are
trying
to
see
through
the
fog
and
create
vibrant
literature
that
can
speak
to
people
today.
Chris
Tolian
is
one
of
those
writers.
Tolian,
who
lives
in
the
Chicago
area,
has
begun
to
forge
a
voice
that
is
both
honest
and
eloquent,
and
speaks
to
the
heart
of
modern
life.
Not
surprisingly,
his
work
has
been
ignored
and
only
rarely
finds
its
way
into
publication.
Tolian
found
his
own
voice
–
in
full
resonance
–
in
“Dancar
Tempestuoso,”
a
short
story
published
in
Slow
Trains,
an
online
literary
journal.
This
story
marks
Tolian’s
abandonment
of
any
pretense
of
commercial
or
genre
writing,
although
strong
signs
of
this
impending
change
had
begun
to
appear
in
his
earlier
writings.