Erstwhile Philistines

Good luck moving up...

2010-06-30T14:07:00.000-07:00

Moving day has arrived! As much as I have loved blogger over the years, I have decided to move my site to Wordpress for a variety of complex, not particularly interesting reasons. From now on, for new Awesomeness, please visit www.theerstwhilephilistine.wordpress.com

Living in Conversation

2010-04-21T16:16:00.000-07:00

I have been trying to teach my students about the art of good conversation. They have been given the monstrous task of writing a research paper in four weeks (a Herculean labor for ninth graders, to be sure, but unrealistic expectations are my hallmark as a teacher). In the midst of their panic I have encouraged them to take time to speak with their friends about things that matter (in this case the content of their papers).

Curiosity and wonder are shimmering, fleeting wonders, not often sought or grabbed hold of. Conversation, I posit, is key to laying hold, because in it we (hopefully) see others possessing those same things. Mimesis drives our lives; we learn to love a thing by witnessing others love it.

How dull life would be if it consisted only of conversations about trivial topics! The memories I treasure most are of nights and days spent in deep, searching dialogue with others. There are the great numberless mass of conversations with Josh in high school. A conversation with Lee that I still think of as THE conversation. Late college nights heavy spent with thought with Andrew, Matt, and many others. Post class downtime with dear Stephen Isley. And of course many, many conversations with Leslie.

I love to converse because I love the thrill of stumbling across dusty old ideas which seem terribly new, of striking my foot against brilliant new ideas which invigorate my whole body. (I experience this sensation twenty times a minute when I talk to Dr. Gardner).

Yet to a large extent we as a people (and yes, me personally) have lost our capacity for true conversation. Our world has been reduced to soundbites and punchlines. Our conversations are no longer thoughtful symposia centered on real topics; they are instead carefully plotted battles with each combatant seeking to strike the decisive blow, to radically alter course through some devastating quip.

We teach our children history this way. They learn that events happened at such and such a place and time. Protestant Reformation? Martin Luther, 1517, 95 Theses. Check! Case closed. Perhaps a hasty mention of indulgences, but no indication that Luther was in conversation with those who came before, and certainly no invitation to engage with him in that dialogue. Over time I have come to appreciate the name TU's Philosophy Department gives to its introductory courses: The Great Conversation. Simple, yet fraught with meaning. The history of ideas essentially consists of one long conversation, and each voice adds fresh perspective. I do not mean to imply that truth as such does not exist, merely that arriving at that point is a journey (more on that in another post). That we, that I am invited to join in this conversation seems a grand, ridiculous miracle. I am no Aristotle, no Augustine or Aquinas, no Heidegger, Hegel, or Hume. Yet I too may raise my voice, by virtue of the fact that I am a man. Now that's something to talk about.

Because It Must Be Said

2010-04-08T08:42:00.000-07:00

Ponder this.

Usque ad Hilaritatem (part 2)

2010-04-02T20:22:00.000-07:00

The wine:

Jorio by Umani Ronchi.

Preface:

Jorio hails from a delightfully literal family of wines known as Montepulciano d'Abruzzo which are made in Abruzzo, Italy and feature the Montepulciano grape. They are table wines, but remember that for wine the term table is not a compromise but a calling. We need these wines like the world needs garbage men: easy to take for granted but you'll miss them when they're gone. Everybody can't be Pomerol. Anyway, Abruzzo is in the back heal of the boot, approximately yonder:

If you happen to run across a Montepulciano with 'Riserva' slapped across the label, it means the wine was aged for a minimum of two years in oak, but don't get too excited. Older really isn't necessarily better, especially for high-yield, less sophisticated wines like Montepulciano. Many base-level Montepulcianos are quite nice younger, and may actually benefit from it because the fruit comes through more easily. Think fresh not young. Our friend Jorio, in fact, was aged only eleven months and is a very viable table wine and does his family proud.

Montepulciano d'Abruzzo is permitted to feature up to 10% Sangiovese, the work-horse of Italian wine. And a quick word on this. Italian wines are excruciatingly frustrating to keep track of in one's head, and the real culprit to my mind is Sangiovese. It creeps it's way (one feels) into every damn blend, and unless you're sensitive to the differences, makes many Italian wines taste suspiciously similar. This shouldn't be a problem with Jorio though, thank Dionysios, because its juice is honest-to-goodness 100% Montepulciano. Which to my mind could be described as a somewhat drier Sangiovese. Oh well.

Excursus:

A deep ruby color verging on purple, and largely opaque. A heavy wine, one sees, because the way it clings to the side of the glass. Nasal investigation will reveal dark, ripe fruit like plum maybe or even raisins. There's a bit of sugar there too, like molasses or caramel. Once inside your mouth the first thing you taste is the fruit again, but this time definitely plum, undercut by some good acidity and tannins to balance. The acid races backwards and is most of what I get on the back end. A tart wine, it needs food, Italian food really.

I haven't liked Montepulciano much in the past. One in particular comes to mind, although I don't remember the name. It tasted like cardboard and acid and put me off the whole grape for a while. But Jorio is pleasant and reasonably priced (by my own unrealistic standards), right around mid-to-low-20's. Don't ever pay too much more for Montepulcian d'Abruzzo than that, please, but Jorio, I feel, is worth what you'll pay.

Cheeses:

Podda Classico, (good) Piave, Pecorino Toscano (2+ years), Idiazabal, Taleggio, Ros, and my favorite for this wine: Ossau-Iraty.

Otherwise have it at your table with some extra tangy Marinara or Bolognese sauces, and my gut tells my a rustique pate. Lots of bread and olive oil.

Bibliography:

Here's what the maker's web site has to say.

Deep ruby red, recalls plums and red cherries on the nose, followed by balsamic and salty notes on a background of ripe liquorice. With eloquent and clean tannins in the mouth, it comes across as full and vigorous, with a long and intense finish.

Most of that I can see, although liquorice is going a little far. Here's a random internet blurb I pulled up on the wine:

It was a delicious wine from start to finish. I must say I was totally impressed by this wine from the moment I smelled the bouquet it to the last drop. Looking at the wine, it was bright cherry red with vibrant pink edges. On the nose it displayed lovely vanilla, cherries and blueberry pie. Hints of loam and rich truffles

Apparently everyone agrees that it's cherries not plum I was tasting, but blueberry pie is absurd, and truffles just absolutely bonkers.

Conclusion:

Caring matters.

I Have Measured Out My Life in Coffee Spoons...

2010-03-06T11:02:00.000-08:00

Last Saturday I had the opportunity to play a concert which featured Joshua Roman as soloist. It was a singular experience for me; I have never been closer to someone that good at my own instrument (after his first rehearsal with us he actually came back out and played in the section a little -- he was sitting right next to me!). I cannot say enough good things about his playing: fluid yet lush, effortless yet passionate.

After the first rehearsal, I came home a little discouraged. Let me explain. I am sure that Joshua spends many hours a day practicing; you cannot reach such heights without years of dedication. But even if I were to lock myself in a room and do nothing but practice, I would never ever be as good at the cello as him. Again that pesky word effortless; I could sweat and strain and maybe make some of the same shifts, but he slid through jumps with an ease which I could never match. That is one of the marks of greatness, that he makes difficult things look easy.

I think there are two basic responses to being confronted with greatness like this. They are separated only by a thin line, but they are miles apart. First, the sin driven response. I came home discouraged that night because I knew not only that I would never play the cello like that, but that I would never produce art on that level. My vanity in my cello playing has diminished over time, worn down by lack of practice and a realistic measurement of my abilities. But there are other storehouses for my fragile self-image. In particular my writing: I like to think of myself as a good writer, someone who loves language and ideas and can generally harness them and drive them in the direction I want them to go. But chances are good that I will never make my living as a writer (as I sometimes dream of doing). I suffer, I confess, from a need for self-justification. It isn't that I want to be rich and famous as an author, but I do crave the self-satisfaction of knowing that I have created something lasting and worthwhile. The music which Roman creates is intrinsically, instinctively wonderful: I long for a taste of that experience.

As usual my wife has a good bit more sense than I do. We talked about my insecurities, worked through my petty self-image. I realized some very important things. I will never be a Dostoyevsky, will probably not ever even be a Buechner, but that is emphatically ok. In the end it does not matter if I do not reach dizzying heights with my prose; it is enough that I do what I can with the time and talents given to me. God does not need my scarce talents as a writer to bring about his Kingdom. Rather he has given me the skills He has in the amounts He has in order that I might glorify Him. Maybe that is one reason I feel compelled to write on this blog, as a part of good stewardship over my talents. Better that I make use of what I do have.

But what of the other response? If my initial reaction was intermixed with sin (which it certainly was), there was perhaps an element of the longing I felt that was pure and good. I think that the longing I felt had to do with being an amateur -- not in the pedestrian sense of the word, someone who is not good enough to be a professional (though that certainly applies to me), but in the root sense, someone who performs an action out of love for it. In that sense I am assuredly an amateur cellist: I play because music lifts my soul, exhilarates me like few other things. I can point to a handful of moments in my life as a cellist that I would call truly transcendent, and those alone are more than enough compensation for the years of hard work and frustration. I think Dostoyevsky was on to something when he said "Beauty will save the world." Not in an ultimate sense of course (unless you mean the beauty of Christ), but beauty does point (no, stronger -- guide) our souls to the source of beauty. That is a part of the longing I felt when I heard Joshua Roman play: I had the desire to break through the mundane and experience transforming beauty, but not the ability. In The Symposium Diotima tells Socrates that the desire of love is to give birth to beauty; in this case I felt a little like Hannah before the Lord blessed her with Samuel.

I feel like this in life quite often. There is a thirst that reaches down into each one of us, a basic desire which seems to elude satisfaction. Yet Christ promises a deep, abiding slaking of that thirst. How do I reconcile that promise with my life? Truth is, I spend most of my time avoiding the spring which would satisfy. Grace is mystifying, complex, quite simply beyond me. I cannot comprehend, but I long for it. Thank goodness that art does not imitate life: "it is not of him that willeth, nor of him that runneth, but of God that sheweth mercy."

Beware the Tin Fiddle

2010-02-06T13:06:00.001-08:00

So far our Symposium is crawling along, with plenty of empty days; for this I refuse to apologize, however, for reasons which I will make clear in a little bit. I have enjoyed re-reading and thinking and typing about Supper of the Lamb, and have even more so enjoyed reading Andrew's take on things (and salivating over poutine). One unsubtle encouragement: please comment on our posts! We both really enjoy getting feedback. As those notable culture critics the Backstreet Boys once said:

All you people can't you see, can't you see/What your love does to our reality?/Every time we're down, you can make it right/And that makes you larger than life

Yes, we are as insecure as the Backstreet Boys, so please help us along. And now on to the post!

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Robert Capon wears many hats in the course of writing Supper of the Lamb. At times he is simply cooking enthusiast, at other times his training as theologian creeps in. Perhaps my favorite guise, and his most thought provoking one, is as iconoclast. Capon simply does not have patience for the idols of American quick cuisine, and he makes no bones about his displeasure. His general term of distaste for the infinite variety of gadgets and quick fixes which permeate the American kitchen is "tin fiddle". He asks the reader to imagine a conspiracy between all the violin makers in the world to foist upon the public violins made of tin: through advertising and dominance of the market, they will eventually succeed in pushing their monstrosities upon most people. Professionals no doubt will continue to saw away on wooden instruments, but the common man will be left with little choice. In the same way, Capon suggests, the American public has been duped by any number of substitutes for good old fashioned hard work and hard eating. Convenience and nutrition have become the rallying cries for home cooks, but they come at a high cost. He therefore calls us away from "plain cooking and fancy eating" and back to "fancy cooking and plain eating".

Capon wrote this book in the 1960's, and his words have been prophetic: if anything, the situation is much more dire now than it was at the time. Instead of focusing on doing things correctly, we have asked again and again the dreaded question "How much time will it take?" We now have not only frozen vegetables but entire Fancy Feasts (TM) at our fingertips, just waiting to be defrosted. Furthermore we have almost quantified food out of existence. Everything we buy comes neatly packaged with nutrition information, and that is expected to be the last word. Don't eat butter -- eat this butter substitute with less fat! If Capon's is a voice crying in the wilderness, those of us who wish to repeat his sounding joy are more like lone survivors of a horrific nuclear holocaust.

I propose that all of this comes down to a basic confusion of means and ends. In our relentless drive to make life faster and cheaper, we have categorized things such as food as means to an end, rather as an end in itself. Food is no longer something to be enjoyed, to revel in over long supper with old friends; it is "fuel for the body", something to keep us going and satisfy our occasional cravings. Therefore we give it little to no thought: our only concern is how best to get our hands on it in a way which causes us as little inconvenience as possible. We do this in most areas of life. Our music has been dumbed down to the point where we can only digest three minute, ready for radio sound bites. Our education system (I speak from experience) values teaching children WHAT to think rather than HOW to think. In both of these cases our folly is self evident but often overlooked. As I type I am listening to Brahms; the intricate design of his symphonies moves me in ways that pop music could never do. One of the most disheartening things about teaching is seeing how unaccustomed my students are to loving what they learn. Knowledge is something to be heard, processed, stored away and finally spit back up onto a test page; no wonder we remain squarely in the realm of facts and never progress to real wisdom.

But I digress; these posts are ostensibly about food, and it is precisely in the realm of the gastronomical where we see some of the most blatant butchering (har har) of clear thought. We fail as a culture in two distinct areas: both how we eat and how we avoid eating. Let us start with the first.

The way Americans view food preparation really speaks to the gods we worship. We seek after faster and faster ways to get things done. Canned sauces, pre-made piecrust, ready to bake cookies: all give the same basic message -- Who has time to cook? The root cause spins down too far to follow in this post; let us simply say that we essentially work too much and use our leisure time in an appalling manner. We kill ourselves at our jobs so that we can earn more money so we can buy bigger houses and bigger cars and bigger tv's so we can feel good about the fact that we work so hard and ignore our families and... you get the point (my head is spinning already). We hope to find satisfaction in our hard work; we never do, but that only drives our determination all the more. As a result we are always seeking but never finding. One major problem with this lifestyle (there are many) is that it is essentially unnatural: we ignore the simple things which matter (God, family, food, etc) and seek to be filled up by junk food of both the literal and spiritual kind.

So 90% of what we eat comes precooked and prepackaged. Need a sumptuous Italian dinner? Simply boil some precooked noodles, slap on a little Ragu, and there you go (or better yet, microwave a pre-cooked lasagna for 5 minutes). But probe a little deeper, and the story starts to unravel. How much enjoyment do you actually get from such a meal? You are missing the first joy, which is the process of cooking. There is nothing quite like chopping up your own tomatoes and onions and garlic and letting them stew for several hours till they reach just the right flavor, or the wonder of stirring a roux and watching it work its thickening magic. There are ten thousand such intricate mysteries waiting to be explored and meditated upon by the cook who is willing to take the time. Second, and perhaps more important, you miss the joy of taste. Too often we settle for adequate taste instead of exquisite flavor. Our food inhabits the tepid middle ground, always bland and safe. Where are the depths of richness which true food of the earth achieves? Most of what we eat has the faintly lingering scent of the laboratory about it. Do not even start me on fast food; my wife has exhorted me to keep these posts relatively brief, and a full discourse on that subject would push me perilously close to Karamazovian length.

Our desire to take the easy way out extends beyond our intake of food to another subject: the ways in which we hope to rid ourselves of what we eat. Leslie and I went to Barnes & Noble the other day and saw an entire display devoted to a myriad of dieting books, each one promising to help the reader shed pounds "the fast and easy way". Of course one big problem with diets is that, taken as a whole, they simply do not work. They promise us ease in an area where ease is not possible. But they drive us to an even worse error: they push us to see food (and life) as something over which we can exert utter mastery; they encourage us to see food as something to be controlled rather than something to be celebrated.

Please do not misunderstand: I do not advocate eating whatever you want whenever you want. Certainly moderation is to be encouraged, and we live in a time when food has in fact gained mastery over us -- this must be combated. But the way to do it is certainly not by claiming that we can have our cake and eat it too, which is precisely what dieting promises. Capon's solution is rather to fast: to engage in concerted times of doing without. Not only does this help us avoid excess, it reminds us that true eating is a sometimes thing. There is a time to feast, and a time to fast, but we seem content to take the middle road on everything. I think ultimately this is a spiritual problem: we are Epicureans, hoping to avoid pain at all costs. We would rather have long extended periods of completely boring food than simple (but good) eating followed by times of glorious excess. Fasting, Capon reminds us, is good for the soul as well. Dieting tempts us to believe that we can gain glory without pain, but fasting tells us to enter into that pain, to bear with it. Is this not the way of the cross? In some small way we imitate Christ by fasting, by choosing to embrace the pain that comes long with denying our own desires. In this creaking, groaning world we cannot hope to see glory without pain; even God submitted His own Son to suffering in order to lift the world to glory. How can we expect to do our part in raising all things up if we do not imitate our Savior in bending down? Maybe fasting seems like a small part to play, but I firmly believe that the small things are essential in the kingdom.

Usque ad Hilaritatem (part 1)

2010-01-30T19:37:00.000-08:00

This is Foie Gras Poutine. If there ever were a dish to compete for 'most unnecessary', surely Foie Gras Poutine is it.

Exegegis:

Poutine is a traditional Canadian lower-class dish. (I say it with respect, remember always no matter what else I say, that I delight in hot dogs more than a grown man reasonably should). Now Poutine for us Southerners need only be explained thusly: it's french fries with gravy on top; a traditional rib-sticking feature of the Canadian everyman's after work meal. Already at this humble point we have crossed the border into what the modern world would call the dietetically perverse, as so many ordinary meals do these days. But a certain Chef by the name of Martin Picard took it several dozen steps further.

Martin Picard is the head Chef and founder of a Montreal-based restaurant I (desperately) would like to patronize one day. It's called Au Pied de Cochon, which is French for 'the foot of the pig'. Martin Picard has stuck with a die-hard extremism to the classical forms of good French cooking, that is to say, butter, fat, salt, meat, wine, pig's feet, cream, pâte, bread, pastry, duck, love, happiness...

... and in that sense, by returning to a time when nobody cared about the calorific content of their food but rather its taste, he has become a revolutionary in the most literal sense: innovation by coming full circle. With his typical disregard of health-conscious, bean-sprout-devouring, omega-47Q-fatty-acid-Z-obsessed modern culture, Martin Picard invented the Foie Gras Poutine.

Foie Gras is the liver of duck or goose which have been bred and fed for the specific purpose of possessing extraordinarily tasty livers. It is very fatty. It is very rich. It is excellent with Sauternes (by the way)...

Foie Gras Poutine's gravy is made by blending a good bit of goose liver into the gravy, and then, for good measure, slapping a solid chunk of pan-seared Foie Gras onto the whole mess at the end. It is the only $23 dollar French Fries you'll find anywhere, and it probably takes a year off of your life-expectancy every time you eat it.

Martin Picard, in fact, was criticized by the culinary elite for his introduction of this dish into the menu of a purportedly also 'elite' restaurant. And to be fair, it was originally created as a sort of joke, something entirely unexpected to surprise a favorite regular, who ended up loving it so much the dish made it to the big leagues and has since become one of the more successfull dishes Au Pied de Cochon offers. But what bothered critics, besides how low-brow even ordinary Poutine is, was the engorging excess, the unabashed richness, the artery-clogging, no, the artery-destroying health-heedlessness.

Foie Gras Poutine is unnecessary. It doesn't do any more to fulfill the purpose of food than astronaut, freeze-dried protein and vitamin chips might, in fact, if the purpose of food is indeed simply nutrition, Foie Gras Poutine does it rather worse. It's all fat and starch. It's bad for you. It's useless.

Homily:

And this is its glory. I agree with Asher. And both of us, for that matter, agree with Robert Farrar Capon. The world was never meant to be used; it was meant to be enjoyed. The world, the whole deliriously spinning universe, was made to be enjoyed.

It is a gorgeous old place, full of clownish graces and beautiful drolleries. and it has enough textures, tastes, and smells to keep us intrigued for more time than we have.

So let me repeat: Foie Gras Poutine is unnecessary, but let's take that as a compliment. Everything good is unnecessary but the original Good. He didn't need any of all this when he made it. He made it out of love, because he thought it was good, tov. As Capon puts it, He likes it.

The Supper of the Lamb has many deeply worthwhile things to say, but it was this point I felt was driving all the different thoughts of the book. The world is Good. Life is good. To be is good. To eat, and especially to eat together, is good. And not to say that a man who doesn't feel this way about things isn't Christian, or can't be a Christian, but that he isn't thinking like one. He's making a mistake, and I think a more costly one than he realizes.

What do you suspect we'll be doing for all eternity? Singing hymns and nothing else? I will confess to you I felt a good deal of dread as a child thinking I would have to stand around bellowing the same hymnal mediocrities I even then recognized as substandard for the rest of an infinite time. Dreadful. That's not to say there won't be singing. There will be, and (praise God!) much better than we're used to. But I suggest to there will be more, that the Marriage Supper of the Lamb will be, in a sense, only a taste of what's to come after, the wine an Apéritif, the food Hors d' Oeuvres.

This life eternal that is given to us is a life of peace, and peace is good. Christ is the Prince of Peace, after all. And although I readily agree that our lives now cracked, broken, at war, that there are things that need doing, that our self is sinful and thus more often than not needs denying, restricting, yet there are people who have taken the struggle of this present darkness and fetishized it, made an idol of it in fact. They paint the struggle as the whole of Christianity. They are the workaholic pastors, the obsessive penitents. They are the self-aggrandizing pedants of the Law, the Pharisees.

I don't mean to be judgmental. All of us are these people to some degree. Every religious man is also a religious hypocrite. This time is one of struggle, but we take this struggle upon ourselves wanting to be rid of it. It is a weariness, and glory to the day when it's done!

For myself I have come to believe that precisely to the extent that you value your own self in terms of your religious powers (your honesty, your earnestness, your chastity, your generosity), it is to that extent that you will find Heaven a disappointment. You have not developed the sensibilities of Heaven, because honesty, earnestness, chastity, generosity, all the virtues, are not the point of existence in eternity, they are the pre-requisites, and they are long since accomplished for you by Someone Else. The point, what we are to be doing all that long, long time, is loving things, loving each other, above all and through all, loving God.

What is the chief end of man?

Man's chief end is to glorify God and enjoy him forever.

Loving things now, loving wine and beer and cheese and company (the crown of good food), and loving dancing and loving art and loving sport and the world generally, it is all training for Heaven. In this race we will all stumble in of course, because that's who we are, but whatever shape I'm in by the time I get there (rather rounder than not, I suspect), I'll be ready for a drink.

Doxology:

May God bless you and keep you,

May God make his face to shine upon you,

And give you peace.

Symposium!

2010-01-30T10:45:00.000-08:00

Hey All,

I'm sure many of you are convinced that bringing Andrew on board was just the beginning of a phasing out on my part; gradually I would shift more and more responsibility to him, until eventually he was left holding the bag while I ran away scot free to frolic in fields of laziness.

FEAR NOT! I have returned with a vengeance. Furthermore, we are officially entering a new era in this blog's history. For the next few days, Andrew and I will be collaborating on a virtual conference of sorts; we will both be posting entries about various aspects of the book The Supper of the Lamb, which I have mentioned here before. In case you missed it, SotL (as I will heretofore call it) is... well, not really able to be categorized. It is unlike any book I have read: part cookbook, part food writing, part spiritual meditation, part cultural criticism -- all woven together with a thread of good humor and common sense. It is the kind of book that you want to share with everyone you know, but you aren't sure whether most people will tap into its peculiar sensibilities. For that reason it makes an ideal subject for our first collaborative effort. It contains "many multitudes", themes which are best explored by multiple authors. Without further ado, let the first Semi-Annual Symposium begin!

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Last Monday I attended TU's annual Snuggs Lecture in Religion. I went because the speaker was this guy, and he sounded completely awesome. The lecture was about the intersection of religion and science. I went cautiously expecting another lecture on the topic of evolution and creation (really, is there any more boring subject?), but was pleasantly surprised to discover that the lecture was actually about much more significant issues, the deeper problems that lead science and religion into conflict. The lecture really picked up steam as it went along; it started out with an interesting but perhaps overly technical analysis of necessity versus contingency (according to Scruton the new or "evangelical" atheists take as their foundation the assumption that all things are contingent), but the final section was an analysis of the sacred as it appears throughout human situation. Scruton's basic argument seemed to be that there is no scientific or genealogical explanation which can sufficiently account for the idea of the sacred in human life. His two big examples of the sacred were sex and death (duh), but what really stuck in my mind was the idea of cooking, eating, and drinking as sacred acts. I even boldly raised my hand and asked Dr. Scruton about the connection (knowing him to be a gourmand and an oenophile), and he agreed and gave some nice ties between eating and the divine.

Hopefully you begin to see where I am headed. Robert Farrar Capon titled his book The Supper of the Lamb, partly because of the recipe which winds its way through the book (Lamb for eight persons four times), but also because of the sacramental implications. Let's start with the obvious: The Lord's Supper (the Eucharist if you are a bit more high church, simply "communion" if you take it with wafers and Welch's or, God forbid -- and I mean that literally -- pizza and grape soda) is the perfected, transcendent meal. It is the sacred come to us, the Lord dwelling with us. Yet I think Capon (and Scruton) would say that this is simply the most extravagant example of sacred food. Every day we are presented with the possibility of tasting the divine. Capon says "Only miracle is plain. It is the ordinary that groans with the unutterable weight of glory." The smell of onions frying in butter; the wonder of braising meat; the ineffable mystery of pastry dough: all these point us to the meeting of God and man at the table.

Christ says in Revelation "Behold, I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in to him and eat with him, and he with me." We know this verse, yet I think we often cut it off before the end. When Christ enters in He does not simply wander into our house to admire the furniture and perhaps take off his shoes for a bit. He comes to eat; to sit at the table and enjoy our company course after course. If sex is the most intimate act attainable between two people, then surely eating is the closest we can come together as a community. We break bread together, and at the same time our hearts open up to each other -- and that is completely laying aside the issue of wine (which makes glad the hearts of men), that wonderful glue which binds heart to heart.

Food clearly shows us the heart of God, that glorious excess which helps to define His goodness. That food should not merely sustain but should bring us to rapturous heights; that Christ brings not merely water for nourishment but wine for celebration: these are miracles of extravagant grace that should point us finally to that most sublime extravagance, God become man.

Yet where do we find ourselves today? Far from sacred, food has become lumped solidly in with the secular. We analyze, categorize, and prioritize. All bows before before the altar of nutrition; all is reduced to calorie, carb, cholesterol. If the sacred is concerned with what is beautiful, then the secular busies itself with what is useful. As we have reduced sex down to an easily manipulatable biological function and offered it up prepackaged, so too we have converted food into a tool for survival, precooked and packed in neat little boxes waiting to be unfrozen.

Even the Church has fallen prey to the traps of the world. Every Sabbath, most Christians follow their formal worship by honoring (and eating) a sacred (and often literal) cow. The Sunday lunch has become an institution, and Denny's from coast to coast fill up every week with overweight, waddling Evangelicals waiting to stuff their faces with ham and eggs. We have forgotten the art of the family meal cooked slowly at home, blinded by the convenience of eating out. By abandoning the restraint that comes as a result of cooking your own food, we have embraced a culture where food is a notable exception to the clarion call for self-control (I am waiting for the new translation where Paul exhorts us to cultivate the jelly doughnuts of the Spirit). Or take the ghastly Protestant approach to alcohol. Instead of wine and beer leading us to celebration, we have banned them as dangerous objects, things to be shunned lest we indulge in excess. Yes, drunkenness should be avoided, but it is more evil by far to call unclean that which God not only calls clean but delights in. By thinking of food and alcohol merely in terms of their end results, we have lost the magic of the things themselves.

Capon calls us to rally against this relentless drive toward convenience and dullness. He desires to shock our palettes awake, and in the process awaken us to the mystery of the ordinary. Eating (and hopefully cooking) is something we do every day, yet it should be to us a source of wonder, for in it we experience the divine. In my next post I will more fully explore this perilous change from sacred to secular. For now, go open a bottle of Pinot Noir, whip up some homemade stock, and savor awhile the foretaste of glory we have been given.

Your People Call Them Vampires

2010-01-28T21:04:00.000-08:00

But he, straining for no more than a glimpse

of hearth-smoke drifting up from his own land,

Odysseus longs to die...

My heart swells at the thought of home, my own Ithica, page 498. But there's a long way to go yet, comrades. Take heart!

... And one more thing. And really this could have happened to anybody, an honest mistake, but something to keep in mind and a lesson for everybody and one we should all take to heart- Twelfth Mate "Cheeky" James Bailey (recently demoted), has pointed out that my own personal Calypso is not, in point of fact, when all things are considered, summed up, and put into a neat and tidy row, named Stephenie Meyers, but rather Stephenie Meyer. Like I said, honest mistake. I'm not even going to try to save face in some preposterous manner and pretend I thought the novel was written by committee or something, or that she is Legion. No, no, I just wasn't paying attention. This ought not in any way reflect upon the credibility or rigor of my efforts.

That settled, let's um... sally forth or something and get a move on. Rough seas ahead.

Chapter 5

Blood Type

and

Chapter 6

Scary Stories

And

Chapter 7

Nightmare

If I may vent some frustration at this point. The invitation made by Edward to drive Bella to Seattle is made in Chapter 4. Presumably on this trip something awesome, violently vampire-esque, or both is going to happen. Three chapters and a solid 70 pages later, they haven't gone yet. No one has died, and there is a definite lack of mood-setting, darkly gothic ambience. Not even an Igor with a hump on his back and loads of stitches, who answers everybody's requests with an exaggerated 'Yeth, maaaarth-ter'. (That's asking a bit much, I admit.) I'm losing my vampire motivation, my BLOOD drive, if you will... har har. It's all being sucked away (get it?) by these sorts of exchanges:

I had to look away from the intensity of his stare. I concentrated on unscrewing the lid of my lemonade. I took a swig, staring at the table without seeing it.

"Aren't you hungry?" he asked, distracted.

"No." I didn't feel like mentioning that my stomach was already full- of butterflies. "You?" I looked at the empty table in front of him.

...

Precisely.

But we won't get anywhere complaining and lolligagging about. Here's what happens. Bella comes to school and she gets invited to sit next to Edward at lunch, and here we enjoy the already cited repartee. They flirt outrageously (all three senses: it is too much, it is very strange, and I am outraged), and Bella faints in science class because blood is being drawn. Edward saves her by seducing the secretary so Bella can get out of school.

Afterwards, Bella goes on a camping trip and meets an Indian boy named He-Who-Advances-Plot or Squawking-Foreshadow or something. Anyway Running-Gag tells Bella that the Cullens aren't allowed on Indian ground... because they're vampires! Hooray! Someone finally says it!

So Bella of course gets depressed and franticly researches vampires... on the internet. Yes, the internet. If you must, go ahead and google 'vampires'. (Please, filters on for this one.) How many credible resources sprang up? Anything that reassured you that here, finally here, you might find a sober, academic approach full of gravity and reason? Well, Bella does. She discovers the following:

Stregoni benefici: An Italian vampire, said to be on the side of goodness, and a mortal enemy of all evil vampires.

She finds this very reassuring. Oh, and then she has a nightmare.

Now, this Stregoni Benefici is apparently an actual mythological figure and not of Stephenie Meyer's creation. Or at least several websites claim so. Obviously, if there is any credence to this story, we would have to look through Italian history for some powerful figure, some knight of goodness, who stands out in a unique way. Could it be Da Vinci? I doubt it, too much of an egghead. Dante? What a ponce! Garibaldi? Please. We may never know who the real Stregoni Benefici is, but let's just say I have my theories.

Best sentences:

- His voice was like melting honey.

-"I love them," I enthused, making an effort to smolder at him.

-... but there was no sign of Edward or any of his family. Desolation hit me with crippling strength.

Woolfing it Down

2010-01-18T11:21:00.000-08:00

For she could stand it no longer. Dr. Holmes might say there was nothing the matter. Far rather would she that he were dead! She could not sit beside him when he stared so and did not see her and made everything terrible; sky and tree, children playing, dragging carts, blowing whistles, falling down; all were terrible. And he would not kill himself; and she could tell no one.

-Virginia Woolf, Mrs. Dalloway

Of course he wasn't interested in me, I thought angrily, my eyes stinging- a delayed reaction to the onions. I wasn't interesting. And he was. Interesting... and brilliant... and mysterious... and perfect... and beautiful... and possibly able to lift full-sized vans with one hand.

-Stephanie Meyers, Twilight

If I really did have to describe Stephanie Meyers right now, I would say she's like Virginia Woolf, minus her sensibilities, competency and feminism, but plus vampires. Now, I''m no... (Woolfian? Woolfite? Woolfeur? Considering the subject matter I'm going in a different direction.)

Now, I'm no Woolf-man, but I have done several minutes worth of research on the global repository of human knowledge that is Wikipedia. Virginia Woolf, as it turns out, was among the writers who pioneered a narrative stream-of-consciousness technique in the early twentieth century along with fellows like Joyce and Faulkner. And there are times when Stephanie Meyers sounds a bit like her.

I am aware there are people with English degrees reading this, so nobody get their aesthetics in a twist just yet. Here's the similarity. Woolf is the only one of those three I mentioned whose style of stream-of-consciousness narration is both purposefully melodramatic and purposefully feminine. I say purposefully feminine because she had political and social reasons for taking on what she considered a feminine voice (she was a favorite of the early feminist movement). I say purposefully melodramatic because I've felt a rather strong undercurrent of irony in how she depicts the wild mood-swings of her characters. Stephanie Meyers of course isn't so subtle or accomplished, but the narration absolutely draws upon the stylistic influence of writers like Woolf, Joyce, and Faulkner. (Everybody does. Their influence is ubiquitous and subconscious; I doubt strongly Meyers is modeling herself after them on purpose.)

Meyers uses stream-of-consciousness of a sort, and if it sounds like anybody, it sounds like Virginia Woolf. Stephanie Meyers character Bella certainly is feminine, in the most culturally stagnant, stereotypical sense, and my God, is that poor girl melodramatic. Reading her mind (the narration is first-person) is like reading the prose equivalent of a mood-ring stuck on a mad she-chimp in heat.

Bella and Edward.

She might be insane:

Grrr.

-Stephanie Meyers, Twilight

I rest my case. Anyway, here's the chapter synopsis:

Chapter 4
Invitations

I'll give you three guesses to figure out what happens in this chapter. Got it? That's right! Bella gets invited to the school dance. Repeatedly. And that's what happens in this chapter. This chapter is about Bella being invited to the school dance no less than three times. The school dance. This is a vampire novel, by the way.

So she tells them all she's going to Seattle that weekend, and (gasp!) Edward invites her to go with him and the curtain closes. It's a date!

Here are the best sentences (the two from above are out of chapter 4 also):

-"You're welcome," he retorted.
-I tried to be crafty as I hid my horror.
-Stupid, shiny Volvo owner.
-His eyes were gloriously intense as he uttered that last sentence, his voice smoldering. I couldn't remember how to breathe.

See? Just like Virginia Woolf.

A Heaping Pile of Seconds

2010-01-13T22:24:00.000-08:00

Oi... the first chapter was rough going, but I'm back for more and (secretly) enjoying myself in a perverse sort of way. Like a QT hotdog eating contest with extra jalapeno relish. I'm doing a two-fer here because you really don't want 24 separate blog posts about this.

Chapter 2
Open Book
and...
Chapter 3
Phenomenon

I'm justifying doing these two together for two reasons. First, like I said, this ought to be as short and merciful as possible, and second, nothing much happens in these chapters. Bella continues to narrate the story like a 40-year old divorcee (did I mention this? 16-or-whatever-she-is year olds don't talk like this: "It was ridiculous, and egotistical, to think that I could affect anyone that strongly."), and the story is moving along without much of anything happening. These two chapters first really introduce Edward as a character and that's about it. And boy is he... something.

I can't really say what I thought at first, to be honest. I was only introduced to Twilight when the movies came out and this face:

began to harass me every time I went to the check-out line at Krogers. He's the only thing I picture when I read about Edward Cullen, and I have to give the casting director for the movies some props here; Robert Pattinson is terrifying.

"I would like to eat your flesh."

I honestly do believe that he could be a vampire. Really, if he approached me I'd genuflect, and run to the nearest table and break off a leg so I could defend myself, Ron Artest-style. (If you don't get the reference, you will if you keep reading my posts about the NBA. That story will come up eventually.) Anyway, he's honest-to-goodness, poo-in-the-pants scary, and he's the only thing I saw reading these last two chapters. I was a little distracted to say the least.

My synopsis: Bella goes to school, already obsessing about Edward for some reason, but he's not there. He continues not to be there until he shows up again a couple weeks later looking rather less sallow. Presumably he's eaten someone.

"With some Fava beans and a nice Chianti. Fu-fu-fu-fu."

He then proceeds to be genuinely friendly and interested in her. She, in turn, proceeds to instantly fall in love. In the next chapter, it snows some, Bella complains like its the end of her freaking world, and she almost (almost!) dies in a car crash. Except Edward saves her.

And that's about it. I did, however, manage to unearth this gem of a sentence:

"I made the Cowardly Lion look like the terminator." (pg. 30)

Until next time!

"Don't turn out the lights!"

Further Reading:
The Onion Twilight Article

Roundball Semiotics: Basketball qua Jazz

2010-01-10T15:10:00.000-08:00

What Fats is saying of course, and this ought to be sufficiently demonstrated by the sax solo at least, is the nearly axiomatic and essential truth: Jazz = Basketball, Basketball = Jazz.

The analogy has reached the cultural saturation point that even though I can't recall who first suggested it to me, or even if any one person in particular suggested it to me, I still associate on a guttural and more or less involuntary level (read: thoughtlessly) the game of basketball with the musical form Jazz. Certainly someone thought of the analogy first, but he's long faded into the background and morphed into an assumption. I've seen it sometimes criticized, because really, what else do bloggers have to do all day? But much more commonly it rests serenely in the background as an unconscious archetype by which we understand the game.

If you think about it too hard though, there are likely a host of racial subtexts and attitudes, possibly ugly ones, which contribute to the idea. Most of which I don't have the heart to explore except to comment on how telling it is that we're still surprised when white people engage in either activity. Sometimes with reason.

But then sometimes not; we all know Django had style, and Larry Bird is Larry Bird. Nonetheless, I think we find it much easier to accept the association of basketball with a stereotypically "black" art form like jazz or (increasingly) hip-hop than we do with an oppositely characterized "white" art form such as, say, baroque chamber music. But that's beside the point. The question is, does the analogy shed any kind of light on the nature of basketball in its own right? Would the analogy still work without all the race-issue boogeymen mucking up the picture?

First the argument. I think it is commonly stated that Basketball = Jazz for the following reasons.

1. Basketball and Jazz are both, at least in theory, a series of improvisations set within an ideal structure. In this sense, an A#7 to Fm7 chord progression is something like the high screen and roll, although possibly less emphatic.

2. Said improvisation is at its best when cooperative. There are solo jazz performances of course, just like there are isolation plays in basketball, but both Jazz and Basketball are, I believe, at their most fascinating and most fully realized when the individual talents of the players merge in a skillful synergy, a sort of hive-mind gestalt.

3. Although this may apply more appropriately to Football (Soccer), there is also the continuity and flow of the game. In theory, if the refs aren't a little too chippy with the whistles, or if one of the teams isn't coached by Jeff van Gundy, Basketball is a game where the back-and-forth, give-and-take pace can take on the liquid contours of some of the more lengthy Jazz odysseys.

So far so good. The previous three points are the three I see made most commonly, and certainly, they all have their salient merits. What I don't ever really see, but which I submit for your consideration as point number 4, is something I hope will strengthen the analogy beyond the merely coincidental.

4. At least since the early eighties, upon the dawn of the Larry Bird v. Magic Johnson rivalry, and culminating finally in the Michael Jordan Era (MJE, a dating system based upon the ascension of Jordan into the league. We are, for example, in year 25 MJE) the game of basketball has always been extremely character driven in a way I think is highly reminiscent of Jazz.

Defense: More than most musical forms before it, I suggest Jazz was a star-driven art form. I don't simply mean in how it grew commercially, I mean in how it developed stylistically from catalytic influences of highly talented individual musicians like ole' Fats or Dizzie Gilespie. In many ways, Jazz artists failures can be attributed as much to their inability to cultivate interesting public personae as much as any lack of skill. Kenny G, remember, can circular breath ad infinitum, which truly is impressive... But does it matter?

I suggest basketball is similar. It's development has always been driven by individual talents more than basketball theorists like the coaches or owners. I hold this to be true of more than just the NBA by the way. Any pick up game you go to will always feature at least one very talented player trying to leave his own stamp on the game in his own way.

Basketball and Jazz are both extremely individualistic, even during moments of cooperation. The assist is as much of an opportunity to impress yourself upon the game as any other, and under this light, we could think of Basketball as an unexpectedly apt expression of Schopenhauer. Of course Jazz isn't competitive, so it's right about here that the analogy breaks down (as all analogies must), but Jazz remains extremely character-driven, and if we had to stretch things way too far, we could suggest that the performance is a kind of Schopenhauerian attempt to impress one's personality upon the song. But that would be ridiculous.

All right then kiddos! There's the first of my ramblings about basketball. Up next? Basketball teams as wine. But whatever else happens, remember: Basketball = Jazz, Jazz = Basketball.

Whyyy helloooooo theeeere (Resolutions)

2010-01-10T12:32:00.000-08:00

The most productive thing I have done with my two "cold days" off from teaching (The cynics among my readership will at this point cry "Well, it certainly hasn't been posting on your blog like you promised" -- feedback duly noted) has been to start a book my father gave me for Christmas called Caring for Words in a Culture of Lies. I plan on posting a full review when I finish, but I wanted to offer some reflections it has provoked in me so far.

We live in a culture which worships speed and efficiency. If I don't get my hamburger 30 seconds after ordering, I sigh and tap my foot and wonder what the world's come to. Sadder still, I rage, rage (and sometimes even curse) when the Internet -- the Internet! -- fails to load at a speed commensurate with my oh so important and hectic schedule. Hello, my name is Asher, and I am addicted to speed. (My lawyer counsels that at this point I pause to clarify with utter certitude that I mean speed as in alacrity, not speed as in the harmful drug -- especially since some of my students apparently have started to read this.)

(Not the author of this post)

The truth is, I live for instant gratification. Anything short of immediacy burdens me with its inconvenience. The past few years I have consistently chosen ease over the more rewarding path. My immediate reaction on sitting down on my couch is, I am sad to say, not to reach for a book but to grab the computer or remote.

My main resolution (much as I disdain the term) then is to simply slow down my life. Thankfully the process has already begun. Since getting married, I have become preoccupied with cooking as a leisure activity. I have always enjoyed cooking, but what I have discovered is the joy present in slow deliberation in the kitchen, in taking the time to do things well. Eschew short cuts in the kitchen -- they rarely pay off. The long simmering sauce is (in general) the most flavorful and rewarding. My guru in this has been Robert Farrar Capon, author of the strange yet wonderful cookbook/food memoir/spiritual meditation Supper of the Lamb (a book I am hoping to review alongside Andrew in our first real collaborative effort for this blog). In the book Capon warns against "tin fiddles", contraptions which promise to take the work out of cooking. But remove the labor and you lose not only taste but the very essence of cooking. Good cooking is a process which takes time; not only takes but gives, gives time for reflection, meditation, that simmering of the mind and hands which gives off a heavenly aroma.

So I am slowing down the way I produce food (and also, hopefully, the rate at which I eat it. I am a notorious, self confessed scarfer. Some primordial urge prods me to wolf down food at an alarming rate. This year I pledge to slow down the process, to truly savor each bite I take in to my body). But food is far from the only area which merits the cultivation of better habits. Caring for Words has confronted me with the need to treasure and savor the words I use. Too often I take the path of least resistance, fall back on lazy usage, pick an adequate word instead of the perfect word. My thought, speech, and writing are dwarfed versions of what they could be if I took the time to be contemplative.

Lectio Divina is the monastic practice of reading through Scripture contemplatively, of pausing in places to really suck the meaning from the verses as a dog worries a bone. I love to read Scripture, even to study it, but I rarely take the time to let it sink deeply into my life. Therefore lectio divina is an important part of my resolution for the year. Hand in hand with this is the need to create areas of silence in my life. Confession: silence makes me uncomfortable. When I encounter silence I feel like I have slammed into a wall: I emerge with my nose out of joint and feeling altogether put out. But silence, pure deep silence, is a precious gift. One of my favorite quotes comes from Kierkegaard's Journal, where he says:

The present state of the world and the whole of life is diseased. If I were a doctor and were asked for my advice, I should reply: Create silence! Bring men to silence. The Word of God cannot be heard in the noisy world of today. And even if it were blazoned forth with all the panoply of noise so that it could be heard in the midst of all the other noise, then it would no longer be the Word of God. Therefore create silence.

Silence creates the space we need for grace to act. Create silence. But, having created silence, speak. Conversation is another part of my resolution. Conversation which moves and breathes deeply, conversation which blows the dust off of our lives and dives in deep to the inner places. I desire to take the time to really know people, not rush through my interactions with them at a hurried pace. Extended face time tends to make me twitchy or unsettled, but this year I resolve to take the time to listen, really listen, and to speak when the time is right. To invite people into my life in ways that matter. To appreciate the slow winding of a conversation that takes a few hours to find its real center. People and relationships matter so much more than whatever small, self-centered agenda I have set for the day.

These then are my resolutions. Really they united in one purpose: helping me slow down my world, which spins so fast that I am constantly thrown off balance. Will you, my readers, help as I stubbornly devote myself to this task?

Maybe There Was a Glitch in My Brain

2010-01-07T22:07:00.000-08:00

My wife Jenny and I were once stranded in Oklahoma City for a day, and spent much of it hanging out at a Borders pretending we might buy things. I took the time to read through the graphic-novel Watchmen for the first time (a rewarding experience) and Jenny sat down with a copy of Twilight. (And I would like to preempt any snarky comments about us using Borders this way; we were bored, out of cash, and eventually did make a minor purchase.)

Now, admittedly, we spent a good, oh, six hours at the Borders cafe, but in that amount of time Jenny managed to read through the entire first novel (498 pages) and its sequel (576). In one day. Not just one day, in six hours Jenny managed to read well over 1000 pages of teen vampire drivel. She couldn't stop, like a speed-reader literally on speed. I made fun of her. She claimed to hate them. But of course, once we returned to Tulsa, Jenny found someone who owned the other two Twilight novels and devoured them at a similar pace. What gives?

What, indeed, gives? I have taken it upon myself to find out, and have determined to do what I thought I never would. I'm going to read Twilight. And liveblog my thoughts... Here goes!

Chapter 1
First Sight

I have to admit, I was a little excited to read this. I'm a snob and everybody knows it, but I love vampires, and am secretly glad of the opportunity to read the book while pretending to have ulterior motives for doing so. Anyway, I was surprised right off to find an epigraph from Genesis gracing the first page.

But of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil,
thou shalt not eat of it:
for in the day that thou eatest thereof
thou shalt surely die.
Genesis 2:17

This, if it makes sense of nothing else, at least makes sense of the front cover:

Ahh. That's why there's an apple. I detect a theme! I don't really know what it means at all yet, but I'm sure something or other forbidden will be offered at some point. We'll see.

The first chapter features our quirky, sassy heroine Bella leaving her hometown Phoenix to live with her estranged father in a sunless bit of Washington called Forks. (As in, a Forks in the road?) Anyway, she's extremely moody and sad, and chapter one details her anxiety driven first day at school. She doesn't fit, and cries a bit. There's also a preface in which somebody called the hunter tries to kill her... while sauntering. I assume only a vampire could accomplish this. Some of the writing is a little odd. My favorite sentences:

"The hunter smiled in a friendly way as he sauntered forward to kill me." (preface)
"And I never looked a free truck in the mouth- or engine." (pg 7)
"I wasn't in the mood to go on a real crying jag." (pg 9)
"Maybe there was a glitch in my brain." (pg 11)
"I glanced sideways at the beautiful boy, who was looking at his tray now, picking a bagel to pieces with long, pale fingers." (pg 20)

They love bagels.

And the absolute best? Bella muses to herself as she approaches her new school:

"I can do this, I lied to myself feebly. No one was going to bite me." (pg 14)

Get it!? Do you get it!? Like a vampire!

Sadly though, no one did. But I'm a writer, and those of us who are in the Biz (as we call it) refer to this technique as Foreshadowing.

But really, it isn't so bad as I'm making it out to be, and if I were forced to be entirely honest, I would have to admit that I kinda sort of am enjoying myself. Like I said, I dig vampires.

I wonder what happens in chapter 2!

Turn and Face the Strange

2010-01-07T21:20:00.000-08:00

Loyal readers will notice that there have been a few changes around the ole blog. Thanks to my wonderful (and technologically advanced) wife, I have a new template which I hope will liven things up a bit. Commenting on my previous template, Leslie had this to say "It's depressing and boring I don't want to read it." So there you go.

Appropriate, I suppose. I realized that the last few posts (since I've come back to semi-regular blogging) have been very ponderous, if not downright glum. That is certainly one side of who I am, but far from a complete picture. When I first started writing, my intention was to chronicle all things cultural; of late I have left a very large portion untouched. I hope to return to those things. In that spirit, I have come into the 21st Century and added a "gadget" to the site, albeit a gadget which mimics an arcade game from the 80's. Burger Time is perhaps the greatest classic arcade game, and reflects part of my taste: the goofy side which values silly pop culture oddities. If you need a break from my ramblings, just scroll down to the bottom of the page to relieve stress by being chased around by sociopathic hot dogs.

The most important change, however, is the addition of a new friend. As you may notice, this blog now has two contributors. In addition to me, TEP will now feature my good friend Andrew. Cheesemonger by day, novelist by night, Andrew currently lives with his wife and adorable baby daughter in Dallas, Texas. He has a sharp mind (and wit), and fills in some cultural blind spots: he promises to write about the NBA, among other things -- something I enjoy but am not particularly knowledgeable about. He also pledges to give to the site his silly side, which he swears is his best. I believe his first post will be a blow by blow account of him wrestling with that noted literary classic, Twilight. I feel sure that we can expect great things from him.

As for my rascally self, I will do my best to put up a new post tomorrow.

Maiden Voyage

2010-01-07T20:28:00.000-08:00

Ahoy! to all (five? six?) readers of Asher's much storied blog. this is the maiden post of The Erstwhile Philistine's first second blogger ever! I haven't thought of any clever title's yet, so I'm going with my usual handle (Andrew, if you don't know me).

Credentials: Before I ever met Asher I did in fact enjoy the novel pleasures of a category we might call the... "less-than-competent". My tastes ran primarily to the B-grade Kung-Fu variety, but was not averse to the B-grade in general. However. I must admit this amateurish habit was inflamed by Asher himself into a kind of passion approaching (if only asymptotically) the level of everyone's beloved Philistine. I have witnessed R.O.T.O.R. and survived. I have eaten peanut-butter-and-scrambled-egg sandwiches and enjoyed. I am competent to comment, or I like to think so. In any case I can run my mouth with the best of them.

Also: Yes, I am working on a series of posts on the Twilight novel, and yes, eventually I will write about basketball.

Just a Note

2009-12-29T06:29:00.000-08:00

I got a little spam (of a nasty variety) in the comments section of the last few posts, so I am getting rid of Anonymous comments and putting up a word verification system. Sorry, I know that is annoying, but it is for all our good.

Far As the Curse is Found...

2009-12-28T08:55:00.000-08:00

A very merry late Christmas to all two of you who read this thing. I had every intention of posting this post before Friday, but as usual all my good intentions went out the window in the bustle of pre-Christmas movement: family and food and wrapping presents and... not to mention Ryan and Tori's wedding two days before (as a side note, let me say how wonderful it is to be at a wedding just before Christmas -- it helps put me in the right frame of mind). So here it is, in all its delayed glory.

Anyone intimately acquainted with me knows that I am a fanatic for Christmas carols. It is a love inherited from my mother (and shared by my sister), a passion which directs itself in various odd directions. As a result, I have a vast knowledge of Christmas carols, both famous and obscure. Add to this my natural tendency towards arrogance, and the resulting alloy can be best described as a certain amount of carol snobbery. In general my tastes run toward the soulful and minor, and away from the maudlin and treacly. Accordingly I have developed a rather fixed rating system. My basic premise is that most carols we typically sing at Christmas are vastly overrated (that piece of festering crap known as "Away in a Manger", which is only slightly improved when sung to the vastly superior British tune), while a handful are criminally underrated ("Let All Mortal Flesh Keep Silence"). Of course there is a whole raft of wonderful songs which exist in a category well beyond underrated, closer probably to undiscovered. Hands down my favorite Christmas song is "Of the Father's Love Begotten", which is versatile enough to be sung at any time of the year but somehow gets neglected. Then there are the precious few which seem to be rated just right. A minor miracle of the season is that we sing "O Come O Come Emmanuel" as much as we do -- it is easily the best of the super-popular carols.

This post is not really about any of those categories or songs. It is about a new category, one I saw fit to invent myself this holiday season (granted, I suppose I invented the whole system, but bear with me). The category? The overrated/underrated Christmas carol. At this point some of you may scratch your head and wonder if this is merely some semantic game I play; those familiar with my idea of working in a recursive hospital (or my fondness for "meta" in general) know that I do love a convoluted turn of phrase on occasion.

Allow me to put your minds at ease. The overrated/underrated (henceforth known more succinctly as "o/u") category developed 100% organically (yes, it does contain carbon) as a result of my pondering over one carol in particular, "Joy to the World". It is, I argue, the quintessential o/u carol; that is to say, it is overvalued for its weaker points, whereas it strengths lay hidden.

First the overrated. Everybody knows "Joy to the World", especially the first verse. It merits distinction as one of the few carols worthy of playground distortion (who born and bred in public schools can forget "Joy to the world/the teacher's dead/ we barbecued her head"?). It is a staple of Christmas eve services and wandering carolfests everywhere. And it is a good song; solid words wedded to a catchy tune (that countertune near the end is especially fun to sing). But does it really merit its hallowed place in the carol canon? I can list off close to ten underappreciated carols (off the top of my head) that I would sing before I got to "Joy to the World". The other problem as I see it is that it is almost too catchy for its own good. It goes down so smooth and easy that we don't take the time to process what it is actually saying. Most popular Christmas carols are like lagers: we like them because they are smooth and not particularly complex. Joy then, is like an ESB. It isn't rich and thick enough to make us sip slowly (like the Stoutiness of "Let All Mortal Flesh"), so we miss the richness underneath.

And what a richness there is. Much of it lies locked in the wonderful third verse. Here lies the underratedness of the carol: a majority of carolers opt, due to time constraints or laziness, to cut one of the four verses, and it is ALWAYS the third verse that gets the axe. I think this is due to custom -- in church you always cut the verse right before the last, for whatever reason, so we do it without thinking (the one exception that riles my anger is when people cut the third of five verses from "Be Thou My Vision", but I must grind that axe in a separate post). What a shame! It is by far the best of the four verses. Here it is for your reading pleasure:

No more let sins and sorrows grow,
Nor thorns infest the ground;
He comes to make His blessings flow
Far as the curse is found,
Far as the curse is found,
Far as, far as, the curse is found.

Doesn't this give such a full, wonderful view of the hope of Christmas? Not merely a baby in a manger; the full hope of mankind coming to us in human form. Beyond cutesy nativity scenes, beyond even the bitter cross: Christ crowned in power and glory, coming to cure the world of that terrible curse, wherever it may be.

This is water for the thirsty soul. I have been longing this year for a taste of that redemption. It has been, of all the years of my life, the most curse-afflicted (or at least the one where the curse has been most obvious). Even more than the year my mother died, it has shown me the awful grasp of the evil one on this wounded planet of ours. This year I have seen families broken; people I looked up to as fathers have fallen far and hard; friendships have drifted or dissolved; I have seen hearts broken and lives in freefall; I have felt the bitter sting of betrayal; and of course I have known my own sin heaviest of all (when I have the wisdom to see it): my failings as a new husband and as an old friend, my neglect of the Word and prayer, the hidden darkness of my heart. The curse is not just widespread, it is all-pervasive. It is why children grow up without fathers and why our oceans are polluted and why old people die alone and even why bullies lash out at recess. The evil of sin which has been passed down from father to son affects all mankind, but it also radiates outward so that "all creation cries out as in the pangs of childbirth".

Enter hope. Christ comes not simply to warm our hearts but to kill the weeds and thorns which infest the ground. In the garden Adam was charged with tilling the soil, but after the fall it was promised that the toil would be hard and the fruit scant. That is what we feel in our lives: we strive and strive and have little to show for our efforts. That is why we cry out in groans like the very earth. And he comes, has come, will come again. The blessings will flow.

Already we have glimpses. I said earlier that this has been the hardest year of my life. But it has also been the richest, most fulfilling. I married a beautiful, wonderful woman. I got a real job which has proved rewarding. I have known the joys of friendship kindled. The blessings have not just trickled, they have flowed. Yet I am left longing for that last fulfillment of the promise. Far as the curse is found. Amen. Come Lord Jesus, come.

Merry Christmas with love to all who read.

Oh the cat's in the stable and the silver moon...

2009-12-05T08:25:00.000-08:00

Well here we are again. Sometimes it feels like I have an "Affair to Remember" relationship with this blog. The passionate flurries of sweet embrace punctuated by long months of silence. So far I'm ahead of Jimmy Stewart and co., though -- it's only been half a year since I last wrote. The strange thing is, before abandoning this haunt due to a confluence of many wild events (primary among them marriage and a new job), I had several posts half-written. Appropriate, I think. In my mind I often equate the act of writing with that of taking a large and particularly painful dump. The struggle, the sweat, the pinpricked dilation as you push the transformed lump from your body. Sorry, I got a little carried away, but I stand by the metaphor. If this be the case, then "writer's block" takes on a new and glorious meaning. For some time I could feel the backup developing: I would writhe and clench to expel the thoughts from my body, but could not force the final push.

Consider this, then, the enema. We found a cat (or did it find us?). He lay there in the road; I swerved. Les, for whom compassion comes more easily, demanded I go back. As we approached the cat finally started to move, limping badly to the other side of the street. We followed, and the panicked frenzy of the next few moments (due in part, I must admit, to a certain hesitancy from me) found us with cat inside car, held delicately by Les. He spent the night, and has not left in the few weeks since. In truth, he is not an unwelcome houseguest but an adopted son. Les adores him, and he her, but even daddy has relented and had his heart softened by the good will of our Meshulam ("befriended" or "paid for" in Hebrew). We had a brief, heartbreaking encounter when the vet advised putting him to sleep (due to some blockage, appropriately enough), but he saved himself through that most primal of means: pissing all over the floor.

Les has been an inspiration to me in all of this. I have found myself profoundly affected by the plight of our beloved kitty and by my dear wife's response. As hinted at before, my inclination was to continue on our way that Sunday night, mourning a little for the dying cat but then moving on. In the end, he would have been just one more pitiable creature felled by the cruelness of the world. I have realized lately that the cynic in me looks on the world with despair. I am quite good (nearly expert, I'd say) in seeing the reality of a cursed and broken world. What I cannot see, most of the time, is the kernel of the gospel falling into the cold, hard earth. Why bother taking the time to have compassion on something so far gone?

This is why my wife is so good for me. She forces me to stop, to consider the power hidden in the small acts of love. Rescuing Meshulam from the street was of course a small thing -- miniscule, even. But every cup of water given is a victory of light against darkness. By these faltering steps we advance the kingdom.

Everyone knows the silly little illustration of the girl on the beach. Surrounded by starfish washed up by the tide, she walks along, throwing them back one by one. When asked how she could possibly be making a difference, she throws another back into the ocean and declares, "There. I made a difference to that one." Cheesy, of course; but more to the point, it falls far short of the mark. It is, in essence, a humanistic parable about the futility of the world. It says "There may not actually be meaning in helping others, but we create our own meaning by struggling against the futility." This is not what the gospel says -- not in its glorious entirety, at least. The gospel dares us to hope even bigger than this. Rescuing Meshulam from death did not merely help him; after all, he will die at some point down the line. Rather the full significance lies in the fact that, for a brief moment, the light shone in the darkness. Christ cares for all creation, and it is His will that we show compassion on animals no less than humans.

This whole episode feels tailor-made for Advent. The smallest, least significant act contains the greatest mystery of all: Christ born in a stable. The flickering light shining out into the swallowing dark, overwhelming it with its brightness. And, of course, the animals gathered around, giving voice to the creation's birthpains.

This is my post about minimalism. This is my post about. This is my post. This is my. This is. This.

2009-05-02T12:33:00.001-07:00

Simplicity is something with which I struggle. Case in point: my first instinct for the previous sentence was to write "Keeping things simple", a more complicated verbiage than what I actually wrote. My writing could be described as many things (pompous and verbose come to mind), but "simple" is an adjective that does not leap to mind. I tend to strive ever upwards, stacking brick on brick in my Babel-tower of thought.

Maybe that is why I have a thing for minimalism in its many forms; we often love what we lack, and I wish I had the ability to write in sparse sword-strokes, piercing to the heart of bare meaning. Minimalism is wonderfully comforting. It is the beauty of the Spartans at Thermopylae's pass, and the warm words "I love you" spoken on a winter night. I have been thinking lately about it -- probably inspired by Leslie lending me Sufjan Steven's Seven Swans, a very minimal album which I have been listening to in a minimalist way, on incessant repeat -- and my thoughts have been straying in two distinct directions. I feel that there are at least two distinct types of minimalism; certainly there are two present in the Bible, and they seem to describe two types in art as well. One is the minimalism of despair, the other the minimalism of hope. Both are helpful, wonderful, and beautiful.

Part One: You Cannot Serve Both God and Mamet

"All things are full of weariness; a man cannot utter it; the eye is not satisfied with seeing, nor the ear filled with hearing. What has been is what will be, and what has been done is what will be done, and there is nothing new under the sun. Is there a thing of which it is said, “See, this is new”? It has been already in the ages before us. There is no remembrance of former things, nor will there be any remembrance of later things yet to be among those who come after." -- Ecclesiastes 1:8-11

The first function of minimalism is to serve as a sort of memento mori, a totem by which we recall the futility of our labor. "Things fall apart, the center cannot hold" says Yeats. We batten down the hatches of our lives, prepare to weather all storms, vow we will bend but never break, but in the end we wear down to the ground. Of course men are never quick to accept defeat; art is in some sense a longing to escape the grave. But nothing is more pathetic than a man who tries to circumvent death through the work of his hands. He is like Ozymandias screaming through the centuries on his trunkless legs: "Look on my wonders ye Mighty." And we do despair, but not at the cold greatness of the man. Rather we despair that good can come from any man. If even the greatest among us fall and ground down by the sand, what chance does man have? The victory of history is shallow indeed.

This type of minimalism strikes me as very present in David Mamet's great play/film Glengarry Glen Ross. Mamet is famous, justifiably, for his take on dialogue. Meaty, masculine, brutal, his words smash the reader between the eyes. The play features a cast of desperate real estate men, pushed to the limit by the demands of their company. They must sell real estate or be fired, yet the prime leads are given only to the man who has consistently been the top seller. The other leads are broken down, no good: crazies and deadbeats. They have been canvassed to death. The salesmen despair, but they continue to try because they have no choice. They call up the same targets, spout the same weary lies, go through the same tired out motions. In particular Shelley Levene, the most veteran salesman, seems a man doomed to run in circles to the grave (Mamet brings this point into sharp focus by the end of the play). His daughter is sick and he needs the money, but he has lost the touch: he could not sell thermal underwear to an Eskimo, much less an icebox. He has no real hope, but he clutches at the straws of his repetition. In this way Mamet's dialogue is a masterstroke of minimalism: key phrases crop up throughout the play, but beyond this his characters speak in circles. They speak their minds piece by piece, as if they needed to gain the confidence to say everything. Their speech is much like the starting of a push lawnmower, a gradual sputtering built to a roar. But of course the roar is full of sound and fury.

In a sense Glengarry runs parallel to the book of Ecclesiastes. Vanity of vanities, all a vanity. Such are the lives of Mamet's men. They toil with the sweat of their brow, but do not know who will reap the reward of their labor. Even Ricky Roma, the slick salesman with the magic touch, sees his conquest vanish in the smoke of futility, set alight by his lies. Things fall apart: sales, minds, lives. The futile circuity of life shows us nothing new, only the vain strivings of men too foolish to realize how utterly consigned they are to failure.

Part Two: Through a Glass Darkly

Yet there is another side to minimalism. Simplicity and repetition are the guttural cries of Qoheleth, the trunkless legs of stone, but they are also, paradoxically, a reminder that all things are made new. This may not seem obvious on first glance, but it makes sense. Only when we strip ourselves of the grand illusion of human progress do we see the real building of history. It is like Babel in that it raises us to the heavens, but at the same time the Anti-Babel, not a tower grasping up but the ladder thrown down from heaven. It is the same old story, yet new every morning.

This is why the Psalms constantly call us back to remembrance. The exodus is not merely a remarkable event that happened long ago: it is the pattern of life. When we remember the cloud and pillar, we see the grace God gives day by day. So to the cross, that final exodus. As Christians we must constantly remember back to that discrete point in history; not because (as some have said) we are anti-progressive, but because we know the startling truth that all progress flows like the water from His side.

"History repeats itself". A cliche, very well. Even a true cliche. But I think we miss the full significance of the statement. We say it when mankind makes mistakes: "Oh there goes history repeating itself again". It is the soundtrack of the blooper real of human existence. We see the first purpose of life's minimalism, but not usually the second. History repeats itself every day: the sun comes up as surely as it sets. Babies are born no less than old men die. Grace upon grace flows to us.

Yeats apparently thought of history as an ever widening spiral: repetition intertwined with progress. This is false in one sense, in the sense Yeats intended. Where he saw some frightening new creature slouching to Bethlehem, we know that no birth can ever happen in that small town again. But in another sense he is on to something, for the circular nature of life does not preclude a building up of things. We do not merely spin in place, nor is the swirling descent to the ground an inevitability. Life in the Kingdom is a relentless moving forward; it merely refuses to move in a straight line. Rather than moving from point A to point B, the story of redemption is the curve of a story, the constant move toward the center from which all things flow.

Think of the miraculous music of Phillip Glass. Many Glass works start with just a pulse, an insistent rhythm which will not be held at bay. Simplicity itself, but strangely affecting. Little by little the piece grows. New instruments add their voice but always circle back around to that main theme, the lifeblood of the piece. People who find minimalism boring simply do not listen hard enough; they are novelty seekers. There in the barebones, the pulse, lies the essence of music, that to which all should return. Not that there is no development: on the contrary, the pieces often build up to dizzying heights. But all growth is focused on that center. In a sense, most great music is a type of minimalism, for you cannot have development and exposition without a theme. No matter the wandering, music returns home.

This, then, is the ultimate sad fact of the myth of progress: it is not merely foolish but empty as well. Man labors all his days to build a bark hut, while the city of God descends unnoticed to earth. Only grace can change the downward spiral of repeated actions into a Jacob's ladder of endless praise.

Poetry: Cosmology or Zoology?

2009-04-27T18:28:00.000-07:00

"For several decades now, world literature, music, painting and sculpture have exhibited a stubborn tendency to grow not higher but to the side, not toward the highest achievements of craftsmanship and of the human spirit but toward their disintegration into a frantic and insidious 'novelty.'" -- Alexander Solzhenitsyn

This quote comes from a wonderful essay by Solzhenitsyn which you can find here. Though I do not agree point for point with the great Russian (may he rest in peace), his essay is at least a brother to this post.

I would like to talk about poetry, but not in dry words which suck the marrow from its very bones. I want to talk mythically -- poetically -- about something very dear to my heart. Forgive me if this gets a little strange -- I will try to bring it all around in the end.

"In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth". This, the spoken logos which formed the universe (the singing, as Lewis so beautifully imagines in The Magician's Nephew). The word made word: something from nothing, yet in another sense something from everything. Creation ex nihilo in one sense, but in another not, for the creation sprang from the very wisdom of the LORD.

The modern world has, of course, sloughed the LORD off to the side but in a very real sense has kept the idea of ex nihilo creation intact. Like most ideas traditionally kept in the realm of religion, ex nihilo creation has been shuttled to the realm of the aesthetic. Man, in his infinite arrogance, has put himself in the place of God. There is certainly a very mystical side to all this (e.g. man's desire for transcendence "satisfied" through aesthetic means) but I want to focus tonight on the practical.

Let us narrow our focus from the cosmos to a single act of artistic creation. Narrower, narrower: we observe the poet about to write a poem. Now, what happens during those moments of thought and scribbling and editing? I submit that the prevailing conception of this act bears some resemblance to the ex nihilo. This assessment must of course be tempered. No one thinks that the poet shoots up into the Platonic stratosphere, grabs the forms he requires, and makes a flawless reentry right onto the page. Words exist already, and certainly even influences such as personal history are acknowledged as informing the artist, but in the end ex nihilo prevails. The very word 'creates' implies this making something from nothing. We do not speak of those who fashion poems (poetry and music make good examples here, better than the visual arts; one can readily imagine describing a sculptor as a 'fashioner' of artistic goods). Rather the poet would seem to make little universes each time he takes up his pen.

In the course of writing my senior thesis, I read quite a lot about the genesis and shape of the genius paradigm (the dominant artistic from the Enlightenment to today). Tied inextricably from the paradigm is the notion of the genius as just such a demi-god, forging world upon world in the bellows of his imagination. For our purposes it hardly matters whether this gift is egalitarian (it would seem to start out far from there, but of course the slide into post-modernism and "warm fuzzy" aesthetics has levelled the field a bit); the remarkable break with previous thought comes in thinking that it can be done at all.

This has been destructive to aesthetics in uncountable ways, but tonight my focus is on this "relentless cult of novelty" which Solzhenitsyn feels his way toward. If artistic creation may be equated with the ex nihilo, then what counts in aesthetics is the pressing on, the continued search to find new worlds to speak into existence. It is not sufficient that art be beautiful or good; it must first and foremost be new. We see this all over, in the very words critics use: bold (new), tired (in the pattern of something gone before).

But we have strayed. Let us once more trade the telescope for the microscope. One area which hits close to home for me is the poetic aesthetic. I must tread the proverbial eggshell here and make sure I am not misunderstood. Over time, poetry has shifted off the tracks, so to speak. Poetic forms long honored have been chucked out the window in favor of an "anything goes" aesthetic. The traditional concerns of poetry have been abandoned to make room for the obsession with personal expression. Let me make very clear that I am not making a wholesale attack on newer categories such as postmodern poetry or free verse. There is much that is good in these things, but I am saying that the general mindset of this aesthetic is fundamentally unsound. The quest for originality has led to a confusion over what poetry is really meant to be. Ideas such as rhythm and cadence (or rhyme and reason for that matter) give way to writing down whatever comes to mind, a sort of a vomit all over the page.

This is where all presumed ex nihilo creation leads. In my thesis (shameless self promotion: ask me if you want to read it!), I describe the genius paradigm as fundamentally self-destructive. There I am mostly concerned with the way that it has undermined itself by exhausting the wells of originality (leading to the ennui driven doodlings of postmodernism). Here I want to put it another way: how the drive for ex nihilo in fact leads to an increase in chaos. The poet sets out to create a world for himself, but instead ends up with a swirling eddy, a sounding fury.

Take, for example, the poetic "style" of flarf. What value -- save comedic, perhaps -- does the random jumbling of search terms hold? True, flarfsters are doing it (mostly) ironically, but this only goes to show how far poetry has fallen (a point I raise in my thesis is that postmodernism represents the downward slope of the genius paradigm, the slow viscious rebellion against a thought system which nevertheless presents indisputable guiding principles). The pursuit of novelty has led to this: mindless, artless scribbles on a page.

Let us turn the page, quite literally, from the first chapter of Genesis to the second. Here we see man in his natural habitat, so to speak. Man in the garden, charged with a special task in the creation process. Not the ex nihilo of the creation; the much humbler task of naming the animals. Man was not tasked by God to perform divine functions; he has not the power to make things that never were be. Rather he was allowed to participate in the divine song by giving order to those things which were already created. The ordering which began when God separated the light from the darkness continued as Adam lumped rhinoceri with rhinoceri, but well away from the lions.

You do not have to believe a word of the Bible to see the very profound insight given in this assigment. It has direct bearing on this artistic conundrum of the cult of novelty. We must in fact shift our paradigm away from a belief in the ex nihilo power of the artist and toward a belief that the proper function of art is to bring order and reason and harmony, both to our own thoughts and to the world around us. The genius paradigm has already proven itself to be rotten at core; we must set our feet on firmer ground.

The poet does not create from nothing. Instead he bestows order on the world around him, the thoughts which flit through his mind, the dog which waddles down the street. He grabs from this place, steals that word, mixes them together like a potioneer. In that sense he does forge; he smelts his various parts into a glittering ore. Freed from the ridiculous desire to create something original, he can concentrate on making something good and beautiful.

What would such a thing look like, practically speaking? It would mean a reverence in art for clear form, balance, order. In poetry, it would mean an embracing of form and especially rhythm. It would not be the endless rote sculpture of the Egyptians, cranking out sonnet after sonnet as easily as making sausage. Certainly the breaking of form can be as artistically significant and beautiful as the strict adherence to it. I fully recognize the good in straying from forms set down, but when those forms are abandoned completely, only chaos remains.

I close with this: what a wonderfully freeing thing constraint is! We are so afraid that boundaries commit us to staid art that we miss the plain truth, that there is immeasurable freedom in pursuing things within their limits. The beauty of Chris Paul breaking ankles on a drive to the hoop is in no way diminished by the fact that he can never score a touchdown; rather, such blurring of lines would be a diminishment. So too with art: when man steps over the line of restraint, grabs greedily at the ex nihilo, he winds up with nothing indeed. But if he will stoop, be content with the naming given to him, who knows what wondrous hippopotami will emerge?

Filler

2009-04-20T21:32:00.000-07:00

To tread water until I can find the time to make an actual post (it's coming by the end of the week -- I promise!), I thought I would write some reflections on this past weekend, when I saw Paul Simon perform at the Bob Costas Benefit Concert. It was worth it all: the six hours to St. Louis, the suffering through a not-so-good-but-not-bad-enough-to-mock comedian, the late hour. Totally worth it.

I think one reason was that the concert was the opposite of everything I fear about typical pop concerts (and the reasons I avoid them). It was not ear shattering, but a nice volume that let you hear and understand the lyrics (so important to Simon's work). It was in a theater, and thus maintained a very relaxed, somewhat formal feel. Probably it helped that much of the audience was "of an advancing age"; that made me dig it all the more. I don't go for mosh pits and the like, and the restrained interest of the audience was a plus to me. Also, it made the end incredible; as Simon and his band closed with "You Can Call Me Al" (not counting the encore, a haunting solo rendition of "The Sound of Silence"), it was as if all the pent up excitement of the evening exploded. People danced in the aisles and shouted the chorus back to Paul. It was not cheap; he truly earned the response.

One thing I found gratifying was Paul's stage presence. Some performers have to be in the spotlight; it is what keeps them going, what they live for. But he seemed almost shy; content at many points to let his band take over. It probably helps that his talents lie more as songwriter and singer than guitarist (most of the heavy lifting lick-wise was done by his backups), and that he has had so long to get used to the fact. He knows how to let the music speak for itself. I think this probably contributes to his reputation as an everyman (side note: I have been wanting for some time to write a post comparing Simon to Randy Newman, driven by the idea that Newman is an everyman who seems like an intellectual, while Simon is the opposite). He comes across as so humble that you could easily believe he would love to grab a beer with you after the show.

His band, by the way, was very very good. I liked the way he adapted his more intricate songs to a smaller group, and the expansive noodling done on some of the songs. My favorite was probably "Graceland", which featured an awesome intro which lent it more of a country western feel than the studio version. But yes, his band can really play, from the accordionist to the slide whistlist. The percussionists probably shone the brightest.

My one complaint regards the set list. He played 5 songs from Graceland, which is by no means a bad thing, but it came at a cost: no songs from either There Goes Rhymin' Simon or Hearts and Bones, my two favorites after Graceland (and on the right day Rhymin' Simon ties it). Also nothing from Rhythm of the Saints, another great and bold album. On the plus side, no songs from his vanity project The Capeman were included.

Okay, enough of my semi-coherent ramblings. In short the concert was amazing, an experience I will remember for quite some time. And, if he does an actual tour anytime soon, I would gladly make a long trip to see him, that time hopefully without the surrounding rigmarole.

Easter

2009-04-12T19:59:00.000-07:00

"Truly, truly, I say to you, unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains alone; but if it dies, it bears much fruit."

What do you do with Easter Saturday? It's such a strange day, much harder to deal with than Christmas Eve, which is all anticipation and warmth and candleglow in the windows. Easter Saturday: Christ in the grave. The pain of his passion behind us, but the glorious hope of the Resurrection still to come.

I was thinking about Kierkegaard this morning, oddly enough -- about the knight of resignation and the knight of faith. It is a strange topic for Easter morning, that most important of days, full of joy. But, then, a lot of things in life mimic the pattern of our saviour, and we must often taste death before we regain hope. I tasted this morning, and it was bitter in my mouth. I was disappointed in life (but no, not merely disappointed; deeply saddened by it). The comforting shell of resignation, the warm blanket of stoicism I wrap my heart in -- I could feel it creeping in again. But then I stopped and thought about Kierkegaard. I thought how so many people can give something up, a life or a dream, but how the difficult part is believing it will be given back to you. Abraham brought Isaac up the mountain, yet he did not doubt the promise given him. And so I made the choice of a fool: I chose to believe that what had died would resurrect, that my hope was not in vain.

And so our lives are a mimesis of that one life that mattered most. "The Son of Man must be lifted up", John tells us; lifted up only to fall to the ground, to be planted in the Arimithean tomb. Our lives have such tombs, those spaces which are dark and empty and cobwebbed. We fear them, perhaps rightly. We fear the falling to the ground.

This is why Easter Saturday is such a bother. The overwhelming pain of Good Friday is in some ways easier to handle than the blank drip drip drip, the waiting in the tomb. There is somewhat of a debate about what Christ's spirit was doing on that day; I'm content to leave it a mystery, but I can see the appeal in having the question answered. Do you know the feeling of having cried so long that you have no strength for tears? Hope has not yet come back, your resolve is not strengthened. You lie on your bed, exhausted. This is Easter Saturday, that terrible inbetween.

I don't think we always leap directly from resignation to faith. The death of a dream must lie in the fallow field awhile, sometimes, before it springs up into life. For me the wait was short this morning -- a few minutes -- but then again a few moments in time can be an epoch. You have no reckoning of day or night when you're in a tomb.

But if it dies, it bears much fruit. This is the promise of Easter morning. How small are our dreams when we dream them ourselves, when we grasp them tightly, terrified to let them slip away. How alone we are then. Even when we dream the right dream, have the right cause, are in the know, when we grasp what we are in fact doing is choking the life out of that which we hold. Yet when we let go -- when the single kernel spirals to the ground -- then we are free. It is the cry of Christ as he breathes his last: Into your hand I commit my spirit. And though we do not always see clearly, rebirth lies in the very seed which falls. We should not be surprised when our shattered dreams bear much fruit. He who raised Christ from the tomb, who restored Isaac to his father, is the same God who hears our prayers, who has conquered death utterly. The tomb does not have the final word. It is only a fallow field, waiting for the seed brave enough to plunge beneath its soil.

John in Real Life

2009-04-05T21:28:00.001-07:00

[Ed. Note: Funny how writing works. I had a long post in the works for tonight on another topic entirely, but found myself hitting a wall partway through. So I dug up this one which I started awhile ago. Hope the pinch writing works alright.]

Sometimes inspiration just strikes. As I showered yesterday, I was hit out of the blue by a realization about my movie preferences. For some reason John Cassavetes came into my mind; I thought about his monumental film A Woman Under the Influence; about why, great as the film is, I have held it at a distance and refused to really embrace it. Cassavetes worked primarily as a filmmaker of ultra realism, striving in all things to be faithful to "real life".

The film certainly can be painfully true to life (and consequently very hard to watch), but even at its finest it fails to capture a certain something about the experience. Why should I fail to connect to it when I love documentaries so much? I suppose the fact that the events in documentaries actually happened could contribute to this preference. Then again, my interests range far beyond mere history to the truth about the human condition, so why should I be constrained by matters of fact?

No, the reason that documentaries work for me in a way that ultra realistic films do not is quite simply this: good documentaries always capture the unexpected moments of life. I am thinking of that magical, heartbreaking scene in Hoop Dreams when the father of one of the boys challenges him to a game of one on one, and all the bitterness of their relationship plays out on the blacktop. Or the lynchpin of Gates of Heaven, when Errol Morris interrupts the story of pet cemetaries to let an old woman ramble on for several minutes about her grandson. It can be as simple as the moment in 14 Up when the cameraman pans away from Suzy's face to record a dog chasing a rabbit, or as significant as a killer admitting onscreen to his crime. These are the wild and wooly moments of our lives that really ring true, the unexpected swerves and nosedives that make life worth living.

It is precisely these moments that fictional films can never -- by definition -- capture. In fiction there is always some conceit driving the film, always some direction. Even if all the dialogue is improvised, the general plot moves forward and the actors must still play roles; they are not truly themselves. Because of the constraints of the medium, you simply cannot capture the sly, strange moments of life.

This is not so much a problem in general fiction films, whether they be genre pieces or straight dramedies. It is when the director swoops in close to real life that the problems begin. When you collapse the space between screen and viewer, dangerous things happen. I suppose this is why part of me still prefers hand drawn animation to "realistic" CGI (or medieval painting to Renaissance). When you ape life too closely but lack an essential ingredient, the result is offputting and is more disturbing than something clearly not real. Think about cyborgs: no matter how much they may resemble humans on the surface, dig deeper and you find essential differences; the fact that they come so close yet fall so short makes them unnatural and creepy in a way that, say, forest animals could never be.

Like Pancakes from an Aerosol Can

2009-03-31T19:18:00.000-07:00

It seems as if I start off every post with an apology for not writing more often. My intention really is to write at least three times a week, but that falls by the wayside with regularity. I am finding it difficult to balance the things in my life: work alongside relationships and the other sundry things I must do. Life gets even more complex during those weeks when I have a symphony concert (such as last week). I barely have time to breathe, much less write.

The hectic nature of my life right now gives me pause to stop and think about why we rush around so much. Why are we angry that speed limits exist; why is punctuality a most treasured virtue?

Last week I heard on the radio probably the worst performance of Rhapsody in Blue I have ever had the displeasure of experiencing. No, the notes were not wrong and the tone was perfectly acceptable, but the piece was ruined for the simple reason that the performer took it much, much too fast. He rushed through every little cadence, goading the orchestra on with him. The piece lost the wonderful, relaxed feel of improvisation which lends it so much of its charm. I wanted to shake the pianist by his shoulders and say "SLOW DOWN! Everyone knows you can play the notes. Take time to enjoy yourself!"

Two confessions from my past. The first relates to the above paragraph. After I learned the Gigue from the 3rd Bach Suite, one of my favorite things to do was to challenge other cellists to race me by seeing who could play this tricky movement the fastest. I can only pray that Bach finds it in his heart to forgive me the travesty I inflicted on him. The Suites are first and foremost dances, and the joyful rhythm gets lost at high speeds.

Confession number two: as a child I hated the slow movements of pieces (especially concertos) and would always skip them when given the choice. My sister and I would battle about this, and I would always give the explanation that I found the slow movements boring. Truly, when I was a child I thought like a child and spake like one.

Thankfully my tastes have matured a little. Now I find few things as pleasurable to listen to as a beautiful slow movement. Whether it be the delicate unfolding of the second movement of the Dvorak Cello Concerto, or the hearrending slow build of the third from Shostakovich's 5th Symphony, I find that slow movements give me the breathing room I need to fully digest what is happening.

Life is like this, of course. We buzz from flower to flower, our eyes set to narrow focus, looking only at the task in front of us. Brute efficiency rules the day. We cannot stand the dead moments of life; we require constant stimulation to shield us from inactivity. In this way slowness relates to silence. We hate them both because they push us toward reflection. Our whole lives are an effort to crowd out the things which make us stop. Video on demand. E-mail. Instant messaging. Instead of all things in their own season, harvest time goes year round (this is true in a literal sense of the foods we eat. No longer do we have to wait for the spring to eat fruit -- it is always at our fingertips).

We call it convenience, praise it for making life "easier". What we really mean is that it makes life faster. We think that, the more we cram into our pitiful existence, the happier we will be. We just need that one extra experience, that one film or album or whatever: then life will satisfy.

Who fully understands what is lost in this Faustian bargain? Certainly we harden our hearts, dull ourselves to the little moments, the slow build of truly beautiful things. If we cannot acquire something instantly, we gripe and complain -- even question the point of having such an inconsiderate thing.

I think this way about grace. One of the unforunate side effects of the modern view of conversion is that it defines the experience as a one time, chosen event. It misses the thousand-thousand little moments of grace built up over time in our hearts as God calls and nudges. The song of spring's first robin. Beethoven's 3rd Symphony. The smile of a stranger and the arms of a friend. The brokenness of losing someone you love, or having a friendship fall apart. The ineffable experience of real forgiveness. All these are minor miracles, cataclysms that shift the tide of our lives like twigs in a flooding riverbed.

Prayer is a bit like walking up to an ATM, at least in my mind. I swipe my card, press the PIN, specify the amount, and voila! Cash, ex nihilo. When I pray for my friends or even for myself, my general expecation is that I will begin to see results almost immediately. The problem with this expectation is not that God is slow to answer, but that my eyes have been dulled and reined in to the point that I cannot see that slow build up of grace that is metered out to me daily. I want things to be the way I want them as soon as I want them. Just add water.

Next time you are in a rush to accomplish some oh so important task, take the time to slow down and think of all the things you might miss. Turn off the t.v. for one night. Put down even your book of the moment. Just sit and think on the delicate slow build of grace that has led you to where you are.

Look Underneath the Floorboards...

2009-03-20T18:54:00.000-07:00

"Then the disciples came and said to him, “Why do you speak to them in parables?” And he answered them, “To you it has been given to know the secrets of the kingdom of heaven, but to them it has not been given. For to the one who has, more will be given, and he will have an abundance, but from the one who has not, even what he has will be taken away. This is why I speak to them in parables, because seeing they do not see, and hearing they do not hear, nor do they understand. Indeed, in their case the prophecy of Isaiah is fulfilled that says:

“‘You will indeed hear but never understand,
and you will indeed see but never perceive.
For this people's heart has grown dull,
and with their ears they can barely hear,
and their eyes they have closed,
lest they should see with their eyes
and hear with their ears
and understand with their heart
and turn, and I would heal them.’

But blessed are your eyes, for they see, and your ears, for they hear. For truly, I say to you, many prophets and righteous people longed to see what you see, and did not see it, and to hear what you hear, and did not hear it." -- Matthew 13: 10-17

Believe it or not from the opening quote, this is actually a semi-sequel to my last post. It was rather late when I wrote it, so I published it unfinished just to get it out there. Because of the advanced hour, I think I failed to adequately communicate one of my main points about Paul Simon and Sufjan Stevens, which is their propensity for, to use the Kierkegaardian term, "indirect communication".

Let me step back a moment. One of Kierkegaard's obsessions is how one communicates about faith; he believes it to be impossible to do so directly. In the speaking of words about faith, something essential to the faith is lost. Therefore one must communicate indirectly through means such as irony and paradox. Though frustrating, these means help others by forcing them to appropriate faith for themselves.

Now, one does not have to wholeheartedly agree with Kierkegaard in order to recognize the value of indirect communication. Jesus used it often; without having done a tally, I would venture to say that a majority of what he says in the Gospels is indirect, whether through parables of merely intentionally veiled sayings. I remember Dr. McMahon, in his lecture on the Prodigal Son, mentioning that one of the purposes of the parables was to act as a catalyst for inward reflection -- to see oneself inside the parable.

We Americans have a distaste for irony and paradox. Our pragmatism pushes forward -- if words don't solve a problem, what's the point in wasting your breath? That is perhaps one reason we cling to science and technology, which give us a place to hang our hat; they promise straightforward answers which require little reflection (whether that twin headed beast actually delivers on that promise is more of an open question than some might imagine -- but that is a post for another day). Put another way, we love answers but despise questions.

So what does all of this have to do with Simon and Stevens, ostensibly the foci of this post? Well, part of what I tried to communicate last post (perhaps so indirectly as to be a bit too obscure) was that they were both masters of communicating about the lives of people not through lists or chronology, but through abstract word pictures, metaphors which succinctly capture what a human life is like.

Tonight I wish to expand on that a bit, because there is a double layer of indirect communication which often takes place in these songs (oh wouldn't Soren be proud!). At the same time as they use abstract pictures to convey the lives of people, Simon and Stevens also use those lives as illustrations of abstract concepts -- what a reflection! Let me give examples...

Paul Simon's song "Train in the Distance" has always been a favorite of mine off of his criminally underrated album Hearts and Bones (his lowest selling album, but in the top three of my favorites). On the surface it is a simple narrative: boy meets (married) girl, they fall in love and have a son, they start fighting and drift apart. It is filled with wonderful images (e.g. "She was beautiful as Southern skies the night he met her") which describe the process of two people falling in and out of love. But in reality the song is about more than just telling a story. It is about the restless longing which drives people ever onward, and sometimes drives them apart from what would really satisfy. This is best shown through the line which appears from verse to verse: "Everybody loves the sound of a train in the distance; everybody thinks it's true". What a beautiful, mysterious phrase. The train sounds its whistle, sweet and appealing from far away. Certainly it must continue to bear down on us, rooted inevitably to its track. Yet we ourselves are moving it along its terrible course; we fulfill our own predictions through the chug-chugging of our desires.

Sufjan Stevens is perhaps best known for his announced intention to write an album for each of the 50 states. Some see this as a tiresome gimmick, but what they fail to realize is that Stevens is gifted enough to make the idea work. What he is ultimately interested in is not cataloging the idiosyncracies of each member of the union (and thank goodness; I can only imagine the thrilling masterpiece that would be "North Dakota"), but using whatever concepts he chooses as platforms for his musings. Most of the tracks on his album Illinois work both as a description of things unique to Illinois and as meditation on some theme, often spiritual.

"John Wayne Gacy, Jr." is a startling track, unlike any other of which I can think. Relatively stripped down for a Stevens song, it is a tender acoustic number about everyone's favorite touchy-feely subject, a man who raped and killed teenage boys. What is so unnerving about the song is the tenderness which Stevens affords to Gacy. He details John Wayne's childhood traumas and treats his subject with remarkable sympathy. In the end his intention becomes clear: the song is a meditation on the hidden depths of sin in people's lives. Just like John Wayne hid the bodies underneath his floorboards, and hid behind a clown's facepaint, so Sufjan hides every day from those around him. The secret evils of the heart are buried deep, and we would rather no one stumble across them.

Two songs about an uncomfortable subject, the hidden destructiveness of sin. In Simon's song, the heart is a locomotive, charging ever forward to its wayward goals. For Stevens, the heart is a serial killer which hides its victims in shame. Hard words to hear, but that is the critical point. For indirect communication will always drive some away with its hard words -- indeed, that is the point! But without the offense there cannot be true faith, true greatness. The buffoon of much of Kierkegaard's Concluding Unscientific Postscript to Philosophical Fragments is the bumbling Assistant Professor, who is ripe with self confidence but low on actual greatness. He pontificates but never really creates; he is to be pitied above all others. This is essentially because he believes things can be known and communicated directly, out in the open; that things are easy to understand. This man, when he bumps up against the paradox of indirect communication, has no idea what to do. Jesus described himself as both the cornerstone but also the rock of offense, the stone of stumbling! Either you will balk at the paradox or embrace it.

One final point: I think that indirect communication is one hallmark of great poetry. It is not enough to simply record events; the role of the poet is to translate them into imaginative language. This is why Simon and Stevens are among the most poetic of songwriters; they transcend the song form and acheive real poetic value. Anyone can speak directly about life, but it takes a poet to tell you in veiled ways.

Ghosts and Empty Sockets

2009-03-18T19:30:00.000-07:00

Little revelations are wonderful. I feel as if lately I have had several striking insights into my tastes and preferences. There's a post in the works about my preference for documentaries over realistic fictional films (the reason for this came to me like a flash while I was showering one morning), but I thought I'd take a detour tonight to write about another startlingly abrupt realization.

Those of you who know me well are aware of my deep passion for the songs of Paul Simon. He is a giant of American pop music, at once capturing the hopes and fears of the moment (decade after decade) and also pushing his listeners forward into unexplored territories. Well, another favorite artist of mine, one more of my own generation, is Sufjan Stevens. I think some people find Stevens a bit off-putting, potentially for several reasons. His music is bizarre: minimalist but with lush orchestration, with lots of jangles and oddities and a shifting meter. His lyrics are strange and often obtuse.

Thinking about this brought about the aforementioned insight. Their is a lyrical connection between Paul Simon and Sufjan Stevens, a talent they share that few others possess, and something which draws me back to them both time and again. I realized that Simon and Stevens have a unique knack for narrative songs (with a little twist to be discussed later). Most songs you think of deal with a theme, an idea such as love or loneliness. They dwell on this subject for all of their three minutes. There is a good reason for this: how would you give the plot of a novel in song form and still get radio play? The format of pop music forbids drawn out narrative. The magic of Simon and Stevens, then, is that they both excel at providing what I will call "snapshot narrative". That is, they manage to tell a story in their songs -- often giving a life's worth of backstory -- but they do it in ultra-condensed word pictures.

For the purposes of comparison, I will pick a favorite song of mine from each of the artists. Simon's title track from his seminal album Graceland comes very close to perfection. The singer talks about a trip he is taking to Graceland in Memphis with his son. Packed into this is his sadness over the failure of his marriage. But Simon does not give us a run down of everything that went wrong, or the reasons his wife left, or even a detailed description of all the pain he felt. Instead, he gives us an infinite nothing: "She comes back to tell me she's gone; as if I'd never noticed, as if I didn't know my own bed. As if I'd never noticed, the way she brushed her hair from her forehead." Years of arguments and heartbreak are jammed into that little line, one of the most powerful I know.

There is so much going on in Steven's "Casimir Pulaski Day" that it can be hard to keep it straight. Stevens sings as a boy who loses his dear friend (and potential love interest) to cancer. Like Simon, Stevens can succinctly capture the complexity of relationships in a few words. "Goldenrod and the 4-H stone: the things I brought you when I found out you had cancer of the bone." The key to this writing is mystery: we do not know exactly what significance those gifts had, but the image opens up a window on the tenderness between the two.

Part of the job of the poet is to take experiences and translate them into imagery. It is not enough to describe; the creative genius of the poet lies in reimagining events in a new light, with new language. By this measure, Simon and Stevens are masters of the form; they are the rare singer/songwriters who are accomplished poets. They are not content to catalogue events; they translate happenings and emotions into beautiful pictures.

Turn, Turn, Turn

2009-03-12T20:53:00.000-07:00

Today Leslie and I had two of the last cups of Ethiopia Sidamo Koratie that Doubleshot will brew for a very long time (possibly ever). What a way to go out. It was the most perfect cup I have had in quite some time. Before he poured it, Garth described it as "buttery", and I could see what he meant. The mouthfeel was delicious, so chewy and viscous. The usual Sidamo richness was there, but this time I would swear that it tasted like Earl Grey. How could it get any better than my two favorite hot beverages melded together?

I always get sad when Doubleshot stops roasting a particularly good bean. When they stopped the Tanzania Ruvuma (still the best coffee I have ever had), it was a terrible day. Or the Sidamo MAO Horse, which tasted exactly like blueberries. I change very slowly, and take great comfort in familiar things. Because of this, losing a coffee is a bit like saying goodbye to a dear friend.

One of my favorite ideas in Lewis' Space Trilogy comes in Perelandra, when it comes out that, on Venus where no fall has happened, no creature wants anything out of season. That is to say, no one wishes for more of something when it is gone, or wants something outside of its limitations. What a beautiful image of what our lives should be. Accepting things as they come to us; enjoying them while they last, and letting them go when their time is over.

Friendship is like that. We so desperately want our friendships with people to stay exactly as they have always been; we tremble at the thought of undergoing any alteration. Yet change comes to us all; bodies move, or worse, souls drift apart. Though it is right to mourn the loss of these things, it is sin to keep longing after them when gone. What is more, it is only blindness which gives us these thoughts. We grasp to what has come before, not knowing that what comes next will be just as glorious, in its own way.

It is the terrible tension of our fallen state to want things we cannot have. We are torn apart from those we love without the capacity to deal with the separation. The state which would give us freedom to accept this comes only in glory. People often imagine heaven as one continuous togetherness with loved ones. This strikes me as a misunderstanding. In actuality "heaven" will be a physical reality on the new earth, with life restored to its original balance. We will work and see the fruits of our labor unfrustrated! Perhaps then, "heaven" does not entail never being apart from those we love, but being able to know that it is good to be with friends, and good to be apart from them. That we can find a sweet satisfaction in the moments we share with one another without wishing to prolong them forever.

It is like this with coffee, too. In some ways it is better that Sidamo Koratie go away, in order that new coffees might be roasted, might present their striking flavors to my tongue. It would be a sin for me to only want Sidamo Koratie for the rest of my life. Not merely a sin, but stupidity! Who knows what wonders I would miss out on, clutching at my cup of overworn Ethiopia? It is better this way. As I sucked the last life breath from the cup and threw it in the trash, I was content. What more is needed?

Mimesis

2009-03-07T05:34:00.000-08:00

Isn't it amazing how art evokes other art? I woke up this morning, fresh off of Karl's recital last night, with the desire to write poetry. Everything about the pieces he wrote was so raw and wonderful, so deeply affecting, that it made me remember why I write.

Sounds silly, maybe, but I think this week I almost forgot entirely. I started my job -- HR Temp at a hospital -- and I am grateful to have it, but something about working with Excel all day (or maybe it's the suffocating atmosphere of corporate America) choked out my remembrance of writing. Have you ever worked an 8 to 5 job? When you get home, all you want to do is fall onto the couch and play video games. Creating something of value really does take effort; I find it physically exhausting, and who has the energy to do two exhausting things in one day?

But good art is worth the trouble. To see Karl up there on stage, baring his soul, not hiding at all, moved me to tears. To hear such personal thoughts combined with sublime music was indescribable. I may never write anything half as good as Karl's songs,but he makes me want to try.

Why I Write (This)

2009-02-27T12:34:00.000-08:00

Since I have been spamming out movie reviews lately, I thought I would take a step back (and give my Netflix queue time to cool down) and write a meta-post about why I keep this blog (and for those of you who think that half the reason I decided to do this was to use the word "meta-post", you are wrong. It was at most 47% of the reason)

Probably the first and foremost reason I like to keep a blog is that it gives me a steady, reliable outlet for writing. The process of writing -- the formulation of what to say and the best possible way to say it, the slow tasting process of diction, sloshing each word around to see if it complements the rest -- appeals to me like little else. Much as I love playing the cello, even that lacks something which writing holds for me (probably involved in that is the creative aspect of writing compared to the reflective aspect of playing someone else's music).

Well then, why this particular blog? Why pick this format? I could, if I wanted, write one that was more personal, detailing the events of my life and my reflections on them. And I won't brush this aside by saying "Personal blogs are boring"; several people I know keep blogs about their lives and do it with skill, keeping it very interesting indeed. Maybe I am a little afraid of being boring; Lord knows my vanity would hate that. But beyond this, I just feel a prohibition concerning writing about my life. I have always been bad at keeping a private diary; multiply this by the pressures of a wider audience, and the difficulty grows. So yes, perhaps it is a move meant to deflect scrutiny, to keep a little distance, though the balance to this is that I think I do reveal myself often in my posts, even through indirect means.

Even more specifically, why pick this particular format and subject matter? Ah, now we get to the meat of what I have been thinking about. First of all, I love culture. High, low, pop, art; I love it all. I drink in the ability of music to elevate the senses, whether it be Beethoven's 9th or Eminem. I love the power of a well-written poem or story or essay to transform the mind. I thrill at the visceral pleasure of movies like Lawrence of Arabia. And yes, I hold a special place in my heart for that which shows us the failings of mankind's culture; the B-movies and mindless bubblegum pop which are a memento mori of our abilities. But this could be said of most people; even those with "low" taste generally have high levels of response to culture. Not everyone enjoys picking it apart the way I do, however. Some are content to experience and then dismiss it. Who knows, perhaps that purely experiential approach is the more fulfilling, but I cannot stop turning over in my mind the things which I experience. A confession: I do indeed enjoy the thrill of criticizing someone else's work (and I think I am snarky enough to make a good asshole critic), but I would much rather review something I enjoy, because those are the works which force me to stop and think about the way life is.

Zoom in one more notch with me. Why, having chosen to keep a blog about culture, do I make so obvious my Christian presuppositions? I could easily put these aside for the purpose of obtaining a more general critique (I avoid the word "objective" for this reason: while I believe that there is an objectivity about concepts like beauty, it is not something we can approach directly. Beauty is shrouded in fog, and we must sound it out as best possible.). This is, I feel, an important question for me to answer (and really to keep thinking about). In a sense I am fighting a two front war: I must defend the value of culture to Christians (who sometimes feel the desire to retreat entirely) while seeking to demonstrate to non-Christians who read this both that Christians can think critically and deeply about are and that Christ has everything to do with beauty and goodness, and that art apart from that context must inevitably fall short.

Allow me to clarify what I mean concerning each side of the issue. My family used to receive a monthly "magazine" which reviewed pop culture from a Christian persepective (mostly CD's and movies). The idea was to give parents a resource with which to guide their children, especially teens, toward good things. Unfortunately, what most of this reviewing consisted of was counting up the number of curse words and sexual references in a song or film and dismissing it on those grounds (or, on rare occasion, ok'ing it). There is something wrong with your criteria of guidance when you recommend Fireproof for viewing but not something like In Bruges. Or when you find more value in the vacuity of Michael W. Smith's latest album while dismissing the raw power of Jay-Z because he uses profanity. Please note that I am not saying that parents should let their children consume whatever, simply that the guiding process is more complex than some would like to admit.

Perhaps because of the general failure of Christians in America to think critically about art, most of the time their opinions are given very little weight. People in art movements have swung to the opposite extreme: they believe beauty can be found separately from goodness, that aestheticism is the god which will save mankind. This leads to all sorts of problems, not least of which is the dissolution of standards in favor of an anything goes mentality, where only the artist himself can determine the value of a work. The art world desperately needs people willing to be critical not just of particulars but of entire worldviews. If the foundation is shaky, how can the house be secure?

This is the unique position of the Christian, that he can see both man the image of God and man the fallen sinner, ruining all he touches. He can see the immense beauty of a work of art and the destructive impulses of art devoid of context. A Christian seeking after the mind of Christ does not divorce himself from the messiness of the world; he dives into it that he might point to the one who makes all things clean. This, then, is why I write this blog, that the reader might understand that, if truth and beauty would save us, it must not be through themselves but as a conduit for experiencing the grace of God.

A few caveats: first, to the unbelievers here, welcome. I want you to read and comment galore and never feel as if I am judging you or looking down on you. This is not Sunday School, nor is it a Jack Chick tract. My purpose is not to win converts by convincing them that I am right. What I said earlier about beauty applies: we are all in the sounding-out process, and forbid it that I should think that only I have the right perspective (or others like me). I learn more and more every day about beauty, and I am constantly surprised by it. Just as many great artists create without being Christians, so most of my favorite critics of culture do not share my presuppositions. When I am arrogant (and it will happen), please correct me.

Second, a thought about the usefulness of this blog. Sure, I have made some grand sounding claims about the role of Christianity in thinking about art. But I don't write for the New York Times or have any influence in Hollywood. I'm just a recent college graduate with too much time on his hands and a readership you could count on ten fingers (which reminds me: if you like my blog, tell your friends!). What good am I doing? My defense is simple; I'm not writing this to change the world, I'm simply trying to get my thoughts organized and out there, and to hear the thoughts of others whose opinions I value.

Last, on thinking over this (I started writing a few days ago and only just came back to clean it up a bit) I realized that parts of it could be construed as a defensive response to direct criticism or questions from people. That is not the case; most of the point-counterpoint comes from conversations within my own head, and the original impetus for writing all this was just a desire to get my own thoughts about the purpose of this blog in order.

madness... Madness... MADNESS!

2009-02-24T11:42:00.000-08:00

I watch too many movies. Monday's culprit was The Devil and Daniel Johnston, a documentary about a troubled but legendary folk singer. Watching, I could not help but think of the other "crazy but brilliant musician" doc I have seen in the past six months, Wesley Willis: The Daddy of Rock and Roll. Some of the similarities between the two are uncanny:

Both unemployed (and essentially unemployable)
Both with rabid cult followings
Both producing music of questionable value
Both gifted visual artists
Both deeply religious
Both with mental illnesses
Both claiming to battle against demons (in the real, not metaphorical sense)
Both wrote songs about Casper, the Friendly Ghost

My questions for the day: what draws us to these men and others like them? What about walking the line between genius and insanity appeals to us? How much of their popularity stems from their instability?

Perhaps a quick rundown of the two is in order. Wesley Willis (sadly now deceased) was a homeless man who would roam the streets of Chicago playing his songs on a Casio Keyboard. The basic template for his songs was to take one of the premade tracks on the keyboard and loop it, singing in his gravelly voice overtop with cut and paste lyrics (a sampling of song titles: "I whipped Superman's ass", "I whooped Mighty Thor's ass", "I whupped Batman's ass", "Birdman kicked my ass"). Really any description fails to do him justice, so here's a chance to listen to the man himself: I would especially recommend "Rock and Roll McDonald's" (profanity free!) and "Cut the Mullet".

Daniel Johnston, meanwhile, is a folkish singer who at least has less of a schtick than Wesley Willis. All of his songs are different from one another, and he has legitimate talent as a piano player. The only problem? On most of his songs he chooses to play guitar, an instrument with which he is far less skilled. Additionally, his voice is the most horrendous sound known to man, a plaintively squeaky affair. Also, though he does not just cut and paste his lyrics like Willis, his "poetry" is hardly better; awkwardly metered, it never quite seems to fit into his music.

Now for the amazing part: both of these men in their prime gained massive cult followings. Johnston is an icon in the Austin music scene and gained national exposure in the early '90's when Kurt Cobain started incessantly wearing a Johnston t-shirt for his public appearances. Willis never had that measure of fame, but was pretty legendary in underground music circles, often touring the nation.

One might be immediately tempted to think that the adoration of these two figures was yet another ironic move by today's jaded society. Yet this cannot be completely the case. I will admit that most people I know who listen to Wesley Willis do so for the sheer ridiculousness of it, but there were many people in the documentary who took his work seriously (or did a very good job pretending to do so). With Johnston the admiration is even more clear cut: critics and friends describe his first work as better than early Dylan or Robert Johnson.

I think that there are several possible explanations for this seemingly misguided adoration. One would be the pursuit of novelty. The phrase that people keep using about Johnston's songs is that they are "unlike anything you have heard". This I cannot deny. Certainly Willis' music has no known ancestry, as my previous inability to adequately describe it would suggest. But does this legitimate interest in them? There are plenty of novel things in the world which I have no interest in experiencing. The problem with the cult of the genius is that it demands novelty, such that, to paraphrase Dr. Gardner, "You start out with Mozart and 200 years later you wind up with a bullwhip sticking out of your ass."

Is that it, though? Do people obsess over Johnston and Willis merely for sake of observing the strange and exotic? If this were so, I do not think they would hold the staying power they do over people. The answer, rather, lies in the very fact that both the artists battle against mental illness. Do not misunderstand; it isn't as if people take pity on them and listen to their music like you would congratulate a second grader for drawing disproportionate stick figures. What I mean is that both men have veered toward insanity but in doing so have created works of searing, raw power.

Again, a clarification: I do not find much of artistic value in the music of either Johnston or Willis, nor do I listen to them with great regularity (though I do enjoy the occasional Willis song). What I find appealing about their work is its primal intensity, its desperation. When Johnston sings about lost love, you can feel his heart being ripped from his chest. When Willis sings "My Mother Smokes Crack Rocks", it is easy to imagine Wesley the child cowering in the corner as his mother winds her way into oblivion. And when either sings about faith, it is something to behold. Johnston wailing about going to the funeral home is enough to put the fear of God in anyone, and one of my favorite Willis moments comes in his surprisingly touching "Jesus Christ", where the childlike rhymes hide a tender affection for Christ.

In a sense, I think, this sort of power comes only from direct experience with "battling demons". Whatever your views on the actual existence of demonic beings, the two men clearly are engaged in a war within themselves. They are no cut and paste saints. One of the harrowing parts of the Johnston documentary is the account by Johnston's father of the time when Daniel forced his father to cut the engines on their small plane and took over the controls, doing loop-the-loops before relinquishing the controls in time for his father to bail them out. Clearly Johnston is a disturbed man, dangerous when he is off medication. But this same man can speak earnestly of faith and it does not seem a contradiction. Likewise, Willis is a man who penned both the heartfelt "Jesus Christ" and the shockingly profane series of songs about sucking certain appendages of various large cats. Again, you get the sense that this is not mere hypocrisy or posturing on Willis' part, but rather an expression of the duality inside him.

The artist as mad genius is a common enough idea, one that nevertheless holds a unique appeal. Perhaps it is a matter of transcendence; we think that the artist, already reaching new heights of ecstasy through his work, will be propelled even higher by psychosis (or perhaps mind-altering drugs). We in the modern world long for art to save us, for the artist to step in as the one mediator between the gods and man. Johnston and Willis are refreshing, then, in the ways in which they shatter the myth of the insane artist. Madness for them is no desired muse; it is a destructive force in their lives. Yet it does lend their work a certain gravity. Rather than ascension, it gives their music the quality of descending down into the earth -- not in the mundane but the grave sense. Such earthy quality might scare you, but do not hold it against them; after all, you must die to be born again.

A Place of Quiet

2009-02-21T14:46:00.000-08:00

I've been turning over my last post in my head quite a bit. I tend to do this, to obsess over what I've written or said for days on end. The nice thing about blogging is the ability to be proactive and do something about it. Anyway, I have been thinking about one aspect of In Bruges which I touched on briefly in my review but did not give as much space to as I would have liked.

When talking about the structure of the film, I mentioned that Martin McDonagh has a wonderful way of circling around a subject without coming out and yelling the point in your face. The death of the little boy hangs over the film, but only sticks its head into the open on rare occasion. This makes so much sense given the nature of what has happened.

Do you want to know how to comfort a grieving person? When mom died, there was no end to the awkward sympathy people gave me. What would have been better is if people had talked to me about anything else, or had just sat with me in silence. I am not saying that you should never talk to a suffering person about what they are experiencing, but quite often what is best is to allow for the space the person needs to process all that is happening to them.

We are so afraid of silence that we will create any sort of noise, however unpleasant, to block our ears from the deafening roar of quiet. We have learned to love instant gratification, and we expect that any problem we have with another will be immediately solved head on. In a sense we have become deaf to the subtle movements of the heart, the way those around us communicate what is really happening.

Have you had a wonderful conversation like this? Something obviously is going on, but you and the other person talk of everything but the matter at hand. Some find this irritating (myself included), but if we really stop to listen, I think we will find that things are being talked about.

Kierkegaard returns again and again to the idea that faith cannot be directly communicated, that something essential is lost in that secret translation between tongue and ear. He has hit something there. Plenty of Christians want to preach the gospel at people without giving space for the words to resound. We would do well to remember that though we plant, it is God who grows the seed. Yelling louder will not aid this flowering a tenth as much as keeping our peace. Be still, and know.

Like a F*@#ing Fairy Tale

2009-02-20T08:59:00.000-08:00

Well, it was a photo finish, right down to the wire, but I have my favorite films of the year. Obviously this comes with the disclaimer that, as a poor college student, I don't get much of a chance to see things till they come out on video, which creates some gaps. I didn't see my favorite film of last year, There Will Be Blood, until after awards season had come and gone. This year there were many films I wish I had seen (Happy Go Lucky, Rachel Getting Married, Standard Operating Procedure, My Winnipeg) but have not yet had the chance to catch. I don't even have enough films to make a top 10, but I would like to briefly discuss my three favorites.

Running third is Wall E, about which not much needs to be said. If you haven't seen it, shame on you. It is a beautiful, stark film which pushes the boundaries of animation.

In a surprise tie for first are two different but equally striking films. For a more full assessment of Slumdog Millionaire, you can read a few posts back. My other favorite film is one I just recently saw from the comfort of my own home (ah, the power of Netflix), and one that surprised me with its intricacies.

In Bruges is the filmmaking debut of Irish playwright Martin McDonagh, and what a debut. Part dark comedy, part crime drama, In Bruges avoids the perils inherent in making a multi-genre film (primarily a loss of identity) and in the end becomes something even more than those two things. In its own bizarre way, it is a striking meditation on sin and guilt, a full contact wrestling match over law and grace.

First a bare bones summary: Ken and Ray and hitmen who are sent to hide out in Bruges, a sleepy town in Belgium, after one of them accidentally kills a child. Most of the film focuses on their adventures in Bruges. Ken (brilliantly played by Brendan Gleeson), the older and more grizzled of the two, becomes almost childlike as he explores the medieval sights of the town. Meanwhile Ray (a surprisingly likeable Colin Farrell) is bored to distraction, at least until he stumbles across a movie set where he finds a belligerent American "little person" actor and a very pretty girl to occupy his time. They spend their days in this mixture of ennui and wonder, all the while awaiting instructions from their boss, Harry. A fateful set of circumstances sets in motion the final third of the film, which becomes more of a crime drama than a fish out of water comedy, but resolves into a bittersweet but very satisfying ending.

That the film won me over is a little astounding. Being written by a playwright, it is first and foremost character and dialog driven. I tend to be wary of films like this because of the great danger of them becoming self-consciously clever (see Juno, a film I enjoyed but that was inhibited by its incessant "cute-speak"). McDonagh, however, pulls off a masterful stroke, crafting a genuinely funny and moving screenplay which remains true to its characters every step of the way (McDonagh is up for best original screenplay at the Oscars, and it will be a shame if he does not win -- which he probably won't). There are strange diversions aplenty -- meditations on the use of the word "alcoves" and a discussion of the impending war between white and black midgets (sorry, dwarves), but you never get the sense that McDonagh threw in these lines for cheap laughs.

What makes In Bruges truly special, though, is the way the dialog circles around serious points. At the heart of the movie is the tragedy of the death of a little boy (the flashback to his death provides a perfect balance between tragedy and comedy, and is one of the most sublime moments in the film), and the guilt which accompanies it, both as an internal and external consequence. I very much appreciated the seriousness with which all the characters take the act; there is no easy moral about "learning to forgive yourself" or something stupid and new-agey like that. The killer is judged not by intentions but by his actions. Sin and guilt, punishment and Hell, are very present things. Yet the film does not come across as preachy; in fact the subjects are hardly brought up at all, only touched on in subtle ways.

Tied into this is the central difference between the three main characters (N.B. In case you haven't noticed, I am doing my best to remain "spoiler free". This necessitates some vagueness on my part. I apologize.) The difference between them is that two are dominated by the law, and one by grace. This radically alters what will become of them. The two who are law-oriented reap according to that, and the one who understands grace does the same. That is the beauty in the ending of the film, which some might scratch their heads at. Everything which happens makes perfect sense: it is according to the nature of the characters, but there is also a sense of basic rightness about it.

One more thing about the film, since some of my readers might be a bit sensitive. Though I believe it is one of the best meditations on faith I have seen in a long time, In Bruges does not shy away from getting its hands dirty. It has about as much (and as bad) profanity as I have heard in a film, so if that sort of thing is a turn off to you, stay away. But be warned, in doing so you will be missing something wonderful and human. It reminds me (appropriately) of Frederick Buechner's novel Brendan, about the Irish saint. His life too was brusque and ribald, yet full of grace. Not to stereotype, but I think that might be part of the Irish character: that they understand grace so much better because they are an earthy people, unafraid to roll around in the dirt of life. What a shame that so often Christians miss out on grace because they are so afraid of getting their hands dirty. I wish that most "Christian" films had a tenth of the understanding of important things that In Bruges posseses. It dares to be serious and real, and because of its integrity it is a triumphant film.

P.S. It's pronounced "Broozh".

Make 7 Up (and the rest) Yours

2009-02-18T13:19:00.000-08:00

"Give me a child until he is seven, and I will give you the man." -- Jesuit saying

Hello all -- first things first, I want to apologize for the scarcity of posting as of late. It's been two weeks, and they've flown by for me. First I had problems connecting to the internet from my house, but even after that got fixed I didn't feel like writing for awhile. I've been a bit depressed over unemployment and other things; nothing serious, but when I get blue my desire to write vanishes posthaste. I will, as atonement, attempt to post pretty regularly for the next few days.

On to the fun stuff! Monday saw Alex and I watching 49 Up and thereby completing what has so far been made of the fascinating "Up Series" of documentaries. The story goes that in 1963, Granada television in Britain made a documentary about the lives of 14 British schoolchildren, all around the age of seven. They cut a wide swath through British society: upper class, lower class, city, country, suburban -- all kinds of children were involved. Granada sat them down and interviewed them on all sorts of topics: school, poor and rich people, the opposite gender, and their hopes for the future. I get the impression that, at first, no one knew if anything more would come of it, but director Michael Apted has gone back every seven years to revisit them and find out about their lives (as I said, they are through 49; 56 should come out in 2011 or 2012). Amazingly, all but two have stayed with the series somewhat consistently (a few drift in and out, disappearing for one but then coming back).

What exactly is the significance of these films (or, rather, film in the singular, as I think it should be regarded)? Originally it was to "get a glimpse into Britain's future"; Apted admits that the liberal Granada had somewhat of an agenda to stress the class differences between the children. Yet in the end, class comes up very little in the films. Early on Apted wisely abandoned any social agenda in favor of simply getting to know his subjects. This, I think, is the film's true power, that it deals in delicately human stories, never sacrificing personal intimacy for some overbearing attempt to find meaning. Put another way, it lets the characters speak for themselves, and though some are guarded, the end result is a startling display of honesty.

Accordingly, one of the biggest strengths of the filmmaking is simply getting the hell out of the way. I wholeheartedly salute Apted and Co. for making themselves mostly unobtrusive, and not trying to impress through ridiculous flourishes. With a few exceptions, the subjects are mostly filmed in their natural habitats, at home and comfortable. The camerawork tends to be simple but clean. Perhaps the only part of the film which really stands out is its editing. As the different segments come along, there is more and more material to be juggled (each installment tends to review the lives of the subjects up to that point by intercutting old footage), and the daunting task of picking the right clips is pulled off with aplomb.

As I mentioned, the real strength of the film is simply the concept itself. Though none of the children grew up to lead epic (or in a strict sense important) lives, each has something fascinating to offer: a window into the ways they have and have not changed since they were seven. Young compassionate Bruce, wanting to be a missionary, who grows up to teach in the inner city. Disenchanted Suzy, who spends two films utterly uninterested in life, only to turn into a loving wife and mother and find a delightful warmth. Bright eyed Neil, who finds himself cowed by the harsh realities of life, only to acheive a redemption of sorts. Upper class nitwit John, who stays the consumate snob through 21 only to become a kind, caring middle aged person. The wonderful thing about this is how open most of the subjects are, and how the very process of filming seems to open up their self-awareness. Things that remained stored in the back of their minds for years suddenly come spilling out on camera. One of my favorite examples of this is when Tony, the poor boy who dreamed of being a jockey, blurts out at age 21 that his greatest ambition would be to have a baby son, and that doing so would see his ambition fulfilled. "No one knows that, except you", he says sheepishly to the camera.

I would like to spend the rest of this post just describing some of the characters, that you would have your curiosity piqued and would want to discover their lives for yourself. Nicholas comes in at age 7 as the token country boy, very curious and cheerful, though sometimes guarded (his famous quote when asked about girls: I don't answer those sort of questions). At 14 he is a reclusive youth, his eyes avoiding the camera. Yet he dreams big: escaping the confines of the farm for the halls of higher learning. By 21 he is at Oxford, finishing up a degree in physics (or whatever you earn at college in Britain. As a side note, I discovered that pretty much every facet of English life is labyrinthine, from the schools to the legal system. I gave up early on trying to figure out the differences between public and state and comprehensive and every other type of school). At 28 he and his wife have left the UK for Madison, Wisconsin, where he will be for the rest of the films, teaching and doing research into nuclear energy. Eventually he and his British-born wife divorce, leaving him with little contact with his son, and he remarries an American. What I love about Nicholas is his insatiable curiosity. At 7 he "wants to find out about the moon and all that"; by 28 he teaches "all that" at a university. Little wonder that he kept on expanding, eventually leaving his homeland for new opportunities. Yet for all this, he is very conflicted. He desperately misses Britain and his family -- even the countryside he so reviled at 14. When the filmmakers take him back to the Yorkshire dales at 35, something inside of him seems to come alive, something primal waiting to leap out. The country, far from inhibiting his curiosity, helped develop it.

Jackie, one of the poor girls in 7 Up, provides a fascinating character sketch while simultaneously being one of the least likeable subjects of the film. She is defensive and combatative every step of the way. (In a meta-moment in 49 Up, she and Michael discuss their feuds over the years. "I like it when you yell at me", Michael confesses) Questions about social class especially seem to enrage her; she does not like the suggestion that the upper classes have gotten on better than her. Yet for all her prickles, she really is intriguing. Married at 19, she and her husband decide early on that they will not have children ("I'm too selfish" she admits in 28). After she and her husband split up, she gains a baby boy from a brief relationship. By 42 she has two others from another man. To see the transformation in her, from completely self-absorbed to giving her life to serve her children, is a touching one. Moreover, to see the joy her children bring her is a marvel. In my mind this is one of the most touching transformations that takes place in the film.

Lastly we have Neil, who seems to be the favorite of many. At 7 he was cheerful and energetic, but by 14 you can see signs of him slowing down. Rejected by Oxford, he attended Aberdeen University for one semester before dropping out. At 21 he does "casual labor", squats in a London apartment, and rails against his upbring; "I feel like I've been kicking in mid-air this whole time", he says. From 28 through 42, he has no job and lives off of social security benefits. Moreover, he drifts from place to place: Scotland in 28, the Shetland Islands in 35, back to London in 42, and northern England in 49. Eccentric to an extreme, he has much trouble forming relationships and spends most of his time alone. In one of the most searing moments of the film, Michael asks Neil if he thinks he is going mad, and Neil implies that he is. Everything about Neil's trajectory is ominous. Will he end up dead in a ditch somewhere, or go on a killing spree of his own? Yet there are signs of hope: in 35 he has found a hobby in acting and directing local plays. Then, in 42, the resurrection: while still jobless, Neil has become a councilman in London. Politics seems to change him, give him a purpose. By 49 he is drawing a salary as a councilman in northern England. The man who drifted so long seemed to finally find a port.

Two other things I found touching about Neil. One was his faith. At 21 he was wracked with doubts; he says that he thinks about the existence of God a lot but hasn't come to any conclusions. By 35, he hints that faith has helped him, and it gradually plays a more significant part in his story. What touches me about this is the simple nature of it; no grandiose flourishes or soapboxing from Neil. He clings to Christ because he is a man who has nothing else. The other wonderful thing is his brief but significant friendship with another of the subjects, our friend Bruce the missionary. When he returned to London before 42 Up Bruce (still unmarried at the time) offered to put him up for awhile. The two became friends, and to see the tender affection between them is a testament to true friendship, which crosses boundaries.

The question will probably go unanswered: does the child at 7 reflect the full grown adult? What then, in the end, is the value of the Up films? Simply put, they tell simple stories of simple people who just live their lives, only to get interrupted every 7 years. Is anything more necessary? The importance stems from the humanity of them, the tender way in which each of the stories unfolds. Without that, the films would be just another novelty. Instead, they are a refreshing look at the lives of individuals.

Let the Great Experiment Begin!

2009-02-04T14:45:00.000-08:00

Today I went in to take the skills test for a job with the U.S. Census Bureau. The test was comprised of 28 questions, only ten of which needed to be answered correctly in order to qualify. Since all the questions were about on the 5th grade level (alphabetise this list... add these sums), I spent about half of the 30 minutes alloted to me drawing on my scrap paper. In the process of doing so, I had the most scathingly brilliant idea.

If any of you have seen my drawings, you know that I am probably the world's worst artist. My figures rarely come out proportional, my grasp on perspective is limited at best, and I even have trouble drawing a straight line. This provoked a small but steady thought in my brain: "I wonder what it would be like if someone like me tried submitting their work to art galleries, museums, agencies, etc." At first this thought merely tickled my fancy, but as I stopped to think about it, I realized that I had the kernel of a potentially interesting idea. So I have decided that my major project for the coming year will be this: get a sketchbook and other art supplies and go crazy making a portfolio and writing an artistic statement. In the process, keep a detailed journal of the creative mind at work. When finished, send the portfolio off to different places and wait for responses. Record said responses for posterity. In the end, I should have an interesting account of what it is like being an artist in 21st Century America. Who knows, maybe if the writing's good enough I'll submit the whole thing (lovely illustrations included) to a publisher. Even if not, I'll keep it around for my own pleasure.

It's All Greek to Me...

2009-02-02T12:38:00.000-08:00

"What those ancient Greeks, who after all did know a little about philosophy, assumed to be a task for a whole lifetime... with that everyone begins in our age... Faith was then a task for a whole lifetime, because it was assumed that proficiency in believing is not acquired either in days or in weeks. When the tried and tested oldster approached his end, had fought the good fight and kept the faith, his heart was still young enough not to have forgotten the anxiety and trembling that disciplined the youth, that the adult learned to control, but that no man outgrows -- except to the extent that he succeeds in going further as early as possible. The point attained by those venerable personages is in our age the point where everyone begins in order to go further." --Johannes de Silentio in Fear and Trembling

Fear and Trembling is an outstanding book by one of history's greatest thinkers, and within its astounding whole it contains many small bits that are wonderful to chew on thoroughly, savouring the wisdom of Kierkegaard. This brilliant selection is from the Preface, and in fact sets up one of the major problems of the book. In the interest of masticating completely before swallowing, I will take this quote in a somewhat different direction than the context dictates, but one with which I think Kierkegaard would agree.

The question I will pose today: why are our children not given a thorough grounding in Greek philosophy by the time they exit high school? Does this seem like a stupid question? Many people, even academics, regard philosophy with an (un)studied distaste. Certainly much modern (I use the term in a general, not a technical, sense) philosophy engages in silly semantic disputes and intellectually masturbatory thought projects. This has less to do with the nature of philosophy than the nature of philosophers. In fact, these self-satisfied charlatans provide even more evidence that what is needed is a return to the bedrock of thought.

Essentially, what Western Civilization has produced is a society largely devoid of people who can think. Note that I am not saying society is stupid (that is a different question entirely); merely that most people can't or won't think in a clear, consistent manner. I believe that this is a result of having gone beyond the Greeks.

What, exactly, do I mean? I mean that when people set out to think about things or solve problems, they take for granted an indescribably long list of assumptions which they do not question. Nor have they ever questioned these assumptions. They stand entrenched, never wondering if the foundations are secure. (Perhaps I should take a moment to offer this disclaimer: I consider myself to be very much a part of my society. This is in no way an attempt to place myself above others; I too engage in all the activities I describe. I have a very great distance to go before I could even be fit to untie Socrates' sandals).

The point I am driving at is this: most people, when considering a problem, engage in a very great amount of intellectual arrogance. Take any political problem, and you will usually find that both sides clamour voraciously for their position. Dig a little deeper, and you will find that they do not even acknowledge the existence of their presuppositions. This is why so much political discourse is useless; the opposing sides may as well be talking about the completely different issues, from the lack of clarity about what precisely is at stake.

Or take an academic discipline. I will use sociology as an example, because I find so many unexamined presuppositions among its practitioners, and it is a little less controversial than, say, one of the hard sciences (I will sometime talk about the hard sciences and their faulty presuppositions, but that is another post entirely). *Disclaimer: I do not wish to besmirch sociology as a whole. I know quite a few sociology majors and respect them, and the only soc class I took in college was taught by a very good, very sane professor.*

Before beginning a career in sociology, one should presumably engage in s study of how sound a pursuit it is. What kind of knowledge is gained from sociology, and how does one obtain it. Is it a logical process? An empirical one? An ethical? Intuitive? Imaginative? Once we have answered this, we may proceed to ask other questions. How much stock should we put in the answers we receive? Are our findings indisputable truth, or are they an imaginative insight into the human situation?

Unfortunately this is not what you find in the majority of cases. Fools rush in; the basic principles of sociology go unquestioned in the haste to make a profound statement (the assumption that leaps to my mind in the case of sociology is the idea that sociology is a scientific pursuit, and the assumption which underlies that- even more pernicious- that it must be scientific in order to have value). From that point on, however interesting the data I collect, something will be missing from my sociological work.

This sort of going beyond quickly spreads to all of society. Once an academic pursuit is established, its findings are usually presented as irrefutable by wider society. Anyone with a PhD. is suddenly qualified to make any statement, however outlandish and have it regarded as credible. Not that I think it is wrong to have authorities on subjects, but accepting something without thinking about it first is a dangerous fallacy which we all commit day after day.

Put another way, we as a society are essentially technology driven, not knowledge driven. That is, we look for solutions which work and then move on, not bothering to wonder whether something is actually true. As a result we love having our presuppositions ready made for us, and we are eager to devour any warmed over thought system sent our way.

But wait, you may say, that isn't the case. We as a society value cynicism; we question everything! In reply: first, that simply isn't true. Cynicism may hold sway in certain sectors, but it is by no means the norm. Second, even this sorry excuse for cynicism in society proves my point, for it is a shallow cynicism indeed. Our cynics latch firmly like leeches onto their banner cry "There is no truth!", but none I have met have ever clearly thought through their reasons for such an attachment. Their cynicism is based on nothing more than a puerile distaste for authority (as witnessed in the intellectual inconsistency of most cynics, who in fact only doubt what is inconvenient to them), not a detailed examination of the limits of epistemology.

Alright, this has been a long post already, and you may find yourself wondering what all this has to do with teaching Greek philosophy to our youngsters. We, like Kierkegaard's age, have gone beyond the Greeks. We have hastily built up our system of knowledge but never pored over it for cracks. We consider it a small thing to move beyond Plato, since obviously we are much more advanced than he. Yet is this really the case? What if we are the simple ones?

This raises another point: our chronological bias against the Greeks. This comes in two flavours: first, we think that, since we come much later, we have obviously accumulated much more knowledge and wisdom than they. But this assessment only works if you consider human knowledge to be constantly progressing. Is this really the case? True, we may gain more facts about the remote operations of the galaxy, but has our knowledge of mankind really expanded? Or have we been chasing down rabbit holes, leading to nowhere? Pound for pound, the Greeks tend to be more profound about human nature than any modern commentator.

Second, we tend to view the Greeks as so old (and Lord knows we detest old things). Like a creaking wheel, the Greeks have worn out their welcome among us. But, viewed from another angle, it is not they who are old, but us. We live 2,000 years after them, with the weight of all those epochs bearing down on our bones. They are the youth of the human race, filled to the brim with curiosity and wonder. We are the old, dyspeptic senior citizens, so deeply mired in a rut that we fail even to recognize the hole we have dug.

By introducing our children to Plato and Aristotle (as well as less obvious things such as Greek tragedy) at a young age, I believe we may begin to counteract the thoughtlessness which is rampant in society. Let us start with Socrates. This infernal gadfly on the backs of the Athenians has much to teach us about questioning our presuppositions. Many men of Socrates' day went about their lives never bothering to question their basic ideas about the good, the just, the beautiful. But that darned Socrates would not leave them alone. He would always butt in with some remark which showed their presuppositions to be empty posturing (no wonder they put him to death!). What better remedy to the sleepy thought of modernity that the harsh bite of the gadfly?

If Socrates was the wrecking ball operator of Greek philosophy, smashing down tottering buildings, then Aristotle was the dedicated mason, patiently building his system brick by brick. And what a system! Has anyone in the history of thought come close to the depth and breadth of knowledge displayed by Aristotle? These days we smugly dismiss Aristotle because many of his ideas, especially regarding physics and the like, have turned out to be untrue (at least by our estimation). But the value in studying Aristotle comes not so much from his ideas (although those still hold a great deal of water) but from the thorough clarity with which he writes. Aristotle leaves no stone unturned, and he is fascinated even by the little things we would dismiss as fundamental to our own investigations.

Of course, I have no expectations that something like this will ever be implemented. Still, perhaps one of the ten people reading this will be inspired, and will start reading the Symposium aloud while their first child is still in the womb.

List!

2009-01-30T07:21:00.000-08:00

One of the most addicting features of the new internet style of communication is the abundance of lists. No longer relegated to David Letterman, lists have become a phenomenon of sorts on message boards everywhere. I find myself strangely attracted to lists: they promise so much (20 Greatest Films about Sports-Playing Animals!!!) yet often fail to deliver the goods. I prefer lists that don't just provide the bare bones of a numerically ordered system, but delve into the reasons behind the choices.

Today, then, I provide a top ten (of sorts) with a distinct purpose behind it: to illustrate what I find pleasurable in a classic rock song. This is by no means my definitive "TOP TEN CLASIC (sic) ROCK SONGS" list; I would say it is extremely malleable (especially the bottom five or so; my top five are more definite). But, they are all songs I happen to like (enough to think of them when considering what to put on this list), and most of them have something to say about what I like in a rock song. Also, I have avoided giving more than one song by a group (otherwise the list might be entirely dominated by the Allman Brothers Band, only the greatest rock and roll group in history).

As a sort of a spoiler, I will say that generally I enjoy stripped down songs. Give me a relentless riff over a self-congratulatory solo anyday. This works with lyrics, too. Less is more. So, without further ado, here it is:

10 Classic Rock Songs That Are Good

10. Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers -- Won't Back Down
As I was thinking this list over, I knew I needed to include some Tom Petty. He represents a style I like very much; his music tends to be lean and desperate. Still, it was a tough decision, because TP+tHB are a band that I listen to more for the overall effect than individual songs. Oh sure, I'll always keep the radio tuned to "Free Fallin'" if it comes on, but that's out of sentimentality as much as anything. I think my favorite Tom Petty song is probably Won't Back Down; a simple but catchy little riff and Tom and his most inspirational.

9. Styx -- Renegade
Yes, Styx. Look, don't be unduly influenced by Mr. Roboto (which is a great song in its own way); Styx brings the rock and roll. It came down to this song and Come Sail Away, which I do happen to like very much, despite its ridiculousness (or perhaps because of it). In the end, Come Sail Away is the type of rock song I generally dislike, but Styx takes it so far that it works. Renegade, however, is pure goodness. The jerky rhythm, relentless driving motion, and mangy singing are beautiful. And you cannot deny the greatness when they sing "Hangman is coming down from the gallows and I don't have very long".

8. Aerosmith -- Rag Doll
I must confess, I don't much care for Aerosmith, on the whole and for the most part (especially late period, verging on self-parody Aerosmith). But Rag Doll captures perfectly the things I do enjoy about them: an upbeat, catchy riff, a bouncy beat, some nifty guitar work, and totally ridiculous lyrics.

7. Blood, Sweat, and Tears -- Spinning Wheel
This is one awesome acid trip of a song. I generally like brass infused rock, and no one does it better than BS&T. Again, less is more; the song is fairly simple and repetitive, which makes it all the more effective when the freak out moment comes. Also, the song does a really good job of capturing the feel of a fair, particularly the creepiness of the carousel.

6. T Rex -- Bang a Gong (Get it On)
How awesome is this song? Well, the Rolling Stones felt compelled to rip T Rex off by stealing the riff from Get it On for It's Only Rock and Roll. Dirty cheaters. This song just rocks, from that famous riff to Bolan's seedy voice to the slightly ridiculous glam chorus. (Side note: does anyone know who did the cover of this song which is sometimes played on the radio? Cause that is a travesty).

5. The Edgar Winter Group -- Frankenstein
Top five time! And to usher it in, our first (and only) instrumental. If you somehow haven't heard this song, shame on you. It is delicious from start to finish, from the opening lick to the awesome drum solo which makes you wait forever and a half for the melody to re-enter. Any song that can make me like the saxophone has something right.

4. Queen -- Fat Bottomed Girls
Oh, were you expecting Bohemian Rhapsody? Look, I don't hate that song by any stretch of the imagination, but it does represent the excesses which I dislike in classic rock. FBG, on the other hand, is awesomeness distilled down to its core. It is a song you feel embarrassed to sing along with, yet you do it every time.

3. Creedence Clearwater Revival -- Fortunate Son
I consider CCR one of the best producers of pure (or simple) rock. They have little use for elaborate solos or convoluted lyrics, yet they do more in 2 minutes than many bands do in 7. Fortunate Son is one angry powder keg of a song about the illusion of the American Dream. Too bad it still gets played at patriotic events everywhere. Fogerty's steely rage almost makes me forget Centerfield.

2. The Allman Brothers Band -- Whipping Post
The Allman Brothers Band is known most for the live performances, which are epic in nature. One reason I think they were so good jamming it up for 20 minutes is that they kept their songs simple in structure, but they still contained lots of room to move around and improvise. Whipping Post is a monster song. The opening riff is perfect, the bluesey feel works so well with the subject matter, and Gregg Allman sounds like a broken heart incarnate. Flawless.

1. Led Zeppelin -- When the Levee Breaks
Screw Stairway to Heaven (for my thoughts on it please see Rhapsody, Bohemian). This is the real masterpiece from LZ 4. The boomy drumbeat, like a tribal call to war; the wailing harmonica which drags you through the mud of the Delta; Plant singing like a man with a demon inside him; the slow boil of the way the song builds on itself over the course of its 6 minutes; all these things add up to the greatest rock and roll song of all time.

So, there's my take. What are your favorite classic rock songs? Let the comments begin!

Slummin' It

2009-01-29T09:15:00.000-08:00

Yes, the rumors are true; I am back to posting on my blog, hopefully on a regular basis. True, I have often claimed this in the past, but my comparative abundance of free time (especially now, when I have no gainful employment to occupy my labor) should enable me to keep up relatively well. If not, keep bothering me; what I will not do from pleasure, I will do to stop from being disturbed. Now, on to the post!

On a recent date, Leslie and I had the pleasure to see the film "Slumdog Millionaire", a film by the always reliable British filmmaker Danny Boyle (most famous for 28 Days Later -- which I haven't seen -- but known to me through the family film "Millions" and the sci-fi "Sunshine", both of which I heartily recommend). We both enjoyed it immensely, and apparently enough critics agreed with us that it has been nominated for numerous Academy Awards, including Best Picture. Imagine my dismay, then, when several critics I read regularly have nothing but disdain for the film. Far be it for me to defend the Academy, whose taste I often question (Gladiator, really?), but reading criticisms of the film, it struck me that most of them stemmed from a misunderstanding of what it is trying to accomplish, of what kind of story it tells.

The criticisms I am directly addressing are along the lines of "The story feels cheap, like it doesn't earn the emotions it wants to elicit. It isn't a realistic depiction of life in the slums." et al. These criticisms would perhaps be cogent if "Slumdog Millionaire" set out to be a gritty docudrama about living in the streets of Mumbai, scraping by from day to day. Then critics would have the right to be dismayed by the happy ending, by the bright colors and overwhelming joy found withing the frame of the film. In reality, these criticisms aren't just incorrect, they miss the mark entirely. "Slumdog" clearly sets out to tell a fairy tale, and to judge it by anything other than the standards of that genre is a miscarriage of justice.

Perhaps this thesis does not seem immediately obvious. Let me present some evidence in favor of it. First, some outside evidence. Danny Boyle clearly has a fascination with the supernatural and inexplicable. I can say this with assurance because his other films reveal it. "Sunshine" and especially "Millions" (and, presumably, "28 Days Later") both have elements of the ethereal and supernatural. "Millions", with its numerous interludes involving dead saints, brings this out most clearly. Boyle is a Catholic, and as such he is more likely to be drawn to the elements of fairy tales, elements shared by the story of Christ. (Side Note: referring to the Christian narrative as a "fairy tale" in no way implies that it is false; rather it refers to shared characteristics -- some of which we shall examine in our discussion of "Slumdog". Many people, myself included, look to the similarity as evidence in favor of the truth of the gospel. But that is another post.)

Very well, Danny Boyle might be the kind of filmmaker drawn to making a fairy tale. But does "Slumdog" itself bear the marks of a fairy tale? I would strenuously argue for the affirmative. First off, there is the presence of the supernatural in the story. Now, "Slumdog" does not have the intervening divines of "Millions", but the supernatural is present regardless. This is clear from the framing device of the story, which is a multiple choice question (a la "Who Wants to Be a Millionaire") which asks how a slumdog like the hero Jamal could be poised to win 20 million rupees on a difficult gameshow like Who Wants to Be a Millionaire. The potential answers include "He is a genius" and "He cheated", but the final shot of the film is the same screen, with everything fading out except for "D. It is written". (Side note: Perhaps it is a device like this which enrages the critics. "We want ambiguity," they cry, "not to be hammered over the head with the point of the story." But fairy tales have a clear point; they are not meant to sustain multiple readings. To be angry that a fairy tale gives you the point of the story is like being disappointed that a cow does not lay eggs.) Though we never see anything as direct as divine intervention take place, we may infer that the events of the film are driven forward by fate.

Furthermore, the structure of the events (not the film itself, which takes a more complicated narrative structure) fit well into the mold of a fairy tale. First, there is the humble, normal beginning. Our hero lives an average, everyday life and is consumed by normality. Of course, the Western viewer will have a hard time discerning this, since life in India is not our modus operandi. Not being an expert myself, I cannot comment on how accurate Boyle's depiction of life in the slums is, and frankly I think the point irrelevant. Jamal and his brother are shown doing the things that normal boys everywhere do. Then, suddenly, they are thrust out of that life by certain events. From this point on they embark on a fairy tale adventure. They must escape the clutches of a monster. They make their way by trickery. And, in the end, Jamal must set about seeking the freedom of his princess from the clutches of an evil man.

"Slumdog" also contains the single most significant earmark of a fairy tale, as identified by JRR Tolkien: it culminates, after many terrible things have happened to the hero, in a moment of eucatastrophe (literally, good catastrophe). There are smaller moments of eucatastrophe scattered through the film, but the big payoff at the end is nearly perfect. No, it is not in the moment of answering the final question on Millionaire, but the moment when Jamal calls his brother's cell phone and Latika, the love of his life, answers. That is the moment when everything bad is made right, and it is a thing of beauty.

I think that this is also part of what offends the critics, that a basic moral order is maintained by the story. Good is rewarded and evil punished. "But it never happens that way" is essentially a straw man argument against the film. Realism is not in view, but something which supersedes realism, the transformation of the mundane by the supernatural. This is what the best fairy tales do, and on that level "Slumdog" succeeds.

Now, I understand that some critics may not enjoy the fairy tale as a genre. In a later post I hope to defend the fairy tale from its critics, but for now I will let it slide as a difference of opinion. What is unacceptable is a critic approaching a film with no sense of genre. It would make no sense for me to negatively review "Chinatown" on the basis that there was no uplifting love story and very few laughs. Granted, nailing down "Slumdog"'s genre is a little more complicated than pegging Polanski's masterwork as a noir film, but recognition of genre must be something that a critic is able to do before he or she can accurately assess any film. That way, if a critic happens to not like fairy tales, he can give one negative marks while still acknowledging that the film succeeds or fails on its own level.

Joyeaux Noel

2006-12-25T08:25:00.000-08:00

A Merry Christmas to you all. My gift to all you in internet land is my first post in, oh, six months, and a pledge to make several more before I head back to school (when most likely my time will evaporate).

I have somewhat of a reputation for being a Christmas humbug- a reputation that is self made as much as anything. It's pretty common knowledge among my friends that I hate Christmas lights and despise secular Christmas songs (and a number of religious ones as well). I don't want to spend this post ranting about that again, but it does lend a good starting point for talking about Christmas. I love Christmas- I flatter myself to think that I love it more truly than most- but in my mind Christmas is not a cheery time in the midst of winter, a haven from the blustering winds. It is indelibly wrapped up in winter, in the despair of ice and snow. Yes, I realize that in all likelihood Jesus was not born in December, it was a pagan holiday, yada yada yada. The symbolism is still significant.

What is your favorite passage of the Bible to think about at Christmas? Would it surprise you if I said mine was Philippians 2:5-7? If you are somewhat Biblically literate it might not, since these verses read:

"Your attitude should be the same as that of Christ Jesus: Who, being in very nature God, did not consider equality with God something to be grasped, but made himself nothing, taking the very nature of a servant, being made in human likeness."

Here is the incarnation in all of its wonder. Christ the God-Man, incarnate because of his humility, humiliated to the point of resembling man. In the incarnation we see the very incomprehensibility of God made coherent in human form- the Word made flesh. We often think on the grace of Easter, of our Lord Christ dying for the sins of his people, but do we stop to consider that first grace in time, the grace to come and resemble us? It isn't something I like to consider, especially when I see myself caught perpetually in sin. I can well imagine humans crucifying the one who came to save them- that seems perfectly in harmony with our nature. But Christ did not grasp at equality with God but came down and resembled me? We make a big deal about Christ being born in a manger, the lowliest of places, but if we stop to consider the sinfulness of man, we realize that the manger is like the Ritz Carlton in comparison to God taking the form of man. Can you picture those movies where the prim, proper royalty inevitably end up covered in horse feces? It's like that, but worse. Christ the spotless lamb landed right in the middle of the biggest pile of shit imaginable, human nature.

Of course the story does not end there. He must be further humiliated, but ultimately raised up to glory once again. But it does us good, I think, to meditate on that intial plunge into the humiliation of humanity. The big thing these past few years has been "The Christmas wars", where we as Christians, in the guise of preserving something or other, try to force Christmas down the throats of an unbelieving world. Maybe it would do us good to humble ourselves like the Christ and, instead of shouting about values and traditions, quietly celebrate the fact that he became like us, the vilest sinners. Christmas, after all, is for the church. We cannot expect the world to understand; we cannot even fully comprehend, and what we do know comes only from the grace of God. Let us humbly come before the babe in the manger, the ruler of all. I would like to leave you all with a Christmas hymn that my sister introduced me to this year, "Thou Who Wast Rich Beyond All Splendor":

Thou who wast rich beyond all splendor,
All for love's sake becamest poor;
Thrones for a manger didst surrender,
Sapphire-paved courts for stable floor.
Thou who wast rich beyond all splendor,
All for love's sake becamest poor.

Thou who art God beyond all praising,
All for love's sake becamest man;
Stooping so low, but sinners raising,
Heav'nward by thine eternal plan.
Thou who art God beyond all praising,
All for love's sake becamest man.

Thou who art love beyond all telling,
Savior and King, we worship thee.
Emmanuel, within us dwelling,
Make us what thou wouldst have us be.
Thou who art love beyond all telling,
Savior and King, we worship thee.

Merry Christmas and God bless.

Voicing: My Opinion

2006-07-30T16:25:00.000-07:00

Be forewarned, this is one of those posts where I go all Aristotelian and insist on quality in art. If you are offended by the notion that aesthetics has objective standards, this may not be for you, though somehow I envision most of the people who read this blog agreeing with me on this one.

I would like to begin this post by confessing one of my prejudices to you all: I am an unflinching "voicist"; that is to say, the sound of somebody's voice tends to predispose me to be either more or less receptive to what they have to say. I know, I know, that's how Hitler rose to power. Sorry, can't help it.

In regular life this is just a quirk and in the end doesn't really hold a large sway over my opinion of people. When you enter the realm of music, however, everything changes. Suddenly my distaste for certain voices is, I believe, perfectly validated. A quick illustration: some of my friends are into a band called Opeth, which for simplicity's sake I will label death metal (Alex, I'm sure you could point out the exact category, but that wouldn't mean much to most of my readers). Repeatedly they have insisted I listen and find quality in the music. To be honest, they really aren't that bad a group musically; in fact they strike me as quite talented. The one thing that keeps me from praising them is that the predominant style of singing is harsh, grating growling. The usual defense my friends use is "Just ignore the singing; it's really good." I think this example sets up the problem fairly well. We have ceased to view the human voice as an instrument, and see it merely as a messenger for lyrics and superfluous to the actual work of music.

Bzzt, wrong! The human voice is in fact the most basic yet significant instrument we possess. It surpasses even the cello in its lyricism and beauty. Or, at least, the best voices do. Therein lies the problem. Beautiful voices elevate us to sublime heights, but I firmly believe that everyone in Hell will speak in a New Jersey accent. It isn't as if someone can trade in their voice and get a bona fide Stradivarius model. For the most part, we are stuck with the voices God has given us. Some people therefore suggest that singers aren't to be blamed for their poor voices. No, I suppose not, but that doesn't mean they are cleared to belt in front of crowds. We wouldn't condemn a man for wearing glasses, but neither would we encourage him to become an astronaut. Surely these people are talented at something (certainly it isn't singing); let them go become sanitation engineers or middle management. [N.B. This is tangential, but I'd like to put it in anyway. Don't you find all that talk about "following your dreams" slightly ridiculous when applied to people who clearly have no talent in an area? This is the triumph of individualism over excellence.]

Of course, some troublesome people will say "How do we determine which voices are beautiful and which aren't?" For just a minute, I would like to soften a bit and admit that there is a certain range of acceptability in voices. For example, I like Randy Newman's voice, which many people find irritating. However, in my defense this stems both from a more intimate knowledge of his voice (i.e. it grows on you) and also the perfect pairing of his voice with his cynical, imperfect style. So don't think I am going around insisting that every singer be Kathleen Battle; still, there are standards. Getting back to said standards: I think that everyone will acknowledge that something in a voice is self-evidently good or bad. Postmodernism has destroyed our liking of the self-evident, but too bad. Even tone deaf listeners can tell between a lyrical voice and one that is reminiscent of chalk on blackboards. Beyond this we can once again gain wisdom from our old (some might say ancient) friend Aristotle. In our individualistic society we like to think of ourselves as the best judges of what is right. In Aristotle's model, however, excellence in an area is determined by those expert in the field. Let's all swallow some pride and admit that the professionals are just that for a reason and that maybe, just maybe, they know more than we do about what makes for good singing.

If there is one point I would like to make with this post, it is that the lead singers of every punk band ever should be systematically hunted down and execut... ahem, I mean that excellence in voices is as important as the ability to play the guitar.

Blue Train of Thought

2006-07-22T05:53:00.000-07:00

I've been itching to do some actual writing for awhile now. So, with Rachmaninoff on the stereo and an hour or so at my disposal, I thought I might post something worth reading (imagine that!). You guys aren't getting any apologies about the infrequency and inadequacy of my posts, but I will say that the last one didn't turn out how I wanted. The idea was good, but I ran out of steam and ended up with a halfhearted post. These days I just seem tired when I try to do anything.

If you travel in any circles that could be described even remotely as "evangelical", you have probably heard of the book Blue Like Jazz: Nonreligious thoughts on Christian Spirituality by Donald Miller. Having spent several years hearing people insist that I had to read it, and encouraged by the positive reviews of several people I trust (here's looking at you, big sister), I decided last week to pick up the copy lying on my Dad's bookshelf and investigate the hubbub myself.

In the pattern of most of my reviews, I will begin with the technical aspects of the book. Miller has a writing style which I enjoy- it is relaxed and natural, not stilted yet not pedestrian. He also manages to be quite funny in many places, though I felt that sometimes he stretched too far with his jokes and came up a little short. Overall, however, the book is written well enough to hold your attention and keep you interested in what Miller has to say.

That he does this is very good, because most of what Donald Miller talks about in Blue Like Jazz is very solid. First of all, though, I would like to dispel what I see as a misconception. One thing I hear often about the book is that it is paradigm shifting and radically new. To this I say: yes and no. What I found when reading is that Miller's revolution is nothing more or less than the Gospel as it has always existed. Why are we surprised when people preach the Gospel? It is because we are sinful creatures who need hear over and over the radical message of grace found in the Bible. Donald Miller's views on what is wrong with American Christianity, when correct, are rooted in the truth of the Gospel. Interestingly, on the rare occasions when he missteps (and ends up sounding like many current evangelical mouthpieces), it is because he has strayed from the Gospel. More on that later; I like to start with the positive.

If I had to pick a thesis for Blue Like Jazz, I would say that it would be "Christianity is about relationship with God, not rules". What a perfect summation of the Gospel! I'm not sure that Miller would call himself a follower of Covenant theology, but he certainly has some of the basics down. One of the main pleas is for the reader to fall in love with Jesus- as the bride of Christ, that is what we must do (only because Christ first woos us, of course).

I greatly appreciate Blue Like Jazz for helping me to organize my thoughts on a subject which has bothered me for as long as I can remember: why does so much of American Christianity sound hateful? With some prodding from Miller and talks with my campus minister, I think I have at least part of the answer. Miller is the rare evangelical who refuses to kowtow to the Republican party- at times I would say he goes too far in the other way and takes pleasure in bashing conservatives in an unhealthy way (to be fair, he confesses this freely himself). How refreshing to hear someone rooted in orthodox Christianity who doesn't simply vote the party line. I suspect that Miller is a conservative on some issues, but he also cares deeply about concerns of social justice such as poverty. Why has social justice become a dirty word among evangelicals? God certainly cares about it- witness all the commands to care for the downtrodden and give justice to the oppressed. Many conservative Christians tend to say that doing to much social justice work interferes with the heart of Christianity (funny that this doesn't apply to works like protesting abortion), but I think a more accurate picture is this: if we acknowledged the truth of the Gospel, we would be forced to rethink our ideas about money and would probably have to give up a great deal of our own comfort. We cannot serve both God and Mammon.

A brief interlude to note something refreshing about Miller: he is always confessing his sins, especially his self-centered nature. Christ must purify his bride, but Miller wants that to come in a very real way, starting with himself.

Back to the thoughts above. One of the focuses of Miller's book is the earthshaking love of Christ. Why, he wonders, do we claim to know the love of Christ but preach only hate to so many people? This is a question that has come often to my head. I now posit a partial answer: loudmouths such as Pat Robertson and Jerry Falwell, even if they be genuine Christians, are caught in a web of moralism. Quick definition for the uninitiated; moralism is an emphasis on changed outward behavior instead of on belief in the promises of God. It is concerned with how you act but not with the heart. These pundits yell till they are blue in the face about "traditional morality", but they fall short of their purpose as members of the body. I am not against living in a Biblical manner, but here is the problem as I see it. First off, God's laws only make sense in the context of covenant. The drastic misunderstanding of the Ten Commandments and every other part of God's law is that they are guidelines for good living instead of acts of worship that stem from God's love for us. We cannot expect non-Christians to abide by the laws of Christ. Paul makes this perfectly clear- we must deal with believers who are obstinately disobeying, but not with non-believers. Somehow this got lost and churchgoers see it as their responsibility to be everybody else's watchdog. Note that I am not saying we should give up and let injustice run rampant. I guess this ties in to my second point, which is that to preach moralism is to lose sight of the Gospel. As if what God cared about was whether or not you smoke or cuss! [N.B. one thing I like about Miller is that he smokes a pipe- holla] People have replaced the truth that "all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God" with a petty Phariseeism which makes them feel good that they are not as bad as x group of sinners. Bullshit. (*gasp*) (yes, I admit to putting that there for shock value. Sue me.)

Instead of yelling at people to change their behavior, we should (as the Bible makes clear and Miller emphasizes) reach out in love and gently point the way to Christ. What is our ultimate duty to others, to change their behavior or to "go and make disciples of all nations". Hmm, tough one, that.

One minor caveat I have with Miller's view on all of this is his attitude toward those in the church. Church discipline seems to be a dirty word with him. I agree that we should speak the truth in love, but we have the responsibility to correct obstinate sinning within the church.

Speaking of the church, I think that in general this is Miller's weak point. Most of the chapters in Blue Like Jazz are wonderful (the chapter on grace was amazing, har har), but to be blunt, his chapter on the church stinks. Ironically, he spends a great deal of time in the book discussing how self-centered he is, but when he gets to talking about the church, he proves it. His general advice about choosing a church seems to be "go somewhere that clicks for you". The reasons he lists for attending the church he does seems out of order and somewhat superficial. There is no real mention of going someplace which lifts high the name of Christ or anything like that. All in all it is a consumer mentality of church attendance (what am I getting out of it), instead of the Pauline idea of the body building itself up in love.

I suppose that's about all I have for now. As a final note, I would recommend Blue Like Jazz to just about anyone: Christians who want to fall in love with Christ again; non-Christians who have been jaded by the self-righteous hypocrisies of American Christianity; people seeking to know more about Christ. I was reading a book on how to do jazz improv, and it said "If you hit a wrong note, you only need to go up or down a halfstep and you will be on a right note". Donald Miller is akin to a jazz musician; playing freeform with the love of God, occasionally he hits something that is just slightly off, but he is never far away from the truth.

Dragonforce: The Ultimate Guy's Band

2006-07-08T13:54:00.000-07:00

Once again my apologies for not ever posting. Life since returning to Titusville has been frantically busy, what with working 50 hours a week.

Still, here's a little post to tide you over. I'd like to talk about a guilty pleasure of mine. As many of you know, my tastes range from the excellent to the terrible, but once in awhile I discover something that defies either of those categories. Dragonforce is, I think, one such band. There is no doubt that they have immense technical skill- the guitarists shred at speeds not sanctioned by the DOT. Still, there are many valid criticisms to be levelled at them, notably that their songs tend to sound quite similar and even run together.

One charge I would like to defend is that their lyrics are abysmal. Now, I will not try to equate the words to their songs as great poetry, but I think they have a certain something that makes them worthwhile. Let me explain: instead of the typical rock band subjects of love, etc., Dragonforce sings almost exclusively about things such as flying, dragons, fire, battle, et al. The wonderful thing is that they manage to avoid the "Tolkien trap" of many metal bands by being completely generic in their subject matter. Why should one listen to songs about wings of glory and battlefield despair? This is where the subject line enters in. I am firmly convinced that Dragonforce is a band for guys. What man has not dreamed of being the victorious warrior in a hard fought fight? Or of soaring over the countryside on a dragon's back? There is something distinctly noble about Dragonforce, in a goofy way. In a sense they are a modern Don Quixote, striving after battles from ages past. As far as I am concerned they should not stop tilting- their extreme rock carries us through the heavens.

Baring the "Unbearable"

2006-06-10T15:03:00.000-07:00

At the request of the Texas Ranger, I'm updating this thing. I'd like to apologize to my loyal fans out there for not posting more; to me, making a post isn't just something to do, it's a moral committment. These can take me upwards of an hour, on the long ones, and then there's the matter of thinking of things worth saying.

Nevertheless, here I am, and posting my first legitimate review in quite some time, as well as what I believe to be my first book review (correct me if I'm wrong). The book I am writing about for your consideration is The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera. I was familiar with both the author and the book by name for quite some time, and finally decided it was one of those modern novels that is important to read for the sake of having read it.

First a disclaimer: as I stated at the inception of this blog, my purpose is not as the morality police. In the case of this book, however, I would like to warn certain readers of my blog who are more sensitive to what I will coyly dub "Adult situations" to stay far away from this book. To be blunt, there is sex in this book. A lot of sex. Almost every chapter. In frank, if not quite graphic, detail. That being said, I certainly recommend this book to those who think they can handle mature content well.

Perhaps the best way to give an overview of The Unbearable Lightness of Being is to describe it in terms of dichotomy: Kundera divides the book into sections such as Lightness and Weight, Body and Soul. I think a basic dichotomy exists in the writing as well. On the one hand there is the action of the novel, which traces the relationship between a husband and wife during the Communist occupation of Czechoslovakia. But there also exist the author's interjections, which I think contain the more vital and interesting parts of the novel. Yes, it is quite a modern technique, the author playing around with the action and pausing to address the reader, etc. Milan Kundera does this perhaps less skillfully than say John Fowles in The French Lieutenant's Woman, but also less substantially and it never seems like a cheap trick.

To return to the plot: Tomas is a womanizing doctor in Prague who entertains ridiculous numbers of mistresses but never commits to any. That is, until a young waitress from the country named Teresa enters his life. Though originally he intends nothing beyond his usual conquests, circumstances collide and he ends up marrying Teresa. This has little to no effect on his philandering, despite the fact that he realizes he loves Teresa more than any of his side projects. She is distraught over his infidelities, but somehow cannot bring herself to leave. All this goes on while the world falls apart around them; they leave Prague when the Russians invade, but are forced to return for seemingly trivial reasons. The main subplot also involves the travails of love; Tomas' main mistress, Sabina, enters into another affair with a professor who is married but long suffering. He falls desperately in love with her, but her own ghosts haunt her and she runs away.

So there are the bare bones. A pleasant enough plot- it never comes off as melodramatic, and Kundera does a good job of balancing the story arc. Where the novel really shines, though, is in Kundera's asides into music, history, and philosophy. He takes numerous breaks from the action to mull over ideas, or talk about Beethoven String Quartets. At times it is more than a novel; you feel as if Kundera is really having a philosophical discussion with you. This is aided by the fact that he openly admits on page that the characters are fictional. This may take away a little from the reader's connection to the characters, but since no one in the novel is really worthy of sympathy (except maybe Teresa) that doesn't really rear its head.

For a book so filled with sexual activity, I've never experienced anything that makes me more determined to live a life of monogamy. In fact the main thrust I felt through the novel was that sex by itself cannot satisfy. Tomas spends his days in lechery, but takes no real pleasure in any woman save Teresa. Yet somehow he cannot stop having sex with other women. He takes an almost scientific interest in seduction. Though he is the protagonist of the book, you cannot call him a hero. He is a downcast man trapped in his own depravity. The book may seem overly pessimistic, but in reality what else is there in human nature? Kundera thankfully dispenses with the pitifully naive humanistic notion that there are good people; the characters in his novel don't just do bad things, they are hopelessly adrift in a sea of brokenness. All this despair might be disheartening, but I would propose that not every story need be about redemption to be uplifting and, yes, Christian. Flannery O'Connor wrote about the depths of human depravity from a distinctly Christian perspective. Life doesn't always wrap up with joyful reunions and renewed committments to fidelity. Milan Kundera doesn't seek to tack on saccharine endings with no connection to reality; his characters reap the sorrow they sow. Though he may not be Christian, he shows that he cannot escape the reality of mankind's need of salvation.

What's your Anglo?

2006-05-30T21:15:00.000-07:00

I've had this post in my mind for about a week; sometimes I just need awhile for it to ferment enough to be satisfying.

Once again multiple events in my life have converged to make me dwell on a subject. This time both "events" happened to be books that I was reading last week. One was one I had bought at Summer conference- A Severe Mercy, the memoirs of a husband and wife who became Christians and then had to deal with great loss; the other was an old favorite of mine that I decided needed rereading, The Wind in the Willows. What could possibly connect a spiritual autobiography with a children's book about talking animals? England, my friends, England. In A Severe Mercy Sheldon and Jean Vanauken travel to Oxford to study, where they eventually convert thanks in part to their numerous Christian friends (including C.S. Lewis). Of course, the characters of The Wind in the Willows live and breathe England.

Thoughts of England floating in my head! What is it about that tiny island off the coast of Europe that makes so many long wistfully for its shores? My theory is that anyone who truly loves literature loves England. We owe it such a great debt, of course, from Shakespeare to A.A. Milne, but it extends beyond that. It isn't just walking around imagining that you hear John Donne preaching the words of his sermons directly to you. Something about the isle strikes us as mysterious; the place where magic lives and adventure lurks.

There are two very distinct images I have of England, both of which are enticing. One stems from Tolkien and the like, and ultimately from Arthurian legend. It is the primeval England, where Romans battle with druids for supremacy. Where magic streams out of every rock. It is the England of fairies and dragons (it is fitting that the patron saint of England is St. George). Of Arthur and his knights and the quest for the grail. Or, moving back to reality, the England of the actual Middle Ages, so flavored in my mind by the Brother Cadfael mysteries. Stephen and Maude slugging it out; dark corridors and harsh conditions; savage meals of meat and mead.

The other, quite opposing view, is of a distinctly more refined England. This is the island of Jane Austen, Samuel Johnson, and Charles Dickens. People are refined or, if not aristocratic, still contain a certain charm. An island full of Henry Higginses. And of course the British army spreading the gospel of England across the globe. Rudyard Kipling and his ilk. And Oxford- oh, Oxford! Centuries of learning that seem to take on a life of their own. Everyone you meet literate in Chaucer and Milton, Catullus and Virgil. Where books still hold a power over the soul, and everyone is a poet.

How much of this is fiction? I suspect a great deal- my friend Matt (an English major who I think shares many of my convictions) spent a year at Oxford and was distinctly disappointed by it. Maybe that England, if it ever existed, has faded permanently from view. But maybe, just maybe, the ghosts of Swift and Orwell still dance in the moonlight with Merlin and Galahad and Richard the Lionheart. Someday I plan to go to England and find out. Perhaps I'll even share a pint with the Inklings.

Sacramentalism and the "Reformation Crisis"

2006-05-22T12:35:00.000-07:00

Here I am, finally posting again. My computer was sick for about a week after Summer Conference, and I didn't feel like typing out long posts from the library. Thanks to my good friend Matlock, though, my darling Toshiba is back in action, and I feel obligated to provide you all with a post.

Today has been the first day I've felt fully justified in doing my summer research. Don't get me wrong- I am overjoyed to spend half my summer in Tulsa, getting paid to read books. But the actual research sort of seemed like an afterthought, an excuse to do the other things. That all changed at my meeting with Dr. Bowlin today; for the first time I feel energized to do work, stimulated by academic pursuit.

Since my research this summer is on Luther's view of baptism, Dr. Bowlin started me off on Heiko Oberman's seminal biography Luther: Man Between God and the Devil. In the course of our discussion today we spent time struggling with the idea of the radical existential crisis of the Reformation: how can one be certain of redemption? We talked about the sacramentalism of Catholicism, where participation in the sacraments ensures inclusion in God's people. Easy enough, for those who accept the transmission of grace through the Eucharist, confession, etc.

Funnily enough, Luther did not reject the sacraments per se- baptism was at least partially regenerative, and he accepted real presence in the Eucharist. These two served as assurances of redemption, along with the church.

Flash forward to modern times. Strained through the Anabaptist and Reformed traditions, not to mention old fashioned American individualism, the sacraments have in one form or another lost their efficacious nature. Modern American Evangelical Protestantism (now that's a string of adjectives) focuses almost exclusively on the believer's inner life; faith becomes only individual, not corporate. But individual activity cannot solve the existential crisis- doubts remain. For one in the sacramental mode of faith, there is no need for assurance because it is given from above. To take a naturalistic view (one we need not shrink from: natural explanations often point to supernatural providence), anthropologists recognize the vital role of ritual in religion, in the participation of community.

Because modern evangelicals have supplanted the church and the sacraments, they must substitute "homegrown" alternatives. Thus weekly altar calls offer a feeling of assurance. In radical Pentecostal settings, assurance is gained through the "works of the Spirit", usually speaking in tongues. Anyone not participating must not bear the seal of the Spirit. These heresies are why we must preserve the true sacraments of the church.

I suppose this is one reason I find Presbyterianism so attractive: the balance it acheives between the inner life of the believer and the corporate life. The more I look into Covenant theology, the more sense it makes: God is bringing together a people for himself. Paedobaptism, which I once vehemently shunned, seems more and more a viable option. Luther's explanation really stuns me: infant baptism signifies that the work is God's, not ours. Modern interpretations of baptism make it into a work we do for God, instead of a sign of the promise He made to us through Abraham.

Communion is a little stickier (and not only because we have substituted sugary juice for wine). What exactly does it mean? This is something I struggle with, but again I find myself attracted to the Presbyterian view. While I reject real presence, I cannot see it as simply something to be done and forgotten about. Christ's grace is present, if not his physical body. We must revere this great mystery, not shove it aside.

The third leg of the stool is of course the church. Sadly in Protestant circles the church is not the bride of Christ but rather the nanny of believers, catering to their every want. This is coupled with the problem of scriptural interpretation. Luther opened the word to all believers, but that means that many will distort his intentions and hold that, where exegesis is concerned, anything goes. The opposite strain is the dangerous form of fundamentalism that holds that every word of the bible is literally true, which is so preposterous that I would disbelieve its existence if I didn't know it to lurk around. Instead we should embrace Luther's view of faith informed by knowledge, recognizing that neither faith nor scholasticism alone will help us rightly divide the word of truth. Because of this individualistic approach to the Bible, the church is lessened instead of increased. We have a basic distrust of authority.

To be fair to Catholics, in modern times they have been affected by this crisis, and more and more they speak of individual faith and salvation. As Dr. Bowlin rightly pointed out, trying to fit things into definite categories is messy and usually falls apart in the face of the real world.

Still, this tension between individual assurance and robust community life (in the sacraments and word) lingers. How do we resolve it? I have the suspicion that no one has the answer entirely correct, and that we must bear all things with patience.

Life Together

2006-05-04T19:12:00.000-07:00

Yes, it's time for another of those appropriately timed posts where life shapes what I'm saying. That seems to happen quite a bit.

I just finished (basically) packing up my room; finals ended today, and with them my freshman year of college. Seeing as I have a number of senior friends, and that I won't see most of my friends period over the summer, I thought I would reflect on the nature of friendship, and how it is affected by communal living.

Going back to Aristotle, who is a darn cool cat: he posits that true friendship involves living together, and asserts that one should have only as many close friends as may live together in close proximity. Leaving home this year has forced me to think about my friendships in light of seperation, and while I am not as despairing as The Philosopher, I see his point. Whenever I reunite with a friend I haven't seen for some time, there is a period of awkwardness which inevitably occurs as we get our bearing on our friendship again. Is this because we did not have true friendship? No, but our lack of sharing life together has caused us to lose some of what made our friendship what it was.

This aspect of living together has a bigger impact that we usually think. Our lives are formed in the day to day, not big events, and trust is built little by little. When you are around someone consistently, you build up relationship momentum that is not present when you are apart. Regaining that momentum is never instantaneous. Of course, the time it takes to get it back varies; with my closest friends the ice is normally broken very quickly.

But this raises another thought in my mind: what is it that our new relationship consists of? We can never fully have the old friendship back-- we have both changed too much for that. Do we sit around and reminisce about things past? Try to regain some of the old magic by engaging in new activities? Or do we blaze trails, hoping that the new direction is as enjoyable as the last?

The first and second options usually leave me sad. I cannot return to my high school days, through memory or imitation. I am a different person, and the old me has little resemblance to who I am now. No, I must move forward or risk being a dead shark. Hopefully my friendship survives this metamorphosis.

Back to the original point: how possible is it to maintain friendship when seperated by distance? My mother had some experience with this, having spent every year between 8th grade and the second year of college in a different school, in 6 countries on 3 continents. During that time she made friends who, at the end of her life, came to visit and rekindled past closeness. Much had changed in the intervening time, of course, but the spark of friendship remained.

Letters help, of course, which is why I am such a big fan, at least in theory (my practice often falls terribly short). But how can you capture someone's essence on paper? Very few people come across as themselves through the written word. I honestly don't have an answer to this problem. Yet I do not despair and lock myself away, refusing to engage people because I will only have to say goodbye. Knowing them, even for a short time, changes my life. As my best friend and I said as I left tearfully for college, "It doesn't seem fair that God has only given us four years together. But I'm sure glad He did." The tears are part of the gladness, and with my Christian friends at least I have the hope of reunion someday in a place where tears will not be necessary to let us know true joy.

Art Out of Balance?

2006-04-25T21:45:00.000-07:00

Two events have dovetailed together so nicely that I just need to post about the intersection of their themes. The first happens to be the last true paper I had to write for the year, for my useless Freshman Seminar class "Faust in Literature and Music". The very open topic was to write about musical settings of Goethe's Faust-- any of my choosing. I wrote on Berlioz's "Eight Scenes from Faust" and "The Damnation of Faust" the latter of which flowed out of the former. I discussed the manner in which Berlioz set Goethe's play to music.

Fast forward to today, when I watched the indescribable movie Koyaanisqatsi: Life Out of Balance. It is completely unlike anything I have ever seen. I hesitate to even call it a movie; really it is a series of stunningly beautiful shots of nature and/or civilization set to the music of Philip Glass.

So, today's topic is music as interdisciplinary art. I'm not out to write a review of Koyaanisqatsi, much as I might like, but here's a brief thought: this movie is definitely not for everyone, and I don't know how eager I am to watch it again, but it is a wonderful movie. Paying attention to no dialogue or even action/narrative can be hard, but thinking of it as a visual symphony certainly helps. Also being a fan of minimalism.

Everyone knows about the importance of music in movies. The right music can make or break a movie- try to imagine the Godfather without that heartbreaking theme, or Star Wars sans the opening explosion of John Williams. Its absence makes us uneasy (think of The Birds). But most often the music stays squarely in the background. Never have I seen music partner so fully with film as in Koyaanisqatsi. Well, maybe the first five minutes of Manhattan give it a run for its money, but this movie makes its whole point the partnership of disparate modes of art. Likewise Berlioz's "dramatic legend" The Damnation of Faust blends the wonders of music with the magic of narrative. This is why opera has been called the most complete art form, blending as it does the spoken word, music, dance, and even visual art (in the costumes etc). You don't have to actually like opera to value the intense balance it acheives (well, good opera, anyway).

But mixing music with words seems natural to us; songs are one of our favorite modes of expression. We even have whole stories told to us through song. Less popular is the blending of music with visual art. Unfortunately this really limits the interaction between two art forms that would benefit greatly from increased contact. Koyaanisqatsi is proof that visual art and music can combine to form unique and valuable art. Is there a market for such art, though? I suspect that movies like Koyaanisqatsi (it is the first in a trilogy made over 20 years) will never catch on with the general populace. We have a traditional concept of what movies are so ingrained in us that anything outside the orthodox narrative scares us away. People expect movies to constantly entertain, not serve as a means for meditation on various subjects. I found it pleasant while watching Koyaanisqatsi to let my mind wander a little; not so much that I didn't follow the film, but enough to get lost in the music. It is somewhat akin to actually listening to a Brahms symphony-- the music enraptures me so that I am able to pay attention while thinking any number of other things.

Is there a point to this? Eh, who knows. Interdisciplinary art is pretty darn cool, if you ask me. Just so long as there is never a Kenny G/Thomas Kinkade collaboration.

A Revelation of Sorts

2006-04-19T15:08:00.000-07:00

Just a short post to let you all know I am still alive. Finals time is always busy, so I likely won't make substantial posts for awhile, though I have some good ones planned for my return, including a review of the Derek Webb cd Mockingbird and a post on the arrogance of historians.

Today I would just like to state that upon waking this morning I realized I had solved the Star Wars problem. That is to say, why the new trilogy is such a piece of crap. The theories range far and wide on this one, but I think my solution has at least some merit. It isn't the acting, the dialogue, or the direction that make the new movies lackluster, it is the absence of an overawed imagination.

Think about it- the acting in the original movies wasn't exactly Shakespearean (with a few exceptions), and oftentimes the dialogue bordered on the ridiculous. What is it about those movies, so pulpy in many ways, that fires the passion of young boys everywhere? It is the awe and wonder of it all. I'm not talking about spectacle- the new movies have that in spades. But in the new trilogy it all seems so perfunctory it is hard to care. In a sense technology and success hurt the series; wondrous sights and epic battles are expected and not earth shattering. There was an overwhelming sense in the old movies of "Isn't this cool?!!" Recall the scene in A New Hope when Luke and Han fight off the TIE fighters. By today's standards the effects are clunky, but you can still feel the energy pulsing through them, the boyish excitement as they blast the Imperials out of the sky.

The space opera plot sure helped matters too. Instead of the dull political intrigue of the new trilogy, the old movies had the classic good and evil struggle, replete with underdogs, secret identities, and the like. Simple stuff, but good.

I want to wrap this up, so I will conclude by saying that imagination is one of the greatest gifts given to mankind. The first three Star Wars movies had it coming out the wazoo, and what's more, they encouraged others to have the same thirst for adventure and fertile imagination. That is why, 30 years from now, young boys will be discovering them and, despite the dated look, still be saying (along with their fathers) "Isn't that cool?!!"

An admonition and a chameleon

2006-04-06T16:50:00.000-07:00

"It is the mark of an educated mind to be able to entertain a thought without accepting it."--Aristotle

Thank you for the comments, everyone. I enjoy responses and seeing the perspective of others. The occasional compliment doesn't hurt my ego, either. An exhortation against misinterpreting my purpose: it is not my intention to deliberately offend anyone for offense's sake. Rather I write, as previously stated, primarily as an outlet for my ideas, secondarily to challenge the presuppostions we all carry around with us and force people to consider why they believe what they believe. I don't think anyone has taken offense thusfar, but I know it is quite within my capabilities to come across as abrasive and smug. So, get riled up against my ideas, but only in an abstract manner.

My last two posts have tended toward the negative side, so I will break up the criticism with a movie review. I would do this more often, but am afraid of posting them so often that it appears all I do is sit around watching movies. I wish I could review more books, but unfortunately I haven't had time this semester to get involved in books very much- a great travesty.

I wrestled a bit with what movie to review having recently seen two. My choices were Woody Allen's "Zelig" and Kurosawa's "Rashomon". It was quite an epic battle in my mind- I have so much to say about both. In the end I settled on "Zelig", mostly because I don't know if I am up to reviewing "Rashomon" after just one viewing. It is such an astounding movie, so groundbreaking and provocative in its ideas about justice. Maybe at a later date.

Woody Allen is a director who usually gets much less respect than he deserves. Perhaps because he is so prolific (he has averaged around a movie a year since the 70's) people ignore his numerous great contributions to cinema and berate him for his mediocre movies. Many people accuse him of always playing the same character, which to an extent is a justified criticism. Still, his body of great work (Annie Hall, Hannah and Her Sisters, Manhattan, Sleeper, Love and Death, Crimes and Misdemeanors, The Purple Rose of Cairo) certainly merits his inclusion on any list of stellar directors. Allen has a way of punctuating self righteous academia and exposing the underlying discontent of the modern era. Granted, he lacks the philosophical standpoint to resolve this unhappiness, but the problem must procede the solution, and I wouldn't expect a non-Christian to grasp everything anyway.

A brief plot overview, since I assume very few of you have seen Zelig. The movie can best be referred to as a faux documentary (I am hesitant to apply the term "mockumentary" since it is not really in the vein of Christopher Guest films) concerning the life of one Leonard Zelig, a man with the remarkable ability to turn into the people he is around. When in the company of doctors, he speaks like a doctor; when with black people his features change; when around obese people, he even gains a bulge. His doctor caretakers are puzzled till one, Eudora Fletcher, subjects him to rigorous analysis and therapy which seems to cure him. In the process, they begin to love one another. This love is threatened, however, when multiple people come forward bringing various accusations against Leonard, who cannot remember enough from his various personalities to plausibly deny the charges. He disappears, and Dr. Fletcher must search him out. I will say no more but proceed to the review.

I almost take for granted the fact that a Woody Allen film will be beautifully shot, and Zelig is certainly no exception. Set in the 1920's, the "newsreel" is predominantly black and white, though there are occasional "modern" interviews which resemble many documentaries from the 70's. Black and white works very well for Allen- Manhattan, by far his most beautiful film, is entirely without "color". His work is oftentimes dreary anyway, and form follows function quite well. In this case, though, the effect is mainly historical (By Allen's standards Zelig is practically cheery), but he still knows how to pull it off, reproducing masterfully the feel of aged films.

In his film Stardust Memories, Allen answered the charges that he was no longer funny. Zelig was made in the same era, and is more low key in its humor than a lot of his work, which tends to elicit laughter even from the most heartbreaking situations. Yes, there is humor in the movie, and it even incorporates one of his standard topics, masturbation jokes (for the sake of my audience I won't repeat it, but it is one of his better ones. A note: that is one of the few obscene moments in the movie, which on the whole is quite mild for Allen), but most of the time I wasn't laughing out loud. More often I had a wry smile on my face, for the humor comes mainly from the entire situation the movie documents. Absurdity is one of Allen's strong points, but Zelig handles it subtly, not so much through jokes as the entire structure of the movie. If you are looking for a riotous good time, try one of Allen's movies like Sleeper; Zelig is better for a slow burn mentality.

The central idea in Zelig is quite a brilliant one. What if you could, as St. Paul said, "Be all things to all people", but instead of merely assuming cultural mores you actually became one of them? This raises several interesting points.

Using the context of Allen's body of work, I would assert the main point to be man's disillusionment with modern society. Leonard Zelig morphs into different people because at heart he craves acceptance, something he has never experienced in his life. Anti-Semitism and a terrible home life contributed to his alienation, which he tries to alleviate by blending in. In a sense he is an incarnation of every person's desires to belong to community. Ultimately, of course, he discovers that this is an unsatisfying existence, and, not to put it in trite terms, learns to be himself. I suppose this is partly an existential defying of society- damn them, I will live how I will! Allen has no conception of true community (obviously, since he is far from being a Christian), but more than most he constantly deals with his inability to have meaningful relationships with people. Dragged down by sin, he despairs of meaning in life. In the end, Allen is a tragic figure because he sees the ills of humanity but cannot fathom the solution.

The other thought Zelig raised in my mind is one that probably everyone has pondered. Would racism exist if everyone could experience being another race? The movie deals tactfully yet realistically with Leonard's transformations into people of other races, but the issue never really comes up, it simply implies that he gets along fine with blacks, asians, Native Americans, and even Hasidic jews. What would such an everyman experience? Racism still plagues our society in terrible ways, though much of it has gone below the surface. Of course this division stems from our broken nature, which makes me pessimistic about the chances of ever erasing it completely. The greatest myth of modern society (among the plethora) is that sin is a result of ignorance, and that education is the panacea to cure our ills. The only thing to say to such blind foolishness is, and I quote, "Tcha". The heart is above all things sinful. Still, the first step is to examine our own hearts and seek for sympathy. Does Zelig support this? I cannot say for certain.

Overall, Zelig stands at an odd place in the Allen canon. It followed the late 70's, which saw his two best movies, Annie Hall and Manhattan, and came right before his next greatest creative spurt, which includes The Purple Rose of Cairo, Hannah and Her Sisters, and Crimes and Misdemeanors. It is appropriate, then, that the film teeters on the brink of greatness, but doesn't quite go over. In many ways it is too slight a film to be great, but it is still very, very good.

P.S. To those of you who were privilege to be at the reading of Matt McConnell's hourlong poem "George and Seraphine" last night, it proves my point about standing ovations entirely- that was something that so deserved every ounce of my applause, and I was overjoyed to stand and clap till my hands hurt. It means nothing if I do that for something subpar then turn around and do it for him.

I want a standing ovation!!!!!!!!

2006-04-03T15:58:00.000-07:00

The history behind the title of this post: During freshman orientation, there was an event called "Playfair" which was a giant icebreaker affair. One of the gags of the event was that at any time someone could yell out "I want a standing ovation" and they would get lifted up on the shoulders of those nearest them while everyone else, forgetting the task at hand, would stand up and clap, cheer, whistle, etc.

This is a nice image for tonight's post. Last week I attended a concert of the Signature Symphony, the closest Tulsa can come to mustering a professional orchestra (trust me, they aren't professional). It was a nice concert, as far as these things go, but what stuck out to me was at the end, hardly anyone stood up and gave a standing ovation- my theory being that it was due to the fact that they were playing Mendelssohn's Italian Symphony, which, while an amazing piece that deserves a post of its own, is not showstoppingly loud or fast. This is the first time in a long time I can recall an audience at a concert I've attended not leaping up and enthusiastically clapping. In fact, it made me downright ecstatic.

I wish that I could attribute this tendency toward overexcitement to a lack of culture on the part of my Oklahoman neighbors, but I see this everywhere I go. Certainly some of it is due to an amount of tone deafness on the audience's part, but not all. Something about our culture fosters an intense need for affirmation which in turn leads to approval of things which don't deserve it. I guess this makes me a bit of a snob. Who am I to judge what deserves extreme adulation and what deserves only mild approval? I think Aristotle would side with me on this one; I've been playing the cello for nearly 12 years (at least 7 of those in a serious symphonic setting) and grew up listening to classical music constantly. Maybe I am not a music theory genius, but I know what sounds good and what doesn't. Clapping of course is only polite, and is acceptable for most situations. But a standing ovation?

I'm remembering the good old days when people rioted at the premier of Rite of Spring or booed loudly at Schoenberg's concerts (side note: I think one of the prerequisites of being considered a father of modern music is violent reaction to your work). Sure, history proved the masses wrong as to their opinions of those works (well, at least Stravinsky- the jury's still out on Schoenberg), but in most scenarios we are talking about performances of established pieces that have standards based on repeated performances. And gosh darn it, at least those people had the gumption to stand up and voice their disapproval!

Alright, this post is starting to come together in ways which are not necessarily coherent. Back to the main point. I think it and odd phenomenon in our culture, which so values the tearing down of others, that in concert halls we support the overzealous approval of art. A theory or two:

Many members of the modern audience are not overly musically educated, so their reaction to a piece is largely fueled by the overwhelming emotions it conveys. Instead of actual merit determining what we approve, we rely on the raw emotional ordeal to help us judge. This is not entirely a bad thing- emotion is, naturally, a powerful thing. But art is based (loosely) around the concept of expressing emotions through some sort of structure that requires skill. That is why no one finds art value in the poetry of teenagers- they have emotion galore, but no technical skill to help them convey said emotions in an artful manner.

The idea that this is what people do at these events. Ignorance is a common enough excuse for ill behavior. People, belonging to the category mentioned above, sense that standing to clap is the appropriate response to a concert no matter the quality.

In special cases their might be a felt obligation for affirmation. Specifically I am thinking of youth orchestra settings, where parents go wild for the sake of their children. What a beautiful thing that is, an expression of unconditional love. But let us not confuse the map for the territory. Cheer for your kid till your blue in the face, but unless their name happens to be Sarah Chang, don't expect me to do the same.

Both of these (first two) ideas are dangerous. The point so much is not the standing ovation itself- cultural norms gradually change, and it may be that this is one that does. Rather the general trend of heaping overwhelming praise on what is in reality inferior art is what really scares me. Are we losing touch with the works of art that define who we are? You see this trend all over. People read Danielle Steele instead of The Iliad, and worse than that, they (implicitly at least) attribute the same value to Steele as to Homer, if not more. People fill garbage bags with air and call it high art- and receive exorbitant grants for it! Subjectivity in culture, the curse of the postmodern world. I smell a post on the excellent man of Aristotle in the near future.

To a certain extent people fear hierarchy. We are trained from our youngest days that everyone is special and equal. Sometimes at concerts I have been chided for not standing when I clap, but to me realizing the hierarchy of the good frees me terrifically. When I stand and clap for a mediocre performance, it cheapens the action when I do it for a brilliant one. Maybe I clap particularly hard but don't stand for a piece that was very good, but not quite mindblowingly spectacular. To some extent it is a matter of personal conscience. This may sound like it goes directly against my belief in the objectivity of aesthetic experience, but it doesn't- each must be held responsible for their own actions.We should seek to discern good art, and affirm it as such. Otherwise, you'll find me firmly in my cushion executing my finest golf clap.

On Homeschooling...

2006-03-31T22:55:00.001-08:00

The main goal of this blog is for me to have a place to do semi-regular non academic yet still thoughtful writing. Papers can be fun, but usually not, and I find myself unwilling to devote myself to anything serious beyond letters (which I don't write often enough, admittedly). As a secondary goal, however, I would like to offer food for thought for anyone bored enough to read my entries. Being a natural born critic, I have plenty to say about everything, and my purpose is certainly not to criticize only things I find wrong in secular culture. In fact I would say I am more concerned about reforming Christian culture than waging war against Hollywood, Madison Avenue, etc.

Having said that, tonight's post is about everyone's favorite alternative educational opportunity, homeschooling! Let me preface this discussion by saying that a number of my good friends were homeschooled. My best friend endured it through the 8th grade. It is possible to be homeschooled and function as a normal human being. I just don't really see the point. Here is my argument laid out:

1. Educational benefits. Yes, I said it. I am totally proud of my public school education. It has more than adequately prepared me for college. Granted, I have always been on the advanced side, but if it didn't boost me along, public school didn't stunt my growth either. Sure, you get bad teachers, but that happens even in college (I would say more often), and the good teachers I had far outweighed the bad. My life would not be the same without teachers like Magister and Mrs. Thomas having instructed me. Yes, I am sure that most parents would make passable teachers and have the competency, but that is not everything. The teacher-student relationship is a special one (again, not usually duplicated in college) that has important implications.

2. Social benefits. This should be pretty obvious. In general homeschoolers tend to be isolated, socially awkward, and unable to deal with real relationships. They build up "strong community" with the other homeschoolers but never learn to interact with people who aren't pristine "Christians" [the quote marks are not meant to imply that these people are not Christians, merely to emphasize that they display what the world views as the outward signs of a Christian]. Part of existing in society is dealing with people who are different from you, and college is definitely too late to begin the process. Look, if you don't trust your kids to stand up for what they believe, then that either says something about your kids or you. Know that the struggles they face are akin to the refining fire; if they burn up then they were never Christians, but if they persevere, what a glorious thing! How can we be salt and light by locking ourselves away in a safe Christian bubble?

The other side to this is the dependence it builds up. I am certainly all for close family ties, and I want to weep when my children go off to college, but I don't want to make idols out of my children or vice versa. Spending all day around them for 18 years makes for unhealthy interaction, especially when you are their everything- mother, teacher, lunch lady, etc.

I can't wait to have children, and when I do I want to be intimately involved in their upbringing. Sometimes my main motivation for wanting children is so that I can read to them. I desperately want to share my love of knowledge with them. But I think that by clinging to them through their formative years, I will do them a disservice by leaving them unprepared for facing reality. Maybe I just really loved my public school experience, but it is one I want for my posterity too.

V For... Vitriol?

2006-03-27T21:38:00.000-08:00

Let me begin this post by sharing an example of what this blog isn't.

For a few years my family received a magazine called "Plugged In" from a Christian organization that shall remain nameless. This magazine claimed to act as a guide for parents to control what their children take in from modern culture. Fair enough- I certainly don't favor children being exposed to slasher flicks or pornos at age 6. But the tacit purpose driving this magazine was most definitely legalism; in their reviews of popular music they often counted the number of swear words present on an album. Is this Christian stewardship? What sorts of things should we be letting our children absorb?

I propose that the answer lies not in isolating ourselves from culture but engaging it and seeking to enlighten the darkness. If a movie has a thought provoking message that conveys truth or at least seeks it, is it worth the sex scene thrown in? Largely I feel this is a matter of personal conscience. I know the sins I struggle with and do not seek to aggravate them; at the same time I refuse to discount things of worth because they confront me with uncomfortable ideas.

On to today's review, which the astute reader will gather is about the new Wachowski brothers' film "V For Vendetta". I saw this last Sunday, so it has had about a week to soak in. I'd like to discuss the many good points of the film, its minor caveats as cinema, and then engage it on a philosophical level, because I think that its message is provocative but quite flawed.

I say as a preemptory statement that the action in "V For Vendetta" is very good. Any fan of the Matrix can tell you that the Wachowskis have a decent grasp on how to do action. As much as I try to keep from revealing plot points, I don't think it gives too much away to say that, cliche as it may sound, watching stuff blow up to the 1812 Overture is pretty sweet. Excepting a bizarre effect added to V's blades near the end (I should interject to note how glad I am that V fought with knives- huzzah!) the fighting stayed within the realm of good taste.

There, I had my paragraph about the action. But "V For Vendetta" goes well beyond an action movie- reflecting on it, I remembered very little of the stunt work, etc. The plot is tight and somewhat labyrinthine, essential to a movie that is at heart about political intrigue. A note: some of the twists could have been pulled off more subtly- some of my group found themselves guessing the surprises well before they happened. Symbolism abounds in the movie, and for the most part is done well. The writing is servicable, often witty. V's opening speech, one long alliteration using his eponymous letter, waffles between sounding extremely contrived and brilliant. On final analysis, it was memorable enough to be a good thing.

"V For Vendetta's" acting stands out as above par, at least for an action movie. Poor Hugo Weaving, trapped behind the face of Guy Fawkes for the entire movie. Yet he does admirably well, using body language to convey what he cannot with his face. Natalie Portman mangaged to not annoy the heck out of me, which is a step in the right direction for her. The supporting cast is littered with old hands of British acting- John Hurt as the deranged despot and Stephen Fry as a television host give strong performances. But, in my opinion, the standout of the entire movie is Stephen Rea, who plays the chief inspector hot on the trail of V. What a refreshingly hard boiled performance he gives- his weariness and inner turmoil shine through splendidly. Why have I not seen him in more movies?

All in all, taken from a cinematic perspective, I would give "V for Vendetta" somewhere in the ballpark of 7-7.2 out of 10. Better than average, better even than good, though not quite on the threshold of great.

The central moral ambiguity of "V For Vendetta" intrigues me. Many people talk and talk about perspectives on terrorism- one man's terrorist is another's revolutionary. If anything, I think the movie didn't go far enough in exploring this ambiguity; I read an interview with the author of the graphic novel, who had his name removed from the movie credits, and he stressed the shades of gray he attempted to show in his work. "V For Vendetta" sacrifices this because the movie is more intent on ramming its ideology down the audience's throat than exploring moral subtleties. Instead of being about the questionable ethics of freedom fighting, V stands as a testament to liberal smugness and ends up like a watered down 1984 or Farenheit 451. Do we really need another vision of dystopia telling us that fascism is bad? Moreover, the obvious hints toward the current American administration are at best irresponsible. Goodness knows I'm no fan of Bush, but I find no grounds for suggesting that he will suddenly sieze power and ruin personal freedoms. Jumping Jehosaphat, the guy's a Methodist! Also, I think the very idea of a (true) Christian as fascist tyrant is patently ridiculous. How in the world did he rise to power without somebody saying, "Hey, you might want to examine your actions in the light of Christ"? I wouldn't have minded so much if the movie clearly seperated the leader's lust for power from his veneer of faithfulness, but the filmmakers seem content to swamp the baddies with plenty of Christian imagery. This is actually related to what I see as a bit of a plot hole. How does England, for all intents and purposes a completely secularized nation, suddenly fall into the hands of a Christian zealot? Tsk tsk, Wachowskis.

That leads to the other unfortunate realm of preachiness of "V For Vendetta", its relentless pushing of homosexuality as admirable. Here I am wading into dangerous territory, which I fully acknowledge and accept. Let us differentiate between what I believe about homosexuality and where I think the movie goes wrong in its handling of it. I have no problem coming up against gay and lesbian characters in movies. No, I haven't seen Brokeback Mountain, but neither do I run and hide from it (I actually would like to see it so I can make an informed judgment about it). Use your vast mental capabilities to distinguish my views about the practice in general from my views on how it is used in the movie.

Despite its obvious ringing endorsement of homosexuality, I would actually argue that "V For Vendetta", in its goodhearted way, does damage to helping people see gays as humans (something that I readily confess many conservative Christians need to do). The homosexuals in the movie are used mostly symbolically, to stand for all repressed people. But they are largely without actual dimension- they are too busy being martyrs for the cause to be actual characters. The filmmakers obviously want to score a blow against the people they see as tyrranical bigots, but they fail to move beyond the symbolic. In many ways they take the typical detached liberal stance- say you care but make no effort to help. I hate the erroneous comparison of the gay rights movement with the black civil rights movement of the 60's (hmm... I see another post emerging from this one), but in this case they really do remind me of those Northerners who condemned the South but did nothing to really help the plight of blacks.

I guess the thing that strikes me as odd about the agenda of the film is that it so desperately wants the audience to agree with it. A movie made as a protest against thought policing which nonetheless attempts to manipulate its audience into believing a certain absolute viewpoint is devious and contradictory indeed.

Additionally, for a movie which strikes such an anti-bigotry stance, "V for Vendetta" comes across as awfully prejudiced. Certainly I am annoyed that not one sympathetic, sincere Christian was portrayed among the vile hypocrisy of the administration. The movie would have us believe that a nation ruled by Christians would support only mindless loss of freedoms and the systematic slaughter of poor, innocent homosexuals. A somewhat tenuous position.

Overall the movie succeeds philosophically when it sticks to asking questions, but becomes heavy handed when shoving the answers down the audience's throats.

On New Beginnings and Beethoven

2006-03-26T22:26:00.000-08:00

Well, after a hiatus of a few years, I have decided to start a new weblog on Blogger. This will not be a personal blog, but one used for various thoughts I have on culture. I will do my best to be insightful as I examine books, movies, etc. from a Christian perspective.

With introductions out of the way, my post tonight is really about Beethoven. Honestly, he is one of the greatest composers the world has ever known. For some reason, however, I just can't get excited about his Second Symphony. I suppose that this is merely an unfair comparison with the majority of his symphonies, which are utterly mindblowing. Think about it: Number 9, the superlative symphony, about which loads has been written but little truly understood. The Eroica (number three) which burst him out of the classical era and essentially marked the beginning of the Romantic movement. The Pastoral (number six), with its image of nature as both serene and dangerous. Number 7, which might be my favorite of all, with its amazing power. Numbers 4 and 8, his two most underrated symphonies; there is a moment in the third movement of number 8 which is pure genius- the littlest thing, a note he brings in the horns on a beat before it sounds like he should- and gives me chills when I hear it. And number 5, despite its perennial overrating, still moves with its power. Even number 1 has its charming moments, and I suppose 2 does also, but... for some reason I just can't get excited about it. I really am giving it a chance. Maybe my appreciation will come with time.