Aug 17, 2009
Nov 2, 2008
[A season can embrace more than its kind.]
A season can embrace more than its kind.
Like a lollygagging drove of doves
Above the L line, momentum
Is split the way kindred multiply—
Scheme eschewed but with all tremor in mind.
I swear that niche between May and September
Contains more spirit, more flakes of a year’s
Sky than old age’s adolescence or dusk-
Knit dialogues in Brooklyn time.
And we—for a spell—lived like tears.
All manner of spilling and streaming and salty sin
Allowed within the beautiful ruse that binds:
Youth is undying, friendship fixed
And no matter which slack damn word we don’t say,
Everything is communion with a hint of the sanctified.
Holy are the rooftops on which Summer,
Winter, Spring and Fall sit
Splaying their courses over one humdrum meal.
Handfuls, armfuls, mouthfuls of anecdotes
Quivering with casual “Thanks” that plumb
The binary stares of the quarry
Of friendship. That was what I got
Each time I walked through the door
One summer on Willoughby
When grace wasn’t a chore.
Like a lollygagging drove of doves
Above the L line, momentum
Is split the way kindred multiply—
Scheme eschewed but with all tremor in mind.
I swear that niche between May and September
Contains more spirit, more flakes of a year’s
Sky than old age’s adolescence or dusk-
Knit dialogues in Brooklyn time.
And we—for a spell—lived like tears.
All manner of spilling and streaming and salty sin
Allowed within the beautiful ruse that binds:
Youth is undying, friendship fixed
And no matter which slack damn word we don’t say,
Everything is communion with a hint of the sanctified.
Holy are the rooftops on which Summer,
Winter, Spring and Fall sit
Splaying their courses over one humdrum meal.
Handfuls, armfuls, mouthfuls of anecdotes
Quivering with casual “Thanks” that plumb
The binary stares of the quarry
Of friendship. That was what I got
Each time I walked through the door
One summer on Willoughby
When grace wasn’t a chore.
Aug 14, 2008
Jul 27, 2008
Dissolved in Nebraska, New York
I stared up at the five-story brick house on Bank Street. In the heart of Greenwich, houses like this blend into the environment like trees in a forest—not because everything looks the same but because everything belongs. And everything belongs because the material from which everything is made has the same source. In this case, everything was hard and rough and manmade. But still so inspiring.
I tried to imagine whether it was nostalgia for the past or stimulation from the present that could stir Willa Cather to write My Antonia—her beautiful tale about the wild and unbroken Nebraska plains—in this cityscape, within the confining walls of this very house. Was it because she missed her old country? Or was it because the city, with all its stimulants, aroused her artistry?
Then I decided it was because she was happy here, as I am happy here. At the beginning of My Antonia, the narrator, Jim Burden, says, “At any rate, that is happiness; to be dissolved into something complete and great.” But Jim Burden didn’t say this in the middle of writing an American masterpiece, or while living in one of the major cultural centers of the world. He said this while lying on the warm Nebraska earth, with little bugs crawling around him, dirt crumbling between his fingers and air as fresh as a new harvest flowing through his lungs.
But Nebraska is not much different from New York City in that respect. I imagine Willa Cather felt that same happiness here—after all, she chose to move to New York City to write her novel. And I admit the reason I think that is because I feel the same happiness Jim felt in the country here where I am surrounded by pavement and skyscrapers. I am happy here in this city because I feel like I have dissolved into something complete and great. I have become a part of this vibrant, stunning, magnanimous place that is as organic and thriving as a Nebraska cornfield.
To be dissolved into something complete and great does not require a particular type of landscape or a particular disposition or a particular situation. It doesn’t mean you won’t have snakes and bugs and droughts and crowds and smog and commutes in life. Most importantly, it does not imply a dissipation of self or identity or purpose. It simply means belonging. And as Jim puts it, “When it comes to one, it comes as naturally as sleep.”
I belong in New York. My transition into this life brought not even a ripple of shock. My absorption into this place was gentle and soothing, and except for the feeling of having come home, I barely even noticed it. Likewise, I imagine Willa Cather felt the same way when she was here and my guess is that is why she moved here, to 5 Bank Street. She belonged in Greenwich because she could be with her kinds of people—people who were all very different, but who all belonged because they were made of the same brilliant substance.
And that kind of belonging, that happiness, is incredibly inspiring.
I tried to imagine whether it was nostalgia for the past or stimulation from the present that could stir Willa Cather to write My Antonia—her beautiful tale about the wild and unbroken Nebraska plains—in this cityscape, within the confining walls of this very house. Was it because she missed her old country? Or was it because the city, with all its stimulants, aroused her artistry?
Then I decided it was because she was happy here, as I am happy here. At the beginning of My Antonia, the narrator, Jim Burden, says, “At any rate, that is happiness; to be dissolved into something complete and great.” But Jim Burden didn’t say this in the middle of writing an American masterpiece, or while living in one of the major cultural centers of the world. He said this while lying on the warm Nebraska earth, with little bugs crawling around him, dirt crumbling between his fingers and air as fresh as a new harvest flowing through his lungs.
But Nebraska is not much different from New York City in that respect. I imagine Willa Cather felt that same happiness here—after all, she chose to move to New York City to write her novel. And I admit the reason I think that is because I feel the same happiness Jim felt in the country here where I am surrounded by pavement and skyscrapers. I am happy here in this city because I feel like I have dissolved into something complete and great. I have become a part of this vibrant, stunning, magnanimous place that is as organic and thriving as a Nebraska cornfield.
To be dissolved into something complete and great does not require a particular type of landscape or a particular disposition or a particular situation. It doesn’t mean you won’t have snakes and bugs and droughts and crowds and smog and commutes in life. Most importantly, it does not imply a dissipation of self or identity or purpose. It simply means belonging. And as Jim puts it, “When it comes to one, it comes as naturally as sleep.”
I belong in New York. My transition into this life brought not even a ripple of shock. My absorption into this place was gentle and soothing, and except for the feeling of having come home, I barely even noticed it. Likewise, I imagine Willa Cather felt the same way when she was here and my guess is that is why she moved here, to 5 Bank Street. She belonged in Greenwich because she could be with her kinds of people—people who were all very different, but who all belonged because they were made of the same brilliant substance.
And that kind of belonging, that happiness, is incredibly inspiring.
Mar 3, 2008
Furry Bomber Hats, Vegan Food and Vomit
On the bookshelf, the furry bomber hat covered the mannequin’s bare head and her large 70’s sunglasses rested on the tip of her nose. There was an old record player sitting on a worn oak dresser under the gaudy vintage lamp. Original artwork covered the plywood walls. Eclectic mugs filled the doorless cupboard. Everything was in place on this hipster stage. If you tried to think of something hipster that was not in that apartment, you would be there until someone started playing a top 20 pop countdown, i.e. forever. Everyone was in place. Guys, in their tight jeans and puffy retro vests and dirty sneakers, had their messy curls falling out of their snow hats just right. Girls wore their coy, apathetic “damn it all unless you want to make out” expression and were appropriately attired in their Urban Outfitters uniform. “Welcome to Williamsburg, Brooklyn,” Val said to me.
And then the show began. Cecil perched himself on the wooden chair, licked his lips and apologized for his quiet guitar. His awkward twitching while he talked and tuned was my first tip off. But it was too late to escape. Before I knew it, he was wailing about “human huggies” and his “pinched penis on the wall” and stringing random words together like he was hurling pieces of trash he had blindly fished out of a dumpster at innocent people walking by; as if language was only meant to confuse. He would shake, convulse, scream, hit his head, pound his guitar and moan and wail and choke. All in the name of art.
And everyone watched, most even with straight faces. I bit my lip and practiced self control. And after reveling in my inner hipster and relishing the Beat-ness of it all, I couldn’t take it any more. This was not art. Or at least, this was not beauty.
It was self-expression. Cecil, I’m sure, was making sense to himself because he was expressing himself. The only problem was that he was just vomiting his inner self out, and it was rather offensive to the ears and the soul. In fact, if any of us just vomited out what was deep down inside of us, we would all severely offend. Cecil was not offering his audience anything worthwhile. Instead, he was divulging his unsanctified crap, without any effort to sanctify it himself. And no one wants that. We have enough of that on our own. He might have felt better after throwing up, but no one else did.
Art, rather, should be an attempt to order, even sanctify, all that is ugly within and without us. This does not mean it all needs to be cleaned up and sugar coated. It can still remain raw and bloody, but the artist’s job is not to just vomit what is inside him but rather to enact some sort of force onto it so that it can become something worth consuming, not just mopping up.
The artist is a chef (to be perhaps overly simplistic). And I don’t care if the artist only uses organic vegan produce from Whole Foods cooked in a hipster kitchen. All that I want to see in art is one person’s personal attempt to actually mold, marinate, color, pound, heat, flavor, tweak, whittle, process the shit and the beauty in him and in the world. Again, I say the artist must be proactive. The artist has the rare tools needed to give meaning and purpose to the amorphous. The artist possesses a sacred function because the artist holds a dash of sanctification in his fingertips. Sometimes that makes things bitter, sometimes sweet, sometimes unusual and sometimes familiar. But it is always artful and beautiful. And that is what nourishes us. Not vomit.
And then the show began. Cecil perched himself on the wooden chair, licked his lips and apologized for his quiet guitar. His awkward twitching while he talked and tuned was my first tip off. But it was too late to escape. Before I knew it, he was wailing about “human huggies” and his “pinched penis on the wall” and stringing random words together like he was hurling pieces of trash he had blindly fished out of a dumpster at innocent people walking by; as if language was only meant to confuse. He would shake, convulse, scream, hit his head, pound his guitar and moan and wail and choke. All in the name of art.
And everyone watched, most even with straight faces. I bit my lip and practiced self control. And after reveling in my inner hipster and relishing the Beat-ness of it all, I couldn’t take it any more. This was not art. Or at least, this was not beauty.
It was self-expression. Cecil, I’m sure, was making sense to himself because he was expressing himself. The only problem was that he was just vomiting his inner self out, and it was rather offensive to the ears and the soul. In fact, if any of us just vomited out what was deep down inside of us, we would all severely offend. Cecil was not offering his audience anything worthwhile. Instead, he was divulging his unsanctified crap, without any effort to sanctify it himself. And no one wants that. We have enough of that on our own. He might have felt better after throwing up, but no one else did.
Art, rather, should be an attempt to order, even sanctify, all that is ugly within and without us. This does not mean it all needs to be cleaned up and sugar coated. It can still remain raw and bloody, but the artist’s job is not to just vomit what is inside him but rather to enact some sort of force onto it so that it can become something worth consuming, not just mopping up.
The artist is a chef (to be perhaps overly simplistic). And I don’t care if the artist only uses organic vegan produce from Whole Foods cooked in a hipster kitchen. All that I want to see in art is one person’s personal attempt to actually mold, marinate, color, pound, heat, flavor, tweak, whittle, process the shit and the beauty in him and in the world. Again, I say the artist must be proactive. The artist has the rare tools needed to give meaning and purpose to the amorphous. The artist possesses a sacred function because the artist holds a dash of sanctification in his fingertips. Sometimes that makes things bitter, sometimes sweet, sometimes unusual and sometimes familiar. But it is always artful and beautiful. And that is what nourishes us. Not vomit.
Feb 6, 2008
Something, even nothing?
"Dear God," she prayed, "let me be something every minute of every hour of my life. Let me be gay; let me be sad. Let me be cold; let me be warm. Let me hungry...have too much to eat. Let me ragged or well dressed. Let me be sincere--be deceitful. Let me be truthful; let me be a liar. Let me be honorable and let me sin. Only let me be something every blessed minute. And when I sleep, let me dream all the time so that not one blessed piece of living is ever lost."
- Francie Nolan in A Tree Grows in Brooklyn
This sounds like a prayer I would pray. Or at least a prayer I would have prayed before coming to New York City. Living in the suburbs of Chicago, I was terrified of languishing into a life of passivity, complacency, boredom and insensitivity. Since I’ve been in NYC, I can feel my fear shifting. Now, I am more afraid of drifting to an extreme. Here, the rich are so rich it is repulsive. The poor are so downtrodden they reduce themselves into a huddle of dirty blankets.
I think recently it has been my distant interactions with the homeless that have most affected me. Seeing them coiled up on the subway, often smelling so strongly like manure that other passengers switch cars as soon as they step on. In fact, my theory is that they make themselves smell so horrid so that they can have an entire car to themselves in order to remain isolated in their shame. These unfortunate souls do not acknowledge the living occurring them and they make every effort to not be acknowledged by it. Their pain has reduced to them to the point that they don’t even have faces—the distinguishing mark of a human—because they hide completely within blankets and hooded sweatshirts.
Francie Nolan thinks if she can only live her life in the margin of extremes then she will at least know she is alive; then she will be carpeing the diem. But I think she is mistaken. It is in the extremes that you forget to live.
The rich drift through life on the gentle waves of cash that put them into a slumber or they obsess with money to the point that they forget there is more to life than a bank account. The homeless daze out in hopes of disappearing. And, contrary to Francie's eagerness to dream, even dreaming all the time can also be a curse—just ask a war veteran who can’t shake his nightmares. I think all three of these (even the rich if you can get them to really be honest. See here for example.) would trade in their extreme existences so that they can live again.
Sometimes by being something, you can end up being nothing. Sometimes it is in the mundane that radical living happens most often.
Feb 1, 2008
Prints on a Sidewalk
Pigeon feet beside
Two tiny soles:
Befriending
The dove, a child
grasps, stepping
In wet cement.
Till it flies.
And he remembers
Dinner at six.
Never knowing
The past pursuit is now
All the while
Caught.
Two tiny soles:
Befriending
The dove, a child
grasps, stepping
In wet cement.
Till it flies.
And he remembers
Dinner at six.
Never knowing
The past pursuit is now
All the while
Caught.
Jan 15, 2008
Settling
There are roughly three New Yorks. There is, first, the New York of the man or woman who was born there, who takes the city for granted and accepts its size, its turbulence as natural and inevitable. Second, there is the New York of the commuter--the city that is devoured by locusts each day and spat out each night. Third, there is New York of the person who was born somewhere else and came to New York in quest of something. Of these trembling cities the greatest is the last--the city of final destination, the city that is a goal. It is this third city that accounts for New York’s high strung disposition, its poetical deportment, its dedication to the arts, and its incomparable achievements. Commuters give the city its tidal restlessness, natives give it solidity and continuity, but the settlers give it passion. And whether it is a farmer arriving from Italy to set up a small grocery store in a slum or a young girl arriving from a small town in Mississippi to escape the indignity of being observed by her neighbors, or a boy arriving from the Corn Belt with a manuscript in his suitcase and a pain in his heart, it makes no difference: each embraces New York with the intense excitement of first love, each absorbs New York with the fresh eyes of an adventurer, each generates heat and light to dwarf the Consolidated Edison Company.
- E.B. White, Here is New York
I have the privilege of being one of New York’s settlers. I came to this country (for New York is a country in its own right) with two suitcases in tow and a cryptic quest before me. In exchange for my passion, this city promised to give me nothing less than a life—my shelter, my food, my employment, my friends, my church. And so far, the trade has been quite lucrative. My budget is squeezed as tight as a fat man on a rush-hour train, but according to the cost-benefit analysis of life experiences, I am making out quite well. In fact, I’m doing so well that I have the joined the elite rank of poor, crazy settlers.
Yes, I have settled. And I have embraced New York with the intense excitement of first love. I’m not so settled that I feel completely New-Yorkified, but I am settled enough to feel the process beginning. And ah! What is better than the nascent rumblings of, not a transformation, but an expansion of one’s core? There are few things more satisfying than to have spent so much time waiting for the train to come, and knowing surely it must come, and then finally hearing it. Then seeing it. And then jumping on and heading into a dark tunnel. NYC is still a dark tunnel for me, but I have as much confidence that the MTA will get me to work in the morning as I do that the Lord will get me to my unbeknownst-to-me destination. That is because I’m not driving and heck, I can’t even see a thing out the window except movement. And I am moving. I’m progressing, growing, expanding and stretching.
Each day, on my ride to Manhattan, there is a majestic moment when for about one minutes the train rises out of its channel to gasp for air and cross the East River. On the way to work, I can see the sun darting off the Brooklyn Bridge and the Manhattan skyline. On the way home, I’m struck by the beauty of the man-made lights that dot and speckle the bride and the buildings. I look forward to this part of my commute and unashamedly gaze out the window as New Yorkers keep their noses in their books or make a quick call while they have reception. But before I know it, it’s back to the dark tunnels again because we must keep moving.
NYC may still be a dark tunnel of uncertainties for me, but I've been blessed and enriched by many moments as glorious as that occasion of crossing the river. Shopping and coffeeing in Soho. A Vegan dinner, a drink and an archetypal East Village bookstore with an old classmate. Lunch with new friends on the East side of Manhattan. Touring around the upper east side and 5th Avenue and leisurely enjoying all its high-class pleasures. Strolling through the Met while engaging in deep conversation with a new friend. Church and worship and the word preached! Reading poetry in the New York Public Library. And all the mundane pleasures of living a new life. As a result, I have absorbed enough of the city to get into my blood.
It seems I’ve begun generating heat and light and so maybe now this place won’t be so dark and cold.
Dec 11, 2007
Sands of Granite
[Sands of Granite]
Factor in the sands of granite
That obligate a shape
by setting sedimentary.
Once a verbal speck.
Then a sauce-stained countertop.
And rub love’s weather with a spoon.
Precipitation stirs, eroding
roofs down to the cold brow of a basement tile.
Layer on liner, I repel—
Rope and resistance—
Like a proved watch on a string
Down the gutter of last June’s sediments
Into the heavy sea.
The red kitchen crust
Cracks like the voice of scared devotion,
making the distance between “me too”
and you a pyramid.
Add a cabinet of polished deserts
And I’m hanging
On ancient geography.
Bruised by an evolution
Of flashing lights and cops and tracks
Of deposited trash stickers.
Hitting bottom and licking
The bowl of old bricks,
My tongue needed relief
And my log needed a canal
Before the cavity caved
And the heart shaved
Itself into the shape
Of regret. And was set.
Copyright 2007
Factor in the sands of granite
That obligate a shape
by setting sedimentary.
Once a verbal speck.
Then a sauce-stained countertop.
And rub love’s weather with a spoon.
Precipitation stirs, eroding
roofs down to the cold brow of a basement tile.
Layer on liner, I repel—
Rope and resistance—
Like a proved watch on a string
Down the gutter of last June’s sediments
Into the heavy sea.
The red kitchen crust
Cracks like the voice of scared devotion,
making the distance between “me too”
and you a pyramid.
Add a cabinet of polished deserts
And I’m hanging
On ancient geography.
Bruised by an evolution
Of flashing lights and cops and tracks
Of deposited trash stickers.
Hitting bottom and licking
The bowl of old bricks,
My tongue needed relief
And my log needed a canal
Before the cavity caved
And the heart shaved
Itself into the shape
Of regret. And was set.
Copyright 2007
Nov 24, 2007
Another Convention
A Tribute to John Ashbery: An Imitation of “The Other Tradition”
[Another Convention]
They all went, some wore snagged notions
Braided into their hems, whispering the haste
Of the era, and indeed Jupiter spits its rocks
From the wrought-iron black balcony while
Apologetically dabbing its mouth, and all emotions shuffle
In the dirt under the stairs when she’s sweeping:
The eternal flow of traffic, the blisters,
The nostalgic Mickey Mouse waffles, and through it
The whistle of my generation streaking conscientiously into farces
Confusing night, dripping sex into syrup at every moment
Past the telescope: the wrong end of it all.
Only then did you stare into the television,
Unable to focus the billions of pixels taking their place, or
Scribble the subliminal. More beds
Were brought, and light bulbs smashed, but the sounds
Tattled on its waves so that no one heard how it happened
After Jesus waited outside. People on the first
Circus tightrope, squatting up and down, until splitting
Five hundred decibels across the horizon
And the show was canceled on Ohio’s border.
The string on my finger
Says they lost you, after a shower, in your tented towel,
Literate as a mosquito in a doctor’s office.
The tightrope life was higher then. Swaying, each of the
Gypsies has a new fortune for philanthropists
Who weren’t steady enough to finish, forfeiting their costumes
To the event, and how, though spectators
Wrung their towels dry, if only to nearly
Fly away, yet still bogged down in a dreary faker
After that stuffy self-awareness years before,
Now the song of the street has muted itself
Over the magnanimity of the spectacle. You found this
Perfunctory, and stuck up your eyelids toward the lamp,
Painting your pictures on the globe, not seeing
Or caring, although everything must die musically
And all things released, told yes and no
Caught in and out of the twisted iron bars
They have so much trouble remembering when your
Forgetting
Redeems them at once, as the moon claims the sky.
[Another Convention]
They all went, some wore snagged notions
Braided into their hems, whispering the haste
Of the era, and indeed Jupiter spits its rocks
From the wrought-iron black balcony while
Apologetically dabbing its mouth, and all emotions shuffle
In the dirt under the stairs when she’s sweeping:
The eternal flow of traffic, the blisters,
The nostalgic Mickey Mouse waffles, and through it
The whistle of my generation streaking conscientiously into farces
Confusing night, dripping sex into syrup at every moment
Past the telescope: the wrong end of it all.
Only then did you stare into the television,
Unable to focus the billions of pixels taking their place, or
Scribble the subliminal. More beds
Were brought, and light bulbs smashed, but the sounds
Tattled on its waves so that no one heard how it happened
After Jesus waited outside. People on the first
Circus tightrope, squatting up and down, until splitting
Five hundred decibels across the horizon
And the show was canceled on Ohio’s border.
The string on my finger
Says they lost you, after a shower, in your tented towel,
Literate as a mosquito in a doctor’s office.
The tightrope life was higher then. Swaying, each of the
Gypsies has a new fortune for philanthropists
Who weren’t steady enough to finish, forfeiting their costumes
To the event, and how, though spectators
Wrung their towels dry, if only to nearly
Fly away, yet still bogged down in a dreary faker
After that stuffy self-awareness years before,
Now the song of the street has muted itself
Over the magnanimity of the spectacle. You found this
Perfunctory, and stuck up your eyelids toward the lamp,
Painting your pictures on the globe, not seeing
Or caring, although everything must die musically
And all things released, told yes and no
Caught in and out of the twisted iron bars
They have so much trouble remembering when your
Forgetting
Redeems them at once, as the moon claims the sky.
Nov 20, 2007
Why I Make Art
My culturally savvy pastor sent me this paragraph from a Christian theater blog he stumbled upon and asked me this: "As an artsy, Bobo-ish, literati type [note: I found that description both humorous and flattering], are you sympathetic, semi-sympathetic, or skeptical of the following comment:"
This is my response:
I am very skeptical and semi-sympathetic. Yes, artists quest for truth. And yes, they feel like the truth they search for is unappreciated and misunderstood. But, it is completely arrogant (which is different from being elitist) to say that one is "mining things that are Real But May Not Have Existed Before I Found Them." Artists do NOT create ex nihilo (even if they emphasize the mining over creating). Artists are not God. They cannot find something if it didn't exist before. That statement is ridiculous and it is using the typical artsy rhetoric of "let me impress people with 'deep' philosophizing (and spell words the British way) even though I am not actually thinking about what I may be saying."
And yes, actors are priests. So are bakers. So are doctors. We are a common priesthood of believers. God does not view artists any more highly than a cashier. Why? Because we are all working with what he has given us. Artists are copy-cats of God--there can be no artistic pride in that since un-originality is the feared enemy of art. The pride of an artist ought to be in his/her ability to see something the way God has already seen it and already created it and then sharing that with others who were not aware of that particular perspective. Thus, the material of artists is not that which is "real but which has not existed before I found them," but rather their material is that which is real but which limited humans did not know existed until God revealed it to them through their art. Art is simultaneously a means of discovery and a means of communicating a discovery. Even in the theater, you cannot say that you are on a quest for a truth which has not yet existed, because all that is truth already exists, whether an actor discovers it on the stage or not.
Furthermore, to liken what this person calls their material to a shy flower is 1) A bad analogy because a flower that refuses to bloom is closed and a closed flower is more sturdy than an open one. And truth is not fragile. It is steely strong. 2) Theater, and art in general, is not about delicately sustaining a fragile flower and hoping that if you stand still, hold your breath, and stare at it really hard it will open itself up to you. Art is about getting a sledgehammer and beating through our dense heads, sinful nature, calloused hearts, sealed eyes and trying to find layer after layer of delicate, profound, harsh, etc. truths. Kafka says, it is the ax the breaks the frozen sea within us. Now, sometimes this sledgehammer might need to work through nuances of language, a gentle scene on the stage or a silent rest in a song, but it must have an impact. Art is not about doing nothing (not breathing, not moving too fast, not speaking). Art is proactive! It is about trying to pry open that flower petal by petal and seeing what is hiding inside. And the flower only humors an artist if its creator gives it permission to allow its petals to be peeled back. But when the artist becomes privy to what is inside, it is the greatest privilege. And that is why I want to make art.
I realized today that I do theatre because I quest for Truth. It's not that dogmatic stuff that fundies snobbishly label "absolute truth," nor is it a relativized, "whatever-you-believe-is-fine-for-you" postmodern brand of truth--and it's certainly not the kind of martial, menacing truth that political opponents are flinging in each other's faces this time of year. The kind of truth that I am after is the truth of me being more me than I've ever been before, of mining things that are Real But May Not Have Existed Before I Found Them. Does anyone other than the actor understand this kind of truth? I don't know. Call me elitist, but we are elite. We are a priesthood. The material we mediate? I liken it to a rare, shy flower that refuses to bloom if you look at it directly. Fragile and pink-skinned, you can see the fluids pulsating just beneath its veiny, paper-thin petals. . . breath the wrong way and it will turn in on itself and wilt.
This is my response:
I am very skeptical and semi-sympathetic. Yes, artists quest for truth. And yes, they feel like the truth they search for is unappreciated and misunderstood. But, it is completely arrogant (which is different from being elitist) to say that one is "mining things that are Real But May Not Have Existed Before I Found Them." Artists do NOT create ex nihilo (even if they emphasize the mining over creating). Artists are not God. They cannot find something if it didn't exist before. That statement is ridiculous and it is using the typical artsy rhetoric of "let me impress people with 'deep' philosophizing (and spell words the British way) even though I am not actually thinking about what I may be saying."
And yes, actors are priests. So are bakers. So are doctors. We are a common priesthood of believers. God does not view artists any more highly than a cashier. Why? Because we are all working with what he has given us. Artists are copy-cats of God--there can be no artistic pride in that since un-originality is the feared enemy of art. The pride of an artist ought to be in his/her ability to see something the way God has already seen it and already created it and then sharing that with others who were not aware of that particular perspective. Thus, the material of artists is not that which is "real but which has not existed before I found them," but rather their material is that which is real but which limited humans did not know existed until God revealed it to them through their art. Art is simultaneously a means of discovery and a means of communicating a discovery. Even in the theater, you cannot say that you are on a quest for a truth which has not yet existed, because all that is truth already exists, whether an actor discovers it on the stage or not.
Furthermore, to liken what this person calls their material to a shy flower is 1) A bad analogy because a flower that refuses to bloom is closed and a closed flower is more sturdy than an open one. And truth is not fragile. It is steely strong. 2) Theater, and art in general, is not about delicately sustaining a fragile flower and hoping that if you stand still, hold your breath, and stare at it really hard it will open itself up to you. Art is about getting a sledgehammer and beating through our dense heads, sinful nature, calloused hearts, sealed eyes and trying to find layer after layer of delicate, profound, harsh, etc. truths. Kafka says, it is the ax the breaks the frozen sea within us. Now, sometimes this sledgehammer might need to work through nuances of language, a gentle scene on the stage or a silent rest in a song, but it must have an impact. Art is not about doing nothing (not breathing, not moving too fast, not speaking). Art is proactive! It is about trying to pry open that flower petal by petal and seeing what is hiding inside. And the flower only humors an artist if its creator gives it permission to allow its petals to be peeled back. But when the artist becomes privy to what is inside, it is the greatest privilege. And that is why I want to make art.
Nov 12, 2007
The Ubiquitous Self
A presumptuous appendage to Walker Percy's Self Help Quiz found in his Lost in the Cosmos
(21) THE UBIQUITOUS SELF: How the Self finds itself in everything, which results either in arrogance, humility, or suicide.
Question: While standing in the grocery store deciding what the best value of toilet paper is to buy, an old college acquaintance comes up to you, shows both surprise and excitement at seeing you, and asks how you are doing. But before you can answer, this friend launches into a rant about the last package of TP she bought and the pros and cons of certain brands. You respond by nodding politely and zoning out while thinking about what kind of cereal to buy next. Then you hear about the ultra-sandy TP her roommate bought and you immediately jump back into the conversation. What drew you back into this acquaintance's toilet paper world?
(a) You are obsessed with finding the most plush TP in order to avoid a sandy rub.
(b) You are environmentally conscientious and you know that sandy TP has been proven by muskrats in Ohio to be harmful to creek beds, and so you feel it is your responsibility to share this fact with your friend.
(c) You know that either you join in the conversation now and try to wrap it up or you will never get to your Honey Nut Cheerios.
(d) Human beings are only interested in that in which they see themselves, and if you wait long enough, you will see yourself in everything. At the store, you could relate to your friend's sandy plight because your roommate recently subjected you to the same thing. And so, because you could see yourself in her story, you were immediately hooked.
(CHECK ONE)
Thought Experiment: Think about anything. Then decide why you are thinking about it. What's its relevance to you? How did the thought come to you and thus how did you come to enter into the thought? In some way the self is not only in your thoughts, but in the object of your thoughts. Now think about something else. Once again, did you find the self in the thought and in the thing? Now try to look at something, listen to something, feel something, anything. Were you able to do so while leaving the self behind?
Regardless of what you answered to the multiple choice question above, the self was embedded into your friend's TP tales because one's self is ubiquitous to itself. This can be a horribly depressing thought if you are one who does not want your self to be disseminated unto the ends of the earth (or at least the ones you venture into). Or it can be a revelation that results in hubris because you are drunk with the possibilities of perpetuating yourself. Or it may make you feel utterly insignificant because you are only one part of a million zillion other parts and have no particular claim on anything for what is not rare is not special. Or it can make anything interesting to you because with a little reflection, you will discover that you should have a vested interest in everything.
Thought Experiment (II): Try to find some theological truths that support the ubiquitous self. Think about how the ubiquitous self might/might not support some theological truths. Think about how this idea might become heresy. Now think about what your most successful toilet paper purchase has been and write it down so that next time you go to the store you will know exactly what to buy.
(21) THE UBIQUITOUS SELF: How the Self finds itself in everything, which results either in arrogance, humility, or suicide.
Question: While standing in the grocery store deciding what the best value of toilet paper is to buy, an old college acquaintance comes up to you, shows both surprise and excitement at seeing you, and asks how you are doing. But before you can answer, this friend launches into a rant about the last package of TP she bought and the pros and cons of certain brands. You respond by nodding politely and zoning out while thinking about what kind of cereal to buy next. Then you hear about the ultra-sandy TP her roommate bought and you immediately jump back into the conversation. What drew you back into this acquaintance's toilet paper world?
(a) You are obsessed with finding the most plush TP in order to avoid a sandy rub.
(b) You are environmentally conscientious and you know that sandy TP has been proven by muskrats in Ohio to be harmful to creek beds, and so you feel it is your responsibility to share this fact with your friend.
(c) You know that either you join in the conversation now and try to wrap it up or you will never get to your Honey Nut Cheerios.
(d) Human beings are only interested in that in which they see themselves, and if you wait long enough, you will see yourself in everything. At the store, you could relate to your friend's sandy plight because your roommate recently subjected you to the same thing. And so, because you could see yourself in her story, you were immediately hooked.
(CHECK ONE)
Thought Experiment: Think about anything. Then decide why you are thinking about it. What's its relevance to you? How did the thought come to you and thus how did you come to enter into the thought? In some way the self is not only in your thoughts, but in the object of your thoughts. Now think about something else. Once again, did you find the self in the thought and in the thing? Now try to look at something, listen to something, feel something, anything. Were you able to do so while leaving the self behind?
Regardless of what you answered to the multiple choice question above, the self was embedded into your friend's TP tales because one's self is ubiquitous to itself. This can be a horribly depressing thought if you are one who does not want your self to be disseminated unto the ends of the earth (or at least the ones you venture into). Or it can be a revelation that results in hubris because you are drunk with the possibilities of perpetuating yourself. Or it may make you feel utterly insignificant because you are only one part of a million zillion other parts and have no particular claim on anything for what is not rare is not special. Or it can make anything interesting to you because with a little reflection, you will discover that you should have a vested interest in everything.
Thought Experiment (II): Try to find some theological truths that support the ubiquitous self. Think about how the ubiquitous self might/might not support some theological truths. Think about how this idea might become heresy. Now think about what your most successful toilet paper purchase has been and write it down so that next time you go to the store you will know exactly what to buy.
Oct 27, 2007
Innocent Bones
“Innocent Bones”
Iron and Wine on Shepherd’s Dog
Cain got a milk-eyed mule from the auction
Abel got a telephone
And even the last of the blue-eyed babies know
That the burning man is the color of the end of day
And how every tongue that gets bit always has another word to say
Cain bought a blade from some witch at the window
Abel bought a bag of weed
And even the last of the brown-eyed babies see
That the cartoon king has a tattoo of a bleeding heart
There ain’t a penthouse Christian wants the pain of the scab, but they all want the scar
How every mouth sings of what it’s without so we all sing of love
And how it ain’t one dog who’s good at fucking and denying who he’s thinking of
Cain heard a cat tumble limp off the rooftop
Abel heard his papa pray
And even the last of the black-eyed babies say
That every saint has a chair you can borrow and a church to sell
That the wind blows cold across the back of the master and the kitchen help
There’s a big pile of innocent bones still holding up the garden wall
And it was always the broken hand we learned to lean on after all
How God knows if Christ came back he would find us in a poker game
After finding out the drugs were all free but they won't let you out the door again
Iron and Wine on Shepherd’s Dog
Cain got a milk-eyed mule from the auction
Abel got a telephone
And even the last of the blue-eyed babies know
That the burning man is the color of the end of day
And how every tongue that gets bit always has another word to say
Cain bought a blade from some witch at the window
Abel bought a bag of weed
And even the last of the brown-eyed babies see
That the cartoon king has a tattoo of a bleeding heart
There ain’t a penthouse Christian wants the pain of the scab, but they all want the scar
How every mouth sings of what it’s without so we all sing of love
And how it ain’t one dog who’s good at fucking and denying who he’s thinking of
Cain heard a cat tumble limp off the rooftop
Abel heard his papa pray
And even the last of the black-eyed babies say
That every saint has a chair you can borrow and a church to sell
That the wind blows cold across the back of the master and the kitchen help
There’s a big pile of innocent bones still holding up the garden wall
And it was always the broken hand we learned to lean on after all
How God knows if Christ came back he would find us in a poker game
After finding out the drugs were all free but they won't let you out the door again
Oct 24, 2007
The Circle and the Pendulum
Monotony is the most beautiful or the most atrocious thing. The most beautiful if it is a reflection of eternity—the most atrocious if it is a sign of unvarying perpetuity. It is time surpassed or time sterilized. The circle is the symbol of monotony which is beautiful, the swinging of a pendulum of monotony which is atrocious.
-Simone Weil, Gravity and Grace
"Enjoy your youth!" my grandma is always urging me. "Enjoy your youth!" And so I try. I waste time like only a young person can or I busy myself mad like only a person my age can. But when monotony enters my life, I panic. I become restless. Like a sailboat waiting for wind, I paddle in circles hoping for a gust to make life exciting again. After all, isn't youthfulness synonymous with excitement and progress? Perhaps. But what if I stop dividing life into various states of existence and instead view it across a horizon of sanctification? What if instead of thinking in terms of childhood, youth, adulthood, middle-age, and old age (or to make matters more complicated read David Brooks' Column here) I operate off of a continuum of monotony—an effigy of eternity?
Because I work within a stage-of-life framework, I grow sick with nostalgia for my childhood, I panic under the pressure to enjoy my youth, and I sense an oncoming dread at the thought of arthritis and memory loss. I see in David Brooks' column and the cover story of Nov/Dec issue of Books and Culture other dangers that result from our obsession with developmental stages. And so, I am going to try to stop thinking in terms of stages—which are usually associated with a certain quality of life—and look instead at the bigger picture where, yes I do indeed change according to these phases, but I am changing within a static state of humanity towards an increasing state of sanctification.
In mathematics, a monotonic function is one which never increases or decreases even as its independent variable does increase. Likewise, as humans our quality of being never changes even while spiritually we are being perfected. In other words, one phase of life is equally as significant as an other because with each one we have new opportunities to sin less and less.
By thinking of growing old as monotonous—unvarying perpetuity of existence—I sterilize the process of sanctification by reducing life to a tedious function of decreasing interests and opportunities. But if I think of growing old as monotonous—a reflection of eternity—then suddenly life becomes a mysterious, ever-expanding horizon. I will spend eternity delving into the intimate depths of God. And then delving some more. While on earth, I can surpass time by doing the same thing. Then, the factor of why I exist never varies.
Instead of being about seizing the moment, making a memory or bracing for the future, life is about one thing: seeking the Lord so that I may be satisfied in him so that I may glorify him. If I view life as one act, repeated everyday for my entire life, then I will live a most beautiful life. Like the cliche mention of a sunset that never fails to inspire and a sunrise that always awes, my life is equally as monotonous as the rotating earth, but equally as unique and magnificent. It is the circle of sanctification.
But in this circle, there is a pendulum. The Lord has designed time so that as I stand in the present, I oscillate between nostalgia for the past and hope for the future. Is that atrocious? No, because my present is always progressing around the beautifully monotonous circle. I never swing from the same place. It is not atrocious as long as I appreciate my static worth as a progressively holy creature striving for the same goal every day.
And that is what I should be enjoying.
Oct 15, 2007
Optional by Necessity
Review of Best American Nonrequired Reading 2007, edited by Dave Eggers with an intro by Sufjan Stevens
Oct 13, 2007
An Interview with Ayn Rand
Ayn Rand and I visited Denny's Diner late one evening to catch up. After discussing boys, clothes and Sufjan Stevens, I thought it would be helpful if I put on record an insightful conversation encapsulating her worldview. So I asked her a few questions in a serious interview:
KS: Ms. Rand, It is the biggest honor to pretend to interview you, so thanks for humoring my imagination. Let’s just dig right into the hard stuff. In your own words, what is your philosophy?
AR: My philosophy, in essence, is the concept of man as a heroic being, with his own happiness as the moral purpose of his life, with productive achievement as his noblest activity, and reason as his only absolute.
KS: What is man, in your opinion?
AR: Man is a being of self-made soul.
KS: How do you feel about discrimination between men and women?
AR: I am an anti-feminist. I regard man as a superior value. I am always in favor of tomboys and of intellectual equality, but women don’t interest me.
KS: I really admire the development of your characters. How do you approach characterization?
AR: Characterization was always what I haven given least thought to. I’m always very clear on the concept of the character, but not in the technical sense of how to project the kind of character I have in mind. I’d have to be very clear on what are the major and minor premises and motivation of each character, on what makes him tick, what he is after—and I could state it in words. But I would not project in advance how to show, for instance, that Andrei is brave. I had almost a block against characterization, I was contemptuous of the issue because of the irrational importance given to it by the kind of stories and schools of literature that say characterization is a primary, and there’s detailed character delineations of people who do nothing at all. Throughout the writing, I was astonished that I was keeping to a very great consistency of characterization; apparently, my subconscious premises were set.
KS: How did you begin to develop what you call your “thinking in principles?”
AR: I began to formulate reasons consciously. I began to ask myself the why of the ideas I believed, and to integrate them. Before, I had very strong value-judgments, but they were not very connected. It was a period of wonderfully intense intellectual excitement.
KS: How did Victor Hugo influence your writing?
AR: I began to be conscious of style for the first time. I began to be aware that Hugo has a way of using language that makes the drama of the incidents; a synopsis of the same events wouldn’t be as good. I saw the importance of style as a means to an end.…I was not then, or now, in love with the mere beauty of writing; I judge by its purpose. But before that, I thought it didn’t matter what you wrote, it’s what you say. I began to realize that what you say depends on how you say it. And I was aware of his integration of themes, ideas, and action. I was struggling to find actions for all my many themes, and could not, and he was doing it expertly. He served as an ideal inspiration—it can be done. I had no idea of how I could do it, just a patient determination—I have to discover it.
KS: How do you really reach people with the written word?
AR: You reach people’s intelligence if you know how to present things clearly.
KS: What did the study of logic teach you?
AR: The first syllogism made an erroneous impression on me. It was like a light bulb going off in my mind. The syllogism was ‘All cats have tails, this is a cat, therefore it has a tail.’ My first reaction was: That’s wrong; when people say, for them, it’s just an expression. Then I grasped, as a revelation, that when you says ‘all,’ you must really mean ‘all.’ I was converted to consistency from then on. It made me conscious of the importance of precision, and to what extent you have to use words exactly. I felt an enormous admiration for the discipline of logic, and a faint guilt: They were right, this is how one should handle words and thoughts and I was wrong. I told myself that I must never forget this.
KS: Would you like a drink?
AR: Yes. Thank you.
KS: Why did you decide to become an atheist?
AR: I had decided that the concept of God is degrading to men. Since they say God is perfect, and man can never be that perfect, then man is low and imperfect and there is something above him—which is wrong.
KS: So that’s it?
AR: Well no proof of the existence of God exists; the concept is an untenable invention. Since the concept of God is rationally untenable and degrading to man, I’m against it. It was as simple as that. The essence of my present belief is there. It focused the issue of reason versus mysticism. I had the feeling that atheism was an integration of something that had been growing in me for a long time, not a sudden thought. When I focused on the subject for the first time, the convictions were already there.
KS: What about the fact that some say they have experienced God?
AR: You’re talking about faith. I haven’t any—and it doesn’t make sense to me.
KS: What do you think of America?
AR: America is the greatest country on earth. No—it’s the only country.
KS: Why do you love the city—city lights, city streets, skyscrapers?
AR: They were the symbol of living for your own pleasure and for enjoyment—not for duty or service or misery. They were everything that was non-Soviet.
All quotes are Ayn Rand’s own words found in The Passion of Ayn Rand, a biography by Barbara Branden.
Sep 14, 2007
Light within Light
“The moon looks wonderful in this warm evening light, just as a candle flame looks beautiful in the light of morning. Light within light. It seems like a metaphor for something. So much does. Ralph Waldo Emerson is excellent on this point.”
“It seems to me to be a metaphor for the human soul, the singular light within the great light of existence. Or it seems like poetry within language. Perhaps wisdom within experience. Or marriage within friendship and love. I’ll try to remember to use this. I believe I see a place for it in my thoughts on Hagar and Ishmael. Their time in the wilderness seems like a specific moment of divine Providence within the whole providential regime of Creation.”
-John Ames in Gilead by Marilynne Robinson
…just keep meditating on that a moment.
Paragraphs like these don’t need commentary. They need our focus. Photography seems like it would be a good metaphor for something here. Each sentence in these paragraphs is a light within the radiance of the passage and the passage is a light within the brilliance of the novel. The trouble is that as readers, we often don’t see the beams because we live our lives out of focus. In other words, while glorious light shines off the page (or off a leaf or a painting or a skyscraper for that matter), we are unappreciative because our aperture openings are too small. When a photographer uses a small aperture opening (and a slow shutter speed), limited light enters through the lens and the picture is blurred—unless you have a tripod. We need to open wide our eyes to let the light of each of Robinson’s sentences, your pastor’s sermon, Yahweh’s Word shine into our souls and thus put the whole providential regime of Creation into focus. The bigger our aperature, the more we can see. To quote my favorite source, Wikipedia, for a telescope, “One would want the aperture to be as large as possible, to collect the maximum amount of light from the distant objects being imaged.” Don’t we want to see the universe? Don’t we want to understand our trials as part of God’s redemptive plan from the beginning to the end of time? Don’t we want to also see the details of life as clearly as Sakae Tamura’s camera sees a praying mantis? Don’t we want to focus and meditate on a perfect line break, a precisely placed word of advice, the allegory of marriage or the dirt under your thumbnail?
Well we need one thing: a tripod. The Lord has filled the world with light—so much light that there is light within light—but until Heaven our apertures are very limited. They will never be large enough to allow all that light to pour into our souls. And we will always be a little sluggish as we try to clasp our minds around the displays before us, so we can’t count on a fast shutter speed. That leaves us with one option—we need a tripod. We need a firm foundation. We need Jesus.
And is it not the gospel that we need the Light to focus our souls on the Light, and all the light within that Light?
“It seems to me to be a metaphor for the human soul, the singular light within the great light of existence. Or it seems like poetry within language. Perhaps wisdom within experience. Or marriage within friendship and love. I’ll try to remember to use this. I believe I see a place for it in my thoughts on Hagar and Ishmael. Their time in the wilderness seems like a specific moment of divine Providence within the whole providential regime of Creation.”
-John Ames in Gilead by Marilynne Robinson
…just keep meditating on that a moment.
Paragraphs like these don’t need commentary. They need our focus. Photography seems like it would be a good metaphor for something here. Each sentence in these paragraphs is a light within the radiance of the passage and the passage is a light within the brilliance of the novel. The trouble is that as readers, we often don’t see the beams because we live our lives out of focus. In other words, while glorious light shines off the page (or off a leaf or a painting or a skyscraper for that matter), we are unappreciative because our aperture openings are too small. When a photographer uses a small aperture opening (and a slow shutter speed), limited light enters through the lens and the picture is blurred—unless you have a tripod. We need to open wide our eyes to let the light of each of Robinson’s sentences, your pastor’s sermon, Yahweh’s Word shine into our souls and thus put the whole providential regime of Creation into focus. The bigger our aperature, the more we can see. To quote my favorite source, Wikipedia, for a telescope, “One would want the aperture to be as large as possible, to collect the maximum amount of light from the distant objects being imaged.” Don’t we want to see the universe? Don’t we want to understand our trials as part of God’s redemptive plan from the beginning to the end of time? Don’t we want to also see the details of life as clearly as Sakae Tamura’s camera sees a praying mantis? Don’t we want to focus and meditate on a perfect line break, a precisely placed word of advice, the allegory of marriage or the dirt under your thumbnail?
Well we need one thing: a tripod. The Lord has filled the world with light—so much light that there is light within light—but until Heaven our apertures are very limited. They will never be large enough to allow all that light to pour into our souls. And we will always be a little sluggish as we try to clasp our minds around the displays before us, so we can’t count on a fast shutter speed. That leaves us with one option—we need a tripod. We need a firm foundation. We need Jesus.
And is it not the gospel that we need the Light to focus our souls on the Light, and all the light within that Light?
Sep 11, 2007
Broken Bell Jar?
1. "A bell jar is a piece of laboratory glassware in the shape of a bell." -Wikipedia
2. A bell jar "can be sealed, which allows it to be used in a classroom science experiment involving an alarm clock and a vacuum pump. The air is pumped out of the sealed bell jar, and the noise of the alarm clock fades, thus demonstrating that the propagation of sound is mediated by the air. Deprived of its medium, the sound cannot travel." -Wikipedia
3. The Bell Jar--Slyvia Plath's single brilliant novel.
As the main character of Plath's novel, Esther Greenwood, spirals into insanity, she compares her depression to being trapped under a bell jar gasping for breath. "To the person in the bell jar, blank and stopped as a dead baby, the world itself is the bad dream," she mutters. "But I wasn't sure, I wasn't sure at all. How did I know that someday-at college, in Europe, somwhere, anywhere-the bell jar, with its stiffling distortions, wouldn't descend again?" Esther was dying under her bell jar.
I am very similar to Esther. When I read the novel and Plath's journals, I'm disturbed by the similiarities I share with them. I have no doubt that I would be suffocating in my own bell jar if someone (My Lord Jesus) had not allowed a couple of nails to shatter the glass.
But sometimes I feel like instead of crushing my jar to bits, he just put a big hole on top of it. Sometimes, I don't see that opening and I still operate as if I am trapped in this bell jar, like I am a dead spider glued into a petri dish for some 3rd grader's bug collection so that all can study me from a scientific distance. But then I realize that I am breathing fresh air. I notice that the world is not dead to me nor am I dead to it. Suddenly, I realize that those who are looking at me see more than my genus and species. It is then that I turn and see the blessesd brokenness, that beautiful jagged opening. When this happens, I'm no longer disturbed by the similarities between Esther and me, but deeply grateful for the differences.
It is because my bell jar has been broken that I am starting this blog. See, without that opening, air would not enter and sound would not escape. I have been given the medium that allows sound to travel and so I am going to show my thankfulness for my mediator by letting the noise of my thoughts travel to you.
2. A bell jar "can be sealed, which allows it to be used in a classroom science experiment involving an alarm clock and a vacuum pump. The air is pumped out of the sealed bell jar, and the noise of the alarm clock fades, thus demonstrating that the propagation of sound is mediated by the air. Deprived of its medium, the sound cannot travel." -Wikipedia
3. The Bell Jar--Slyvia Plath's single brilliant novel.
As the main character of Plath's novel, Esther Greenwood, spirals into insanity, she compares her depression to being trapped under a bell jar gasping for breath. "To the person in the bell jar, blank and stopped as a dead baby, the world itself is the bad dream," she mutters. "But I wasn't sure, I wasn't sure at all. How did I know that someday-at college, in Europe, somwhere, anywhere-the bell jar, with its stiffling distortions, wouldn't descend again?" Esther was dying under her bell jar.
I am very similar to Esther. When I read the novel and Plath's journals, I'm disturbed by the similiarities I share with them. I have no doubt that I would be suffocating in my own bell jar if someone (My Lord Jesus) had not allowed a couple of nails to shatter the glass.
But sometimes I feel like instead of crushing my jar to bits, he just put a big hole on top of it. Sometimes, I don't see that opening and I still operate as if I am trapped in this bell jar, like I am a dead spider glued into a petri dish for some 3rd grader's bug collection so that all can study me from a scientific distance. But then I realize that I am breathing fresh air. I notice that the world is not dead to me nor am I dead to it. Suddenly, I realize that those who are looking at me see more than my genus and species. It is then that I turn and see the blessesd brokenness, that beautiful jagged opening. When this happens, I'm no longer disturbed by the similarities between Esther and me, but deeply grateful for the differences.
It is because my bell jar has been broken that I am starting this blog. See, without that opening, air would not enter and sound would not escape. I have been given the medium that allows sound to travel and so I am going to show my thankfulness for my mediator by letting the noise of my thoughts travel to you.
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