Monday, September 28, 2009
Sense
At work, we tell our kids to try and understand their anger or their actions. We challenge them to see if there are other factors contributing to their frustrations. “It doesn’t come from nowhere,” we say. Our day, earlier events, stress, anticipation, relationships, a lack of sleep… yet when it comes down to it, those of us who are staff, seeming to have all the answers and insight, are not immune from such things. I sit here and I enumerate all the reasons why I’m in a shitty mood. 14 hours of travel. Drained on socializing. Not enough time with the family. Hating the process of packing for work. 2 hours of sleep last night. Yes, it all makes sense, but sense doesn’t always make things better. I think about the conviction in which I speak my hopes to those kids… my hope that they would learn to express themselves, to feel better after they share their emotions… hopes that they won’t be discouraged at setbacks and learn to accept what is out of their control… hopes that they would wrestle with the hurt, wounds, and disappointments they carry. Those phrases roll of my tongue like sweet honey, and it sounds so good when I say them. It makes so much sense. But my sense pesters me in the back of my mind… questions me vindictively on why I struggle to do that which I preach with such ease.
Monday, August 3, 2009
Coal Trains and the Red Line
I have a theory. At my job, I work 8 days on, and then get 6 days off. With this kind of schedule, months fly by in the blink of an eye. My theory is that instead of 30 some individual days, I live my month in 4 segments. With the beginning of each shift or off week, the end is in sight, and so that segment passes not as a collection of days, but as one block of time, similar to how everyone else would view one day. Thus, the four segments disappear much like 4 days would disappear.
Whether or not this theory is correct, I don’t know. But talking to a friend about future plans, he pointed out that according to my timeline of desired events, I would finish grad school by the age of 30. Thirty!! Despite the fact that grad school may take 5 or 6 years, it is but another segment in my life. When one begins it, one lives with the anticipation and vision of finishing it. If we are not careful and intentional, these segments in life will pass quickly, leaving us at a place wondering where all our time, youth, and energy has gone.
I don’t presume to know what it means to be intentional, but I presume that it’s one of the few ways of living life without waking up one mid-life morning and wondering how one arrived there or what the hell one is doing. I fear that our scrambling and striving, without a certain intentionality, will dull our ability to be alive. With every self-interested step we make towards our unexamined goals, we fall further into a void of eventual uncertainty that sooner or later, will overtake us.
It was surprising last night, with the Chicago sounds coming through the window, what the rumbling of tracks and the pitch of a train whistle would do to my memory. It caught me off guard and brought be back to the frigid winters in the boys HNGR house, looking through a frosted window across the yard to see the long cargo trains plow through the evening, much like the grayness that rumbled through my being. Most of that hurt, by the grace of God, has been sifted through time, but I can’t get that haunting cry out of my ears. And now, most of these people who have walked with me during those years are one by one leaving the place that helped form us. One by one, we treat this time as a steppingstone and keep moving on. There is something I want to hold onto, people I want to hold onto because by losing them, I fear losing all that I once knew and all who knew me as I once was, all the while not knowing fully who I am or who I should be.
Whether or not this theory is correct, I don’t know. But talking to a friend about future plans, he pointed out that according to my timeline of desired events, I would finish grad school by the age of 30. Thirty!! Despite the fact that grad school may take 5 or 6 years, it is but another segment in my life. When one begins it, one lives with the anticipation and vision of finishing it. If we are not careful and intentional, these segments in life will pass quickly, leaving us at a place wondering where all our time, youth, and energy has gone.
I don’t presume to know what it means to be intentional, but I presume that it’s one of the few ways of living life without waking up one mid-life morning and wondering how one arrived there or what the hell one is doing. I fear that our scrambling and striving, without a certain intentionality, will dull our ability to be alive. With every self-interested step we make towards our unexamined goals, we fall further into a void of eventual uncertainty that sooner or later, will overtake us.
It was surprising last night, with the Chicago sounds coming through the window, what the rumbling of tracks and the pitch of a train whistle would do to my memory. It caught me off guard and brought be back to the frigid winters in the boys HNGR house, looking through a frosted window across the yard to see the long cargo trains plow through the evening, much like the grayness that rumbled through my being. Most of that hurt, by the grace of God, has been sifted through time, but I can’t get that haunting cry out of my ears. And now, most of these people who have walked with me during those years are one by one leaving the place that helped form us. One by one, we treat this time as a steppingstone and keep moving on. There is something I want to hold onto, people I want to hold onto because by losing them, I fear losing all that I once knew and all who knew me as I once was, all the while not knowing fully who I am or who I should be.
Friday, April 10, 2009
Morte Christe
During the Good Friday service today, we had a reading that incorporated the text from “When I Survey the Wondrous Cross”. Those words aggressively threw me against the wall of nostalgia, since I had sung the song “Morte Christe” with that text in Men’s Glee Club. For the half an hour drive home from church, my car leaked at the seams with old Glee Club repertoire as I relived standing on those creaky risers and hitting those low D’s.
I talked with some friends these last few days, others like me who curse and spit at the mere thought of remembering second semester senior year for their own reasons, those who would have agreed with Eliot that “this is the way the world ends: not with a bang but a whimper.” An ugly stain upon our hearts and minds, we still graduated and moved forward, strewn across the country, chasing our dreams to move on, and moving on to chase our dreams, all the while hoping to forget the unforgettable.
Where are we?
Perhaps my emotions were primed by the Stations of the Cross. I mean, thinking about Jesus dying is a bit of debby downer. I wanted desperately for Sunday to be right now. Right after the line in the bulletin that read, “The service ends in silence,” I wanted the lift, the resolution, the fix. I wanted to know that everything was ok and to bask in the glow of that empty tomb in a garden, with an angel shining like a Thomas Kinkade painting.
But that’s not how it goes. Today, we sit with the reality of death. We will go to bed with it tonight, and wake up with it heavy on our chests, even if the sun sneaks through our shutters. And we will walk with it, make it our own, let it weary our souls until God lifts us up, as he does Jesus on Sunday. But for now, we are Saturday. Neither here nor there, but moving forward like time inevitable.
I talked with some friends these last few days, others like me who curse and spit at the mere thought of remembering second semester senior year for their own reasons, those who would have agreed with Eliot that “this is the way the world ends: not with a bang but a whimper.” An ugly stain upon our hearts and minds, we still graduated and moved forward, strewn across the country, chasing our dreams to move on, and moving on to chase our dreams, all the while hoping to forget the unforgettable.
Where are we?
Perhaps my emotions were primed by the Stations of the Cross. I mean, thinking about Jesus dying is a bit of debby downer. I wanted desperately for Sunday to be right now. Right after the line in the bulletin that read, “The service ends in silence,” I wanted the lift, the resolution, the fix. I wanted to know that everything was ok and to bask in the glow of that empty tomb in a garden, with an angel shining like a Thomas Kinkade painting.
But that’s not how it goes. Today, we sit with the reality of death. We will go to bed with it tonight, and wake up with it heavy on our chests, even if the sun sneaks through our shutters. And we will walk with it, make it our own, let it weary our souls until God lifts us up, as he does Jesus on Sunday. But for now, we are Saturday. Neither here nor there, but moving forward like time inevitable.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
On Media, Hiphop, Porn, and Mr. Darcy
I know some would argue that the movie "Notorious," portraying the life of the gangster rapper Notorious B.I.G., can hardly be called an artistic or profound film. Whatever criticisms one might have about it, I believe it illustrates one thing well: Entertainment, for the most part, is not real life.
When one creates or produces something, whether it be a painting, song, movie, book, etc, it falls along a continuum of how accurately it reflects reality (among other things). On one extreme, the piece of work may be extremely representative of realities. I believe "Slumdog Millionaire," although entertaining, was a powerful expression of an ugly reality. On the other extreme are works that have very little intent on anything other than pure sensory stimulation (not that it is necessarily a bad thing.)
However, something terribly wrong happens when one creates a piece of work for the purpose of pure entertainment with little grounding in reality, but the observers mistake it as an expression of how things are or should be. T.I.'s song "Dead and Gone" pinpoints the possible negative influence of Hiphop on black urban culture. The movie "Notorious" illustrated the contrast between the glorified versions of what he rapped about (women, money, drugs) versus the reality of his life, which was the attempt to manifest much of what he rapped about.
The truth is, given the ability to create, we are able to either draw out and paint deeper realities beyond what we see, hear, smell, taste or touch, or we can create that which does not exist. This power of imagination is potent. It has the potential to lift our eyes and spirit, and to call us forward through difficulty and oppression. Think of the role music, stories and oration played in historical struggles like the Civil Rights movement or various revolutions in the world. Think of the way narratives are used to guide our behavior and grant meaning to life (eg the Christian narrative).
However, the ability to paint that which does not exist carries a dangerous side. If we are not keen towards the effects of such a power, it may evolve from the creation of our hands into a beast beyond our control. When one attempts to live another's fake creation, the expected results seldom happen, while plenty of unintended realities do not cease. Going back to the illustration of "Notorious," a verbal war between two rappers consumed not only their lives but fostered such animosity between East and West coasts, all because they created that which did not exist, and listeners believed it as real. The danger is compounded when this created image draws its strength from real human needs, desires, emotions, or realities. They resemble realities, but in essence are mythologies merely clothed with aspects of the what we recognize within ourselves and the environment around us.
This has much subtler implications. A friend of mine, after being told that he was a crappy boyfriend, was encouraged to watch some chick flicks by his ex to learn how to be a better one. I cringed at that idea, because such films, although entertaining, are bastardizations of reality. With every cut, switch of scene, or panning of the camera, reality is edited out. Time is condensed. Ugliness is omitted. It is one person creating that which does not exist for the purpose of entertainment and money, while the masses consume these fabricated standards or ideas and internalize them as expected realities.
If such things seem harmless, think of it in terms of pornography. Pornography itself portrays two people having sex, a very normal phenomenon. However, it does three things. First, it grounds itself in very real physical desires (which is why it sells). Second, it appears real, since two very real people with arms and legs and other such plumbing are interacting in ways known to be possible. But most importantly, it takes that reality and creates something that is isolated, glamorized, beautified, and altogether rather fake. And then consumers, seeking out their needs, end up internalizing the performance or "beauty" expectations they see on a screen. Simply replace the physical with the emotional, and you will see why that bastard Mr. Darcy is a terrible human being.
So, my dear friend, I suggest you do not take your ex's advice, and find someone who glories in the sometimes gritty and ugly realities of commitment and love, versus someone who thinks the world would be better if men pretended they were in a chick flick.
When one creates or produces something, whether it be a painting, song, movie, book, etc, it falls along a continuum of how accurately it reflects reality (among other things). On one extreme, the piece of work may be extremely representative of realities. I believe "Slumdog Millionaire," although entertaining, was a powerful expression of an ugly reality. On the other extreme are works that have very little intent on anything other than pure sensory stimulation (not that it is necessarily a bad thing.)
However, something terribly wrong happens when one creates a piece of work for the purpose of pure entertainment with little grounding in reality, but the observers mistake it as an expression of how things are or should be. T.I.'s song "Dead and Gone" pinpoints the possible negative influence of Hiphop on black urban culture. The movie "Notorious" illustrated the contrast between the glorified versions of what he rapped about (women, money, drugs) versus the reality of his life, which was the attempt to manifest much of what he rapped about.
The truth is, given the ability to create, we are able to either draw out and paint deeper realities beyond what we see, hear, smell, taste or touch, or we can create that which does not exist. This power of imagination is potent. It has the potential to lift our eyes and spirit, and to call us forward through difficulty and oppression. Think of the role music, stories and oration played in historical struggles like the Civil Rights movement or various revolutions in the world. Think of the way narratives are used to guide our behavior and grant meaning to life (eg the Christian narrative).
However, the ability to paint that which does not exist carries a dangerous side. If we are not keen towards the effects of such a power, it may evolve from the creation of our hands into a beast beyond our control. When one attempts to live another's fake creation, the expected results seldom happen, while plenty of unintended realities do not cease. Going back to the illustration of "Notorious," a verbal war between two rappers consumed not only their lives but fostered such animosity between East and West coasts, all because they created that which did not exist, and listeners believed it as real. The danger is compounded when this created image draws its strength from real human needs, desires, emotions, or realities. They resemble realities, but in essence are mythologies merely clothed with aspects of the what we recognize within ourselves and the environment around us.
This has much subtler implications. A friend of mine, after being told that he was a crappy boyfriend, was encouraged to watch some chick flicks by his ex to learn how to be a better one. I cringed at that idea, because such films, although entertaining, are bastardizations of reality. With every cut, switch of scene, or panning of the camera, reality is edited out. Time is condensed. Ugliness is omitted. It is one person creating that which does not exist for the purpose of entertainment and money, while the masses consume these fabricated standards or ideas and internalize them as expected realities.
If such things seem harmless, think of it in terms of pornography. Pornography itself portrays two people having sex, a very normal phenomenon. However, it does three things. First, it grounds itself in very real physical desires (which is why it sells). Second, it appears real, since two very real people with arms and legs and other such plumbing are interacting in ways known to be possible. But most importantly, it takes that reality and creates something that is isolated, glamorized, beautified, and altogether rather fake. And then consumers, seeking out their needs, end up internalizing the performance or "beauty" expectations they see on a screen. Simply replace the physical with the emotional, and you will see why that bastard Mr. Darcy is a terrible human being.
So, my dear friend, I suggest you do not take your ex's advice, and find someone who glories in the sometimes gritty and ugly realities of commitment and love, versus someone who thinks the world would be better if men pretended they were in a chick flick.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
I Don't Know Why You Say Hello, I Say Goodbye
Everything has an end. At times, it catches you blind, like an alarm that broadsides your dream like a drunk in a truck, running a light. Others set, ever so slowly, almost imperceptible, were it not for a lengthening of shadows under the eyes and the color of fire lit above the horizon. Passed, before it was lived. But everything has an end. Some are orchestrated, choreographed in step with Pomp and Circumstance, notarized with chops and officiated by priests. Pictures. Speeches. Flowers, delicately arranged, cut and sacrificed for this very occasion. Others will squat upon your mind as you get a haircut or eat yet another meal… a sitting vision, a premonition wondering if it will all still be the same the next time you come back. Everything has an end. It will all come to pass. Though, most of us would appreciate a little heads up.
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