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.
Friday, April 10, 2009
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.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Roads Are Made for Traveling
Today was spent in an embittered battle against a statistics program on my computer. I have a love-hate relationship with SPSS. There is something satisfying when you make a few selections, press a few buttons, and a printout tells you that your results are significant. Oh, how we love to feel significant. However, the lover can be cold when a wall of numbers stares unemotionally back at you, defiant and obstinately refusing to interpret themselves in a way a normal human being would understand... (Reminds me of women sometimes... zing! ;)
Thus, after a long battle in man vs machine, I am tired. But tired is a good place to be when honesty is something to be sought after. After all, gone is the strength to find another distraction.
A friend mentioned to me that she just returned from a retreat with the outgoing class of HNGR interns. Juniors, doe-eyed and hopeful, waiting to change the world in just 6 months. New eyes for the least of these... jumping in with both feet already wet, their dreams and anxiety, palpable. I remember tasting it in my mouth as we tried to remember that nothing would be as we expected. Junior year with so much on my heart and mind. It was where I needed to be. Trust in the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.
I commented to my friend that I now feel less hopeful, not quite as young, and certainly less impressionable. "Oh for sure. Graduating changed everything," was her response. Did it? What changed between cramming for our last test and starting our first day in this entry-level job? What is it that left us, subjectively, when we left that square mile encompassing College Ave? What was it that we were so afraid of when our eyes were wider and our knees more calloused? The tyranny of 9 to 5. The wailing of a monday alarm and the anxious glances toward a friday clock. The passive withering of our 4 year $150,000 brain cells. The loss of our hearts in the slow exchange for the subtle American dream, slipped into as quietly but as surely as the sun bows out to the dark. It smelt of death in our nostrils, and we staked our passion as collateral, that "we" would never be like "them."
It's been a while since my knees have gotten dirty. When the rain stops, all sorts of unintentional things start drying up as well. I took a break from thinking. I've sought a reprieve from feeling. I'm growing a new hobby to scratch my aesthetic itch and to feed my money to. I'm putting on some snow treads and road tripping to the great state of Mormons and National Parks in hopes for something new. Something communal. Maybe I can find Someone in places with names like Eureka(!) and Freedom and Zion and Jericho. Yes, I'm sure of it, the Mormons were looking in the right place for God.
Thus, after a long battle in man vs machine, I am tired. But tired is a good place to be when honesty is something to be sought after. After all, gone is the strength to find another distraction.
A friend mentioned to me that she just returned from a retreat with the outgoing class of HNGR interns. Juniors, doe-eyed and hopeful, waiting to change the world in just 6 months. New eyes for the least of these... jumping in with both feet already wet, their dreams and anxiety, palpable. I remember tasting it in my mouth as we tried to remember that nothing would be as we expected. Junior year with so much on my heart and mind. It was where I needed to be. Trust in the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.
I commented to my friend that I now feel less hopeful, not quite as young, and certainly less impressionable. "Oh for sure. Graduating changed everything," was her response. Did it? What changed between cramming for our last test and starting our first day in this entry-level job? What is it that left us, subjectively, when we left that square mile encompassing College Ave? What was it that we were so afraid of when our eyes were wider and our knees more calloused? The tyranny of 9 to 5. The wailing of a monday alarm and the anxious glances toward a friday clock. The passive withering of our 4 year $150,000 brain cells. The loss of our hearts in the slow exchange for the subtle American dream, slipped into as quietly but as surely as the sun bows out to the dark. It smelt of death in our nostrils, and we staked our passion as collateral, that "we" would never be like "them."
It's been a while since my knees have gotten dirty. When the rain stops, all sorts of unintentional things start drying up as well. I took a break from thinking. I've sought a reprieve from feeling. I'm growing a new hobby to scratch my aesthetic itch and to feed my money to. I'm putting on some snow treads and road tripping to the great state of Mormons and National Parks in hopes for something new. Something communal. Maybe I can find Someone in places with names like Eureka(!) and Freedom and Zion and Jericho. Yes, I'm sure of it, the Mormons were looking in the right place for God.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
We'll Shake the Nightmare Free
In a non-Gnostic, purely illustrative way, I think people function with three layers. Superficially, our skin is what we show to the world. It’s this outer garment we cake with makeup and drape with clothes. We carry it when we walk and present it as we wish to be viewed. It is the pride of our youth, and what the simplest forms of beauty call home. But beneath it is our flesh and bones… the blood and truth of our thoughts and emotions. Our skin heals, albeit with scars, but our sinews and tendons are not so easily mended, leaving us with Jacob’s limp that asserts itself every step of the way. It is our flesh and bones that move our feet down a path, and joints and ligaments that bend our fingers in creation or destruction. Being the substance of who we are, there is no ignoring its depth. It's cut with the jagged blade of the fall, and woven together with generational sin. It’s patched with all the wrongs done to us and laced with all the wrongs we have done to others. It is, for most people, the driving winds and currents propelling our lives, in light of or in spite of our awareness. Our flesh and blood is what we attempt to escape from at the edge of sleep, what haunts our dreams in the early hours of morning, and the invasive sharp that pries our eyes awake like light from slotted blinds.
But even further beneath the rolling tumult that animates our breath lays a dark core of stillness… the center of who we are and what we truly know. In those rare moments when our flesh and blood are at ease and our skin is translucent, our soul, what the ancient Jews would call “Nephesh,” can be heard whispering its steadiness and truth.
More eternal than the broken bones and pain of bruises, my nephesh simply says, “Yes, He is worth it. His Kingdom is worth it. Greater than your past and past your future, It is worth it.” Like strings on a sitar, my nephesh resonates when it hears the vibrations of grace. It quells my shaking bones long enough for the flesh to ponder an existence beyond itself, beyond the idolatry of its own hands and mind, beyond the myopic dreams turned sour… long enough to hope that deep in my marrow, I will one day know the truth my nephesh claims.
It will innervate my tissue, forcing out the angry red poison I have known all my life. Flowing through my veins, redeeming all it gives breath to, it will not heed the threat of pain. No longer will my passions be crooked or my heart be broke. No longer will the oscillating waves throb behind my eyes or pummel my mind… my flesh and bone will be moved by the depths of what my nephesh knows. My soul and flesh and skin will align and be an unruly mustang no longer, but with its head bowed low, carry the Lord like humility once did.
But even further beneath the rolling tumult that animates our breath lays a dark core of stillness… the center of who we are and what we truly know. In those rare moments when our flesh and blood are at ease and our skin is translucent, our soul, what the ancient Jews would call “Nephesh,” can be heard whispering its steadiness and truth.
More eternal than the broken bones and pain of bruises, my nephesh simply says, “Yes, He is worth it. His Kingdom is worth it. Greater than your past and past your future, It is worth it.” Like strings on a sitar, my nephesh resonates when it hears the vibrations of grace. It quells my shaking bones long enough for the flesh to ponder an existence beyond itself, beyond the idolatry of its own hands and mind, beyond the myopic dreams turned sour… long enough to hope that deep in my marrow, I will one day know the truth my nephesh claims.
It will innervate my tissue, forcing out the angry red poison I have known all my life. Flowing through my veins, redeeming all it gives breath to, it will not heed the threat of pain. No longer will my passions be crooked or my heart be broke. No longer will the oscillating waves throb behind my eyes or pummel my mind… my flesh and bone will be moved by the depths of what my nephesh knows. My soul and flesh and skin will align and be an unruly mustang no longer, but with its head bowed low, carry the Lord like humility once did.
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