I want to write music.
To capture those glimpses of feeling,
Always something not entirely obtainable.
Like a bird you befriend,
Flying in and out at random,
Delighting the senses with its coming--
Feeling the rise and fall in your breast
When it nears and fars--
Ever maintaining its independence.
Not because it does not want to be with you,
But because it was born to fly.
As by its very nature it must leave you,
(and you learn to envy it for that freedom)
So gravity laughs and believes she's triumphed
When the sun slips, and swells, and smolders,
Only to rise again.
She, like thee, belongs to gravity,
But maintains ever constant her dominance--
She lives for her responsibility--
And, in turn, the earth responds to her every movement.
Day in, day out.
Rain, sleet, storm, she burns through them still
Blinding, bonding, searing hot;
And renders you speechless with her awful majesty.
You sit still and ponder them both,
Hugging your knees tight to your chest--
Just breathing, you thank them for their lessons;
Listening, you strain to hear that humming:
That thrumming, thriving, inter-connectedness of all things.
That Music.
Is This Real Life?: David After the Dentist, Existentialism, and Living Inside a Vacuum
I did a little break check last night on the freeway. The person driving in front and to the left of me gave me this lovely opportunity by coming over into my lane and then proceeding to quickly come to a stand-still for no apparent reason. I learned a few things in that moment. a) My breaks do, in fact, work. b) There is nothing quite as surreal as that moment of pure silence when you first slam on the breaks and see that you're not stopping fast enough. c) That the surrealism only increases in intensity from there, for the harder you press, the more deafening that silence is--until it gives way to that hideous, ear-splitting screech.
I learned that either that screech will be followed by more silence, meaning you are saved, or it will be followed by the sound of shattering glass and crunching metal, and you'll want them to carry you away on a stretcher because you just bought the car last weekend, and it's your first one, and... the world can't be that cruel.
Anyway. No breaking glass. We were fine. But the experience was sort of indicative of all of life right now. There has been the most terrible karma going around lately. Cars going in ditches; accidentally driving without license plates, insurance, or a driver's license; people going to jail and getting hideous divorces; insurance being randomly revoked; ex-lovers coming out of nowhere; psychotic and abusive X-husbands ruining people's lives; driving to Elmo instead of Manti; being homeless; siblings falling off the wagon... I could go on forever. Please keep in mind, not all of these things have happened to me personally, but one so often feels the weight of the troubles of those one loves, and so the karma that affects one does seem to affect the whole. "One bad apple spoils the bunch."
This morning my roommates and I had to watch something to lift our spirits. There was a terrible mood over the entire apartment. No one slept well. I was too hot, so eventually I had to open a window, and subsequently had my ear-drums blasted out all night by the sound of passing trains. Not that I don't like the sound of passing trains-- on the contrary, I love it. But it seemed the last straw. Perhaps it may only suffice to say that this morning brought with it the despondent feeling that one had "stayed up all night playing hopscotch."
So the three of us sat around in our "Mac Lab" as we affectionately call it, and watched You Tube's infamous "David After the Dentist". As we watched, I thought: that is philosophy. That is an existential crisis. That is beautiful.
And I couldn't help but want to write about it.
Do you know that feeling that life has taken on a new flavor? I actually hate it--that transition between the old, familiar, and the new, undecided. It is as though the last two months of my life have been one giant page turn and I've been lost in that shuffle; trying to paste together the little scraps I have salvaged and saved, in order to make something of sense and order. Really I just want to ask, as David did, "Why is this happening to me? Is this real life?" and, like David, scream wordlessly at the injustice and insanity of it all. It's Waiting for Godot. It's living inside a vacuum. It's waiting for an open window, and it's as stifling as these last few August days have been.
So, we seek redemption. We seek the other perspective on the story. There has to be that fatherly-figure in the background, unseen, reassuring and answering the question, "is this going to be forever?" with a little chuckle and a simple, "No. No, it won't be forever." The father who knows why his child is going through what he is going through, and knows that things will get better soon.
What to do? Be patient, and wait, and try to change the things that I can change, and forget about the things that I cannot. Try to be grateful that we didn't hit the car in front of us, and that AAA has roadside assistance, and that I have the faculties, resources, and health to help me to find better situations for myself.
In the meantime, I un-apologetically declare, along with David's dad, that "This is real life". Every moment one lives is "real life" and I hate any paradigm that seeks to destroy the necessity of every moment--the sanctity of every moment-- in a real life. Every flavor, every experience-- jealousy, anger, elation, boredom, frustration, fear, anguish, angst, foolishness, nostalgia, love, passion, pain and pleasure-- has a place in "real life". But, we may rest-assured that anything that "feels funny" or that makes us feel like we "can't see anything" won't be forever. We have to believe that eventually we will turn a page, walk into a new room, taste a new flavor; we'll "pull the curtains and blinds to let the light in."
"Oh what a beautiful view", my friends. God willing, it will be sooner than later.
I learned that either that screech will be followed by more silence, meaning you are saved, or it will be followed by the sound of shattering glass and crunching metal, and you'll want them to carry you away on a stretcher because you just bought the car last weekend, and it's your first one, and... the world can't be that cruel.
Anyway. No breaking glass. We were fine. But the experience was sort of indicative of all of life right now. There has been the most terrible karma going around lately. Cars going in ditches; accidentally driving without license plates, insurance, or a driver's license; people going to jail and getting hideous divorces; insurance being randomly revoked; ex-lovers coming out of nowhere; psychotic and abusive X-husbands ruining people's lives; driving to Elmo instead of Manti; being homeless; siblings falling off the wagon... I could go on forever. Please keep in mind, not all of these things have happened to me personally, but one so often feels the weight of the troubles of those one loves, and so the karma that affects one does seem to affect the whole. "One bad apple spoils the bunch."
This morning my roommates and I had to watch something to lift our spirits. There was a terrible mood over the entire apartment. No one slept well. I was too hot, so eventually I had to open a window, and subsequently had my ear-drums blasted out all night by the sound of passing trains. Not that I don't like the sound of passing trains-- on the contrary, I love it. But it seemed the last straw. Perhaps it may only suffice to say that this morning brought with it the despondent feeling that one had "stayed up all night playing hopscotch."
So the three of us sat around in our "Mac Lab" as we affectionately call it, and watched You Tube's infamous "David After the Dentist". As we watched, I thought: that is philosophy. That is an existential crisis. That is beautiful.
And I couldn't help but want to write about it.
Do you know that feeling that life has taken on a new flavor? I actually hate it--that transition between the old, familiar, and the new, undecided. It is as though the last two months of my life have been one giant page turn and I've been lost in that shuffle; trying to paste together the little scraps I have salvaged and saved, in order to make something of sense and order. Really I just want to ask, as David did, "Why is this happening to me? Is this real life?" and, like David, scream wordlessly at the injustice and insanity of it all. It's Waiting for Godot. It's living inside a vacuum. It's waiting for an open window, and it's as stifling as these last few August days have been.
So, we seek redemption. We seek the other perspective on the story. There has to be that fatherly-figure in the background, unseen, reassuring and answering the question, "is this going to be forever?" with a little chuckle and a simple, "No. No, it won't be forever." The father who knows why his child is going through what he is going through, and knows that things will get better soon.
What to do? Be patient, and wait, and try to change the things that I can change, and forget about the things that I cannot. Try to be grateful that we didn't hit the car in front of us, and that AAA has roadside assistance, and that I have the faculties, resources, and health to help me to find better situations for myself.
In the meantime, I un-apologetically declare, along with David's dad, that "This is real life". Every moment one lives is "real life" and I hate any paradigm that seeks to destroy the necessity of every moment--the sanctity of every moment-- in a real life. Every flavor, every experience-- jealousy, anger, elation, boredom, frustration, fear, anguish, angst, foolishness, nostalgia, love, passion, pain and pleasure-- has a place in "real life". But, we may rest-assured that anything that "feels funny" or that makes us feel like we "can't see anything" won't be forever. We have to believe that eventually we will turn a page, walk into a new room, taste a new flavor; we'll "pull the curtains and blinds to let the light in."
"Oh what a beautiful view", my friends. God willing, it will be sooner than later.
Golden Hour: Just Me, and the Ants, and God
I feel as though I'd do myself, and my reflective nature, an injustice if I did not write about anniversaries at some point this weekend. So here I am: thinking, writing, listening to "Reign of Love" by Coldplay. You could say seeking inspiration, or just basking in the simple candor of a fair Sunday afternoon. The two are the same as far as I am concerned.
Yesterday marked one year since I received my degree, and two months since I did a 180 in my life and decided to move back to Provo. Today is six months since I started my job.
Yesterday I bought my first car and moved, again. I think from now on, every year I must do something life-changing on August 13th. It's odd, that no matter how hard I tried to find the car that made the most sense, in the end I just bought the one that felt like my car when I drove it. Perhaps it's not so odd at that. I am a woman, after all.
I really am not in the mood to stroll down memory lane right now. I know that my saying so is probably triggering cardiac arrest for some of my readers. I'm not sure when the last time was that I was blogging and didn't feel like strolling down memory lane. Especially this weekend, when I have such an obvious excuse. I usually like to be dramatic when I reach milestones in my life--I reach back into the recesses of my mind and pull out some long string of memories, with which I measure my progress.
Today I am a little lost. Unsure of where I am, I am not able to measure "how far I've come". It is like waking up, late afternoon, in an unfamiliar field all by oneself. Perhaps it is likely to be a scary situation, and almost surely, as the sun begins to set, it will be. But, for now, all is serene, the light is perfect. It's "Golden Hour" when the day's tasks are over, the night has not yet set in, and the aesthetic begins to exist almost for its own sake. (note I say here 'almost'. I have my own theories on the subject of the independent nature of aesthetic pleasure, not to be delved into today).
(Insert here a mental picture of a chapel out by itself in a rich field [November Rain-esque])
Like that.
I feel that the word "inspiration" is often pushed into a corner and made to behave. As if people think something can only be inspirational if it is the bible, or has a strong moral premise. Surely these things are inspirational, and I do not seek to discount them here. I am merely suggesting that we broaden our usage of the term inspirational.
The other day, I was inspired almost beyond functioning by a small colony of ants. I was spending some time at a favorite haunt of mine, where I always find inspiration of some sort. No matter how hot it is, it is always the perfect temperature under the trees, on the grass. I had finished eating a bit of bread and a few crumbs had fallen to the grass. I crumbled them near the hill and watched as the ants encountered each bit of bread and struggled to take it to one of the many little pock-marks in the earth at the base of the tree. I hardly knew myself in that moment, yet there I was. No phone ringing. No emails to return. Just me, and the ants, and God.
Have you ever seen a collection of objects and suddenly wanted to create? A stack of books, letters tied with a ribbon, and suddenly I am on fire with bits of ideas that never fully ripen into mature creative sparks. Little spurts of inspiration--that sensing of something of beauty in surroundings that encourages an equal reaction in the soul. Inspiration. To breath into. To enliven, quicken.
We do so many things every day that do the opposite of inspire. They degrade and wear away at our sensitivities like so much cancerous rust. Sometimes we cannot help doing these things. They are our 'bread and butter', and we have made the adult decision to engage in these activities because we must. So it comes to be that if our souls are to survive, we must use the remainder of the day seeking inspiration in its many forms, and not wasting our time snorting baby formula. Golden hour is for inspiration, Golden Hour is ours before the day is ended. Golden hour is for lovers, mystics, poets, prophets, philosophers, sages, children, mothers and fathers, students and masters. Golden hour is for honest souls seeking transcendence. How often we let it go by without so much as a thought to its pleasures. How often we are "too tired" to find happiness in the time God afforded us to find it?
We are not to spend the day in indulgence, and doing "whatever we want". We are to accomplish what we must, but at the end of the day we still have our souls to answer for. Of all the mindless media and entertainment we could choose from, we ought to spend even our free time--especially our free time-- inspiring ourselves to some greatness, no matter how simple that greatness.
After all, "A thing of beauty is a joy forever" -John Keats
Yesterday marked one year since I received my degree, and two months since I did a 180 in my life and decided to move back to Provo. Today is six months since I started my job.
Yesterday I bought my first car and moved, again. I think from now on, every year I must do something life-changing on August 13th. It's odd, that no matter how hard I tried to find the car that made the most sense, in the end I just bought the one that felt like my car when I drove it. Perhaps it's not so odd at that. I am a woman, after all.
I really am not in the mood to stroll down memory lane right now. I know that my saying so is probably triggering cardiac arrest for some of my readers. I'm not sure when the last time was that I was blogging and didn't feel like strolling down memory lane. Especially this weekend, when I have such an obvious excuse. I usually like to be dramatic when I reach milestones in my life--I reach back into the recesses of my mind and pull out some long string of memories, with which I measure my progress.
Today I am a little lost. Unsure of where I am, I am not able to measure "how far I've come". It is like waking up, late afternoon, in an unfamiliar field all by oneself. Perhaps it is likely to be a scary situation, and almost surely, as the sun begins to set, it will be. But, for now, all is serene, the light is perfect. It's "Golden Hour" when the day's tasks are over, the night has not yet set in, and the aesthetic begins to exist almost for its own sake. (note I say here 'almost'. I have my own theories on the subject of the independent nature of aesthetic pleasure, not to be delved into today).
(Insert here a mental picture of a chapel out by itself in a rich field [November Rain-esque])
Like that.
I feel that the word "inspiration" is often pushed into a corner and made to behave. As if people think something can only be inspirational if it is the bible, or has a strong moral premise. Surely these things are inspirational, and I do not seek to discount them here. I am merely suggesting that we broaden our usage of the term inspirational.
The other day, I was inspired almost beyond functioning by a small colony of ants. I was spending some time at a favorite haunt of mine, where I always find inspiration of some sort. No matter how hot it is, it is always the perfect temperature under the trees, on the grass. I had finished eating a bit of bread and a few crumbs had fallen to the grass. I crumbled them near the hill and watched as the ants encountered each bit of bread and struggled to take it to one of the many little pock-marks in the earth at the base of the tree. I hardly knew myself in that moment, yet there I was. No phone ringing. No emails to return. Just me, and the ants, and God.
Have you ever seen a collection of objects and suddenly wanted to create? A stack of books, letters tied with a ribbon, and suddenly I am on fire with bits of ideas that never fully ripen into mature creative sparks. Little spurts of inspiration--that sensing of something of beauty in surroundings that encourages an equal reaction in the soul. Inspiration. To breath into. To enliven, quicken.
We do so many things every day that do the opposite of inspire. They degrade and wear away at our sensitivities like so much cancerous rust. Sometimes we cannot help doing these things. They are our 'bread and butter', and we have made the adult decision to engage in these activities because we must. So it comes to be that if our souls are to survive, we must use the remainder of the day seeking inspiration in its many forms, and not wasting our time snorting baby formula. Golden hour is for inspiration, Golden Hour is ours before the day is ended. Golden hour is for lovers, mystics, poets, prophets, philosophers, sages, children, mothers and fathers, students and masters. Golden hour is for honest souls seeking transcendence. How often we let it go by without so much as a thought to its pleasures. How often we are "too tired" to find happiness in the time God afforded us to find it?
We are not to spend the day in indulgence, and doing "whatever we want". We are to accomplish what we must, but at the end of the day we still have our souls to answer for. Of all the mindless media and entertainment we could choose from, we ought to spend even our free time--especially our free time-- inspiring ourselves to some greatness, no matter how simple that greatness.
After all, "A thing of beauty is a joy forever" -John Keats
The President's House
I am fully aware that the title of this post is fairly dramatic.
This is not a political commentary. Indeed, it is not even about "The White House" or its policies as of late. I just wanted to ramble for a moment before calling it a day, going to bed, getting up, and starting all over again (with 55 voice-mails to return first thing).
On Sunday, as church let out, I bid farewell to my cousin who had to stay to an after-the-block meeting. I stepped outside, with the intent of heading immediately home and was promptly inspired to change my course by a surprisingly pleasant breeze. The term "surprisingly pleasant" can rarely be applied to August days in UT, so I had to take advantage. I headed north instead of south and began wandering familiar pathways. I stopped in to visit my favorite campus building, deriving the most impractical pleasure from the satisfying clamor my heels made in the wide, tiled, light-infused hallways, in all their vaulted glory. I watched the small groups of people in the courtyard, about their own business, and felt quite un-purposefully fulfilled.
I eventually (unconsciously) made my way to the "Former President's Home" on campus. I believe that the Holla
nds were the last ones to live there. I have never been inside, though I would probably be welcome to go in now that it has been demoted from a living, breathing home to some Graduate Studies building or other. The back gate was open, so I wandered into the back yard and sat decidedly on a stone bench, facing the back side of the house. As I sat there, pondering its understated beauty and enjoying the shade, I slipped into a sort of reverie that left me with the strange feeling that I was lost in someone else's memories for a time. Memories of some time unknown to me, and people equally, if not more-so, unknown.
Then I noticed the tree. Rather, I noticed its branches, and how close to the roof and a window some of them stretched. I imagined some young soul standing in that window, getting up some scheme to escape some tyrannical great-aunt. After all, doesn't everyone with such a tree and a window have a tyrannical great-aunt? I was so entertained by the thought, I did the only thing I know to do on such occasions... I snapped a picture on my cell phone. Then I used my hand to block out the signs of all other civilization for a while, and I took in this one thing as long as I dared stay in such a state of self-indulgent day-dreaminess. When the moment was passed, I headed home, where I fell onto the couch and into a fitful nap--dreaming of that great house, with all its promises of great-aunts and great childish schemes.
I suppose I may as well admit, as I have gone this far already, that I did not dream of the aunt as much as I dreamt of myself, living there, in some quasi-horrifically, unrealistic future scenario. I dreamt up the very most idiotically impossible life-plot in my head, and shamelessly reveled in it for quite some time, falling in and out of some other dream that I don't remember now. The details were hazy at the time, and in retrospect I remember very little, except that there was a small group of young children, in some never-ending state of childhood happiness, playing with a garden hose, oblivious to the hustle-bustle of the students walking past the stone fence. Some of the particulars were quite specific, but the feeling was simply "home" where everything you could ever need is all together, and can be perfect in an "old Polaroid photograph" sort of way. Luckily for my sanity, the nap was cut short by the entrance of cousin with news of some impending visitor and I was forced to snap out of it.
I cannot say whether or not I had a happy childhood, for I am unsure. I did in that I had plenty of siblings to play with, and though we fought in turn, we loved each-other more often than we were annoyed with one another. I can say that the over-arching feeling I have when I look back on my childhood is one of a longing to get out, and to be free to make my own choices. This feeling has always been with me, as dependent of a soul as I can be at times. I fear my own choices, and yet long for them in the wildest way. As though I were afraid that if I jumped off of the cliff, my wings wouldn't work after all. They are constructed rather shoddily I fear. Can't get too close to the sun or the sea, and I wish to taste both of them.
So for now I stay on the edge of the cliff, and dream of that little house, its perfect escape tree; those three little children, mud on their socks, grass in their hair; the sound on the front step that tells me he's home; and I try to work it all in to some future reality. For now, the reality is the 50 voice mails, and the kitchen table with the varnish wearing off, impending homelessness and the promise of a new day tomorrow, with no mistakes in it. Yet, give me a few hours and I can fix that in short-order.
Might I implore my reader not to do me the dis-honor of thinking that I am one of "those women" who thinks that once you are married and have children, everything is suddenly perfect. I have six married siblings, and over 15 nieces and nephews. I have five younger siblings, and was babysitting since I was old enough to do so. Almost all of my closest friends are married, and many of them have children. I realize it's not perfection. It's just perfection in the making. It's just godhood in the making. It's just the point of our very existence.
What is my job? Just something to get me through the days. Something to ward off impending insanity, pay the bills, "teach me something", prepare me for some career-based future that I hope and pray does not exist, etc.
I went to school to be a better person. Not to get a job. I do not want to "work" in the way that the world has termed "work". I want to work in my divine-given capacity. I want to make the biggest difference I could in the world, by starting where it matters most.
When I have children, I hope they get up schemes, and I hope they get mud in their hair, and I hope I lose my mind with how difficult it is. For then I will have lost it over something worth losing one's mind for.
Law firm: You're not worth it. Sorry.
This is not a political commentary. Indeed, it is not even about "The White House" or its policies as of late. I just wanted to ramble for a moment before calling it a day, going to bed, getting up, and starting all over again (with 55 voice-mails to return first thing).
On Sunday, as church let out, I bid farewell to my cousin who had to stay to an after-the-block meeting. I stepped outside, with the intent of heading immediately home and was promptly inspired to change my course by a surprisingly pleasant breeze. The term "surprisingly pleasant" can rarely be applied to August days in UT, so I had to take advantage. I headed north instead of south and began wandering familiar pathways. I stopped in to visit my favorite campus building, deriving the most impractical pleasure from the satisfying clamor my heels made in the wide, tiled, light-infused hallways, in all their vaulted glory. I watched the small groups of people in the courtyard, about their own business, and felt quite un-purposefully fulfilled.
I eventually (unconsciously) made my way to the "Former President's Home" on campus. I believe that the Holla
nds were the last ones to live there. I have never been inside, though I would probably be welcome to go in now that it has been demoted from a living, breathing home to some Graduate Studies building or other. The back gate was open, so I wandered into the back yard and sat decidedly on a stone bench, facing the back side of the house. As I sat there, pondering its understated beauty and enjoying the shade, I slipped into a sort of reverie that left me with the strange feeling that I was lost in someone else's memories for a time. Memories of some time unknown to me, and people equally, if not more-so, unknown.Then I noticed the tree. Rather, I noticed its branches, and how close to the roof and a window some of them stretched. I imagined some young soul standing in that window, getting up some scheme to escape some tyrannical great-aunt. After all, doesn't everyone with such a tree and a window have a tyrannical great-aunt? I was so entertained by the thought, I did the only thing I know to do on such occasions... I snapped a picture on my cell phone. Then I used my hand to block out the signs of all other civilization for a while, and I took in this one thing as long as I dared stay in such a state of self-indulgent day-dreaminess. When the moment was passed, I headed home, where I fell onto the couch and into a fitful nap--dreaming of that great house, with all its promises of great-aunts and great childish schemes.
I suppose I may as well admit, as I have gone this far already, that I did not dream of the aunt as much as I dreamt of myself, living there, in some quasi-horrifically, unrealistic future scenario. I dreamt up the very most idiotically impossible life-plot in my head, and shamelessly reveled in it for quite some time, falling in and out of some other dream that I don't remember now. The details were hazy at the time, and in retrospect I remember very little, except that there was a small group of young children, in some never-ending state of childhood happiness, playing with a garden hose, oblivious to the hustle-bustle of the students walking past the stone fence. Some of the particulars were quite specific, but the feeling was simply "home" where everything you could ever need is all together, and can be perfect in an "old Polaroid photograph" sort of way. Luckily for my sanity, the nap was cut short by the entrance of cousin with news of some impending visitor and I was forced to snap out of it.
I cannot say whether or not I had a happy childhood, for I am unsure. I did in that I had plenty of siblings to play with, and though we fought in turn, we loved each-other more often than we were annoyed with one another. I can say that the over-arching feeling I have when I look back on my childhood is one of a longing to get out, and to be free to make my own choices. This feeling has always been with me, as dependent of a soul as I can be at times. I fear my own choices, and yet long for them in the wildest way. As though I were afraid that if I jumped off of the cliff, my wings wouldn't work after all. They are constructed rather shoddily I fear. Can't get too close to the sun or the sea, and I wish to taste both of them.
So for now I stay on the edge of the cliff, and dream of that little house, its perfect escape tree; those three little children, mud on their socks, grass in their hair; the sound on the front step that tells me he's home; and I try to work it all in to some future reality. For now, the reality is the 50 voice mails, and the kitchen table with the varnish wearing off, impending homelessness and the promise of a new day tomorrow, with no mistakes in it. Yet, give me a few hours and I can fix that in short-order.
Might I implore my reader not to do me the dis-honor of thinking that I am one of "those women" who thinks that once you are married and have children, everything is suddenly perfect. I have six married siblings, and over 15 nieces and nephews. I have five younger siblings, and was babysitting since I was old enough to do so. Almost all of my closest friends are married, and many of them have children. I realize it's not perfection. It's just perfection in the making. It's just godhood in the making. It's just the point of our very existence.
What is my job? Just something to get me through the days. Something to ward off impending insanity, pay the bills, "teach me something", prepare me for some career-based future that I hope and pray does not exist, etc.
I went to school to be a better person. Not to get a job. I do not want to "work" in the way that the world has termed "work". I want to work in my divine-given capacity. I want to make the biggest difference I could in the world, by starting where it matters most.
When I have children, I hope they get up schemes, and I hope they get mud in their hair, and I hope I lose my mind with how difficult it is. For then I will have lost it over something worth losing one's mind for.
Law firm: You're not worth it. Sorry.
On living, Living, Transcendence, and Artistry
And then a slow lip of fire moves across the prairie with precision
While somewhere with your pliers and glue
You make your first incision
And in a moment of almost unbearable vision
Doubled over with the hunger of lions
'Hold me close', cooed the dove
Who was stuffed now with sawdust and diamonds
I am taking on more than I can handle in this post, and will not attempt to deny that such is the case. How is one supposed to say all that art is and means to them in a random blog post composed at a kitchen table in Provo, UT on a random Sunday afternoon?
Well, one isn't; and that is all just as well.
One year ago this coming weekend I graduated from the University with a degree that alleges an interest and a sort of proficiency (if you count taking a dice-sized cube off of the tip of an iceberg and sucking on it a while as proficiency) in the study of The Arts. I could row down a tributary here and go on for ages about how Universities started out with the study of Humanities and precious little else, but I shan't do so. There are many fields of study with a great deal of merit to them. Do I feel that what I did is more important than the feats being accomplished by those who aspire to be doctors or nurses? I do not. But perhaps right next to the importance and merits of living we find that only the importance of Living runs a close second.
Stay with me here, I am attempting philosophy (and preparing myself to fail miserably, I assure you.)
If one is merely living, what does that entail? Breathing, heart beating, neurons firing in the brain. One does not even need to be conscious to be alive. Horrific thought.
Now, if one is Living what does that entail? Much of the same, I suppose--breathing, heart beating, neurons firing in the brain--all still important. Perhaps the only real difference between living and Living is a little thing called purpose. It is breathing and knowing why. Everyone needs at least once in their life to experience the supernal transcendence of listening to the beat of someone else's heart. I mean the kind of experience that draws one to wordless, boundless weeping. Living is the brain firing neurons with some idea, with some inference, some connection and realization. Still higher, Living is the acknowledgment of deaf, dumb, stupefaction that accompanies transcendence, brought about for purposes of this paragraph, by pure artistic expression; almost a short-circuit of the understanding; of throwing one's hands up in the air and saying "I know not what it means, but in this moment I am moved beyond comprehension." Attempt to interpret is futile, if only for a moment, as that thrill starts somewhere inside of you and bursts out through every avenue and... I get carried away. The Mystic? I know. There she is again.
Let me re-group. My sister was a nanny for some months this summer and last. As is customary in her car, as well as in my own, the sounds of the singer/songwriter/harpist Joanna Newsom can often be heard floating out the open windows. I wish now that I could remember how old this child was, but one of the little girls asked her to play a song on the ipod one day. My sister decided to play a favorite of ours from the archives of great Newsom compositions, "Cosmia". Not the original, but the version with the Y's Street Band. She told the inquisitive child that the song was about a butterfly. Though this explanation is not true (the song is about Cosmia--moths) the little one was satisfied, and has long-since asked for the "flutterby" song to be played in the car at every opportunity. If you care to look up this song (though I don't believe that this actual version is on the internet anywhere, even in live form) or any other song of Newsom's you will likely feel slightly jarred by her style and poetry. You will not be alone in this sentiment, many people refuse to engage at all, which is, of course, their privileged.
Yet, that is my point. Perhaps it is unfair of me to draw conclusions from this child-like appreciation of the music. Yet, I do not feel it too far off to consider her reaction to be a typical reaction for a child. We are ever-ready to appreciate pure artistic expression as young children, before we have been taught what is "good" and "acceptable"; before we have been taught that we need to understand in order to appreciate. I mean that with both our own expression and that of others. I had a professor once who pointed out how children dance in public and hang their drawings on the fridge in a most uninhibited manner. At what point do we decide we are no good? At what point to do we begin to snub the expression of others? Isn't that a tragedy of the acutest nature?
Tributaries.
Back to Newsom. Some months ago, I found the following quote of hers in which she comments on the song "Cosmia". To say that this quote "changed my life" is trite and inconsequential in relation to the actual effect it had on me. I will let the reader decide for his or herself the merits of this quote:
"Like the whole record, 'Cosmia' affirms life without offering a wisp of false consolation. The thing that I was experiencing and dwelling on the entire time is that there are so many things that are not OK and that will never be OK again, but there's also so many things that are OK and good that sometimes it makes you crumple over with being alive. We are allowed such an insane depth of beauty and enjoyment in this lifetime. It's what my dad talks about sometimes. He says the only way that he knows there's a God is that there's so much gratuitous joy in this life. And that's his only proof. There's so many joys that do not assist in the propagation of the race or self-preservation. There's no point whatsoever. They are so excessively, mind-bogglingly joy-producing that they distract from the very functions that are supposed to promote human life. They can leave you stupefied, monastic, not productive in any way, shape or form. And those joys are there and they are unflagging and they are ever-growing. And still there are these things that you will never be able to feel OK about; unbearably awful, sad, ugly, unfair things."
I cannot even begin to unpack this in a single post. Perhaps I should only be quoting a portion here, but I genuinely feel the whole is necessary to appreciate the sentiment. I will focus in here on only a single thought: the idea what there are things in life that move you so far into the mode of Living that they almost interfere with living. Transcendence--(wishfully) getting above the banal and the inconsequential of eating, breathing, sleeping-- to a place that is, by description, indescribable.
That is what art is for. It is not to spark semi-interesting conversations in parlor rooms. It is not for acquiring and selling and trading on the black market. Such practices border and parallel prostitution. Yet, I am as guilty as being pretentious as the next on occasion. It is such a fine line. I want to get back to that child-like love of pure expression. Transcendent in that we do not care what others think of us or our expression--transcendent in that we are so inexplicably connected to something so inexplicably fixed outside of ourselves
C.S. Lewis, in his book "An Experiment in Criticism" mentions the relation of this "transcendence" in art to the transcendence we experience in other modes of life. In the last paragraph of this poignant, and hyper-insightful book he states, "In reading great literature I become a thousand men and yet remain myself. Like the night sky in the greek poem, I see with a myriad eyes, but it is still I who see. Here, as in worship, in love, in moral action, and in knowing, I transcend myself; and am never more myself than when I do." (emphasis added)
Thus Lewis puts the experience and interaction we have with literature and other art in the same realm as love and religious worship. They are all things that require getting outside of ourselves, and outside of merely living into a higher state of Living.
I was never as interested as some in how people live, but rather in why they Live. That is why I studied what I studied. A year later, even working a job that I dislike as much as I do, I do not regret that decision. I have learned a great deal about living/Living in the last year. Life has taken me places I never thought to go, into the hearts of people I never thought to enter. I have not come out unscathed; the last year has not been easy on me, but I will continue to seek transcendence in all that life has to offer. Like the Negative Capability Keats rejoiced in, I will not try to make sense of everything, and always remember that sometimes Truth is something we experience and sense rather than understand.
I'm sure it all has a great deal to do with being mortal. For the time being, I pray that the simplicity and sincerity I find in art, in love, in moral action, and in religious worship will continue to propel me ever higher outside of myself, and into the inter-connectedness of all that is God's marvelous gift called Living.
While somewhere with your pliers and glue
You make your first incision
And in a moment of almost unbearable vision
Doubled over with the hunger of lions
'Hold me close', cooed the dove
Who was stuffed now with sawdust and diamonds
I am taking on more than I can handle in this post, and will not attempt to deny that such is the case. How is one supposed to say all that art is and means to them in a random blog post composed at a kitchen table in Provo, UT on a random Sunday afternoon?
Well, one isn't; and that is all just as well.
One year ago this coming weekend I graduated from the University with a degree that alleges an interest and a sort of proficiency (if you count taking a dice-sized cube off of the tip of an iceberg and sucking on it a while as proficiency) in the study of The Arts. I could row down a tributary here and go on for ages about how Universities started out with the study of Humanities and precious little else, but I shan't do so. There are many fields of study with a great deal of merit to them. Do I feel that what I did is more important than the feats being accomplished by those who aspire to be doctors or nurses? I do not. But perhaps right next to the importance and merits of living we find that only the importance of Living runs a close second.
Stay with me here, I am attempting philosophy (and preparing myself to fail miserably, I assure you.)
If one is merely living, what does that entail? Breathing, heart beating, neurons firing in the brain. One does not even need to be conscious to be alive. Horrific thought.
Now, if one is Living what does that entail? Much of the same, I suppose--breathing, heart beating, neurons firing in the brain--all still important. Perhaps the only real difference between living and Living is a little thing called purpose. It is breathing and knowing why. Everyone needs at least once in their life to experience the supernal transcendence of listening to the beat of someone else's heart. I mean the kind of experience that draws one to wordless, boundless weeping. Living is the brain firing neurons with some idea, with some inference, some connection and realization. Still higher, Living is the acknowledgment of deaf, dumb, stupefaction that accompanies transcendence, brought about for purposes of this paragraph, by pure artistic expression; almost a short-circuit of the understanding; of throwing one's hands up in the air and saying "I know not what it means, but in this moment I am moved beyond comprehension." Attempt to interpret is futile, if only for a moment, as that thrill starts somewhere inside of you and bursts out through every avenue and... I get carried away. The Mystic? I know. There she is again.
Let me re-group. My sister was a nanny for some months this summer and last. As is customary in her car, as well as in my own, the sounds of the singer/songwriter/harpist Joanna Newsom can often be heard floating out the open windows. I wish now that I could remember how old this child was, but one of the little girls asked her to play a song on the ipod one day. My sister decided to play a favorite of ours from the archives of great Newsom compositions, "Cosmia". Not the original, but the version with the Y's Street Band. She told the inquisitive child that the song was about a butterfly. Though this explanation is not true (the song is about Cosmia--moths) the little one was satisfied, and has long-since asked for the "flutterby" song to be played in the car at every opportunity. If you care to look up this song (though I don't believe that this actual version is on the internet anywhere, even in live form) or any other song of Newsom's you will likely feel slightly jarred by her style and poetry. You will not be alone in this sentiment, many people refuse to engage at all, which is, of course, their privileged.
Yet, that is my point. Perhaps it is unfair of me to draw conclusions from this child-like appreciation of the music. Yet, I do not feel it too far off to consider her reaction to be a typical reaction for a child. We are ever-ready to appreciate pure artistic expression as young children, before we have been taught what is "good" and "acceptable"; before we have been taught that we need to understand in order to appreciate. I mean that with both our own expression and that of others. I had a professor once who pointed out how children dance in public and hang their drawings on the fridge in a most uninhibited manner. At what point do we decide we are no good? At what point to do we begin to snub the expression of others? Isn't that a tragedy of the acutest nature?
Tributaries.
Back to Newsom. Some months ago, I found the following quote of hers in which she comments on the song "Cosmia". To say that this quote "changed my life" is trite and inconsequential in relation to the actual effect it had on me. I will let the reader decide for his or herself the merits of this quote:
"Like the whole record, 'Cosmia' affirms life without offering a wisp of false consolation. The thing that I was experiencing and dwelling on the entire time is that there are so many things that are not OK and that will never be OK again, but there's also so many things that are OK and good that sometimes it makes you crumple over with being alive. We are allowed such an insane depth of beauty and enjoyment in this lifetime. It's what my dad talks about sometimes. He says the only way that he knows there's a God is that there's so much gratuitous joy in this life. And that's his only proof. There's so many joys that do not assist in the propagation of the race or self-preservation. There's no point whatsoever. They are so excessively, mind-bogglingly joy-producing that they distract from the very functions that are supposed to promote human life. They can leave you stupefied, monastic, not productive in any way, shape or form. And those joys are there and they are unflagging and they are ever-growing. And still there are these things that you will never be able to feel OK about; unbearably awful, sad, ugly, unfair things."
I cannot even begin to unpack this in a single post. Perhaps I should only be quoting a portion here, but I genuinely feel the whole is necessary to appreciate the sentiment. I will focus in here on only a single thought: the idea what there are things in life that move you so far into the mode of Living that they almost interfere with living. Transcendence--(wishfully) getting above the banal and the inconsequential of eating, breathing, sleeping-- to a place that is, by description, indescribable.
That is what art is for. It is not to spark semi-interesting conversations in parlor rooms. It is not for acquiring and selling and trading on the black market. Such practices border and parallel prostitution. Yet, I am as guilty as being pretentious as the next on occasion. It is such a fine line. I want to get back to that child-like love of pure expression. Transcendent in that we do not care what others think of us or our expression--transcendent in that we are so inexplicably connected to something so inexplicably fixed outside of ourselves
C.S. Lewis, in his book "An Experiment in Criticism" mentions the relation of this "transcendence" in art to the transcendence we experience in other modes of life. In the last paragraph of this poignant, and hyper-insightful book he states, "In reading great literature I become a thousand men and yet remain myself. Like the night sky in the greek poem, I see with a myriad eyes, but it is still I who see. Here, as in worship, in love, in moral action, and in knowing, I transcend myself; and am never more myself than when I do." (emphasis added)
Thus Lewis puts the experience and interaction we have with literature and other art in the same realm as love and religious worship. They are all things that require getting outside of ourselves, and outside of merely living into a higher state of Living.
I was never as interested as some in how people live, but rather in why they Live. That is why I studied what I studied. A year later, even working a job that I dislike as much as I do, I do not regret that decision. I have learned a great deal about living/Living in the last year. Life has taken me places I never thought to go, into the hearts of people I never thought to enter. I have not come out unscathed; the last year has not been easy on me, but I will continue to seek transcendence in all that life has to offer. Like the Negative Capability Keats rejoiced in, I will not try to make sense of everything, and always remember that sometimes Truth is something we experience and sense rather than understand.
I'm sure it all has a great deal to do with being mortal. For the time being, I pray that the simplicity and sincerity I find in art, in love, in moral action, and in religious worship will continue to propel me ever higher outside of myself, and into the inter-connectedness of all that is God's marvelous gift called Living.
North and South- 19th Century Musings
I watched a favorite film tonight. 'Twas one of those days where only the thought of coming home, and keeping to oneself all evening with a favorite movie can get one through. This selection was cousin's idea. Brilliant woman.
Funny, the last time I watched this film was New Year's Day. I remember the day well, and am almost surprised at having spent so many months not watching this movie. Yet, it is a slightly longer film, which has probably kept me from watching as often as I have some other favorites. This film makes me want to find that part of me that lives in 19th century England and do one of two things:
A) Bind it up irreparably and make it behave.
B) Give into it entirely and dress like Margaret Hale every day.
If I went with option B, I would have to ensure that most people around me died within a year of each-other, and I don't think I would get the chance to crack a single joke.
I think it would be good for me.
Anyway, as I watched, I wondered what it is about that time period that pulls at all of our sensibilities so. It is not as if the people in that time period were living easy lives, or that they did not see their share of misery. In fact, this film does a much-better job than others of its class in portraying the vile aspects of the period. The dirty streets, the dangerous mills, the riots, the sociopolitical turmoil. Why would we want that? What about the film, and so many others like it fascinates us so?
I have always believed that one reason for this phenomenon is the fact that we as human beings are (throughout different time periods) fundamentally the same--whatever time period we were born in. Many of the daily struggles were different then, but congruent to our own today. Trying to feed our families, and make it in a crazy world, find love, transcend cultural norms, be happy, etc. We have always fought for the same things, just in slightly different ways. It is like watching ourselves under different circumstances. Doing studies on human-ness. That is what I used to do every day of my University experience.
Yet I do believe that it goes deeper than that. I think we all just like the clothing they wore.
Terribly wicked of me. Did that just come out in this post?
Actually, I would assert that it has more to do with the fact that those were times vibrant with a different sort of.... doing. It required a certain amount of activity that today's world does not. I see the way that technology has worn our senses to the point that we do not see the world as vibrantly as they did. That is not to say that I believe that technology is evil (this post is brought to you by the makers of Apple Inc, etc) however, I think there is something about a technology-free world that piques our interests. We want to go back to the simplicity. It is not that those times were, in reality, more simple. I am not that naive. They were just less.... complicated.
As usual, the thoughts are not translating.
For instance. I've no idea how this computer works. It scares me sometimes to think of how little I know about the known world. There was a time (the time in question) in world history when things were not quite so unknown. Interestingly enough, one of the themes in this film is that of technology and its effects on human behavior. It focuses in on a time when the age of industrialization was beginning to blossom (does that word work?) over the empires, and the smoke had begun to pour into the streets from the factories, as well as the chimneys. The world had just started to open up to the newness of technology, and it seemed that one could keep on the outer edge of it, that one could comprehend what there was to comprehend, and "keep up"so to speak, with the technology. Or, one could completely let it pass by. It was an option to not engage. To go on knitting in the parlor and let the steam engine's clang by someone else's front door.
Today there are more ideas, bits of knowledge and technology than we know what to do with. The age of information is the age of the overwhelmed. There are so many causes, so many good and bad things to pour our time into that we hardly know what to do with ourselves. It is not merely a question of moving about in a small sphere, influencing one's friends and neighbors, working (if one was not a gentlemen), or managing one's affairs, etc.
Now there is so much to do we do nothing.
"I want to change the world, instead, I sleep." -Ingrid Michaelson
Well, now I am bringing Ingrid into it. This post has taken me places I was not expecting to go tonight. Such is the way with free-style thinking provoked by a favorite film. I think I just like the sound of the buttons on my keyboard clicking (especially as they are the evidence of the fact that I have so far triumphed over the "keyboard, low battery" warnings). If this were a school paper, I would fail. Good thing 'tis not.
These thoughts should be more organized, and should contain less talk of 19th century fashion. Forgive my in-eloquence and enjoy the following clip. It rips my soul in two every time. I wrote a whole paper on it Freshman year of college. I am quite sure I did not get a good grade on said paper, but I wrote one all the same.
Funny, the last time I watched this film was New Year's Day. I remember the day well, and am almost surprised at having spent so many months not watching this movie. Yet, it is a slightly longer film, which has probably kept me from watching as often as I have some other favorites. This film makes me want to find that part of me that lives in 19th century England and do one of two things:
A) Bind it up irreparably and make it behave.
B) Give into it entirely and dress like Margaret Hale every day.
If I went with option B, I would have to ensure that most people around me died within a year of each-other, and I don't think I would get the chance to crack a single joke.
I think it would be good for me.
Anyway, as I watched, I wondered what it is about that time period that pulls at all of our sensibilities so. It is not as if the people in that time period were living easy lives, or that they did not see their share of misery. In fact, this film does a much-better job than others of its class in portraying the vile aspects of the period. The dirty streets, the dangerous mills, the riots, the sociopolitical turmoil. Why would we want that? What about the film, and so many others like it fascinates us so?
I have always believed that one reason for this phenomenon is the fact that we as human beings are (throughout different time periods) fundamentally the same--whatever time period we were born in. Many of the daily struggles were different then, but congruent to our own today. Trying to feed our families, and make it in a crazy world, find love, transcend cultural norms, be happy, etc. We have always fought for the same things, just in slightly different ways. It is like watching ourselves under different circumstances. Doing studies on human-ness. That is what I used to do every day of my University experience.
Yet I do believe that it goes deeper than that. I think we all just like the clothing they wore.
Terribly wicked of me. Did that just come out in this post?
Actually, I would assert that it has more to do with the fact that those were times vibrant with a different sort of.... doing. It required a certain amount of activity that today's world does not. I see the way that technology has worn our senses to the point that we do not see the world as vibrantly as they did. That is not to say that I believe that technology is evil (this post is brought to you by the makers of Apple Inc, etc) however, I think there is something about a technology-free world that piques our interests. We want to go back to the simplicity. It is not that those times were, in reality, more simple. I am not that naive. They were just less.... complicated.
As usual, the thoughts are not translating.
For instance. I've no idea how this computer works. It scares me sometimes to think of how little I know about the known world. There was a time (the time in question) in world history when things were not quite so unknown. Interestingly enough, one of the themes in this film is that of technology and its effects on human behavior. It focuses in on a time when the age of industrialization was beginning to blossom (does that word work?) over the empires, and the smoke had begun to pour into the streets from the factories, as well as the chimneys. The world had just started to open up to the newness of technology, and it seemed that one could keep on the outer edge of it, that one could comprehend what there was to comprehend, and "keep up"so to speak, with the technology. Or, one could completely let it pass by. It was an option to not engage. To go on knitting in the parlor and let the steam engine's clang by someone else's front door.
Today there are more ideas, bits of knowledge and technology than we know what to do with. The age of information is the age of the overwhelmed. There are so many causes, so many good and bad things to pour our time into that we hardly know what to do with ourselves. It is not merely a question of moving about in a small sphere, influencing one's friends and neighbors, working (if one was not a gentlemen), or managing one's affairs, etc.
Now there is so much to do we do nothing.
"I want to change the world, instead, I sleep." -Ingrid Michaelson
Well, now I am bringing Ingrid into it. This post has taken me places I was not expecting to go tonight. Such is the way with free-style thinking provoked by a favorite film. I think I just like the sound of the buttons on my keyboard clicking (especially as they are the evidence of the fact that I have so far triumphed over the "keyboard, low battery" warnings). If this were a school paper, I would fail. Good thing 'tis not.
These thoughts should be more organized, and should contain less talk of 19th century fashion. Forgive my in-eloquence and enjoy the following clip. It rips my soul in two every time. I wrote a whole paper on it Freshman year of college. I am quite sure I did not get a good grade on said paper, but I wrote one all the same.
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