On Imperfection

"At the beginning of electronic music, some German studios claimed that they could make every sound that a natrual instrument could make - only better. They then discovered that all their sounds were marked by a certain uniform sterility. So they analysed the sounds made by clarinets, flutes, violins, and found that each not contained a remarkably high proportion of plain noise: actual scraping, or the mixture of heavy breathing with wind on wood: from a purist point of view, but the composers soon found themselves compelled to make synthetic dirt - to 'humanize' their compositions."
--Peter Brook

It seems to me that one of the essential human traits is imperfection. Most people would reply to this with a resounding duh, especially Christians. However, I don't just mean sinfulness, or even a proclivity for wrongdoing, though that may be a derivative. I believe that even a sinless person would be imperfect. Only God is perfect. That is why it meant lowering himself when Christ became a human being: He was still sinless, but no longer perfect.

I think of Tolkien's description of the elves of Middle Earth. They are almost ephemeral beings: ageless, wise, and profound in all, especially beauty. Whenever the mortal races interact with the elves, there is a distance kept, an incomprehension that stands in the way of comfort. Next to the elves, men and dwarves and hobbits all seem low and dirty, but they have their own richness, not necessarily better or more, simply different.

In writing dialogue, especially for plays and screenplays, one piece of advice I have heard often and to which I try to cling is that dialogue ought to have imperfections. No one uses perfect grammar when they speak. Maybe a few characters try here and there, but sooner or later, they will respond with a fragment. That is just the way we talk. Even in Shakespeare's verse, heightened language, some of the most interesting moments are when he breaks the rhythm of his iambic pentameter. One of my favourite lines in all of Shakespeare's plays is King Lear's line upon finding his daughter Cordelia dead: "Thoult come no more/Never, never, never, never, never." The regular iambic rhythm of "ba Bum ba Bum ba Bum" is replaced by halting trochaic feet: "Bum ba Bum ba Bum ba" It is almost as if, through the speech, you can hear his heart faltering. Imperfection finer than any that gives a diamond its true beauty. In the same way, though symmetry is what makes a face attractive, it is asymmetry that makes it stand out. Think of Marilyn Monroe and her famous "beauty mark." It was a mole--a mutation, a defect--but it is what made her beauty special.

I think this is why we find imperfection so beautiful. We are ourselves imperfect. We may find perfection admirable, but we do not connect to it as personally. It is distant, foreign. This is one of the reasons why God had to become human. We could not really know him otherwise. He had to share in our imperfection for us to truly be able to approach him, and in approaching him really approach the perfect Deity we so fear to know.

On Silicon Skins

Binary

In this binary world
We are all ones and zeros
Ones
And zeros
Standing alone
Standing empty
With ones and zeros on every side
Ones and zeros
In endless rows and columns
Adding up
But never becoming sums
Remaining forever
Ones
And Zeros
Disparate
Alone

It probably seems hypocrytical for me to post a poem like this in an electronic blog, and maybe it is, but at least I wrote it in ink...
Regardless, this blog is a place where I have a voice, even if it is one that only a few people hear. And what I want to say with this voice is that nowadays we have a hard time connecting to people, especially when so much of it takes place online. The internet is great, and it can help connect people. That is true. But so often it becomes a crutch that keeps people from walking far enough to actually see each other, and that is when it becomes a problem.

On Leaves

I love Fall.

I love all the seasons, and they all have their merits, but there is nothing like fall. This is probably pretty common knowledge to those who know me well, and they've probably heard some of this stuff before, but fall is so prevalent right now that I cannot stop thinking, and therefore writing, about it. Something about fall just gets deep inside me. It helps, of course, that I enjoy cold weather. The feeling of a strong, chilly wind is enlivening, and Autumn rain is like the showering of the Spirit. However, I also love the colours.

The colours.

Fall is absolutely beautiful. I don't think I could live anywhere without deciduous trees. Maybe for a while, but I would miss the changing of the fall season too much. I take so much joy in watching Autumn paint her masterpiece year after year, turning the world into a wash of ochre and umber with vibrant splashes of fire here and there. How can you see this and not love fall? Maybe my artistic sensibility just runs away with me, but I cannot help feeling that there is something holy about fall.

It is interesting to think scientifically about what happens when the weather starts getting cold and the leaves start dying. That is essentially what it is. The leaves start dying. What keeps them alive is the chloroplasts using photosynthesis to provide energy for the plant. These chloroplasts are also what make leaves green. When the cold weather hits, these chloroplasts stop their photosynthesis, and the leaves lose their green. That is when their true nature comes out.

I was told once that Death is the road to awe.

How remarkable it is that God would create plants that became beautiful in death! The greens of spring and summer are vibrant and striking, and I would not give them away, but it blows my mind to think that when that green--that life drains away, the leaves are still beautiful.

That is poetry.

That is God.

Sometimes I think that Jesus is like the autumn leaves. His death came with a wash of red, and in that death he became something inconceivably beautiful. The true nature of his life was revealed in a way that is truly awe inspiring. And like the trees, his death was not forever, but he rose again.

Sometimes I think that we are like the autumn leaves.

Sugar Maples

The trees are beginning to burn
Burn
Throwing their light against the sky
But like Moses and the bush
The trees are not consumed
No, they are the fire
Showing light from deep within the leaves
Iridescent reds and yellows
Revealed by the coming death of winter
As these leaves die
Their true natures are revealed
Awe
And we are like the leaves
With iridescent souls
Waiting only for death
To be revealed

On Publishing

I had decided this summer that I was going to start assembling some poetry and try to get it published. This suffered a serious setback when I was deprived of my laptop. However, now that I have a new one, I have begun working on it again.
The only problems is: I have no idea what I'm doing. Right now, I'm just typing up a bunch of poems, but I don't know where to go from there. I'm trying to follow a basic theme, but I have written so many poems over the past year, that it is hard to wade through them all and weed stuff out. Then I will edit it, but that is a process that seems quite daunting. Since I started writing a poem every day, I stopped revising quite so much, which may be a problem, but I am certainly going to get a work out now. There is also the challenge of actually getting them published. A nice electronic copy of well-edited poems is pretty useless without any way for people to read them. In this area, I have no idea whatsoever what I ought to be doing.
Any advice?

On Celebration: Misfortune Addendum (post 100)

This is a post for celebrations. First off, this is the post when my blog turns 100. I started this blog on a whim about 15 months ago and I have finally reached 100 posts. It feels like a big milestone. Any time you can throw "hundred" into something, it makes it feel a lot more significant. Maybe someday, I will be able to say I have written hundredS of blog posts. Just think how much more significant I will feel about myself then.
I have another reason to celebrate. I have finally gotten a new laptop to replace the one that was stolen. It is such a crazy story. It took over a month and a half to get my replacement laptop, but I still consider myself incredibly fortunate for the whole affair.
Why?
Because I did not have to pay a cent. Since I was living on Notre Dame's rent when the robbery happened, they took full responsibility for the loss and bought me a brand new laptop at no cost to me. What a huge blessing! Sure, I had to go quite a while without one, but even that helped me distance myself from the over-attachment to the internet that most college students tend to form. The new computer has also come at a very good time. I am finally getting to that part of the year when papers start getting assigned. I have a very gracious roommate, but I don't think that even he would be generous enough to let me write an entire research paper on his computer.

On Feet

Walking

There is a story
Written on the rough cement
In the soft earth
And through the dew-soaked grass
Known to the wise
Like Braille
Read by bare feet
And this story tells the secret
Of so much hidden beauty
Disregarded
Passed by
Trampled
By careless rubber-soled feet
Ignorant of what it means to walk