Tuesday, December 14, 2010

On Tokens

I have been thinking a lot about tokens lately. By this, I don't mean the small bits of metal or plastic that you use to play arcade games (though those might sometimes apply). Rather, I am using the psychological definition of something that serves as a substitute or an intermediate step in acquiring something else. Experiments have shown a monkey inserting a small wooden token into a slot to receive a banana. Although what the monkey wants and needs is a banana, it begins to do whatever it can to gain tokens, because the tokens become equivalent with the idea of the banana.

It is easy to see where this example will lead: our present use of currency. Primitive societies exchange goods or services for other goods and services. More developed societies trade some sort of currency or money for those goods and services. And in our most "developed" societies, the most "successful" people trade money for money. it is silly when you think about it. money used to be just a means to survive, but by our society's definition, it is now both means and end in itself. No matter how many times we hear that money doesn't buy happiness, most people believe that qcquiring more money will, in fact, improve their happiness. But money is just a token. This fact is most brutally tragic when it comes to spending. We associate money with the ability to buy all sorts of things to entertain us, or better yet, to entertain others so that they are impressed with us. This makes money a means to affirmation and a shallow sort of affection. This, then, makes us associate money with receiving love, even though the money brings us nothing in and of itself. Love breeds love, and we end up loving money (the root of all evil, an ultimately fruitless love.

This same pattern exists everywhere in our culture. It is highlighted with startling clarity in the halls of junior high and high schools where the style of a person's hair or clothing or the type of music they listen to or the type of recreation they enjoy will determine whether that person is accepted. All of these insignificant external factors are the basis for whether the entire person, inside and out, is accepted. We end up valuing the external over and above the itnernal, but as we know, "Man looks at the outward appearance, but God looks at the heart." Our identity is so much more than how we look or the way we speak, but we substitute these for a person's identity, often to a negative effect.

I find this same process to be at work when it comes to receiving academic grades. Waht was intended to be a measure for scuccess has come to signify success itself. Or failure--depending on the grade. So often, people work themselves to death pursuing the highest grade because they think it will be a means to something else: the right college, the right grad school, the right job, or maybe just a nod of approval from a parent. Eventually, the grade becomes the only thing to achieve--not the lessons along the way, perhaps not even the school or job that was the original goal. I have know people who will torture themselves just to achieve a certain grade because that letter has come to be a substitute for approval or affirmation or self-worth.

I guess what I am trying to get at is the question of what the world would be like if we could somehow get rid of these tokens and cheep substitutes and just affirm one another. We wouldn't have to love money or clothes, or the letter "A" written on a paper; we could love the person who smiled at us and said, "Good job." This sounds like an ideal worthy of the hippy generation, and I am sure that it will never be realized until all of Heaven and earth have been made new and become one, but I long for such a world. In that place, there would be no need for poverty because a sincere thanks would be enough for the farmer who no longer needs to pay taxes on the land, and love would teach us to show grace to one another, just like the grace we have received from God.

Tuesday, December 7, 2010

On Cause for Celebration

This was taken from an e-mail I received last night:

"As Chair and Vice-Chair of the National Playwriting Program for Region 3 of the Kennedy Center's American College Theatre Festival, it gives us special pleasure to inform you that your one act play has been selected for the One Act Play Festival at this year's regional festival in Lansing, MI January 4-8. All the plays were read anonymously by a panel of three readers from outside the region. This year's selection was particularly competitive as we received over sixty one act plays (double last year)."

Saying that I am excited would be a definite understatement.

Tuesday, November 30, 2010

On Words

Is it strange that the more I learn about words, the less I trust them, and the more I want to dedicate my life to their usage?

Saturday, November 27, 2010

On Opening

There is nothing like the first taste of a new book.

you run your fingers over the cover
your thumb catches the edge or the corner
and you open it
a new world

I don't know the story, the characters--who they are or who they will become, where they will go or what they will do. I learn their names, their faces, their habits. I learn their hopes, their disappointments, their secrets. They teach me, and I respond to them.

with a thousand unspoken thoughts
with that slight change in my voice
almost unnoticeable
a slightly different pronunciation perhaps
an added depth
or hollowness
with the words I will write
my words?
or no one's
or everyone's
with the way I look into the faces of strangers
with the way I choose

Pages turn like days, like minutes, like years. A thumb on one page, a forefinger ready to turn the next. The world is new--is changed--is revealed with every turn.

Expectation, anticipation, hope, disappointment, secrets wait within a closed book. Beginning, end, continuation--all moments as one between the covers. A voice, and utterance, a story--waiting to tell, waiting to be heard.

Thursday, November 25, 2010

On Turkey Day

I am thankful . . .

for Odysseys
for homecomings

for family
for love I haven't earned and couldn't get rid of even if I wanted to

for hugs

for friends who edify
for friends who call me out when I'm wrong
for friends who are friends even when I don't keep in touch very well
for friends who are friends even when I don't tell them how desperately I care
for them

for good coffee
for good tea
for good bread
for pomegranates
for eggs
for turkey cranberry and brie sandwiches
for berry crumbles
for cider
for scones
for hot chocolate
for cheesecake
for pumpkins
for soup
for stir fry
for cumin
for ginger
for garlic
for soy sauce
for chilli powder
for meals of only fruit and bread and cheese

for a healthy body
for a healthy mind

for ideas
for great writers
for great thinkers
for great painters
for great musicians
for great actors
for challenges
for the stack of books and scripts demanding my attention
for stories
for beginnings
for ends
for the fact that nothing ever truly begins or ends

for loud, bright places
for dark, quiet places

for trees
for water
for clouds
for rain
for stars
for the moon

for the things I've remembered
for the things I've forgotten

for failures
for humanness
for limitations
for weakness
for Grace

for God

Monday, November 8, 2010

On an Itch

Sometimes, I think nothing spawns creativity more effectively than other creativity. This Friday I had the privilege of seeing my dear friend Hannah's senior comprehensive which combined dance and a whole lot of other medium, lots of projections especially. It was astounding. I understood it perfectly and also not at all, which I think would please Hannah a great deal. However, perhaps the greatest thing about seeing it has been that ever since then I have had such a tremendous creative itch that refuses to be assuaged. Every time I scratch this itch, it seems to move to another region, so I am in this constant cycle of pain and desire and relief. It is terrible. And it is glorious.

Wednesday, November 3, 2010

On Mist

Whenever I think about the fact that we have only a brief time on this earth, and none of my days are guaranteed, I have one of two reactions. Either I am drawn to freak out about all of the many things that I have not done or have not accomplished or wish I could do, or I am drawn to forget about all obligation, desire, or aspiration and to merely live in the moment--be where I am--simply exist and enjoy the things which could be taken away in a moment.

Fortunately (and I mean that sincerely), I am a moderate in temperament (along with most facets of my life), and I do not change so swiftly or easily that either of these inclinations should cause me much trouble. However, I fell them there--always pulling at my mind. And I wonder whether it is greater wisdom to ignore them both or to find the place where they meet and head in that direction.

Thursday, October 21, 2010

On Light in the Darkness

The moon stood stately amidst a court of clouds--a cold queen--her silver purity so unattainable that all the fragile humans looking up must fall before we reach her. But when she surveys the land with such a keen glance, with such a grace, I know that there is love in her heart. Love for all of us stumbling around and staring with our mouths agape. And she will take us into her smooth embrace and raises us to her sphere among the stars.

Wednesday, October 20, 2010

On Some Recent, Disparate Thoughts

The sky is so beautifully impossibly big.

As I look to the future, what if the one prospect that scares me is the one I am supposed to pursue?

What is a line?

I think it took leaving my home and finding a home thousands of miles away to make me understand that I have no real home.

Is my identity defined by my beard? If not, then why don't people recognize me now that it is shaved? Am I not me anymore?

There is a person who is me sitting on the tip of my tongue waiting to be uttered into existence.

What if balance is everything?

I want to go to Tehran someday.

Is there a difference between dissatisfaction and discontent?

Autumn is beautiful, and the beauty of Autumn is the beauty of death, and truth is beauty, and all truth is God's truth, so what does that make death?

I have never felt more like a stranger in a foreign land than I do at this point in my life.

Saturday, October 16, 2010

Wednesday, October 6, 2010

On Iliads

I have been fortunate this semester to be in a class that forces me to write poetry. The professor who teaches my course in world literature likes making students apply and reflect on their knowledge of a text in multiple ways, including creative means. It was for this course that I wrote the prologue/poem I posted earlier, and now we had the opportunity to write another, writing in the voice of a minor character in Margaret Atwood's Penelopiad. I was, for the most part, pleased with the results of my efforts, so I have decided to post it here.

Kleos

All the tales they tell are told of men:
men who win wars, rape women,
sack cities, and take wives. For this
the people write poems, sing songs--
and for this their sons are raised. But what
of their daughters? What of we, their women?
We are our bodies, and if we are lucky,
we are wedded, though even marriage
carries with it a doom: making us mothers.
We are fated to be nothing more
than some man's bride, and some man's mother--

But not I. My name shall be my own,
and I shall be known as slayer of men,
destoroyer of cities, worthy of war. I am
Helen. I too shall be godlike. I shall be
Aphrodite and more. I am woman--
the beauty of woman is mine, and I shall be all
beauty. The beauty that men sell their souls
to love is mine. The beauty that women
kill themselves because they lack is mine.
They shall call me slut and whore and worse
because women may not be heroes--still,
they will remember me.

Tuesday, October 5, 2010

On More Reflection

I'm not entirely sure where this post is going, but I felt like my previous post needed some kind of follow up, so here it is.

Last week, I was talking with a friend who mentioned how I am good at a lot of things. I tried to downplay it and change the subject, which led to a discussion on why I struggle taking compliments. I didn't really know. I always have. This led to some reflection, which led to my last post.

When I was in elementary and junior high, I was one of the smartest kids in my class. Eventually, I gained the nickname, "Genius" and came to be sort of set apart from my classmates. Granted, there are worse nicknames out there. Many people have told me that. But pejorative name-calling is pejorative no matter what the monicker. And furthermore, feeling like you don't fit in with your peers is difficult for any adolescent, no matter what the cause for the isolation. I was the nerdy kid. I was too smart. Even when I changed schools freshman year, I got labelled a smart kid. Is this why I avoid praise? So that I feel like I don't stand out? So I will fit in with everyone else?

Another thing that has always bothered me, is that I have never felt worthy of the praise I get. This has been especially true of any time I was called a genius. I am not a genius. That is just a matter of fact. If people called me stupid, that would be mean, but at least I would be fairly confident in knowing it wasn't true. But this is where I begin to wonder if I have self-esteem issues. I don't feel like I deserve a lot of the praise I get. This is most often the case in the areas about which I care the most or about which I am the most passionate. A lot of the time, I just attribute this to an artistic temperament of always noticing the flaws in my work and being my own worse critic. Sometimes, however, I think it is more than that.

I call it humility. Is it self-depracation? One thing I have learned well in the last few years is that I am much too hard on myself. I weigh myself down with guilt, I agonize over how my decisions affect others, and I so often look for flaws in myself that I can eradicate. Even now, as I examine my self-esteem, I am viewing it as yet another flaw to eradicate.

Sometimes, and I think now is one of those times, I forget the promises of God. I forget that whether my surface attributes and accomplishments are praised or put down or worthy of any of it, what matters is that I am created in the image of God.

He delights in me.

A dear friend of mine told me that once, and the Spirit of truth overwhelmed me so much in that moment that I wept--and I am not prone to tears. How could I forget that?

I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made. Your works are wonderful. I know that full well.



As a bonus to this post, here is a link to a song that has very much been on my heart lately. And a special thanks to the friends responsible for introducing me to it.

Sunday, October 3, 2010

On Some Reflection

Sometimes I think I might have self-esteem issues.
Maybe more on that later.

Thursday, September 30, 2010

On Silver Blades of Grass

Today I saw the first frost of fall. It was a welcome sight that nipped my toes and was marvellously alliterative.

And it means that soon the trees will explode into a cascade of overwhelming colour. I love this time of year.

Sunday, September 26, 2010

On Psalms

In my Bible study last week, we talked about the book of Psalms and as part of the meeting, the person leading that week set some time aside for us to write our own psalms. I decided I would share what the fruits of that time were for me.

Holy father, Holy King
I call you God, I call you good
I raise your name around me
in towers of gold and glass
Majesty
You are
sacred and strong and pure.

selah

Light beyond and through
the heavens you watch me--
surround me. I praise you
and your unfathomable name
But enemies walk beside me--
before me--behind me
laying traps
hooks to pierce my skin
pull me down
And it hurts so much to fight

selah

In darkness, Lord, I call
Your name
sweet mercy
water to my weary soul
I beg for you--cry for rescue
Light, cut through these shadows
Grace, cut through these bonds
Have mercy on your servant

selah

You are the solid ground
beneath my feet, you are
the light, the warmth, that flows--
that falls on my head in showers,
You are the water that
cleanses me, that drowns me,
You are the breath that fills
my lungs, You are the fragrant wind

selah

Great God
Glorious
Goodness incomprehensible
Grace beyond sufficiency

Tuesday, September 21, 2010

On Manhood

In the corner of the blogosphere where I generally hang out, there has been a lot of talk lately about what it means to be a real man. I think it's great that people are willing to ask this question, but my concern is that my friends who have been saying the most about it are women. For fear of being only a bandwagon blogger, I have decided to submit some of my half-formed thoughts to the conversation.

The question of what it means to be a real man is one that has hung over me for a number of years now. The first time I remember thinking deeply about this was my freshman year of high school, though I'm sure it had entered into my thoughts in some capacity before this. For a number of years in high school, I would eat lunch in the cafeteria with some friends, then go and sit in the hall by myself to study for Bible Quizzing. Eventually other people would trickle out as well and the hall filled up. One of these times, there was a group of jocks sitting opposite me. I'm not generally one to support stereotypes, but a couple of these guys embodied all that is cliche of the adolescent jock. Somehow the topic of masturbation came up. I mentioned that I had never masturbated, and I was met with blank stares. A fellow with a quick wit took it upon himself to inform me: "90 percent of men masturbate, and the other ten percent are liars."

This guy was an idiot. Deep down, I probably knew it back then, and I certainly figured it out in the following years. That doesn't mean that his words didn't affect me. I may not have gone out and masturbated that night or anything so shallow as that, but for the first time in my life, I questioned my masculinity.

It wasn't until a few years later that I found out some of these same guys used to ask one of my best friends if I was gay. This was an incredibly unsettling revelation. It is worth mentioning that this was a very conservative community where "gay" was always used in a pejorative sense. What is more, this was at a time in my life before I emerged from my own sheltered, innocent conservativism (not that I am a flaming liberal now--I've always been more inclined to be a moderate) and references to homosexuality gave me a reflexive feeling of discomfort.

What was most upsetting about this was that it completely knocked the legs out from beneath the past I thought I knew. I had been pretty secure in my masculinity, not really questioning it much, but I found myself looking back into my memories for what it could have been that gave them the notion that I was gay. Was it because I never had a girlfriend while I was in high school? Was it because I wasn't on an athletic team? Was it because of my theatre involvement or other "artsy" pursuits? Was it because of my reticence? What was it in me that was deficient? What gave them the impression that I was less of a man?

I suppose the fact that I thought being gay meant being less of a man says something about my own outlook on homosexuals back then, but I know that is how they would have meant it. Clearly, this bothered me. I would not be telling this story if it didn't. It wasn't something I thought about constantly; instead it loomed in the back of my mind, nagging and haunting me while I wasn't even aware of it.

Had it not been for my faith in Christ, I really don't know how deeply this would have affected me. As it was, my naivete and untested notions of masculinity were challenged, and I had to fall back on the promises of Scripture. I am a child of God, loved and created uniquely by him. I love him. He was faithful to me in that time, and I have become more confident since then.

It wasn't until after my freshman year of high school that I found the answer to this contentious question: what is a real man? I was working for Bethel's summer team, which consisted of working as counsellors at a lot of different camps. One of these camps had separate guy/girl sessions to talk about fun issues like sexuality. It was during one of these sessions that a camp leader gave the definition I have come to claim for myself: a real man has a penis.

It was a revelation. It was the utterance of the idea that had been forming in my mind ever since I became aware that I failed to measure up to some standard of masculinity. Manhood isn't some list of ill-defined qualities. It means being a man, having an Y chromosome, having a penis. It may seem a rather crass and oversimplified definition, especially compared to the lengths my eloquent friend Barbara went to in attempting to define "a real man."

Here's the thing a lot of people don't realize, or if they realize it, don't mention: there is tremendous societal pressure on men. A great deal has been said in the last century and longer about the pressure on women to conform to the feminine ideal in the various forms that it has taken. However, owing to the fact that men have almost universally been the oppressors for all of history, there has been much less discussion regarding the constrictions inherent in the masculine ideal.

This pressure comes from both men and women. Men are expected to be strong, to love sports, to be logical, to have a good body (women are not the only ones with image issues or eating disorders), to be a family man, to be virile, to have deep voice and beards, to be mechanically inclined, to never cry, and let's not forget: to be attracted to women. There are even some senses in which men are expected to be jerks, to be insensitive, to be stupid, to be crude, to be unfaithful, and to be in a constant state of lusting and acting on lusts. I hate this pressure. What do those things have to be with being a man? They are all social constructs--categories we created to order our world whether anyone fit into them or not. Now, I'm not clear on what biological differences are actually present in the brain chemistry and hormones of males and females, but the only distinct feature I really see in being a man is having a penis. Can't that be enough? Why do I have to fit into society's mould?

My friend Barbara stumbled upon a list of traits that men should posses according to the website askmen.com. I must be honest and say that this list really bothered me, somewhat due to reasons already mentioned. Some of them are just ridiculous like: "A real man does not look like a woman." Says who? What's so bad about being androgynous? That's just basic genetics. I got a gene that allows me to grow a full ruddy beard, but one of my housemates got a gene that leaves almost his entire face free from stubbly growth. Which of us is more of a man? The foreman of the wood shop I work at has a ponytail halfway down his back. Apparently, this means he is not manly, even though he is a professional carpenter and plays in a rock band--two very stereotypically masculine things. And I dare anyone to tell a male swimmer who shaves his legs that he is not a real man. Swimmers are among the most physically fit athletes you will meet, and I would hate to have one upset with me.

That is the most ridiculous point of the list. The issue I take with the list as a whole is that most of the traits mentioned are qualities of a good human. Strength, focus, valuing family, avoiding gossip, keeping their word, being a role model, keeping your house in order, and defending yourself: these are some of the characteristics ascribed to a real man, but if you ask me, these are all gender non-specific traits. They are just as valuable in women as they are in men. Shouldn't we all strive to achieve such attributes? (The list also mentioned that a real man "makes his own fortune", but I did not include that here because I think that pursuing a fortune is frivolous and acquiring it on your own is both unlikely and unnecessarily stressful.

What both Barbara and our mutual friend Alysha delved into the last item on the above list: defending themselves and those around them, and with this they also drifted into discussing how men should take on challenges and lead. I thought Alysha had some beautiful things to say about defense, particularly her distinction of "when a man defends a woman he offers her his strength." She states it all very well, and you should read it. What bothered me is that I believe that women are just as capable of defending each other and men as well. Perhaps in a pre-industrial culture when men's natural advantage in physical strength was more important, men were much more likely to protect women, but that is not always the case anymore. Even then, if you take Alysha's definition of "offering strength," there are many different kinds of strength and I believe that women and men are equally likely to have them all. I don't know that you can say that the role of the defender is an inherently male role.

Furthermore, while I agree with the notion that more men need to accept challenges, to rise up and lead, I think it needs to be stressed that this fact is no more exclusively about males than defending yourself and others was. All my life I have heard doctrine spouting the idea that men are superior, that they are to be the leaders in politics, in the church, and in the home, and women must merely follow. Frankly, I don't think that is true. It is not like the God I know to create second-class humans. I believe that men and women were equal before the fall, and a God of redemption desires to restore us to that perfection and all that it entails. But I digress. What I am trying to say is that women are leaders too, and in addition to this, not all men are leaders. Neither are all women leaders. There must be some people to follow all of the leaders in the world. Certainly, everyone needs to be willing to face the challenges in their life--that is how we grow and change and learn--but that does not mean we are all leaders.

My sophomore year of college, I had the privilege to act in a scene for my friend Carrie, who was taking a course in Directing II at the time (strange to think that I am now currently enrolled in that class). The assignment was to direct a mimed piece set to music. In Carrie's scene, I portrayed God revealing his creation to two angels, culminating in the creation of humans who were endowed with the ability to create for themselves. It was one of the most rewarding experiences I have ever had as an actor and the audience responded to it very well. After the scenes were finished, my then room-mate complimented my scene and told me that he thought I did a good job of portraying a masculine appreciation of beauty. I accepted the compliment, but the more I thought about it, the more upset I became about the way he chose to phrase it. It was almost as if he soiled something that had been precious to me. I was suddenly forced to ask myself why appreciating beauty had to be something that was masculine or feminine. Was it rare among men to appreciate beauty, and that was why he was complimenting me? Was there something different about me since I could appreciate beauty?

Those who know me well know my tendency to overanalyze things, and this is probably a situation where I did just that. Not too long ago, I was talking with my friend Carl about questions of gender, and I told him that story. He asked me why my room-mate's statement bothered me since, after all, I am a male, and everything I do is therefore masculine in a sense. His question challenged me a lot. I think that I had felt imprisoned and alienated by gender, like I was a white lab rat with a malignant tumor. I just wanted to be me without having to worry about how masculine or feminine I might be. If I am comfortable and secure in who I am, isn't that enough? Carl's simple question was good for me. Since then, I have come to the understanding of gender as something that is unavoidable. There are some obvious biological differences between men and women and probably some subtler ones as well, and the way in which a culture responds to these differences, no matter what that looks like, will be gender. But I still fight against men and women being limited by it.

And I still hold the definition that a real man has a penis. That is all it takes. I refuse to conform to someone else's notion of what a "real man" is. Instead, I am going to put my energy into being a real person--in the sense that God is the only thing that is real ("What is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal"), so I will try to be like God. I don't care whether or not I look like a woman or whether I make my own fortune. The traits I aspire to are love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, gentleness, faithfulness, and self-control.

Thursday, September 16, 2010

On Odysseys

We are reading The Odyssey for the World Literature course I am taking. One of the assignments for the class was to write our own prologue/poem in the style of The Odyssey's prologue. I had a lot of fun with this assignment. I've also been working on a poem from Odysseus's son Telemachus's point of view, but since this was technically the first poem I have written in a couple of months, I thought I would share it:

Speak, O Muse. Tell of him who walked within the dusk
and often wavered in his confidence, for he,
disdaining death and fearing life, instead betook
him to a world where all reality was like
a dream, and dreams likewise became reality.
This boy, this man, this wanderer and wonderer
gave way to Time's unceasing river's flow and passed
across the land and sea upon the backs of birds
with feathers fashioned out of steel and glass, and though
pursued by snows of Boreas, he came into
a country where the lofty spires called him out
of dreams and sped him on a quest for truth and hope--
those gifts elusive and divine, the which to seek
is to possess, and thus, to own means seek for life.
Through love's fair city and through Troy's begotten town,
the home of gods, he journeyed til he had appeased
Hephaestes' wrath, which long had barred his passage home
with fire and ash. He to his native soil then
returned, though foreign still he felt, and ever shall
for tis his gift and curse to never feel at rest.

Monday, September 13, 2010

On Claustrophobia

I expected that coming back to school in America after a semester in Oxford would have it's strange moments and its challenges, but one thing I don't think I anticipated was how strange it would be to come in contact with so many people.

I don't just mean that there are people around, because there was never a lack of life in Oxford. What I mean is the overwhelming presence of people that you see and talk to on a regular basis. There were fifty
or so Americans in the same program I was, but even most of them I saw only rarely, and though they were wonderful people whom I miss, I was not close to a lot of them. However, being a member of the theatre department here means that you are part of a family. It is inevitable. We are always around each other, always working together. It has been one of my favourite parts of my college experience, but it is intense. I had forgotten how intense it was.

And unlike classes here, my tutorials always consisted of only myself and the professor. We would simply have a conversation about the subject of the week, not the throng of listeners or bevy of voices that tend to be the two extremes of the American classroom. Again, this is not to speak against the American system: it is just a shock.


Strange as this may sound, it is startling to have so many close friends around me. At Oxford, the only close friend I had was Eric, and everyone else was just opportunities to get to know people with the vague hope that some of them might develop into lasting friendships. Even over the summer, I was closer to people, but I saw them only intermittently and rarely more than a couple at a time. Now I am on a campus filled with friends, a number of whom I have known for three years and some for much longer. I have some fantastic friends, but it is curiously disconcerting to have so many of them around me all the time. I believe it is good, but I am still getting used to it.

In a broader sense, the English are just a much more private people than Americans. Emotions were rarely expressed in public. That seemed to suit my natural disposition pretty well and I got used to that pretty quickly. Even my first week back in the country I noticed how much more expressive, boisterous, and public emotions are in America. We tend to wear our hearts on our sleeves. Coming back to college has simply magnified my perception of this difference. I feel like something about my college encourages a campus even more emotional than the general populace, and it is something I am getting used to.

The point of all of this is that sometimes it all suddenly feels like too much, and I feel like I need to run away, to sit among strangers, to speak and have no one hear me or have no one care that it was me who spoke, to go somewhere without anyone else knowing my course, maybe not even me.

For some reason, I feel a vague pressure that these are feelings I am not supposed to have. And I don't know where that comes from.

I love my friends. I love talking to them, and I love it when they force me to open up (even if it is painful). My friends are more than I could ask for, and I am thankful to have them in my life. But sometimes I want to be alone. And other times I want to sit in silence next to someone who knows me very well and have that be okay.

Saturday, September 4, 2010

On a Saturday Morning's Grace

Sometimes, I wonder if I'm really living life or if I'm just messing around.
Sometimes, I wonder if anyone knows which they are doing.
Other times I am certain--one way or the other.


Sometimes, I sit and watch the sky, and the clouds file past in a solemn procession, and the sky is so blue and so bright that I think it must be on fire. And I am assured that there is a good God who loves us immeasurably.

Today, that is enough for me to know.

Tuesday, August 31, 2010

On Summer Reading: Sartre

Since I am a bit behind in documenting my summer reading, I decided to do a two-for-one in this post and cover Jean Paul Sartre's No Exit and The Flies. I read these plays back to back anyway, they are both by the same author, and they were contained in the same volume, so I think it is allowed.

No Exit is a conception of hell. A man, Garcin, is led into a large room by a valet, leading one to believe the setting might be some kind of hotel. However, the two have a rather odd exchange before the bellhop leaves. A short while later a woman named Inez is led into the room, and later another young woman named Estelle. The three begin speaking and trying to sort out the situation into which they have been placed. Some natural relationships begin to form. The domineering Inez is attracted to Estelle, who is herself drawn to Garcin. However Garcin is so persistently caught up in his own thoughts that he is no answer to Estelle's desires. Throughout the dialogue, the three individuals begin revealing bits of their past and the circumstances of their deaths.

To make matters more interesting, these damned individuals can see glimpses of anyone who is talking or thinking about them. They still exist in part as long as someone remembers them. They find themselves somewhat surprised how quickly they are forgotten and are forced to face the circumstances in which they have been placed. They begin seeking an exit.

Contrary to the implications of the play's title, it seems that there may be a way out of this hell. The fellow captives serve in a way as either judge and redeemer for one another. However, each individual is so selfish that they cannot give up their own desires or fixations to allow the others their redemption. Nor do they have any mercy on one another. It is a horrible thing to have to witness, so that by the end of the play, you almost agree with Garcin's exclamation "Hell is other people."

It is an interesting idea. Especially when so much of the rhetoric regarding hell nowadays talks about separation and how hell is being alone. However, this is also an idea that cannot be entirely denied. People can be fantastically cruel to one another and can be far better torturers than perhaps a demon ever could. Nevertheless, I do not think it is necessarily true. I choose to agree more with Oscar Wilde when he writes in The Picture of Dorian Grey: "Each of us has heaven and hell in him." We all have a capacity for evil just as we have a capacity for good. And the play distinctly points out that these people could just as easily redeem as torture one another if only they gave up on choosing themselves. I think that this is an idea that goes along somewhat with C. S. Lewis's The Great Divorce which argues that people choose their fates all their lives, and they are not likely to change once they are dead. Interesting thoughts.

The other Sartre play that I read was The Flies. This was a retelling of the Greek myth in which Agamemnon has been killed by his wife, Clytemnestra, and her new lover, Aegisthus, who took his throne. The children of Agamemnon and Clytemnestra are Elektra and Orestes. Orestes has been gone in Athens leaving Elektra alone to suffer under her step-father, but Orestes returns after eight years and kills both Aegisthus and Clytemnestra, but because he has gone so far as to shed family blood, he is tormented and driven mad by the Furies.

The Flies focuses primarily on the path Orestes takes from being a meek, inexperienced traveller to his reckless abandon in defying gods, law, and family, and the beginning of his torment by the Furies. Interlaced in Sartre's telling is the power of fear to grip people, denoted by the presence of flies--the presence of Zeus who is portrayed as a deity feeding on fear for his power.

I am still not entirely sure how I feel about this play. I certainly find it intriguing, and I always love seeing what different people will do with a common myth. The ideas in it are just tough for me. There is a great deal in this play about choice and about choosing your own fate. This is a common theme of Greek tragedies (and it usually doesn't work out for the protagonist), and it is also the strongest link between this play and No Exit. However, in this story, Orestes' choices of defiance, and his ability to overcome fear put him on an equal footing with Zeus. The idea of man being on equal footing with God is absurd to me, and I chafe against it, but I have to remind myself that although Zeus is a god, he is not God. They have hardly any qualities in common, and also, Zeus is fictional. Perhaps it would be better for me to think of Zeus in this play representing the fear he feeds on, and then I would be more okay with Orestes defying and overcoming fear. Because defying and overcoming fear are things I am always a fan of.

Wednesday, August 25, 2010

On Transitions

Well, the GRE came and went, and I am relatively unscathed. And I am once again living on campus at Bethel for the first time in eight months. It is kind of surreal. I am trying not to be overwhelmed by the sheer number of people I don't know. It's not just the freshman either. I only got to know a handful of last year's freshman since I was gone for a whole semester. Not to mention all of the faces that aren't here. I still don't think I have gotten used to the fact that some people have graduated and are gone for good now.

And next year that will be me.

I feel time pulling me along, carrying me on to the next stage with little effort on my part. It is like riding a bike down hill. I don't have to pedal to keep going or to accelerate, I just need to hold on to the handlebars. It is like traveling with a travel agent. They do all the booking, and I just have to show up at the appointed time. It is like acting. The words are in the script and I just have to figure out how to say them.

I wonder where I will be a year from now. I feel like I am on a course for something, that my steps are pointed in a specific direction, but I can't tell what that direction is. I am trusting that God knows where I can best grow and serve him and that he has desires for my life, and I am trying to entrust myself to him, but it is hard sometimes.

Thursday, August 12, 2010

On Studying

I suppose one positive result of not having a job is that it gives me plenty of time to study for the GRE. Nevertheless, as much time as I have, I still feel like I should have begun sooner. The verbal reasoning comes pretty naturally to me, but I have studied more math in the last couple weeks than I have in the last three years, and it's not that this math is particularly tough (in fact, part of me enjoys wrestling with numbers and sorting out equations), but that part of my brain is just a bit out of practice. It's like trying to run a 5k when you haven't even jogged around the block in months.

I'm sure this is all worth it. That's what I keep telling myself anyway. I guess I'll have a better idea a week from now.

Monday, August 9, 2010

On Summer Reading: In a Dark Dark House

A little while back, I gave my reflections on Neil LaBute's Mercy Seat. I respect the man's skills quite a bit, and shortly after reading that play, I read another of his works, In a Dark Dark House. This play, like all of LaBute's that I have read, gives as look at the darker side of human nature.

The play opens in the garden of an up-scale asylum. Terry has come to visit on his younger brother Drew's request. It turns out that Drew was committed for court recommended therapy following a nervous break-down which, through therapy, Drew has discovered to be the result of repressed trauma caused by a childhood encounter with a young drifter named Todd Astin who was familiar with their family and violated him. The doctors require Terry's testimony that this person did exist and that Drew is not merely attributing the deeds of a family member to a fiction of his own mind. The brother's do not get along well and argue a great deal, but Terry finally agrees to provide the testimony. Drew thanks him and exits, but Terry lingers for a moment and the scene closes with him hurling a vacant wheelchair offstage in an surprising show of rage.

The next scene opens with Terry playing miniature golf at a small spot off of the highway. He strikes up a conversation with a young girl who is working there, the owner's teenage daughter. They begin flirting and wind up kissing. They continue talking and eventually make a bet on a putt that the loser must do whatever the winner says. Terry wins and the two of them go off together. It can only be assumed that that Terry's prize was sexual.

The third and final scene takes place on the porch of Drew's house. Based on Terry's testimony, he has been released from the ward and the party is to celebrate the court's release. As they talk, still not getting along, Terry admits that he tracked down Todd Astin and saw him, but that the man did not recognize him. Terry also tells Drew that Todd owns a miniature golf course and that he now has a daughter as well and that he met her. He also says that he made things right, casting the second scene in a troubling new light. As the two men talk further about their past, especially regarding Todd, Terry admits that he was also molested by Todd, but that he liked it. He admits that he was jealous of the attention Drew eventually got and that this may be the root of the conflict between them. Once again, I can't give away the conclusion, but there is a turn that lets the accumulated emotions of the play vent.

All in all, the play is about things that lie beneath: what prompts our actions, what defines our relationships, what follows us. The play, for all of its tension and heavy material is surprisingly cathartic. I am continually impressed by LaBute's ability to capture humanness. He doesn't glorify anyone or portray everyone as corrupt and sinister; he shows us as we are: messed up beings trying to do what we think is best. In a Dark Dark House is not my favourite of his plays, but it is definitely one I will come back to.

Sunday, August 1, 2010

On The Beginning

Why did you speak in the beginning when there was no one, nothing to hear you? Or did the very act of utterance manifest the something that could reply, even if that something was the substance of nothingness?

And why did you wrap creation in a word? A word is so transient and so mutable, meaning something new with every voice that pronounces it. Now your word is at the whim of a host of tiny minds who say it as they please, annunciating it wrongly or with disgust or with ridicule in their voices.

But I still think it a lovely word. It is music in my ears, and the very thought of it stirs my soul.
Beyond letter...
Beyond sound....
Beyond meaning....

Would you speak it again? Let me hear it ring with your voice. Teach my lips, my tongue, my teeth to move in the dance of the word of the universe, that I may understand the stars and fathom the void in which they hang.

That I may be a voice to answer when you speak.

Friday, July 30, 2010

On Summer Reading: All the Shah's Men

For some time, I have had an interest in the nation of Iran. It started my freshman year during an exercise for my playwriting class. I came a cross an article describing a student protest at the University of Tehran (Tehran is Iran's capital city) Based on the exceedingly brief description in the two paragraph long article, it sounded similar to the protests of America's not too distant past. I decided to start researching the protest and the forthcoming events. The BBC was my best ally in this endeavour. The more I read about Iran, the more I wanted to know. It just so happened that a year later I had to read "Persepolis" for a class. It is a graphic novel about a girl growing up in Tehran during the volatile years surrounding the Islamic Revolution that established the current regime in 1979. This got me to start researching further back into Iran's history. The latest step in my research was the book All the Shah's Men by Stephen Kinzer.

This book describes the events of the 1953 coup of Iran's first democratic government. The prime minister Mohammed Mossadegh was removed from power and sentenced to a life of house arrest while the Shah (Iranian king) who had previously been little more than a figurehead became essentially a dictator. It was he who would later be ousted in the 1979 revolution.

What Kinzer details is the involvement of British and American agents in the coup. Until Mossadegh became prime minister, the vast resources and profits of Iran's oil fields were controlled by the vast Anglo-Iranian Oil, a British company. However, Mossadegh was the primary force of Iranian nationalism, and his chief goal once he reached power was to nationalize Iran's oil industry that that great economic benefit might be in the hands of the Iranian people to whom the land and the labour belonged.

Of course, this did not sit well with Anglo-Iranian nor with the British government for whom the company generated enormous income. Britain began working as hard they could to subvert Mossadegh and restore their interests in Iran. Britain, led by Prime Minister Winston Churchill, sought support from America, but President Truman saw what a central role Iran held in Middle East relations and sought a more diplomatic solution with Iran. So, the British waited until Truman's term ended and Republican Dwight Eisenhower took office. Eisenhower took a sort of "Don't ask, don't tell" approach and let the CIA do what they thought best, which happened to be staging a coup to destroy a democratic government and replace it with a monarchy. Propoganda was printed, people were bribed, leaders chosen, and the government fell just as planned.

This book was incredibly eye-opening for me when it comes to America's relationship with Iran. Is it any wonder they don't like us? Not only did their oil industry fall back under the influence of foreign powers and their government revert to a monarchy, but the events of that coup created the circumstances leading to the Islamic Revolution which has stifled Iran under religious fundamentalism. The book was recently published in a new edition because of the how tense the current current relations with Iran are. There have already been people suggesting the promotion of a coup similar to the on of 1953 to remove the Islamic regime. While I agree that the current government in Iran is a bad thing, I think it could be even worse to tamper so casually and haphazardly in a culture we don't fully understand, especially when the consequences were so awful last time.

Tuesday, July 27, 2010

On Vanity

Over the course of my short life, I have developed certain quirks. Being pretty self-aware and comfortable with myself, I have never sought to eradicate these quirks. Quite to the contrary, in fact. I have embraced them, developed others. I enjoy my non-conformity and simple pleasures. As time has passed, these little eccentricities have become points of pride.

The thing is, even a healthy pride can easily become unhealthy. C. S. Lewis calls pride "The Great Sin" for a reason.

I started thinking about this recently after a conversation with my friend Kate. We were skyping, and she commented on my hair, which at that point had not been cut in about three months. I like my hair shaggy, so I took the comment on its length as something of a compliment. However, she then mentioned how it looked a bit unkempt and asked if I brush or comb it.

Kate has a knack for consciously or unconsciously driving right to the heart of a lot of my issues.

I have never been a person who goes to a lot of effort in personal appearance. That is not to say that I am a slovenly individual or anything like that, but I just don't care enough to get stylish clothes, and I have never styled my hair or used any sort of product in it other than shampoo and conditioner (excluding theatre of course, where a number of strange things have been done to my hair). I like keeping my hair more natural. It is healthier, and I am content with it's appearance. I don't need to use a comb because even when it gets to a shaggier length, it doesn't really get knots, and it usually falls the way I like it all on its on. I pride myself on this, and at times it has given me pleasure to brag that no comb or brush has touched my head in three months. I thought myself humble, a better person than others perhaps, just because I don't expend a lot of effort on my hair.

During our conversation, Kate eventually compelled me to brush my hair in front of her. It surprised me how much I chafed against such a simple thing, especially considering the fact that brushing hair is healthy for it, even more so when it gets longer, as mine was becoming.

I realized then that my abstinence from the culture's fixation on hair treatment had itself become a kind of vanity--an unhealthy obsession. As a friend of mine put it recently: "I strive so horribly much to be abnormal and by doing so I become normal." Funny how that happens.

I am brushing my hair more regularly now. I got it trimmed, so it still doesn't need to be combed, but I am working on making my attitude toward that one of a simple fact of life rather than one of vain pride. And I am examining other areas in my life so that I can eradicate any pride that may have likewise crept in.

Friday, July 23, 2010

On Shame

"when it is said, 'Let's go, let's do it,' we are ashamed not to be shameless."
--Saint Augustine, The Confessions

This is one of the most insightful statements I have come across in a long time. Augustine wrote those words over 1500 years ago, and they are still incredibly relevant. In fact, they seem to perfectly encapsulate the modern age. For all of our talk of individualism, Western culture is still obsessed with fitting in. People wear clothes they don't necessarily like, they listen to music they don't necessarily like, they say words they don't necessarily mean; and it is all for the sake of fitting in. Even nonconformity itself is often a kind of conformity to the ideal of nonconformity. Just look at the hipster revolution. The internet gave us all the ability to strike out from our culture while still finding people all over the world to whom we can conform.

I don't want to portray this as an absolutely negative thing. People are contagious. It is in our nature. And we get more of our identity and definition from others than we are often willing to admit. Where I think it becomes a problem is in the sort of case to which Augustine refers: when "we are ashamed not to be shameless." There are two ways to be shameless. Augustine is talking about an abandonment of certain morals, so that a wrong can be excused or disregarded. This sort of shamelessness has become almost an ideal in our culture to the point where getting hung up on morality, even thinking something could be wrong is more shameful than even doing something. Enter peer pressure. According to Augustine, it Has existed since the fourth century A.D., and I bet it existed before that. If no one else is ashamed, then we don't want to be either.

"Do not conform any longer to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind. Then you will be able to test and approve what God's will is--his good, pleasing, and perfect will."
--Romans 12:2

Fortunately, there is another kind of shamelessness. Paul says elsewhere in Romans "As the Scripture says, 'Anyone who trusts in him will never be put to shame.'" Trusting in Christ, in his mercy and grace, leaves us nothing of which to be ashamed. We do not need to abandon morality to escape the shame of our actions because, by the grace of God, we are forgiven, and shame has no power over us. The passage to which that verse refers is in Isaiah 28, and it is followed by words to those who have abandoned God: "I will make justice the measuring line and righteousness the plumb line; hail will sweep away your refuge, the lie, and water will overflow your hiding place." Abandoning morals will not change what good is because God is good, and good is God, and God is absolute.

"Now the Lord is the Spirit, and where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom. And we, who with unveiled faces all reflect the Lord's glory, are being transformed into his likeness with ever-increasing glory, which comes from the Lord, who is the Spirit."
--1 Corinthians 3:17-18

Tuesday, July 20, 2010

On Summer Reading: The Mercy Seat

Neil LaBute has, for a some time now, been my favourite contemporary playwright. I have not read him exhaustively, by any means, but what I have read, I have always liked. That may perhaps be because I have a similar approach to subject matter with treatment of a theme from different sides displayed through dialogue and action. That is, at least, what I try to do. LaBute generally succeeds. The Mercy Seat is his exploration of new beginnings...of a sort.

The main plot involves a couple in an apartment the day after the World Trade Center towers have been destroyed. There is a ringing phone. I have to imagine a lot of this, of course, because it is a play and meant to be seen, not read, but the image is incredibly chilling in my mind. Abby and Ben are deliberating over what to do in the wake of the attacks. It is revealed that the two of them are co-workers (actually Abby is Ben's superior) having an affair behind the back of Ben's wife. Ben's work takes him to the World Trade Center, and he was to have been in it when the towers fell; however, a spontaneous rendezvous with Abby saved his life.

The ringing phone is presumably Ben's family hoping to find that he is alive. Ben is trying to decide whether to contact them or to let them think he is dead so he and Abby can run away together. Abby berates him for his insensitivity and his indecisiveness together. They argue throughout the play in fact, leading one to wonder why these two would ever want to actually live together anyway. Still, there are tender moments as well. LaBute is a master at capturing the nuances of conversation and relationship.

I dare not give away the final twist of the play, but it took me by surprise. I pride myself on being able to follow the the logic of a plot and predict events, but the turn of this story completely defied all my expectations. It was a brilliant move, and it gives the conclusion a brutal resonance. I had some contradictory feelings when I closed the book. There were both disappointment disgust for the characters. There was a feeling that events should not have happened as they did, that they didn't have to, that the characters could have taken a course other than the one they chose, but it also left a strange satisfaction. It was the right ending, perhaps the true ending.

Friday, July 16, 2010

On a Photographer

Check out this incredible photography. I have been working my way through his photos for a few days and there is some incredible stuff in there, and I really just feel like sharing it.

Someday, I really ought to get an account on some sort of photo sharing network. I need a repository and a vessel for some of my steadily accumulating photography.

Saturday, July 3, 2010

On Summer Reading: The Historian

I cannot really say that I was disappointed in Elizabeth Kostava's The Historian, but neither can I say that it surpassed my expectations. The fact of the matter is that I knew nothing about the book prior to opening it and had no expectations for the experience, and consequently I read a book I would not have otherwise even considered picking up. The book was a gift from a friend, and what she didn't tell me when she gave it was that it was, in fact, a vampire novel. I could have inferred this from the summary on the jacket had I only known that Vlad the Impaler was actually the origin of the Dracula myth.

Let me go on a side note here to express my aversion for vampire stories. It is rooted in my general avoidance of fads. Some trends in culture are extremely illusory, and I don't see much point in getting crazed over something as temporal as a fad just because other people like it. Admittedly, there is something contagious about human passion that cannot always be fought. That is, after all, how fads happen, and it is perfectly normal. However, that is also how mobs form, so I don't think that it is a compelling enough reason in and of itself to go along with something. Perhaps it is because I am somewhat of a loner that I have never gotten to invested in fads. Perhaps I have a bit of an independent streak that I do not always readily acknowledge. Perhaps I have a wee bit of the indie/hipster bug. Who knows? Regardless of the origin of those feelings, the fact of the matter is that vampires are a fad right now, and something of a silly one. I apologize to all of the Twilight fans out there, but that series is the ultimate corruption of the vampire myth, and it is a prime example of how overuse can cheapen something once rich and potent. I have an even greater aversion to Twilight because it is a teen fad, but that is a whole different issue. I think my biggest beef with the series is the significant amount vampire themed media that has flooded the market since it was released, all of it pretty cheap and formulaic. Fortunately, this is one fad that finally looks to be passing. Now if only something could be done about Auto-Tune . . .

All that said, I was rather pleased to see a book like this using the popularity of vampire's to create a smart book. That is not to say that the story in this book is particularly original, that the narrative is complex, or that its themes are revolutionary. It is none of those things. Rather it is a book by a smart woman about smart people doing intellectual things. The story resembles some sort of cross of the narrative form of Wuthering Heights or The Woman in White crossed with the fact heavy and fast paced plot style that is the trademark of Dan Brown.

The central narrator of the story is a young girl who incidentally discovers that her father has a long, dark secret: a tale of mystery and intrigue and vampires, and one that he begins to tell her in broken fragmentary stories and, later, in letters. At times, he himself uses other people's letters and stories as well. These multiple levels of narration allow for the story to jump time and place, lending variety to keep the respective time lines interesting, especially as they are all drawn together.

However, as is often the case with young first-person narrators, this young narrator (who is never even named) is soon lost in the fabric of more interesting and better developed characters. So, when the past events have finally caught up with the novel's present, the reader has almost forgotten that she exists. This also makes the supposed climax a bit lack-lustre and rushed. It is almost as if Kostava forgot halfway through which character's story she had begun writing, and finished by writing a different character's.

Thus, the narrator is far from the heroine of the story. Rather, like Dickens' David Copperfield, she is more of an observer or reporter of other people's stories than her own. In this way, she could be considered the titular historian. However, both her father and mother, through her father's stories, are revealed to be quite adept historians themselves, and the central drama involves a pan-European search for another historian who has gone missing. Furthermore, the title could refer to Dracula himself, Vlad Tepes, a historical figure who is portrayed by Kostava as a great lover of books and of history.

In a lot of ways, this book's trappings appealed to me (once I got over the realization that it was about vampires). It is set mostly in Europe and the characters are academics, researchers, and they spend a lot of time in libraries. I began reading The Historian following the most rigourous academic semester of my life at the University of Oxford, so I could definitely relate to that aspect of the characters and of the story. I am also beginning to understand how much I like history (I mean, I may be applying for a doctorate program in history and culture; that's pretty new).

Unfortunately, some of those factors that made the story appeal to me also became detrimental. For, at one point in the story, the characters actually visit Oxford. I was excited at the prospect of reading about this (I am STILL very nostalgic for Oxford, after all, and it was even worse then), but I soon noticed some details that weren't quite right. The true disappointment, however, came when they entered the Radcliffe Camera, my favourite reading room at Oxford, and one in which I spent hours upon hours. I knew reading those passages that there is no way Elizabeth Kostava has ever entered the RadCam. The biggest give away was when she described the buzz of tourists in the lower level of the Camera. If she had ever been there, she would know that they do not let anyone but students of Oxford into the Camera. I promptly checked the "About the Author" information found that Kostava is actually a Yale graduate. Just as I expected. On reflection, I realized that most of the description of the city were very vague, more like something you would know from reading a travel guide than from actually visiting. I tried not to let these inaccuracies bother me for the duration of the cast's stay in Oxford, but it still managed to cast doubt on later details of the story. I mean, the entire story deals with historical details, and if Kostava can't even get a few basic points about Oxford right, why should I trust her information regarding obscure manuscripts? But perhaps I am being too hard on her. Why, after all, should I expect perfect realism from a vampire story?

All in all, though I would not say that Elizabeth Kostava's The Historian is in a must read, I enjoyed it. It helps that it was a return to the original Dracula, not just to Brom Stoker's character, but to the historical figure of the Impaler who inspired Stoker. Any academically-minded reader will appreciate the story's heavy emphasis on research and the frequency with which librarians turn out to be vampire's. However, one need not be an intellectual to appreciate the story. The plot has good pacing and is very engaging, and the basic themes are among the relevant as well as the timeless: things like the conflict between dark and light or the strife between Islam and Christianity. This is most definitely a treatment the Dracula myth deserves and I applaud Kostava's attempt to exploit a fad.