Wednesday, June 30, 2010

On Summer Reading: An Introduction

I am taking my friend Hannah's suggestion that I write book reviews of my summer reading. If I had thought of this earlier, I would already have several posts by now. But alas, I am not accustomed to sharing my opinion, so this idea had not struck me on my own. Now, I must admit that a great deal of my summer reading is plays rather than books, I'll write reviews of those as well.

Forthcoming posts will review such works as The Historian by Elizabeth Kostova, The Mercy Seat by Neil Labute, All the Shah's Men by Stephen Kinzer, In a Dark Dark House also by Neil LaBute, Sartre's No Exit and The Flies, and a number of unknown readings yet to come.

Sunday, June 27, 2010

On Experimenting with Form

When he awoke, he saw the dark.
It comforted him.

Down we go
Down we go
The stars go out
The clouds part
We do not know
We do not know

Like those of his race, he could not see in the dark, and though this often frightens them, he was different. In the dark, his world was smaller.

Simpler.

Safe
I'm safe
Yes?
Yes
What is
Is it
Safe
I'm safe
No?
No
There is
Is nothing

Nothing was coming.
Nothing was going.
Not that he could see anyway.

Some would say this led to a greater need for concern.
But not he.
If he couldn't see it.
It didn't exist.

At some point, he started walking. He could usually see the ground, but not always.

My shadow walks beside me
below me
my shadow walks
and I walk beside my shadow
He sets his foot on mine
and I walk not on the ground
I walk on my shadow

Foot
followed
foot.

He had discovered long ago that walking was nothing more than an exercise in controlled falling. So when there was no more ground, he kept moving his feet. He was neither aware, nor did he care.
He walked.
And then he was moving forward again.

A voice
somewhere
said
he's crazy

whisper
sounds
like whisper
the sounds of whispers
whisper
sounds
the whisper of sounds

They didn't understand.
Neither did he, but
they tried.

He hummed,
and it was haunting,

and the voices murmured
slowly
louder

Sunday, June 20, 2010

On Fathers

For being labelled as patriarchal, the West certainly doesn't seem to value fathers all that much.

I first started thinking about this while visiting museums in Europe. One thing I noticed was how frequently mothers were portrayed in art, particularly with their children. Not many fathers though. I even did a google image search to see if this was a legitimate observation, or just a figment of my imagination. Searching for "mothers in art" turned up 20,300,000 results. The same search for "fathers in art" turned up only 6,780,000 results as well as Google's prodding: Did you mean: mothers in art, though no such option had existed on the page for mothers.

Granted, a popular image in Renaissance art, particularly in Italy, its birthplace, was the Virgin Mary with the infant Jesus (these were all over in the Italian wing of the Louvre and in the Musei Vaticani, and most of them were rather unoriginal). Recently, I was in the Church of St. Joseph in Mishawaka where there is a stained glass window showing the holy family. Both Mary and the child Jesus have halos, while Joseph, the namesake of the church, had none. Now, another window does show him with a halo, but it was still an interesting contradiction. It is not the only time I have seen such a portrayal either. But what was fascinating was that even in a church proclaiming that father's sainthood, he was regarded as less significant than his wife even though an angel appeared to him as well and some scholars believe that he, like his son after him, may have been a rabbi. However, those images aside, there is still a large imbalance in the portrayal of mothers verses fathers.

Beyond just the history of art in the West, this seems to be an increasing trend. For the greeting card industry, Mother's Day has always been more lucrative than Father's Day. Is it because cards are sentimental and men aren't supposed to be? That could explain part of it, but it still seems kind of illegitimate. Perhaps it is because fathers are more generally associated with raising their sons while mothers nurture children of both sexes. Maybe that explains a bit more. More often, however, in this age of changing definitions of family, if there is a single parent, it is the mother rather than the father.

The absent father has become a very unfortunate stereotype in the West and particularly in the US. In the movie Fight Club, the character Tyler Durden refers to modern society as "a generation of men raised by women." Many men have grown up without a father or even a father figure. Unfortunately, almost as popular as the absent father stereotype is that of the bad father. This one takes a variety of forms but it becomes a monstrous shadow in the minds of too many sons, sometimes one that they come to embody themselves. Why then should sons value fathers? Do they even know how to be fathers? I tend to think this trend, along with generations of unreasonably extreme gender polarization are responsible for the current gender crisis (that is a huge issue in itself, but let it suffice to say that gender has become a far bigger issue--a far more penetrating question--than perhaps it ever should have been).

And though I write from the perspective of a son and have seen so many of my fellow males hurt by absent or bad fathers, I know that it hurts daughters as well. A daughter without a father is not really better off than a son without a father. There is a lot to learn from an opposite. And the feminine gender has also been wounded by having an unstable pair.

Nevertheless, I believe one of the more tragic consequences of the disintegration of the figure of the father, probably the most tragic, is what it has done to the image of God, so often called the Father. For many, this calls up countless negative connotations of their own fathers which are then projected onto God. Admittedly, this is not the only analogy God has given us to understand him (after all, no analogy can contain a boundless God), and no father can be a perfect representation of the paternal qualities of God, but the damage has been done. So many have been turned away by the frequent association of God as father. Now, I have no problem with those who are drawn to the idea of looking at the feminine qualities of God or God as mother. I think there are things to learn from that perspective, but I don't think it ultimately fixes the broken image of God.

I don't know what can.

Fortunately, God is a God of redemption, and he can take care of himself.

I have been lucky. I have a great father. He is not perfect, it's true, but who is? I still have tremendous respect for my father. And I measure his faults against the great love he has for his family.

For me.

My father and I are very different people. But there is so much of him in me as well. I have his broad shoulders and his long torso, his calves, some of his smile, but I also have his love of writing and the Cubs. Sometimes I see traces of his faults in me as well. But I hope with all of my heart that I have his compassion, his love of family, and his simple pride. My father has taught me what it is to be a man. And it has nothing to do with strength or power or knowledge or virility, but with holding my head high and loving others.

I love my dad. And I see God in his goodness.

Sunday, June 13, 2010

On Sunny Sunday's


Delight

A cloud caught hold of the morning's light and walks
about proudly among his fellows: the child
who's caught the most fireflies fluttering within
his folded fingers; he carries them close to his chest.

The cloud came to me privately and asked
if I wanted to see his catch--his prize.
He opened slowly his closely clasped hands
And like a grin the golden dawn danced out.

Wednesday, June 9, 2010

On Shades

The words of this song have been trapped in my mind for the last few days. It's been a couple years since I first heard it, and it continues to remind me of what a limited perspective I have with which to see the world.

Our World Is Grey
by As Cities Burn

I'm sure if you wanted to stop love,
You could just untie your end and let it go.
But, my God, you don't.
Yeah, I think I love you for it.

You're still sending cells to their rightful places,
When forming more likely to escape.
Such a narrow way of life.
What's it look like from your side?
From here I can't see why it's worth
One more coming out cursed?

Say it, say it!
Say what this is all for!
Say it's redemption.

'Cause our world is grey, world is grey.
We're just swaying from side to side.
Our world is grey, world is grey.
We are thieves and saints alike.
But you don't let go, don't let go.
We keep swaying and swaying.
And you don't let go, don't.
Yeah, I think I love you for it.

He's shooting god up in his arm through a needle.
And she's putting cuts on her legs to bleed out the devil.
"Surely you will not die, eat and be like God."
What have we done?

Say it, say it!
Say that this is all for redemption.

'Cause our world is grey, world is grey.
We're just swaying from side to side.
Our world is grey, world is grey.
We are thieves and saints alike.
But you don't let go, don't let go.
We keep swaying from side to side.
We all just sway, we all just sway.
But you don't let go, you don't.
You don't.

Sunday, June 6, 2010

On Downpours

I love thunderstorms. Few things affect me as powerfully. Those that compete are stars, moon, fire, and some music, but none of them are quite like storms.

I don't know exactly how to encapsulate the feeling. I don't know that I can. All I know is that lightning makes my blood dance, thunder shatters me, wind reconstructs me, and rain is the music of my soul. Storms are all around me right now, and it is wonderful.