"I sent them you: my only son."

Besides Narnia, there is another, slightly less lifelong obsession for me that's soon to be on the silver screen. Through my extensive Hollywood connections, I've arranged for film versions of both of these stories. We all know about Narnia; introducing the next...

The Greeks had Odysseus. The Romans had Aeneas. The Britons had King Arthur. We have Superman.

On Reading Poetry

The idea is so tired only because it is so true -- we are all so busy. Our lives are full to the brim, weighted down by responsibilities and with various entertainments crammed into every corner. The response to so many ideas, hopes and aspirations is the same: who has the time?

In such a world, reading prose makes sense. Reading prose is, for me, like a race (admittedly not the best technique for a student of literature). It is a race in which time is both the opponent and the prize -- I strive to win a few extra minutes for a few more pages.

What a contrast, then, is poetry! Reading poetry is like prayer (-- can a thing more unlike a race be imagined?). Our minds become accustomed to the modern world's breakneck pace and spin along like engine belts to keep up with the minutiae of life, yet when we come to God all that falls away. We look away from the mental clutter pressing from all sides, breathe, and give our eyes time to adjust to the big picture, that which is infinitely bigger and more beautiful than our humble distractions. To even consider one facet of the character of God is to momentarily leave it all behind, to slow down the frequency of our thoughts and broaden their wavelengths, bringing them into harmony with the Creator. It is good to pick up, say, God's beauty as manifested in his creation -- a tree, say -- to pick it up, turn it over and feel its weight.

As prayer, so poetry. Consider the first line of C.S. Lewis's poem "The Turn of the Tide:"

Breathless was the air over Bethlehem.

Such a line begs to not be rushed over on the way to the next. Poetry, like everything else, demands our time to be appreciated. However, it asks not for time only, but that as long as we engage with it and desire to harvest its fruit, we must leave time behind.

Breathless was the air over Bethlehem.

See it, hear it, taste, smell, touch it. Move on.

Black and bare / Were the fields;

Is it another example of that great Mercy that this pleasure can be our training for a more fulfilling communion with Him?

Fiction Fragment 2.4

The next installation of this ongoing narrative is here for good or ill. Hopefully, by this point it is more clear that this story is actually going somewhere. Indeed that is, hard though it may be to believe, my intention. This piece forms part of the second chapter, the three previous parts of which can be found here (where you'll also find links to the first chapter), here, and here. As always, comments and suggestions are welcome. That's what it's here for.

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And then you were everywhere, and everything -- every wall, every memory, every ragged breath was full of you. I lay bleeding in a dark and empty room, remembering. I remembered circling that big brick smokestack in wonder, meeting you on the other side, both of us speechless. I remembered pitching our tent and looking for food. I remembered a smokestack lighthouse, you standing on top. Or were you just smoke then, being absorbed into an empty sky? I remembered waking up with you in my eyes -- I desired you then, and chased you, and fell.

Were you here now, watching me?

The thought caused me to rise and stand urgently -- your remembrance infused me with fresh energy, and an effective distraction from the pain. This new position, after finding my feet and willing myself to stay conscious, allowed me to see an opening in the wall, hidden from me before. But my relief at this good fortune was cut short by my amazement at what I saw there in the opening: a fat orange cat, complete and apparently unremarkable in every respect. After a few moments of confusion, the first of many mysteries was solved, for the cat trotted through the passageway and immediately turned a corner. It stopeed, familiarly. Then it turned around and looked at me, only its head in sight, before continuing on down the dank passage.

Of course I followed, still unsteady but thinking no longer of food or rest -- thinking only of you.

Musicians as More

In a brief post about the neglected fact that the quality of the Beatles as individuals was very much below the quality of their music, not to mention below the standards of generally upright people everywhere, Paul from Power Line neatly conveys an important element of my approach to music consumption:

"For all but voyeurs, I would think that time with Beatles is best spent listening to their music."

Most of my experience with band interviews backs up this assertion pretty well, which gives a whole new dimension to the old saw, "It's about the music, maaan."