Chapter XXIII

Top 20 Records of the Last 10 Years

2010-02-20T15:04:00.000-08:00

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Chart Sweep Update

2008-12-07T19:55:00.000-08:00

If you've been relying on this forsaken web-log for your chart sweep updates, my apologies. I decided a while ago to stop putting them up here. If you want to continue to view them, you can do so from my page on YouTube. If you want to get updated when I put up a new installment, I guess the way to do this is to "subscribe" to my YouTube "channel." Thanks for your interest.

I'm going to leave this web-log up for now, though it may continue to be about as dead as it's been the last six months. But if you point your browser to this URL at some point in the future and get a 404 error, don't be too surprised.

CHART SWEEP! No. 15, 1972

2008-07-17T20:54:00.000-07:00

CHART SWEEP! No. 14, 1971

2008-07-17T20:52:00.000-07:00

CHART SWEEP! No. 13, 1970

2008-07-17T20:48:00.000-07:00

CHART SWEEP! No. 12, 1969

2008-06-23T17:49:00.000-07:00

CHART SWEEP! No. 11, 1968

2008-06-23T17:30:00.001-07:00

The River

2008-06-10T16:57:00.000-07:00

Make a papyrus basket for me, mother--
Coat it with tar and pitch.
For there are murderers about,
And at every turn a snitch.

Put me in the basket, mother--
Give me a little kiss.
You know it's what you have to do--
let go my tiny wrists.

Carry me to the river, mother--
To the fat and swollen Nile.
Pray when last you see me,
You'll see me with a smile.

Set me on the water, mother--
Among the looming reeds.
The river's long and you seem so scared,
But I'll follow where it leads.

Turn and don't look back, my mother--
Learn not to think of me.
Your sacrifice will spread your love
to the ends of every sea.

You won't know me when it happens, mother--
And I won't know who you'll be.
But I'll come back to lead our house
Out of this misery.

I Do Not Long to Look on God

2008-05-11T08:54:00.000-07:00

I do not long to look on God
   with fugitive and sneaking eyes.

I do not long to touch His hem
   with hands that drove his nails.

I do not long to praise His name
   with this tongue which speaks no truth.

I delight not in the voice of God
   --I whose ears are tuned to flattery.

Sometime soon I'll die,
and in faith, by Grace,
home to his face I'll fly.

When that time comes,
but for faith
and His Grace so steady
would I go
kicking and screaming:
"Wait! More time!
I am not ready!"

CHART SWEEP! No. 10, 1967

2008-03-29T10:57:00.000-07:00

CHART SWEEP! No. 9, 1966

2008-03-26T10:14:00.000-07:00

CHART SWEEP! No. 8, 1965

2008-03-21T12:54:00.000-07:00

CHART SWEEP! No. 7, 1964

2008-03-16T11:25:00.000-07:00

Finally!

After over six months of technical difficulties, including an incredible degree and variety of never-ending frustrations, 1964 is here.

It's tempting fate to say it, but now that I've figured out how to overcome roughly 3 billion technical obstacles to producing these videos, they should come fairly steadily from here on out. This is helped by the fact that I've switched to using Windows Movie Maker, which is more efficient than what I was using before (though it's certainly not without its own problems!).

Chart Sweep Status Update

2007-09-25T20:35:00.000-07:00

Nearly every day someone asks me "Where is the next Chart Sweep update? I can't sleep or hold down food until I see it."

It's true that it's been a long time since the 1963 installment went up, but this isn't for lack of zeal on my part. Instead, my video editor decided to stop working properly so I've been forced to put it on hold for the moment. I'm in intermittent contact with the people at AVS Media, but in the meantime, if anyone has a basic video editor that supports subtitles that they could send me, let me know.

Stay tuned, though. 1964 is gonna be the best yet.

CHART SWEEP! No. 6, 1963

2007-08-20T23:07:00.001-07:00

CHART SWEEP! No. 5, 1962

2007-08-20T22:18:00.000-07:00

CHART SWEEP! No. 4, 1961

2007-06-04T18:15:00.000-07:00

Non Pareil, Vol. 3 (Free!)

2007-05-31T21:10:00.000-07:00

For the past few years I've been culling the very cream from various mix CDs that I make for myself from a variety of periods, genres and styles, and compiling the resulting songs together on a disc of their own. The end result in each case is an extremely eclectic record of absolutely top-notch songs. So far I've compiled three of these discs, each one roughly one year in the making.

Anyway, the reason I'm writing all this here is because I'm rather proud of these and I want to offer the latest one to you. It has everything from the obscure to the ubiquitous, from opera to indie rock, turntablism to trip-hop. Just send me your address and I'll mail the disc out to you at my earliest convenience (or if I'm in your city or will be soon, I'll just, you know, give it to you). The only catch is that you have to promise to give me your thoughts on the songs or, much preferably, each song.

How We've Learned!

2007-05-30T14:17:00.000-07:00

The vaunted conflagrations
of belligerent constellations
were, for a time,
overhead.

And the heavenly muse
would dutifully deliver the news
to men, by the fire,
looking up.

And oh, it's true they had such larks,
squinting through the sparks,
on their backs,
after some food.

But to see powers and principalities
and other such trivialities
settle grudges
in the sky --

Did they even have the capacity
to see their sheer audacity,
gazing, lazily,
on the burning fields of gods?

We've long since found our due decorum,
confirmed by the proper quorum:
to look down is best when, above,
is only distance.

Ritual as Universal

2007-05-29T21:40:00.000-07:00

One is seven, one is five,
So mommy stayed behind in the car.
Sneakered feet are tired now
On the dirt and needles, earth.

Not dashing in front anymore,
but staying close behind
and always on the lookout
for what might come ahead.

Switchbacks take us higher
to a breathless minor crest
Where it all arrests us --

River spilling through the valley
Silver ribbon in blankets green
Laudamus te

Wheeling hawk in sunlight shafts
Under clouds that billow and roll
Benedicamus te

Damp pine mist and dandelion
Redolent of a forgotten home
Adoramus te

Little queen and her upstart squire
A glimpse of their inheritance
Glorificamus te

Silence full of ancient days
Glorificamus te
Silence full of sanctus days
Glorificamus te
Sanctus full of sanctus days
Gratias agimus tibi
Sanctus sanctus sanctus

Someday
Quiet in a humming hospital sleep
Or loud in a spinning highway heap

We sing
Sanctus Sanctus Sanctus

Springtime at the University of Chicago

2007-05-27T15:20:00.000-07:00

CHART SWEEP! No. 3, 1960

2007-04-15T18:44:00.000-07:00

This installment had to be delayed longer than I intended while I've been taking care of some lesser matters (MA thesis). Hopefully 1961 will be hot on its heels.

Ladies and gentlemen, nineteen sixty:

Gathering of Eagles

2007-03-18T00:38:00.000-07:00

I spent my St. Patrick's Day in the same manner I've spent the last couple weeks -- holed up in my apartment, writing term papers. But do you want to know the one place where I would much rather have been? Right here.

UPDATE:

And Conservative Propaganda has a great four-part photo essay with a particular focus on the much smaller anti-America rally:

The greatest irony of this "peace" march is that it was led by ANSWER Communists who promote an ideology which killed a hundred million people in the last century. If you're looking for peace, the commies will take you anywhere but there. How did the most murderous ideology in history come to lead the "peace" movement? Ignorance, that's how. Most of the clueless mopes who show up to protest have no idea who is organizing their protest party and don't care. They don't know that ANSWER is a front group for the Stalinist Worker's World Party who supports the most murderous dirtbag dictators in the world.

CHART SWEEP! No. 2, 1959

2007-02-18T17:20:00.000-08:00

In addition to being very proud to present the second installment of my ongoing chart sweep project, I can now say that I have a very definite goal for its completion. August 3, 2008 will be the 50th anniversary of the Hot 100 chart -- and hopefully it will be commemorated on my end by a roughly two hour video of the entire history of that chart.

It'll be pretty difficult to get it all done by then, but if I find myself with any spare time after I'm done here at the University of Chicago, I can certainly see myself devoting a fair portion of that time to this project.

Ladies and gentlemen, nineteen fifty-nine:

CHART SWEEP! No. 1, 1958

2007-01-28T16:33:00.000-08:00

Several years ago I stumbled across two MP3s from the Evolution Control Committee entitled "chart sweep." Together they comprise short clips from every single to reach the number one spot on Billboard's Hot 100 chart from 1958 to 1992. It's glorious. I'm still unsure of the provenance -- I doubt ECC created it, because it sounds like it was recorded over the radio. I'm also not sure if it's still up at their site, but you might poke around to find out.

Anyway, after obsessing over this gem for about a week, I forgot about it. A while ago I rediscovered it with a vengeance. Since then I've been inspired to give it a facelift -- the sound quality of the MP3s are pretty bad. (Like I said, recorded off a radio.) But not only am I improving the sound -- and not only am I bringing it up-to-date (to 2007) -- but I'm doing it all in video form.

So without further ado, introducing the first installment of my chart sweep project, every #1 single of 1958, beginning August 3 when the Hot 100 era officially began.

Fun fact: during the Teddy Bears song, the guitarist to the right of Annette Kleinbard is a very young Phil Spector. The Teddy Bears was his first band.

Also, just to put this in perspective, there have been 937 #1 singles on the hot 100. So if you want to see me finish this, donate to the American Diabetes Association.

"Together Let us Run"

2007-01-21T15:52:00.000-08:00

And where does he want to ascend, unless to heaven? What does "to heaven" mean? Does he wish to ascend to be with the sun, the moon, and the stars? Certainly not. But eternal Jerusalem is in heaven, where angels are our fellow citizens, from whom we are absent as pilgrims on earth. On pilgrimage, we sigh with longing; in the city, we rejoice. We find companions, however, on this pilgrimage who have already rejoiced who said, "I was glad in them who said to me: We will go into the house of the Lord." Brothers, remember in charity how, for example, on a festival of martyrs, when a holy place is named, when crowds flow together on the appointed day to celebrate the solemnity; how those crowds stir themselves up, how they admonish one another and say, "Let us go! Let us go!" And they ask, "Where are we to go?" And the answer comes, "To that place, to the holy place." They talk together and, though they are kindled one by one, they make a single flame, and a single flame made by the give-and-take of those drawing near seizes them up to the holy place, and holy thought sanctifies them. If, therefore, holy love seizes them thus to a worldly place, what sort of love ought it to be that seizes into heaven those who are of one accord and say to one another, "We will go into the house of the Lord"? Therefore, together let us run, let us run, because we will go into the house of the Lord. Let us run and not be weary, for we go to that place where we shall never tire.

Augustine of Hippo, Enarrationes in Psalmos III, 2.

Academia Nuts #3

2006-09-15T07:09:00.000-07:00

Greetings from the wonderfully gothic University of Chicago. Having just completed my first week as a graduate student, I'd like to offer a thought or two thereon.

We've heard some remarks this week about "entering the conversation," "the conversation" here meaning the scholarly conversation, or all of the scholarly conversations, or really, whatever scholarly conversation happens to be relevant to you in your field at the time. It's clear that as apprentice scholars, writing about any old thing is no longer satisfactory. Our job, like nearly every other profession, is to create value, and value is found in research that is current and relevant. One can't dig up some paper from the 1920s (or even 1970s), write a rebuttal and expect anyone to care -- and by "care," I mean "grant the degree" or "publish."

That much is clear to me, and in that respect I'm all set to jump into "the conversation" -- as soon as I find my bearings of course. But this need to stay current and up-to-date smells dangerously like chronological snobbery. If you're unaware, chronological snobbery is the term C.S. Lewis used (which he got from Owen Barfield, I believe) for the practice of dismissing any idea without knowing a) when it was refuted b) how it was refuted and c) who refuted it. That is, it's the practice of dismissing anything simply because it's out of fashion.

So here's my problem: how can one make the practice of "staying current" a priority, while remaining open to, even seeking out, ideas or methods that perhaps no one has implemented in decades, or centuries? And how can one convince one's colleagues that a dusty old idea or method is not worthless or irrelevant simply by virtue of being dusty and old?

I believe that nearly across the board, academics turn this practice of keeping up-to-date, which is really just a pragmatic career decision, into a monomania that causes them to dismiss out of hand most perspectives of the past. I say "most," because obviously most scholars (not all!) would give a pass to the canon. But let's not forget that none other than Plato went virtually unread and unknown for hundreds of years.

Structuralism petered out, for better or worse, in the 1970s. Now thirty years later, if a serious scholar introduced structuralism into a serious scholarly work today, my guess is they'd get laughed out of the tower -- or, more likely, totally ignored. It is worth considering how much time 30 years represents in the context of over two and a half thousand years of literary studies.

It seems to me that at deconstructionism, the current fashion (though I won't be able to post this until tomorrow, so don't quote me)-- anyway, at deconstructionism, we hit a dead end. Deconstructionism will run its course eventually, and dry up, but this time there will be no new -ism to replace it. (Time may prove me wrong, we'll see.) But once the academy does tire of Derrida et al, there may indeed be nowhere to go from here but back, back over the countless galloping eras of literary criticism. When we reach this stage we'll be able to pick up methods, theories and ideas from any era and combine them with any others; to modify them in the light of another time and place; and to find unfamiliar perspectives on familiar works, or to look at unfamiliar works from familiar perspectives. I believe that this is what truly pluralistic postmodern humanistic studies would look like, and that in their thirst for only what is new, what's happening right now, they are being curiously old-fashioned.

What's Shocking?

2006-08-11T10:49:00.000-07:00

At the First Things blog On the Square, (recently revamped, happily, to include a much wider variety of voices, but, sadly, much less Richard John Neuhaus) R.R. Reno responds to Michael Linton's interesting but ultimately unconvincing proposal of a theological interpretation of Andres Serrano's infamous "transgressive" photo, the title of which I won't reproduce here.

Reno's entry resonates powerfully with my experience, and is a testament to the incendiary cultural moment to which we are just now beginning to arrive. The transgression of the establishment is boring. The subversion by the elites is tired. De Sade died almost two centuries ago; isn't it time we buried him?

Reno writes, and I would echo him: "The avant-garde today is to be found in piety and love." His students are "shocked by self-discipline, piety, loyalty, and love." This is my experience as well, but only when a professor allows his students to be shocked. At least in my English classes, far too often there is a disgracefully dismissive flippancy from teachers towards representations of the highest forms of human achievement in literature, which preemptively shields the student from the shock of these truly radical ideas.

In the 21st century, joy is new. Caritas is revolutionary. It's past time for the inauguration of a new avant-garde and the burial of the old guard. But what, after all, will the new one look like? That's what I'm eager to find out.

Our National Parks: Joshua Tree

2006-08-09T21:45:00.000-07:00

I recently had the pleasure of spending an uncharacteristically cool Southern California weekend in the Joshua Tree National Park. Located just east of Palm Springs, this large park is located in an area where two deserts meet -- the Mojave and the Colorado Desert (which is itself a part of the Sonoran Desert, extending deep into Mexico).

While at this dry I took some digital photographs, some of which I'm going to share here in a totally achronological manner. I also took some old-fashioned photographs, but they're still gestating within their plastic womb. By the way, may I just say God bless the people at Blogger for their photo upload function, which drastically simplifies what was once a long and tedious bore? I may, and I will!

[I should note that all of the following are from the western, Mojave half of the park. This is where the joshua trees and crazy rock formations are. The Colorado half got kinda screwed over in the interesting sights department (although the cholla cactus garden was great)). Also, following the presentation there will be a Q&A session in the comments.

Clearly, this picture, of 49 Palms Oasis, is the wrong one to begin with. Palms were not characteristic of the area, only growing where there's a relative abundance of water, usually nestled at the base of a shaded valley like this one. Can you count all 49? This was in the middle of a hike that I was in a rush to finish before the sun went down, because a sign said the parking lot closes at sunset.

This here is Skull Rock, and I hope you can see why, but it was difficult to get an angle that fully captured its cranial character. I encountered it twice -- once in the daytime when I was expecting it, and once, in the darkness of wilderness night, lit up by my headlights, just after spooking and being spooked by an owl on the side of the road, when I thought I was miles away from it, driving down the wrong road looking for a place to sleep.

I found this gentleman at the top of Ryan Mountain, pondering the difficulties that arise when one is alone on top of a mountain with a camera. How will one ever be believed?

The obligatory "sunset in Joshua Tree" photo. Here's a question for the philosophers: were cameras made for sunsets or vice versa?

This is a pretty typical sight in the park: giant piles of rocks. Overall the landscape kept reminding me of Ettinsmoor, that part of Narnia where the giants are rumored to live.

Here is one of us little people after climbing to the top of a rock with all kinds of gear and probably about a mile of rope -- which was rather funny because I climbed to the same height in about five minutes by the locomotion of my own four limbs -- on a different mound of course.

Here is the silver chariot without which this adventure would not have been possible at all.

And I leave you with this shot of the iconic joshua tree, one of the first I took upon entering the park. If you click on this photo you can see that the tree is actually part of a forest -- one of the odder forests I've seen, where trees are spread out with yards between each one, to better compete for water.

Joseph's Bedtime Dilemma

2006-04-30T18:32:00.000-07:00

Here's a brief something I just found that I wrote back in high school. I don't know, I rather like it.

Somehow, the pistol pressed against his left temple reminded Joseph of a case he had six years ago in which a robber was judged innocent because of his victim’s unreliability, which was due to crimes of the victim’s own. Joseph had represented the robbed man, and had lost enough money on the case to stall his plan for installing a security system in his house. During the case, evidence was uncovered that showed that the robbed man had embezzled company funds and cheated on his wife. He was the sole witness, and the jury didn’t trust his testimony. The robber was acquitted, and after another trial Joseph’s client spent the next three hundred and sixty-five days folding towels.

After this unpleasant reminder, Joseph felt angry. Glass and mud combined and conspired to spoil his newly mopped hardwood floor, and the splintered, empty window frame would let in a draft all night. The door wasn’t locked. They could have just used that. Now he would have to cover it up with a tarp or sheet or duct tape or saran wrap or the bones of his attackers or a combination of all of these, or else the geese might get in and spread their turds all over his newly mopped hardwood floor. The nerve of these people.

The next thing Joseph noticed was the smell. Either the jumpy, masked criminal who held death to Joseph’s head with one arm and cut off the oxygen flow to his brain with the other was scared into perspiring rivers of smelly sweat, or else his black clothes were as warm as they looked. Either way, Joseph was reminded of the three cans of Right Guard in his dresser.

While Joseph pondered these things, the smelly man’s partner in crime carelessly caroused throughout the house, looking for something worth risking at least a year behind prison bars for. Joseph thought it strange that the first place he looked after making a general sweep of the place was the refrigerator. Maybe he knew something Joseph didn’t. Maybe some more knowledgeable and wealthy people kept their valuables in the fridge. He, however, had no such desire to preserve the freshness of his Rolexes, and he was glad he wasn’t being asked to represent them in court. These goons were ready-made open-and-shut -- if he could only get that gun pointed away from his brain.

Sonnet I

2006-04-26T14:08:00.000-07:00

Above a grove where silly sparrows sing,
In the hills below that Mount Parnassus,
To which doom'd lambs and kids the priests do bring,
Stands of walnut trees are clumped in masses.
There I, the sole eternal Phoenix perch,
Bending low the branch beneath my fiery bulk.
Thousand deaths have I; thousand lives to search
Nightly skies for sun, that bright and blinding hulk,
Daily rising o'er Delphi before me,
Fiercely greeting my hard and calloused eyes,
To slake my thirst for some divinity --
All day long I watch it fall to rise.
And if seven suns were there I'd watch them too
But when you wake -- I cannot look at you.

Gone to Babylon

2006-04-12T23:35:00.000-07:00

Another stab at poetry. This poem is simplistic and one-sided, and I like it that way. Patriotic poetry in wartime is no place for nuance.

Our boys have gone to Babylon
While we sit and watch TV.
Our boys have gone to Babylon
To save the world from tyranny.

To the Tigris they bring hope again,
While we lament the price of gas.
To the Tigris they bring hope again.
"How much longer will this last?"

Those men and women bold and brave,
These powdered politicians.
Those men and women bold and brave --
Who has the higher mission?

From hunting hooded murderers
With evil in their bones,
From hunting hooded murderers
We would seek to call them home?

Cadavers stuffed with dynamite,
Dumped in a busy street.
Cadavers stuffed with dynamite,
And we should lead the first retreat?

The Times slanders the President,
And CBS reports the toll.
The Times slanders the President --
Can we guess who shares their goal?

Our boys have gone to Babylon,
While the world frets and frowns.
Our boys have gone to Babylon,

That God may bless the trodden down,
The Horn of Plenty might be found,
And one day peace proclaimed all round.

What Descartes Knows

2006-04-05T19:01:00.000-07:00

Here is a timid stab at poetry:

In air-conditioned fluorescence dim,
with hums of loud comfort I felt too full
of comfortless declarations grim.

Plato's cave was a pageant pure
next to the dim flickering shades
the prof projected, giving the tour

of dead men's ideas, embalmed in text--
until later animated
in clean ivory catacomb's next.

Cogito ergo sum, he said,
before he ceased his lofty summing.
He strains theories with this fact: he is dead.

What then is real? We'll never know.
For that only sure thing rots beneath
an old Paris church, just below

a modern replica, hewed from stone,
of an ancient wooden tool of dread,
lost since that day it served as a throne
and our sole certainty from Calvary shone.

Spring Cleaning

2006-03-23T17:40:00.000-08:00

Look at the cobwebs in this place!

Some of you visiting here might remember the story I was very slowly writing for pretty much all last year. In a bit of spring cleaning, I've compiled those various fragments into one MS Word file. This should make things a whole lot simpler for anyone who's looking to read it, if such a person exists. You can download that with this link.

I've kind of lost interest in the story for now, but who knows when I'll decide to pick it up again. In the meantime, hopefully there will be some other kind of creative output from me soon.

One more thing:

FREE ABDUL RAHMAN

The Rising of the Tide

2006-02-24T00:56:00.000-08:00

I tell you naught for your comfort,
Yea, naught for your desire,
Save that the sky grows darker yet
And the sea rises higher.

Chesterton,
from The Ballad of the White Horse

Top 5 Records of 2005

2006-01-12T20:36:00.000-08:00

So, even considering that I was waiting until 2005 was actually over to post my top five list of 2005, this is late.

2005 was a great year of music for me. Four of my top five bands/artists put out records (the fifth, Radiohead, has one on the way in '06!), all of which reinforced my love for them, and three of which made it on to this list. The chase, to which I will now cut:

5: Sigur Rós, Takk...

If ( ) was an ocean, and it was, Takk... is a river. It meanders and lingers in pleasant turnings and then opens into vast wide spaces before narrowing into furious rapids. Even after rafting through this album a few times, you never know what's around the next bend. To say that Sigur Rós has adopted a new tone is not quite right -- despite a much greater variety in instrumentation, they still feel like Sigur Rós. I would call it a difference in outlook, which is a strange thing to say of a band with no real lyrics to speak of (although there are vocals aplenty). Takk... undoubtedly communicates hope more than any of their previous albums. In fact, it's a more hopeful record than you're likely to find in the 21st century.

4: The White Stripes, Get Behind Me Satan

To the limited extent I know him, I like Jack White. I like his respect for American musical traditions, his half-coherent essays, his professional regard for technical skill, and his sister (or is she his ex-wife? I thought I knew once...). I also like his ability to move forward, an asset that is especially highlighted in Get Behind Me Satan. Here the Stripes leave behind their guitar/piano-and-drums-and-that's-it orthodoxy and enter an exciting new world full of... marimba, mostly. This is easily their most sensitive record, less brash and packed with unique little touches to show they really do care, just like they've always said. (This record and Takk... are also tied for my two favorite album covers of 2005.)

3: Optimo, How to Kill the DJ, Pt. 2

This record might have been higher in the list, but the fact that very little of this music is actually made by Glaswegian DJs Wilkes and Twitch (here collectively called Optimo) takes off just a few points. Call me old-fashioned, I guess. There are two discs here, the first of which is a DJ set seamlessly mixing and matching disparate styles, from steel-drum soul to 21st century dance-punk to children's choir, all backed by beats that not even a quadriplegic could resist. The second CD, essentially a mixtape, is even more diverse, but here the tracks stand as their own entities, not coopted into the mission to make you move. The real achievement here is the selection of eighteen amazingly lovable songs, each of which not only represents a different syle of pop music, but -- to my ears -- a whole other universe.

2: Sufjan Stevens, Illinois

Of course, here is the undisputed album of the year. I feel like such a rebel for not putting this at number one. I don't think I was the only one to be very pleasantly surprised at the amazingly good press this record received. Here are songs that unflinchingly see the world as it is, but don't reach the conclusions of despair and absurdity as so many others have. Here are hope, joy and love, communicated so skillfully and unassumingly that I hear no groaning from the world's most cynical inhabitants -- that is, music critics. On the contrary, they have extolled this light in the darkness. And really, why should that be surprising?

Two down, forty-eight to go. I'm staying on this train till the end of the line.

1: John Vanderslice, Pixel Revolt

Should I like John Vanderslice as much as I do? I mean, at heart he's what's sometimes called a singer/songwriter and that can't be good. That calls to mind names like Jason Mraz or Sarah McLachlan. Nevertheless, I've always loved JV's songs, and I'm not hesitant to say that here they reach new heights. If JV has a shtick, it's that almost all his songs use first-person narration from a fictional perspective. For instances, in "Continuation" he takes the perspective of a detective, in "Plymouth Rock" that of a soldier in Iraq.

Ohh, wait. Soldier in Iraq... these aren't political songs are they? Well, they deal with current events, but not in a didactic manner, and they're far from protest songs. If there's any fault here, it lies in falling prey to the unjustified pessimism and morbid focus on strategic and moral failures to the exclusion of any sense of mission or purpose. "I lost the reason I'm here" the soldier says after getting shot on his first mission, in "Plymouth Rock." Similarly, "Trance Manual" tells the story of a soldier's conflicted visits to a prostitute, his escape from the monotony of his mission to "stand alone and then shift, and shift."

A few songs, though, breaks with JV's narrative conventions, telling a very personal and autobiographical story of depression and flawed redemption. These moments are made all the more affecting because, on all his records, he so rarely steps outside of the personas he constructs for his songs. The combination of "Dead Slate Pacific" and "The Golden Gate" (two halves of a song which I feel should have been left one track) is the heart of this record, and it is one of the most heartbreakingly sad and beautiful songs I've ever heard. And also, there is this:

"Farewell Transmission"

...

Your dad didn't know the age of the sun;
Now we know the hour it was born.
How does that help us now?
Hold on,
Hold on.

We need your pretty words,
in clipped enchanted verse.
Your race depends on you,
I do too,
I do too.

Hold on.

...

Academia Nuts #2

2006-01-12T20:30:00.000-08:00

The third edition of Critical Theory Since Plato (eds. Adams and Searle) is 1545 pages long. Its index is admittedly skimpy, but this entry is ridiculous. Between "Grammar" and "Gestalt" we find:

God, 18; death of, 1064, 1263

Sign of the times, ladies and gentlemen.

Getting Mr. Lewis's Six

2005-12-11T17:51:00.000-08:00

I've recently read several times that Christians should opt out of the culture war. If there is a culture war, and my experiences (especially those in Europe) lead me to believe there is, I think it would be best if Christians did not dodge its draft. The reasons are obvious: as Christians we are the only ones suitably equipped for battle, and we make up the bulk of our army, with soldiers of all ranks and areas of training.

But perhaps the war metaphor should not be extended in this way, for our weapons are love, hope, truth and forgiveness -- and our casualties are not the loss of life but of despair and absurdity.

Nonetheless, when reading articles such as Polly Toynbee's rabid (not to mention ill-informed) attack on the Narnia Chronicles, its hard to avoid such imagery. Toynbee of course uses Philip Pullman to back up her claims.

An illustration of this man: if C.S. Lewis is our Churchill, Pullman is Hitler. He has made a career out of being the antithesis of Lewis. Whereas Lewis soundly defended Christianity with reason, Pullman seeks to tear it down with rhetoric. Like Lewis, Pullman promotes his worldview with children's literature. Unlike Lewis, though, who wrote in a dazzling variety of genres, Pullman can't leave children's books without embarassment, as even interviews will make clear. Nothing is more revealing than his utterly irrational and inordinate hatred of C.S. Lewis.

His attacks, and the attacks of those fighting with him, often claim that Lewis was racist, sexist, violent, life-denying and loveless. As anyone who knows anything about Lewis and/or his writings can attest, it is hard to say which of these accusations is more absurd. Yet they persist. How gratifying, then, to see Michael Nelson give a very good defense against them. The venue in which this defense is printed, The Chronicle of Higher Education, is especially encouraging to me, and I hope that the purveyors of these lies give it a good look. The only flaw that I can see in the article is its brevity. But then again, the examples available to refute Pullman and the rest are practically innumerable, and to list them all would take much more space than the Chronicle is willing to give. And anyhow, how much evidence does it really take to convince a reasonable person of Lewis' virtue?

Academia Nuts #1

2005-12-04T19:03:00.000-08:00

As a bit of background, the textbook for my business communication class this semester, which has 246 black and white pages in a thin paperback volume and was written by Robyn Walker who also teaches the class, cost me $67.75 before taxes.

Now read this quote from said book: "Ethnocentrism is the belief that your own cultural background, including ways of analyzing problems, values, beliefs, language, and verbal and nonverbal communication is correct."

Read it again. Apparently, you are an ethnocentrist if you believe your values and beliefs to be correct. In other words, you are an ethnocentrist if you believe anything at all. Does anyone believe something that he believes to be false? Clearly that would be nonsense, and so is this description of ethnocentrism.

This is the kind of failure of reason that's becoming more and more common as the a priori assumptions of the "politically correct" orthodoxy are shoehorned into our reality. Read this definition of the same subject in the margin here: "Ethnocentrism is the belief that one's own cultural background is correct, and that other cultures are somehow inferior."

"Somehow." As if it is really so difficult to think of ways one culture might be inferior to another. I'm sure that if Professor Walker gave the matter some hard honest thought--thirty seconds, say--she could think of a culture or two that are or were inferior to her own. She might feel guilty about suddenly becoming an "ethnocentrist," but that wouldn't make it any less true.

"I sent them you: my only son."

2005-11-20T13:29:00.000-08:00

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

2005-11-08T10:00:00.000-08:00

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

2005-11-06T17:36:00.000-08:00

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.

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

2005-11-05T18:13:00.000-08:00

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."

A Picture Worth a Thousand Libraries

2005-10-12T00:33:00.000-07:00

Here is a picture which, for me, pretty much sums up life, the universe and everything else.

"Narnia" Gathers Steam

2005-10-12T00:06:00.000-07:00

The release of The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe in cinemas is still two months off, but already the amount of publicity is overwhelming. Just about every day I find out about a new Narnia- or C.S. Lewis-related book to be released in the next few weeks. Besides the official site, which is regularly adding new material (look for the 3D view of Tumnus' house!), there are a few other useful sites. NarniaResources.com is the official treasure chest of publicity materials. Have a look around, especially if you are a church leader of some kind. NarniaWeb is the best source for timely updates on all aspects of the film and its impending release. Five updates, just today!

My favorite site, though, is Narnia on Tour. Not officially associated with the film, this site is a production of The Matthew's House Project, which is also worth a look. The people of that lovely organization have put together quite an impressive list of cities in which various Lewis scholars will present on various Narnia-related topics. I myself am looking forward to hearing Paul Ford (author of my long-treasured Companion to Narnia) speak on November 10th about "Reading Narnia with Heart." Maybe we should invite our friend David Holbrook.

Another great opportunity presented by this site is the Narnia On Tour Leader's Packet. My dear mother bought this for me, and let me just say, at $32, this thing is a steal. Look at all the things on that list. The elegant hardcover edition of The Quotable C.S. Lewis is something that will be a resource for the rest of my life, and is worth the price alone. Yet you get so much more! I won't even try to go into the rest, just look.

There are probably at least 238 other good websites somehow related to Prof. Lewis and The Chronicles of Narnia. A few of them are listed below in my links section. Feel free to leave comments about these, those or any others.

Fiction Fragment 2.3

2005-09-30T23:12:00.000-07:00

It's been a while. I'm already five weeks into the fall semester back here at USC, and just now getting around to making a new post. Thanks for visiting. The following is something I wrote, as part of a larger thing I'm writing. This piece forms part of the second chapter, the two previous parts of which can be found here (where you'll also find links to the first chapter) and here. I highly recommend reading it in order, if you read it at all. I hope you like it.

When I came to, the sun had moved past his post at the hole above me, and without his glare in my eyes I was better able to see around me -- to see, that is, that very little was around me. Four bare walls were all I could see. My heart soon quickened as the implications of this fast seeped into my barely permeable mind. Trapped! The only question was if I would be granted a coma in which to comfortably starve to death, or be left to suffer with an awareness of each slowly falling minute.

It was while I pondered this dilemma that I saw the cat's tail. The cat's tail was orange and undulated quite as if it were attached to a cat, but this particular cat's tail was pretty clearly unattached to anything. Needless to say, I did not rule out the possibility of hallucination. With relief I passed back into unconsciousness.

Waking up -- that was when I saw the cat's head. Now, this cat's head was orange and it twitched and sniffed and stared just like a cat's head might if it were attached to a cat's body. However, I saw no body. The possibility that I was hallucinating quickly offered itself as a certainty.

The cat's head stared reproachfully as I wavered between varying degrees of consciousness, always vaguely aware of that looming dread, that sleeping regret which was the backdrop to all my thoughts. I feared the waking of that regret as much as I longed for the resolution to its mystery that its waking would bring.

I will never be able to say how long I lay in just this state. That it was not brief I can write with some certainty, from the extraordinary slowness of the thing which happened next. Under watchful feline eyes the blackness, the towering chasm of void began to -- with imperceptible movement, like a glacier melting in reverse -- to resolve itself, to come together like a crystal, to become a form, a shape -- a human form.

It was then I remembered you.

Fiction Fragment 2.2

2005-08-10T16:04:00.000-07:00

Here's latest short installment in this ongoing work of indeterminate length. The previous fragment is here, and you can find links to the first chapter there as well. Please forgive my melodrama.

The shining beacon was so bright that I had to close my eyes, stinging, wincing and wet. In closing them though, I found myself opening them on a quite different scene. Here it was dark and damp, and something cool, hard and flat pressed against my back. A bright light still shined in my face. Even though I could see very little around me, it all seemed far more substantial and detailed than the shore with the lighthouse. And here there was pain: a blunt, pulsing pain that filled my skull and overflowed into my very fingertips.

I closed my eyes again. A far-away distress, nothing to do with my head or the pain, crept closer in my heart until it loomed blackly over everything. I had forgotten something -- something terribly important had been forgotten by me. It felt like realizing that I'd left my wallet at home, if my wallet had contained the world and all I loved. It felt huge, hopeless and vague, like a starless night sky. Was it my throbbing brain which kept me from thinking of what it really was, or something else? I turned away from the shadow; I opened my eyes.

My surroundings were clearer to me now. I was on my back on a wet concrete floor. The bright light was above me, a hole in the ceiling where the sun shined through. It was a dozen yards up, maybe two. It was hard to tell. I tilted my head to the left, ignoring how the pain sharpened as I did so. To my left was just a blank wall of the same material on which I was lying. On the ground beside me, limply wet leaves were scattered around something flat and slightly darker than the floor. It was maybe two inches thick, with parallel lines running along its length. With labor, between the pulses of the blood in my brain the memories returned. I remembered the brick pillar, the hunger, the hare, the pit. I remembered these things and it slowly dawned on me that I had fallen through a shoddy grate from a considerable height and injured my head. But even with this light cast on recent events, the darkness of a thing forgot still towered over my soul.

Lewis Resources

2005-08-04T20:16:00.000-07:00

Bruce Edwards of Bowling Green State University recently posted a very helpful list of The Secondary Sources Every Lewis Student Ought to Own.

X, Xians and Xianity

2005-07-29T14:17:00.000-07:00

OK, you know Xmas? As in Christmas - Christ + X = Xmas? And how lots of people see this as an egregious example of secularization and out-of-control political correctness in an insolent and rebellious world? And how these people are missing the fact that X has long been an abbreviation for Christ, since in Greek X (or χ or chi (say: kai)) is the first letter of Christ? And how thus, Xmas has nothing to do with the dilution of the greatest story ever told or ideological imperialism, but is really part of an ancient Christian tradition? Isn't that great?

Well I was thinking. X, of all the letters, is easily the most trendy, and has been for decades. Let's count the ways: the L.A. punk band X, the X Games, the X-Men, the X-Wing, the pirate connection ("X marks the spot! Arr!"), planet X, X as kiss (a step above O for sure), and all that's just a quick skim of the surface. Despite all this use, X still holds up as something mysterious and quite possibly dangerous. What luck, then, and how appropriate, that as Christians we had it first!

Now, I'm not really suggesting that we all start calling ourselves Xians (now that I'm looking at that, I'm thinking it might suggest we have some sort of extra-terrestrial delusion (quick research reveals I'm close: Xi'an is an important Chinese city (meaning? "Western peace."))) First of all, while we're all well aware of the atrocities that have been committed in the name of Christianity, the term (and how infinitely less the thing itself!) is nothing to hide or be ashamed of. Secondly, well, see paranthetical re: E.T.'s above.

Still though, it's nice to know we have that option. I do suggest that the three terms in the title are not bad short-hand type subsitutes, all of which preserve (revive?) the grandeur and mystery of the things themselves, while making no sacrifices, I hope, in the area of reverence?

UPDATE: It's becoming increasingly clear to me that this blog's primary purpose is to put my ignorance on display to the world. The day after I made this post, I found a letter in which C.S. Lewis (of all people -- I do read other things, honest) used "Xtianity." The first "t" confuses me; it suggests that X stands for Chris. My dad informed me that what I thought of as a pretty novel idea has actually been pretty common among theologians and other Christian scholars, especially those with knowledge of Greek, for hundreds of years. Sure enough, the next day I was reading Jonathan Edwards' "Narrative of Surprising Conversions," wherein the youngest of the Town seemed to be full of Love to whom? X.

Top Ten Most Useful Websites

2005-07-26T11:28:00.000-07:00

10. Chapter XXI
9. RealClearPolitics
8. The Internet Movie Database
7. Google Maps
6. Dictionary.com
5. Metacritic
4. Wikipedia
3. Amazon.com
2. Gmail
1. Google

C.S. Lewis's Top Ten Most Influential Books: #4

2005-07-20T19:06:00.000-07:00

(You can find #9 -- the first in this series -- here.)

The Temple, by George Herbert – a collection of poems with a most unfortunate subtitle. I used two editions of The Temple, both of which I borrowed from the under-rated University of Sussex library. One was a facsimile of the original 1633 printing, from which I borrowed the title page you see here, published in the 1970’s. It was exact, even down to the dimensions of the book itself (and got me ufed to reading fentecef like thif.) The other was a modern edition, published in 1899 as part of the Library of Devotion series. Inside the cover is written, in that elegant old-fashioned script you never see anymore, “To Dear Alice – In memory of May 4th & of all the old times. May, 1900.” I love that.

C.S. Lewis was less than two years old when that was written, and Alice was no doubt old enough to be his mother. I assume that it was much later when he discovered The Temple and found it to be such a source of comfort and wisdom. C.S. Lewis described Herbert’s poetry as “delicious, earthy, homespun,” and much preferred him to that more eminent Metaphysical poet, John Donne (who happened to be a friend of his mother). In that judgment Lewis seems to have anticipated current trends.

It’s interesting that some of the literature I’ve seen on Herbert (most notable this Wikipedia entry) has managed to almost completely avoid the subject, object and inspiration of his poetry – that is of course, God. They’d much rather talk about “transcendental signifiers.” But really, applying such terms to Herbert’s poetry seems to be to be a ridiculous attempt to obfuscate what is really quite simple. That quality – simplicity -- is what first struck me about Herbert’s poems. They are straightforward acts of devotion, expressions of love for Herbert’s lord and master. But despite the overwhelming sense of Herbert’s powerful piety, and despite the fact that he was a scholar, public orator and Minister of Parliament before he was a priest, one never loses the sense of George Herbert as a simple man like you and I, just trying to use the gifts of God – his life, his talents – in the best way he knows how. To the soul that longs to know God ever more, these poems offer much sympathy and inspiration, and it’s easy to see what C.S. Lewis saw in them.

These days, though, have probably received their greatest influence from George Herbert in a phrase of his coinage: “His bark is worse than his bite,” which I suggest might be an apt statement to have applied to C.S. Lewis, whose booming voice could strike fear into the most hardened undergraduate.

I’ll conclude with two poems from The Temple which I just can’t resist sharing with you:

Redemption

Having been tenant long to a rich Lord,
        Not thriving, I resolved to be bold,
        And make a suit unto him, to afford
A new small-rented lease, and cancell th’old

In heaven at his manour I him sought:
        They told me there, that he was lately gone
        About some land, which he had dearly bought
Long since on earth, to take possession.

I straight return’d, and knowing his great birth,
        Sought him accordingly in great resorts;
        In cities, theatres, gardens, parks, and courts:
At length I heard a ragged noise and mirth

        Of theeves and murderers: there I him espied,
        Who straight, Your suit is granted, said, & died.

The World

Love built a stately house; where Fortune came,
And spinning phansies, she was heard to say,
That her fine cobwebs did support the frame,
Whereas they were supported by the same:
But Wisdome quickly swept them all away.

Then Pleasure came, who liking not the fashion,
Began to make Balcones, Terraces,
Till she had weakned all by alteration:
But rev’rend laws, and many a proclamation
Reformed all at length with menaces.

Then enter’d Sinne, and with that Sycomore,
Whose leaves first sheltred man from drought & dew,
Working and winding shyly evermore,
The inward walls and Sommers cleft and tore:
But Grace shor’d these, and cut that as it grew.

Then Sinne combin’d with Death in a firm band
To rase the building to the very floore:
Which they effected, none could them withstand.
But Love and Grace took Glorie by the hand,
And built a braver Palace than before.

Post-Ireland Adventure Post

2005-07-17T17:36:00.000-07:00

Before I returned home from England I spent ten days travelling around Ireland. Click the link below for a bit of a summary and some pictures.

Day 1 - Galway, County Galway

I only stayed in Galway as a means of getting to Inishmor (see day 2). It is one of the most important and largest cities in Ireland, yet it seemed quite medium to me. This here is the River Corrib, and those dark figures are fishermen. This is around 10:30 PM on one of the longest nights of the year.

Day 2 - Kilronan, County Galway

Kilronan is on the largest of the three Aran Islands, off Ireland's west coast. It's covered in a net of ancient stone walls and dotted with even more ancient stone forts and comparatively new early Christian churches, huts and crosses. This is the view of the cliffs from the huge, mysterious clifftop fort called Dun Aengus. (Apologies for the poor quality of this and all subsequent vertically-oriented pictures.)

Days 3-4 - Enniskillen, County Fermanagh

This Northern Irish town is an island surrounded by rivers, hence Ennis-, which is derived from Inis, Gaelic for island. This was the only time I had the luxury of spending two nights in one place, but it was a very disappointing two nights. All the things I wanted to see were on small islands in Lower Lough Erne north of town, but ferries only ran on weekends, and I was there on a Thursday. This picture is of Castle Coole, just outside of town -- my consolation attraction. It's not really a castle, but an 18th century manor house set in a large, beautifully landscaped estate. And when is the house open? Every day but Thursday.

Day 5 - Dunfanaghy, County Donegal

Back in the Republic now, although this small seaside town is further north than most of Northern Ireland. I spent my birthday trying to get here by a few coaches, and celebrated my eventual arrival at the Cove Restaurant. Quite a swanky place. This picture was taken during a long walk on the next day, when I was a bit lost -- in a good way.

Day 6 - Derry/Londonderry, County Derry

If you're a unionist you say Londonderry, if you're a republican you say Derry, and if you're a tourist you're very careful. Even more than Belfast, London/Derry is full of reminders of the Troubles. Here's one. I had just one night here, no days, but enjoyed myself with good company in some of the pubs.

Day 7 - Belfast

There were two things I wanted to do in Northern Ireland's capital: go east, to see the house, church, etc. where C.S. Lewis spent his childhood, and go west, to see the political murals and the Peace Line in West Belfast. To do this without a car on a Sunday would be almost impossible and possibly dangerous. Fortunately, at Great Victoria Street Baptist Church I met a lovely couple who brought me to their house and fed me a delicious lunch, packed me sandwiches for dinner, and gave me a guided tour of everything I wanted to see. Hooray for them! This is Little Lea, home of C.S. Lewis until the age of nine. Thanks also to the lucky family who lives there now and who graciously allowed me to take this picture of their home.

Day 8 - Drogheda, County Louth

Back in the Republic of Ireland. Took a bus a few miles outside the city to the early Christian monastic site of Monasterboice, which includes a round tower (to watch out for Vikings), a few high crosses, and two ancient church ruins, some of which is pictured here. Afterwards I hitched a ride to Old Mellifont Abbey, Ireland's first Cistercian monastery.

Day 9 - Dublin

Oh, Dublin. It has a great Natural History Museum, but that's pretty much all I can say for it. Maybe I needed to give it more time. Here's the Ha'Penny Bridge, over the Liffey.

Day 10 - Ennis, County Clare

I just had one night here, before catching my flight back to London the next morning. Here are the ruins of an old Abbey. Easily my favorite part of Ennis was the 24-hour supermarket.

Fiction Fragment 2.1

2005-07-15T15:16:00.000-07:00

Well hello. It has been a while, hasn't it? I won't be so presumptuous as to apologize, but I'll give as my excuse that I've spent the last month in four different countries, and haven't had many thoughts worth putting down.

This, though, was written before all that. It's the latest installment in a series of very short fragments of fiction. You'll notice that this one is called 2.1, while the others (one, two, three, four and five) were signified by just a single digit. I've decided to call fragments one through five chapter one, and this here is the first part of chapter two. It wouldn't hurt too much to revisit chapter one before reading this one. It has been a while. (A post regarding my short trip to Ireland should be forthcoming.)

I walked along a rocky shore. Ahead of and behind me the shore stretched, ending and beginning —- if it could do either —- past the far horizon, which played the role of sentry, keeping the shore from meandering up into the dark purple and black sky. To my right was nothing, and to my left was the sea, which was also nothing. I walked for days.

I saw a light out at sea. It was far away, but the light was bright and when it came, it poured all up and down the shore, filling the cracks between the rocks. It came and went, came and went, came and went. I saw that the light came from a lighthouse.

I was near the base of something tall. Something brick, something sea, something light —- I was near the base of a lighthouse, towering above me in endless rows of bricks, at the base of which was an open door. Through the door I could just see the start of a staircase running along the interior. I was near the base of a spiral stair.

In a lighthouse off a rocky shore a man called I was climbing a tall spiral staircase. Presently he reached the top. A bright light circled just above me like a vulture, lighting up my surroundings. After one sweep of the light, my surroundings were nothing. A second sweep answered the long mystery of what was at the top, for there the woman stood, but the light moved on and she was gone.

A third sweep —- she stood like Nike, noble and proud, but her eyes were closed. Her hair was wild in the salty wind and she held something in her outstretched hand.

The light swung around again for a fourth sweep —- she held a rabbit, its ears caught in her white-knuckled fist, dangling terribly. Its fur was caked and matted with dried blood. The wind rocked it gently as it dangled and stared out at me with black eyes over its bloodied whiskers. The light had stopped its rotation and it now shined mercilessly on the woman and her attentive prize.

At the top of a lighthouse I was looking into the eyes of a dead rabbit; it looked also into mine.

Ireland Adventure

2005-06-17T15:45:00.000-07:00

Monday, June 20 to Thursday, June 30. I intended on staying at each destination around two days, but my reliance on the bus network just wouldn't allow it. Thus:

June 20 - Brighton to Gatwick to Shannon to Galway
June 21 - Galway to Kilronan
June 22 - Kilronan to Enniskillen
June 23 - Enniskillen
June 24 - Enniskillen to Dunfanaghy
June 25 - Dunfanaghy to Derry
June 26 - Derry to Belfast
June 27 - Belfast to Drogheda
June 28 - Drogheda to Dublin
June 29 - Dublin to Limerick
June 30 - Limerick to Shannon to Gatwick to Brighton
July 1 - Brighton to Gatwick to Detroit to Seattle

Optical Illusions

2005-06-15T07:50:00.000-07:00

If these two pictures don't blow your mind, your mind is a lot more durable than mine.

I had a hard time coming to terms with the fact that that is not animated. But, it's really not. There are a ton more like this here.

I feel like the universe is going to come apart when I look at this one, because the squares marked A and B are the same shade of gray. Don't believe me? Three proofs: 1) Here. 2) Or, save it, open it in MS Paint, cut out sections of A and B and look at them seperate from the board. 3) Open it in MS Paint, use the Pick Color tool to pick color first from A, than B, checking the color attributes in Colors --> Edit Colors --> Define Custom Colors each time.

C.S. Lewis's Top Ten Most Influential Books: #9

2005-06-10T08:25:00.000-07:00

In 1962, The Christian Century magazine asked C.S. Lewis the question, "What books did most to shape your vocational attitude and your philosophy of life?" His answer can be found where I found it, here. This is the first installment of a series on these ten books. It will continue in the order I read them. As you can see, I'm starting with number nine on the list, so there will be no order to my posts.

The most immediate thing about Descent into Hell (1949), besides its arresting title, is its difficulty. Just a glance at the chapter headings shows what I mean: titles like "The Magus Zoroaster," "Via Mortis," or "The Doctrine of Substituted Love." The content of these and the other chapters is as opaque as the titles indicate, but no more - Mr. Williams makes no effort to spell things out for us, as Mr. Lewis usually does, but it is far from postmodern inscrutability. Indeed, because it isn't taken too far, I think this elusive quality is one of the best aspects of the book. I feel I could read Descent into Hell ten times, and each time gain a whole new level of insight into its depths. For, if anything, it is deep.

Like The Last Battle, the entire plot proceeds on a hill -- Battle Hill, a small suburban community of intellectuals and artists. The story centers around the production of a play by the foremost member of this community, the playwright Peter Stanhope. Mr. Stanhope is the Voice of Reason, the wise "Professor Digory" character. Adela Hunt, one of the actresses, shows us what Mr. Williams thought of the typical academic progressive type, through her continual inability to grasp the eternal truths embodied in Mr. Stanhope and his play. Pauline Anstruther is another actress, oppressed by a continual fear of a doppelganger which she encounters sometimes roaming the streets. Lawrence Wentworth is a history scholar who descends into a hell of his own making, a prison of self-absorbed solitude built from the bricks of his obsessively jealous lust for Ms. Hunt. The story focuses on the struggles of Ms. Anstruther and Mr. Wentworth to cope with their demons -- Anstruther's outer, and Wentworth's inner. Another is important figure is the ghost of a man who died on Battle Hill long before Mr. Stanhope and the others took up residence there. Through him we see Mr. Williams' idea of the literal Hell, as opposed to the figurative, self-created hells of characters like Mr. Wentworth.

Charles Williams was a colleague and friend of C.S. Lewis at Oxford, and one of the foremost members of the loose collective known as the Inklings there. It is easy to see some of the ways by which C.S. Lewis was influenced here. Early in the novel there is an interaction between the aging playwright Mr. Stanhope and the young, naive Ms. Fox:

"...Nature's so terribly good. Don't you think so, Mr. Stanhope?"

Stanhope ... turned his head and answered, "That Nature is terribly good? Yes, Miss Fox. You do mean 'terribly'?"

"Why, certainly," Miss Fox said. "Terribly -- dreadfully -- very."

"Yes," Stanhope said again. "Very. Only -- you must forgive me; it comes from doing so much writing, but when I say 'terribly' I think I mean 'full of terror'. A dreadful goodness."

"I don't see how goodness can be dreadful," Miss Fox said, with a shade of resentment in her voice. "If things are good they're not terrifying, are they?"

"It was you who said 'terribly'," Stanhope reminded her with a smile, "I only agreed."

"And if things are terrifying," Pauline put in ..., "can they be good?"

He looked down on her. "Yes, surely," he said, with more energy. "Are our tremors to measure the Omnipotence?"

It is easy to see the connection from here to Aslan, the terrifying figure of God who is not at all "a tame lion."

I have to confess, I'm quite sure that most of the valuable insight Mr. Lewis found in this novel went straight over my head. Still though, I'm impressed by the insight I did catch. It comes most often in the dialogues, as above, of various characters with Mr. Stanhope, who is inspiring in his humble Godliness. Here is another priceless exchange:

"You talk as if life were good," she said.

"It's either good or evil," he answered, "and you can't decide that by counting incidents on your fingers. The decision is of another kind..."

In Mr. Lewis's body of work, Descent into Hell is most closely aligned with The Great Divorce. Both are works of the imagination (not of theology -- it is important to remember that neither author claims orthodoxy here) that ask, "What if we could peek behind the curtain of death? What might we see?" The central difference that I see lies in style.

Mr. Lewis's work is prosaic and straightforward. I saw Mr. Williams's tombstone, though, and on it, it said quite prominently POET. Descent into Hell is poetic -- in its language as well as its ambiguity. Like the best poems, it requires several readings to really begin to grasp the depth of the truths behind it. I've only read it once though, so that's all I have to say about it.

Fun with Wikipedia, from "stoner metal" to "California Institute of Technology"

2005-06-04T03:52:00.000-07:00

Bored at work? Here's a fun and edifying diversion.

Wikipedia has become easily one of the top ten most useful websites on the Internet, and it now has just about anything you'd want to know about anything ever. Plus it seems very reliable, which is surprising since anybody can edit anything however they want.

If, like me, you like(d) to read encyclopedias or dictionaries, Wikipedia is a dream come true. One thing I always loved to do is to randomly pick an encyclopedia article, read it, and then move on to a "Related Article" found at the bottom, and continue in that way on a fantastic voyage through human knowledge. Wikipedia takes it to the next level. On the home page there's a link to a random article. I use that to start, and move from page to page by clicking random links. I select the random link by either a) coin-flipping or b) holding down the Tab key with my eyes closed. It's not only fun to learn about random interesting stuff, but it's just as fun just seeing where this process takes you.

Here's an example itinerary I did recently:

Stoner metal
Monster Magnet
Metallica
    Lineups
        Early Lineups
Ride the Lightning
Minute
Angle
    Angles in astronomy
Stars
List of Stars
Andromeda (constellation)
    Notable deep sky objects
Milky Way (1)
    The galactic neighborhood
Sagittarius Dwarf Elliptical Galaxy
Dark Matter
    Alternative explanations
Modified Newtonian Dynamics
    Consistence with the observations
Astrophysics
    Astrophysicists
Timeline of gravitational physics and relativity
Robert H. Dicke
List of Astrophysicists
David Schramm
California Institute of Technology

Galloway Propaganda

2005-05-28T11:03:00.000-07:00

Check out this flyer I found on campus yesterday (click it for a bigger version):

Here is a man who has built an entire career out of evading the truth, and everyone who knows anything knows it, democratically elected by (presumably) sentient human beings in London. Christopher Hitchens has the low-down on this blackguard.

These are crazy times when a man known to have accepted bribes from a sadistic mass-murdering dictator can call the successful liberation of 25 million people from that dictator's long and oppressive regime, resulting in the birth of a new democracy, to be "a disaster" and be met with cheers around the globe and welcomed by his countrymen as some sick kind of national hero. How far the British have fallen.
The reverse of the flyer cites some of the Respect party's goals, including "ending the culture of capitalism" and "putting people before profit." Since when have political parties been involved in making profits anyway? I can only assume he means he wants to force the people of the United Kingdom (or at the very least, Bethnal Green & Bow) to "put people before profit," in which case -- [ring ring ring] oh excuse me -- Hello? Yes, hang on. George, it's Adam Smith, he'd like to speak with you about the culture of capitalism.

Now that I think of it, it makes sense that capitalism isn't Galloway's favorite system. I'm sure he'd much prefer one centered around bribes, extortion and blackmail.

The flyer creatively states that Galloway "crossed the Atlantic to give the U.S. Senate 'both barrels,' delighting anti-war campaigners in the U.S. and across the world." Actually, he crossed the Atlantic to be questioned about his extended relationship with aforementioned mass-murdering dictator. Galloway is a smart one. He's playing the "anti-war campaigners" for a pack of fools, and - surprise, surprise - it's working.

The Left's Exodus

2005-05-25T05:50:00.000-07:00

I feel like I've seen a lot of articles in the past few months written by lifelong members of the "progressive" political left who are fed up with the blindness to the nature of the 21st century world and the rejection of traditionally liberal values (such as, oh I don't know, liberty) that now characterize the left. But this one by Keith Thompson I particularly like. He sums up just about all the reasons why I am not, as he is no longer, a member of the Western cultural left. This includes their refusal to call a spade a spade in the case of evil, their defense of terrorists who are the antithesis of goodness and honor, their support for equality at the expense of equal rights in the form of unjust discrimination, their abandonment of free speech in the form of campus speech codes, and their rejection of the ideas of personal responsibility and moral culpability (phew).

America must now focus on creating healthy, self-actualizing individuals committed to taking responsibility for their lives, developing their talents, honing their skills and intellects, fostering emotional and moral intelligence, all in all contributing to the advancement of the human condition.

Normally this article is the kind of thing that I love to read, but despair of it ever reaching the necessary audience -- that is, those members of the left who haven't completely lost their sense yet. But look where it was published -- the San Francisco Chronicle.

I would like to put Mr. Thompson's concluding paragraph next to one of my favorite bits of wisdom from C.S. Lewis. Mr. Thompson:

...I have come to believe, and gladly join with others who have discovered for themselves, that the single most important thing a genuinely liberal person can do now is walk away from the house the left has built. The renewal of any tradition that deserves the name "progressive" becomes more likely with each step in a better direction.

Mr. Lewis:

If you are on the wrong road, progress means doing an about-turn and walking back to the right road; and in that case the man who turns back soonest is the most progressive man.

Christendom's Adolescence, Pt. 2

2005-05-20T14:18:00.000-07:00

In my previous post on this topic, I explained how I believe that Christianity reached its adolescence in recent centuries, and is still in that stage now. Implicit in this terminology (and explicit in the previous post) is a comparison with the development of the individual. I said that the time of adolescence is the primary time for testing beliefs one once held without question, and that it results ultimately in the retention or rejection of those beliefs.

This is, then, a crucial time, but also one of hope, for our task is not to revive a dying old man but to mentor a developing young one. In considering how to influence the world to retain a strengthened Christianity rather than dispose of a distrusted one, my thoughts continually return to the absolutely essential essay by Richard John Neuhaus from 1998, C.S. Lewis in the Public Square. Fr. Neuhaus considers the question of how C.S. Lewis would have altered his strategy in the context of postmodernism, and in the process gives an excellent summary of the state of thought today, which itself can basically be summed up in the phrase we've all heard (essentially), "Right you are if you think you are."

The essay is dauntingly long for something to read on a computer screen (for me at least), but I'd really seriously recommend it to... everybody, but especially to anyone who has an interest about into which port this ship called society is being steered. Also, to anyone of the many people who haven't quite figured out what this whole postmodernism thing is all about, it offers a very good explanation. Right now there seems to be a divide between the academic philosophers and their admirers, who have for the most part fully embraced the incoherency of postmodernism, and the rest of the world, which has quite reasonably gone on thinking that x = x and that one is right only when one is right. Those who are most responsible for the defense of reason are the ones most eager to abolish it in favor of... what? I don't even know. Nothing, I guess. I don't know how long this divide between intelligentsia and the rest will last, but I know that the longer this fantasy is confined to the ivory tower, the better.

I have doubts that pure postmodernism will ever be accepted by society in general. Most of us are pretty attached to our old-fashioned idea of truth (even those who claim it doesn't exist are fond of it, as evidenced by the fact that they bothered to make any claim at all). Ridiculous ideas are for ridiculous people, and I think academia for the most part sadly qualifies. But if after nearly a century after Marcel Duchamp's readymades, the majority of people still don't consider the act of signing random objects and putting them in austere white rooms to be art, then I can have hope that post-modernism will remain locked in that tower until it finally dies of boredom.

It may well be that I was overly optimistic just now, and that post-modernist ideas (I have a hard time calling them that) are already doing their damage on a wider scale than I'd like to think. Indeed, discussions with typical college students might indicate that I was. Regardless, the secret to ending this insanity is to continually expose it as the direct attack on reason it is.

I pray that I might be able to see during my lifetime the beginnings of the widespread acceptance of Christianity as the True Story of the world, strengthened against any and all attacks after centuries of rigorous examination. Maybe it won't happen in my lifetime, but I have faith that it will eventually and I will tell you why. First, I have confidence, as Mr. Lewis and Fr. Neuhaus have confidence, "that human beings are hard–wired for reason in search of truth." Second, well, here: Revelation 5:13 --

Then I heard every creature in heaven and on earth and under the earth and on the sea, and all that is in them, singing:

"To him who sits on the throne and to the Lamb
be praise and honor and glory and power,
for ever and ever!"

Fiction Fragment 5

2005-05-20T13:33:00.000-07:00

As always, you might want to consider reading the first, second, third and fourth parts before this one, or you'll be a little lost.

***

I was up and after it in a second, quite loth to see my only chance of a meal vanish into the woods. I sprinted over the grass and gave no thought to what I would do if I somehow caught it -- to the fact that my only knives were in the tent at least a mile north and that my capacity for strangling a hare with which I had so recently exchanged wordless recognition was dubious at best. It had gotten a head-start while I had scrambled to my feet, and was now several yards in the lead. It was lucky that I wasn't wearing my backpack, and I felt I would be able to win this race before the finish line at the tree line.

We turned up a gentle hill, and at this point several curious things happened in quick succession:

First, my hare disappeared. My eyes were glued to his brown bouncing back at one moment, and the next they were darting helplessly about in search of the vanished creature while I continued my course at full speed.

That course quickly brought me to the top of the hill, where I was barely able to kill my momentum before falling into a wide pit. It was full of slimy half-decayed leaves, from among which my big hare was frantically trying to extricate himself. But the sides of the pit were too high -- it was trapped by a few extra inches. The hare had won the race, but I had won the hare.

I jumped down into the leaves and advanced on the pitiful creature, who renewed its efforts with vigor. Looking back on what happened next almost feels like remembering a dream. To my astonishment, the hare cleared the walls of the pit, which came up past my waist, and resumed his flight. Forced to follow, I advanced four strides. One, two, three -- I remember them well -- four. On the fourth, my foot never found ground, but fell, bringing me with it. The last thing I saw before it all went dark was this: everything rising around me as I fell -- the pit walls, the meadow, the wood; my hare, once again bouncing away to the safety of the trees; and through those trees, red -- dark, brick-red -- a tall brick structure; and above that, a gray plume of smoke, reaching high into the gray sky, mingling with the gathering clouds. In an instant it was all quite gone.

Get Behind Me, Satan

2005-05-20T13:17:00.000-07:00

Here's the album cover:

Just... wow. With that and the title, I'd say the upcoming White Stripes album has "one of the greatest records ever" written all over it. Now we just have to see about the music...

Christendom's Adolescence, Pt. 1

2005-05-19T07:39:00.000-07:00

Here's something I've been thinking a lot about lately. As far as I know, it's an original idea. The more I think about it though, the more obvious it seems, and the more I feel it likely that it's not a very unique idea. To my knowledge I, at least, have never heard it before, and certainly not in these terms.

Consider a kid who believes in Santa Claus. Since his earliest days he's been taught that a jolly fat man slides down the chimney of his home and delivers presents every Christmas Eve, after which he kicks back and eats the cookies and milk left by the kid. The kid wakes up: the cookies are gone, the presents are there, just like he had been told. He doesn't even consider any explanation other than the obvious. Everything fits, why should he?

The kid gets older though, and his reasoning capacities grow. He realizes he doesn't have a chimney. He realizes that the presents from Santa were wrapped in the same paper as the presents from Mom and Dad. He discards the illusion and embraces the truth, however reluctantly. He leads a long life, gets married, paints the house, goes to Europe, receives some parking tickets and dies, all without ever returning to his early naive belief in Santa Claus.

Now, take the same kid: even in the womb his parents told him the Christian story and asserted its truth to him. He was born again practically before he was born the first time. As a kid, he goes along with it. It all fits, why should he do otherwise? Besides, memorizing Bible verses equals candy. He gets older though, and realizes that not everyone believes what he believes. Later on, he hears that it's foolish wishful thinking to continue to believe as he has since his birth. He reads something about how God is dead and if you don't think so you must be smoking the opium of the people, or something. So he investigates - what is the truth? The question proves much more complex than his earlier Santa Claus question.

Both of these are familiar stories. Many of us no doubt recognize them from our own lives. Whether it's the fat man in the red suit, or Jesus Christ, or something else, everyone knows what it's like to challenge one's own beliefs, especially during the rapid expansion of our reasoning capacity that occurs primarily during adolescence.

I would propose to apply this template, so universal in the case of individuals, to Christianity as a whole. Think of the early church. How did Christianity spread so quickly? Most people didn't need to weigh the evidence against their skepticism, or worry about whether they were engaging in wishful thinking. Some did I'm sure, but for the most part, they simply heard the Good News, were amazed, and believed. Just like our kid with Santa Claus.

And just like our kid's silly belief in Santa Claus, many beliefs of early church sects are silly in the light of modern theology -- things like Arianism and monophysitism, or attempts to combine Roman paganism with Christianity. There are many other examples, some of which are still seen as valid in some parts of the world. The age of reason, though, has been a long process of using our God-given faculty of reason to apply our growing knowledge of the world to our lives and our societies. In the course of this progress, scientific discoveries have challenged some things we believed. But with the work of great Christians like Augustine, Aquinas, Luther, Calvin and Lewis, working in tandem with the development of scientific knowledge, our understanding of Christianity has grown with (not "despite," as some would have it) our understanding of the world.

The kid did the same thing. He applied his growing knowledge of the world and how it works to his belief in Christianity. He saw possible contradictions, and continually tested his faith by always asking, "How does this affect what I believe?" A kid raised by atheistic materialism would apply the same tests to his faith in that belief. So when the kid becomes a man, what does he do? At this point we can no longer speak in universal language - paths sadly diverge. Some faiths are strengthened by the test and others are broken.

That time of testing during the adolescent years is the crucial point, and I would like to suggest that it is that point of the narrative which we have reached so far. We are in the deepest throes of Christendom's adolescence. When Nietzsche so infamously spouted that "God is dead," he meant (to put it simply) that belief in God is dead -- it was all the same to him. Anyone with even limited knowledge of the world today, however, can see that he was dead wrong. The once-accepted narrative in which Christianity is made an anachronism while being replaced by stark materialism is now itself an anachronism. (In some parts of the world this narrative might seem like reality, but a look at Christianity around the globe is reassuring - the Church is alive.) I believe that Nietzsche and others who thought they were seeing the end of religion were quite off the mark. Christianity is not dying. Far from it -- it is growing up.

Part 2 of this post will come... later. So um, stay tuned.

Loose Lips Sink Ships

2005-05-15T14:09:00.000-07:00

I wouldn't normally link to something Instapundit's already linked, since I'd assume everyone would have already seen it. But I feel that this story should be posted on every site on the internet, until every single American media consumer understands who exactly is giving them the "news."

Prof. Reynolds puts it well:

People died, and U.S. military and diplomatic efforts were damaged, because -- let's be clear here -- Newsweek was too anxious to get out a story that would make the Bush Administration and the military look bad.

Read that carefully. Now, I don't want to get all hysterical, but -- I mean, look: In other words, Newsweek damaged U.S. military and diplomatic efforts because they were too anxious to get out a story that would damage U.S. military and diplomatic efforts. That's tantamount to treason.

UPDATE: "But I feel that this story should be posted on every site on the internet..." Hey, looks like I just about got my wish!

Fiction Fragment 4

2005-05-14T11:34:00.000-07:00

The fourth part in a series. Please read the first, second and third parts, or it won't make any sense!

***

Just as we reached the clearing, the blanket of clouds which had covered us constantly since our troubles began thinned a little, allowing the long-lost sun to warm us a bit for the first time in weeks. Its rays brightened the grass around us, painting the picture of a soft, dry and grassy bed. So welcome was this sight after weeks of damp and cramped woodland, and so weak were we from our search and involuntary fast, that we were unable to resist the urge to lie down.

We planned to stay only as long as the sunlight lasted, knowing full well that finding food was far more urgent than rest. We lay on our side, eyes level with the short grass. A few adventurous ants climbed onto our arms and wandered aimlessly. They too were looking for food. Flies landed on our legs and left again, mostly uninterested in the huge intrusion on their tranquil lawn. We closed our eyes and shortly the ground was swaying and wobbling below us like a crib or sailing ship as we slowly began sinking into sleep. But --

Something darkened the reddish-black color of our closed eyelids into a pitch-black -- a shadow was over us, too substantial for clouds. Opening our eyes, we found ourselves face to face with a curious brown hare, tentatively twitching its whiskers just inches away. We looked at each other for some time, none of us moving. It was a large, handsome creature -- it would make a large and handsome dinner. Man and beast considered one another, and as we did, we were -- that is, I suppose, I was -- struck, as I have often been before with some animals, at the peculiar sense of self-awareness I found in its eyes. But this time, there was the additional idea of extroversion -- it seemed to know me, and I don't think it's my sentimentality speaking when I say that I -- for a short moment -- thought I found sympathy for my trouble in its deep black eyes. Nonetheless, it appeared to intuit the culinary plan I had for its future, for he aprubtly turned tail and bounded away across the meadow.

Defending Capitalism

2005-05-14T11:19:00.000-07:00

One thing that I get frustrated about is the seemingly universal practice of maligning that which benefits one most. It happens a lot regarding the United States, but here I'm especially thinking about capitalism in general. Here at the University of Sussex, it's generally assumed that we're all a bunch of happy anti-capitalists. I was once approached by a young woman who asked if I wanted to recieve some free issues of some magazine or other. Hip to her jive, I asked if it was generally anti-capitalist. She looked at me as if I had just asked the faith of the Pope. I declined the offer.

Here's a nice piece by Clive Crook (oh the irony) that asks a question I've been asking since I got here: "Why Does Capitalism Get Such A Bum Rap?"

Personally, I blame Marx. And also, as the article suggests, a pervasive forgetfulness concerning a little thing called the 20th century.

Narnia Trailer Released!

2005-05-10T04:03:00.000-07:00

There are not enough exclamation points in the world for this link: The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, Exclusive Trailer Premiere.

And I'd just like to say, in case anyone has any misconceptions, this will not be Lord of the Rings. Especially after seeing the trailer, it's clear that this is a "family film" in every sense of the term. A film for all ages besides those ages in which one can't feel comfortable watching a film for all ages.. This will not be a Best Picture candidate. This is a good thing.

Fiction Fragment 3

2005-05-07T15:14:00.000-07:00

Here's the third part of a story I'm finding in my head. I recommend reading the first and second parts before this one. It's a good idea even if you've read them before, just because your memory's not that good. What? No, it's really not. What did you have for dinner last Tuesday? Yeah, like I said.

***

The night was silent; not even the sound of insects crawled through our musty tent walls. Our last thought as awareness waned was to wonder what sounds a brick monolith might make, creeping through a wood, pushing past branches and over newly ragged stumps, plowing through earth to a nearby meadow-- would it make a sound at all?

---

It was good that they slept, and slept soundly. Had they not, they might have felt a sustained tremor from the ground beneath them, and heard a muted din, the distant clacking and clanking of stone and metal. It might have terrified them.

---

No sound woke us. Hunger courteously obliged to do that favor, and our first thought on that new day was not of any brick structure, but of the persistent gnawing discomfort in our gut. Still though, upon setting foot outside and straightening out a stiff back, we saw dark red through the nearby trees and the strange conclusion to the previous day returned to our memory.

Nothing had changed during the night, and in the sunlight we saw our vague foreboding of the pillar as pure foolishness next to the new and more tangible fear of starvation. Resisting the temptation to go north to examine our brick enigma and perhaps find a vantage point from which to view its top, we went south in search of nourishment.

It soon became apparent that wild game was out of the question. The silence of the wood was complete-- no life stirred its brush. So we looked for berries, fruit or a potato farm, wandering farther and farther from our camp as we did. The more distance we put between ourselves and the tent, the more hopeless our search appeared. The vegetation became more sparse and the trees thinner. Just as we were beginning to decide that there was more hope of nutrition in the denser forest behind us, the space between the trees opened up and we found ourselves in a small grassy meadow.

Post-Adventure Post

2005-05-03T02:31:00.000-07:00

I made a big circle around Britain over the course of 4 weeks in March and April. Here is that circle's story, greatly condensed into photo essay form...

Cardiff, Day 2-3

Cardiff Castle in the heart of the Welsh capital (100 years old, Europe's youngest!). The chaps out front are rugby fans, just a few of the dozens and dozens of thousands who descended on the city for the Grand Slam match against Ireland.

St. David's, Day 3-4

Two pilgrimages to St. David's once equaled one to Rome and three equaled one to Jerusalem. It's the smallest city in Britain, only classified as a city because of its Bishop's Palace and St. David's Cathedral. This is a shrine at a spring near the birthplace of St. David, the patron saint of Wales, the water of which is said to cure illness. I'm still diabetic though.

Llanberis, Day 5-6

Here I am on the side of Mt. Snowdon, the tallest mountain in England and Wales. The first team to climb Mt. Everest trained here. Llanberis is the little lakeside town at its foot.

Shrewsbury, Day 7-8

Back in England now. A pleasant little city surrounded by a river, Shrewsbury is known for its bounty of Tudor-style buildings like this one. I did laundry here.

Chester, Day 8-9

Hey look it's Chester. I went to the Easter Sunday service in Chester Cathedral.

Carlisle, Day 10-11

Sorry Carlisle, but you were my least interesting destination. Here is Carlisle Castle, north of the city.

Pitlochry, Day 12-13

Pitlochry is south of the Scottish Highlands. The landscapes here reminded me of the American Pacific Northwest.

Stromness, Day 14-15

The nothernmost point of my journey, on Orkney Island. I hired a bicycle and rode around to a few of the ancient monuments there. This is the Ring of Brodgar. Note the rainbow on the right.

Edinburgh, Day 16-18

Edinburgh... Well, it's more like Edinburgh than any other city I've ever been in, I'll tell you that much. This view of the city is taken from Holyrood Park, the extensive wilderness literally adjacent to the city center.

Jedburgh, Day 19

My shortest stay was in Jedburgh in the Scottish Borders, and I only had time to go to the abbey ruins, pictured here.

Durham, Day 20-21

Back again into England. I love Durham. At just about every one of my destinations there were a cathedral and a castle, and Durham might have had my favorite of both. You can see both on the left.

York, Day 22-23

Basically, York is York Minster, the second biggest cathedral in Western Europe. Here is a view of the interior. A note about the cross: I have very mixed feelings about cathedrals, due partly no doubt to my Protestant upbringing. I feel like the point of it all can be easily lost in the endless monuments, stained glass windows, corbelled arches, clerestory windows, etc. etc. I have other reasons as well. Perhaps I'll make a post about it. But this cross was easily the greatest thing I saw in any of the many cathedrals I visited. Placed centrally in front of the organ, hanging in mid-air at the crossing, among the insane opulence of this massive minster, a clear, unembellished and unmistakeable reminder of what it's all about.

Edale, Day 24

Edale is a tiny village in the Peak District, one of England's most popular national parks. The area was serenely peaceful and quiet, which was very welcome between the busy tourist meccas of York and Oxford. The town of Castleton is behind me.

Oxford, Day 25-26

Everyone knows that Oxford was the home of C.S. Lewis, but there's also a little university called, perhaps not coincidentally, "Oxford," and I was surprised at the apparent popularity it had with the tourists. I guess it's pretty old. Anyway, here I am in the much more historically significant structure, the Eagle & Child pub, where Mr. Lewis met with J.R.R. Tolkien and other colleagues every Tuesday around noon. This picture was taken on Tuesday around noon. Later, my circuitous pilgrimage ended when I walked to Headington Quarry to see Mr. Lewis' home, church and grave. Pictured, L-R: Tolkien, Lewis, Goddard.

University of Sussex, Day 27-Present

So now I'm back at the university, hard at work once again...

Contemporary Academia in a Nutshell...

2005-04-30T11:21:00.000-07:00

...especially now that the nebulous mess called "cultural studies" has all but swallowed English literary studies whole:

Fiction Fragment 2

2005-04-30T10:38:00.000-07:00

Here's the second installment of the story I guess I'm working on. As with the first installment, suggestions and comments of any nature are more than welcome. Since I have only a little more of an idea what's going on or where it will go from here than you do, you potentially hold a lot of power over its direction.

***

We circled it, looking for a break in the pattern of stacked and staggered rectangles that might lead us to an idea of its origins or purpose. Finding none, we tried to climb a neighboring tree to try to see its top-- as it was surrounded by thick forest, we could only view it from close, which kept us from seeing how it terminated. Was it an obelisk, a funerary monument for the industrial giant of a lost civilization? Or would we find a statue, a triumphant emperor seated on his steed, made immortal and immobile for his heroic achievement in expanding the empire to this remotest of outposts? Or would we find at its summit the thing that in those moments of wonder seemed the least likely of all: nothing whatsoever? But as anyone who has ever tried to climb a birch knows already, the futility of the idea became immediately apparent. There were simply no branches low enough to reach and strong enough to support a man.

The sun was by now well behind the trees and light was beginning to fade. Reluctantly, we moved on from the enigma. We found a clearing nearby, and immediately erected our tent while the lingering daylight still accommodated.

To the north, behind the dark green curtain of the thick wood out of which we had just come, the darkly aged brick of our monument was just visible. We were glad, in the way one might be glad that a black widow is still visible. There was the irrational and unspoken notion among us that while we held it in our vision it would remain a very inexplicable stack of bricks, but that as soon as it was lost from view, anything at all might happen. Visions of midnight masonic rituals or pagan sacrifices danced in our heads. In the low-grade delirium of that evening, it felt like the monolith might move closer to us under cloak of darkness, might tip itself over and crush us in our tent, or might vanish without a trace. Somehow, the last possibility was the most disconcerting.

Still, though, we were glad when it was finally obscured behind the growing gloom. There was nothing comforting about our find, as there might have been about tire tracks or electrical wires. It was man-made, but the men who made it had long since left, apparently, and there was something grotesque in its remaining.

A Fortunate Find

2005-04-27T15:29:00.000-07:00

Don't ask me why it didn't happen sooner, but today I found The Window in the Garden Wall--A C.S. Lewis Blog. This blog is based on the beautifully simple idea of posting one bit of Mr. Lewis's writings each day.

And what was the most recent post? The top ten books that influenced C.S. Lewis, from a 1962 article in The Christian Century.

It would be extremely difficult to overstate the importance this has for me. Many years ago (by a youth's standards) I ran across the passage of Surprised by Joy in which Mr. Lewis lists some of the reading material he enjoyed as a schoolboy, and I immediately set out to read as much of it as I could. I only got through Candide, and at the time it was way over my head. The list wasn't ideal though-- it was the list of Jack the schoolboy, not Mr. Lewis the man, which is fine if I wanted to emulate the younger model, but (even then!) I was aiming higher, and I still am.

In Miracles, he recommends reading Symbolism and Belief by Edwyn Robert Bevan, which I'm about halfway through, and Poetic Diction by Owen Barfield, which I'm still looking for.

But those-- the student's list and the spare recommendations-- are small potatoes compared with this find. Check it out, as well as the rest of the blog. You'll at least have a very good idea of what I'll be reading for pleasure in the next long while.

A post regarding my recent adventure is forthcoming, hopefully soon.

Fiction Fragment

2005-04-27T14:43:00.000-07:00

I made another timid attempt at creative writing a few days ago. It's very short, as I have zero writerly endurance, and it's only a piece of a possibly much larger whole. Thing is, I have no idea what that whole will be, and that's where you come in. I welcome any suggestions on where to take it from here-- as well as comments and suggestions on what I already have, of course.

***

The pattern in the brickwork seemed to us some faded shrine to a long-forgotten god. He lies face-down under the sand of a distant desert while we scan his only lasting residue-- gray lines on grimey red, supporting nothing, signifying-- what? Some lines went straight as a horizon, others wandered in confusion; but this is wrong, they were all one, for the one that went straight was part of the one that went crooked and fed into the other until all distinctions were forgotten. But even now this is a lie, for the truth is there were no lines-- there was a huge mortar net, thrown by magicians (mathematicians? engineers?) across the surface of a single massive brick, tipped on its end in the middle of the __________.

At least, those were the thoughts that found us as we found ourselves in the shadow of that singular find, beset by hunger and cold and the intolerable memory of a soft, warm bed. It was quite simply a brick monolith among the trees, vying with them for height, around two arm-spans in length and width. Perpendiculars, that was it-- for weeks the only ones we'd seen had been those approximations peculiar to nature. Where a tree met the ground or a branch met the tree, these organic nearly-ninety-degree angles had given us no relief from our thirst for any minute hint of civilization. And now-- and now there it was before us, a completely meaningless chunk of London or New York with all its old-fashioned modernist exactness, crowding the birches and besting their perpendiculars. It was nuts.

****

So that's all I have, just two paragraphs. Clearly, a lot of questions remain to be answered. Who are the "we"? Where are they, besides a very remote place with birch trees, and why are they there? What's the deal with the monolith? Is this the beginning of the story, or some place in the middle? What do they do from here? Which of these questions should actually be answered in the story, and which should be left open? The e-mail and comment lines are open! It's like a Choose Your Own Adventure book, except that you might flip to the page and it'll say "Eh... thanks for the suggestion, but I don't think I'm gonna use it," and then you wait a month or two to find out what does happen next. Don't let that stop you though.

Fr. Neuhaus's Rome Diary

2005-04-23T11:18:00.000-07:00

In all the talk about the recent ecclesiastical events in Rome, I've seen no one mention or reference Richard John Neuhaus' Rome Diary at the First Things site. It is-- as it seems everything is that Neuhaus writes-- insightful, entertaining and worth a read, especially if you (still) have an interest in these events.

Here's a tantalizing quote I liked:

There is something deliciously satisfying in watching the more than six thousand reporters accredited to these events, along with their hundreds of satellite trucks and anchorpersons at the ready, being forced to watch a stove pipe for a puff of smoke.

I Know What You're Looking For

2005-04-23T05:45:00.000-07:00

You're looking for an easy recipe for good chai tea. And it's a good thing you made it here or you might have been looking for a long time. I've found this one to be very nice and easy, as long as you have a reasonably well-stocked spice cabinet (as I, a college student on the other side of the world from home, certainly...do...?)

Something about my adventure coming up, hopefully soon.

Prepare for Giddiness

2005-04-20T07:04:00.000-07:00

This is just a quick post to spread the word: http://www.narnia.com . The Disney marketing juggernaut has started to roll, and it's never been so beautiful.

Wait for the handle to finish turning and make sure your sound is on. If you have dial-up you may be waiting some time, but if you're at all like me you'll be glad you did. Aside from the serious threat this discovery poses to focusing on your essay-writing.

More regarding my adventure hopefully soon (the predicate of this clause is implied), but if you're holding your breath, please stop and have a glass of water and maybe take a nap or a walk if the weather's nice.

UPDATE: Looks like they've made changes to eliminate the long load times. Unfortunately this also eliminates the amazing Flash extravaganza that got me so jazzed originally, but of course the website is still great as it is. Curious, though, that I can't find the original anywhere. The link at the bottom just reloads the same page, for me. Let me know if you find it.

Adventuring

2005-03-17T08:00:00.000-08:00

When a book finds its way to the right person at the right time in the form of a gift, it can be a beautiful thing. I've been fortunate enough to be the beneficiary of such beauty a number of times in the past several years. The one I'm thinking of now is a book called Wild at Heart by John Eldredge, which my church gave to me for my high school graduation.

It's not a perfect book, but there's one idea I got from it which has stuck with me, that all men have a deep longing for some sort of adventure or epic struggle that is simply not to be tangibly found in the vast majority of lives. (I don't think it addresses whether women have the same desire. The book is written by a man for men, and sticks to what it knows. For me, it's enough to know that I feel it.) I'm tempted to say that it's rarer now than in the past, but I think adventure as we usually think of it has always been the domain of a very small minority. Soldiers find it, I suspect, and rich people can now buy their adventures in a neat package. But for the rest of us, reality is very far from any swashbuckling ideal we may have once held.

As Eldredge writes, the good news is that all of us (men and women) are called to an adventure far more noble and exciting than any mere globetrekking, for we are called to do the will of God. For each one of us He has created a perfect plan, and it's up to us to discover and follow it faithfully. It is one of the keenest pleasures of my youth that I know nothing of what challenges He has prepared for me. It's also, of course, one of the keenest anxieties.

So what's all this about then? Every life then, in its intended course, is a perfect struggle in which the only certainty of the future is that it will eventually bring the sweetest fulfillment. Jacob's life was a pilgrimage, and God was his faithful shepherd. I intend to have such a life.

Tomorrow I'm catching a bus at 6:00 am to London. The next day I'll take another bus to Cardiff, Wales. From there I will travel north through to the northern islands of Scotland, where I will turn around and begin the journey south, arriving home a month after I left. It's a much shorter and wordly pilgrimage than the one I've been speaking of, but the two are inextricably linked in my mind.

For anyone who's interested this is the rough order of my destinations:

London
Cardiff
St. David's
Llanberis
Shrewsbury
Chester
Carlisle
Pitlochry
Stromness
Edinburgh
Durham
York
Edale
Norwich

What this means of course is that whereas my updating thus far has been nothing but persistent neglect, for the next month this blog will be silent. If I'm lucky I'll return with a good story or two, a more sound mind and a more safe heart.

I'll leave you and Brighton with these words from one of my loves, Great Expectations:

We changed again, and yet again, and it was now too late and too far to go back, and I went on. And the mists had all solemnly risen now, and the world lay spread before me.

Aquafina

2005-03-13T15:23:00.000-08:00

I've decided that I have some small talent as a writer, but very little-- if any-- skill. To prove these points (the latter more than the former, as you'll soon discover), I present to you the following very short story: "Aquafina." Disclaimer: I actually wrote this last year (over a ludicrously long period of time), so I hope that I've developed a bit since then-- a hope that is strengthened when I reread this story. Think of it as a very early work; everyone has to start somewhere.

Aquafina:
a gas station romance

Every weekday night, around nine-thirty (sometimes earlier, but never later), behind the plastic jars of jerky, the lewd magazines and the orderly grid of cigs, Dusty D. Barnes was just where he wanted to be. At all other times his thoughts his thoughts were of elsewhere, anywhere but the ______ ARCO on mile ______ of highway __. An old castle in England; a busy Calcutta café, making change for wealthy jetsetters; his grandmother’s house, now a faded (and warm and aromatic) memory; back at his apartment playing video games; in an airplane; in the pungent grass of Mary Wilton’s backyard. These were his continual thoughts throughout his evening shifts, and they rushed him away from behind that greasy counter, from the station smells of beer and gas, and the constant parade of long-haul truck drivers, in and out, all day long.

He came back though, every weekday evening, around 9:30. Sometimes earlier, but never later, she glided in and he left those places, and for once during his nine-hour shifts his mind and his body shared a home in that lonesome gas station on Highway __.

Here is how it happened. At that momentous evening time, she would ease her white sedan into a space in front of the station, aimed right at him. She drove a Dodge Neon, mid-90s model. Barnes could spy it around the giant ad for ninety-nine cent hot dogs. Then it really happened. She really stepped out, stood up and stepped in, the bell on the door her fanfare. Barnes straightened up, loathe to appear as humble as he felt before such a procession.

To Barnes’ knowledge, she never actually bought gas at the gas station. As she was a regular (ah, but how irregular a regular!), nor did she stand in the door dumbly scanning for the bathroom, the beer, the Doritos. And as she never varied in her sole purchase, her movements showed no hesitation. Indeed, she was quick and economical with every motion, and it seemed almost as if she didn’t want to be there, in that gas station on Highway __. Barnes always dismissed the thought with celerity, though. It simply couldn’t be. After all, she came in every weekday, right on time.

It was on account of this regularity that Dusty D. Barnes was quite careful to keep the one-liter Aquafina water bottles fully stocked at all times, for those bottles were the object of her visits, the treasure of her hunts. She always bought but one, which cost her one dollar and thirty-nine cents. The glass door, which gave her access to her water, was the kind that swung, not slid, open. With her bare left hand she pulled the door to her smoothly, a loose grip on the handle. Barnes sometimes mused that hers was probably the only reasonably well-washed hand to touch that handle each day. These beautifully sanitized fingers remained there holding the door open while the others glided up and away, always to the same spot, farthest bottle on the right.

Oh that he were the bottle in that hand, that he might kiss those lips! Every weekday around nine-thirty a single one-liter bottle of Aquafina Purified Water slid up and out of its spot and came to her, comfortable in her probably warm clasp, and Dusty D. Barnes came to know quite well the absurdity of feeling envy towards a water bottle. She held it in front of her like a wine glass, hand curled around the middle, not loosely by the mouth and hanging at her side as most would. This arrangement did not look as awkward as it sounds. Indeed, as she held that bottle and walked straight towards Barnes’ counter, nothing could have appeared more natural. The bottle made a home in her hand like it had never known the chilly stillness of the cooler, like it was a natural extension of her hallowed body.

It was always around this time that Barnes had to make the conscious decision to lay his palms flat on the counter to hide their nervous shaking. Each day she placed her bottle there too, and each day he said, “Dollar-fifty, please.” He tried to sound confident. He tried to sound kind and understanding, to sound like someone who would listen to anything you had to say, no matter what, like someone who would give you space when you need it. With those five syllables each night, he tried to sound like he was good with kids.

She always paid with a five. The three one-dollar bills and two quarters he returned comprised his tribute to her, the tax he paid for the service her lovely face brought to his weathered heart. He scooped them out quickly, deciding early on that efficient service would be preferable in the long run to prolonging the moment as long as possible. Here, at least, was a customer worth keeping. “And three-fifty is your change,” he said, with all the aspirations of his earlier request.

He placed the cash on the counter and slid it to her. Usually he just handed change back to the customer, but in this case the possibility of a dropped coin was too much of a risk. Who could say what further disasters could come of a loose quarter, falling out of his hands to the counter and into the depths of the floor below? As she picked up the change she never really looked at him, but sometimes she would give him a mumbled “thanks” that rang in his mind like church bells for the rest of the night. Somewhere in her monosyllabic response he heard the harmonious chime of a constant companion and it lit up his nights like wildfire.

Her sudden departure always left him with a question, a feather quill poking out of the soft, clean pillow of his slowly fading rapture. He could think of no reason why such a one as she would stop at his gas station each and every weekday evening for the singular purpose of procuring a one-liter bottle of Aquafina Purified Water. The marvel of modern plumbing, supplying every residence with fresh water from the tap, and the convenience and financial practicality of buying in bulk, both of these made him wonder at her visits. As this question materialized and defined itself more sharply, it occupied more of his thoughts. He picked it up and turned it over in his mind, looking at it closely, scavenging for clues. Eventually this wondering led him to the faint hope that perhaps her visits had something to do with Dusty D. Barnes. Perhaps, he cautiously dared himself to think, she came not for water, but for him.

Had he not been so predisposed to wondering thus, he may have encountered other more likely answers. He may have considered that after a hard day of waitressing, one of the best things is a generous amount of ice-cold water. He may have considered that home can be far away, and for some things it is better not to wait.

In the midst of his loneliness, though, optimism was a necessity, and the dangerous idea that she would come to that gas station just to see him pushed aside all others. It became a secret between them. She never talked about it, so neither did he. He stopped thinking of her as a customer as her visits began to seem less like stops to buy water and more like covert nighttime rendezvous. On some nights it seemed to him that she must be inspired by a concern for his happiness that was almost maternal in its steadfast compassion. It all depended on his mood—her behavior never budged, and her every movement retained its Aquafina-oriented economy from night to night.

Eventually, though, Dusty D. Barnes grew unhappy with this relationship. The desire to say more to her than the price of a bottle of water—and to hear more from her than her automatic thanks—grew every night until he had no other choice but to do something about it. The decision to take action felt good, as if a corner had been turned and a weight lifted, all at once. But when it came down to deciding just what he should do, he became terrified. Around the corner was a steep cliff, and the lifted weight had been the rope keeping him on solid ground. He thought about a gift of flowers, but immediately stopped. He thought about engaging her in small talk but cowered at the idea, fully aware of his inexperience in that field.

Several nights of sifting through various ideas soon brought him one with which he could feel relatively comfortable. He would write her a letter. No, he would write her a note. A note would definitely be better, he decided. He would take his time with it, taking care to guard it from any fraction of a hint of weirdness. It would be entirely natural in every way and after reading it she would not for a moment think it odd to receive a note from a gas station attendant.

He spent a long chain of days perfecting this note, first carving out the basic shape of it in his mind, then putting pen to paper, every word in its right place. On the final link in this chain Dusty D. Barnes came into work with a note, written on a half-sheet of notebook paper, folded in half, sheathed in his breast pocket. It was flawless. It didn’t say too much, nor did it say too little, and above all it was perfectly natural. On this night he had all the nervous butterflies and scattershot thoughts of a new actor on the night of his debut, dreading a dropped line or cue. Dusty’s lines, however, were all in his pocket.

With that note ready for delivery, there would be no idle daydreaming of far-away places on this night. His shift was a frenzied crescendo of anticipation until that reliable moment when her Dodge carriage pulled up to his ARCO castle. He touched his pocket; the note had not lost itself. She came in right on time, just as she did every weekday, and floated to her water bottle like so many times before. He pretended to count the cash in his register, anxious to hide his trembling. By the time she arrived at his counter he could barely tell a dime from a nickel.

The miniature thud of a water bottle being set on a counter snapped him to attention. The skipped heartbeat when their eyes met was the moment when landing gear leaves the tarmac, when a running jump sustains itself and becomes a tumbling flight.

His plea: “Dollar-fifty, please.”

A five-dollar bill was her oblivious reply.

He counted out three one-dollar bills, two quarters, and one painstakingly crafted note, handwritten in black ball-point on a folded half-sheet of wide-ruled yellow notebook paper. He slid these messages to her side of the counter. “And three-fifty is your change.”

But she saw the paper under the bills and showed it to him. “What’s this?” For the second time that night, their eyes met.

Dusty D. Barnes put his hands in his pockets and looked at his cigarette display. “Nothing.” Marlboro, Camel, Winston…If only she could know just what it was!

When he looked up, her back was turned and out the door. The bell on the door chimed to him with a smile, “I will see you tomorrow.”

Soon, a dull monochrome settled over the station, and Dusty retreated into his hopes for the future. A life of deferred dreams was about to become one of fulfillment. He became restless and thought about leaving early and driving north, taking a walk in the woods, building a fire, to be completely alone with his expectations. When no customers were present he paced up and down his aisles in a futile attempt to manage his restlessness.

He was eventually able to go home, and eventually even able to fall asleep. His dreams had never been sweeter.

***

It was a living gas station, practically pulsing with the memory of he presence, to which Dusty D. Barnes returned the next day. The day was cloudy, but the sun must have shone in that ARCO, for everything was brighter, shinier, more full and alive than he had seen before. The anticipation of what would happen that evening was hardly bearable, but somehow the time passed, the light faded, and eventually all that was visible in his windows was the reflection of himself among the candy and magazines which he was barely able to sell, such was the extent of his distraction. He really had no clear expectations of what her visit would bring. Perhaps she would bring a note of her own, or perhaps she would strike up a conversation and they would arrange to meet for a nightcap after the end of his shift. Perhaps, he thought with dismay, she hadn’t even read his note, and things would just go on as they had before, with interaction limited to only that which was required for their monetary exchange. All possibilities crowded and jumbled in his mind until he was left with just the capacity to make change.

Nine-thirty came and went.

The ten-o’clock hour brought with it an ache in his gut that was accompanied by a blurry grayness that settled in his surroundings; her time had come, but she had not. The thoughts of elsewhere, of scattered locales, which had rescued him from the monotony of his work, brought no solace now. For she was not in those places any more than she was there with him.

He went home.

***

The next day was the same: she did not come as she had so reliably every weekday evening, around nine-thirty. Sometimes earlier, never later. Nor did she come the next day; nor, of course, the next. After several weeks it became clear that she had stopped coming altogether, and Dusty D. Barnes soon stopped too.

Introductions Are in Order

2005-02-25T01:57:00.000-08:00

Hello Mr. Nobody! Since you are the only one who yet knows about this little atom of the internet universe, I'll go ahead and address my first post to you.

Mr. Nobody, I know you very well, but this is the first time we've met. My name is Matthew Goddard. I'm an English student at the University of Southern California, currently studying in Brighton, England at the University of Sussex. I also study art history and business. My interests are sufficiently broad that to list them seems a ludicrous undertaking, but here are just a few, which may or may not be the most significant: literature, music, film, art, philosophy, religion, politics, history, the world, people, life, the universe, everything, etc.

I've resisted every temptation to have a blog for some while, disdaining them as public diaries at best, vehicles of narcissism at worst, and quite often both at once. Of course, these days we all know the power they have when the characteristics leading to these characterizations are avoided. I've also overcome my Luddite tendencies and realized that blogs are a useful technology with a future, a bandwagon I should jump on before its pioneering days are over (wait, did I miss it already?).

I don't at all have a clear vision for this site. I expect I will write what I feel like for a while, and if this leads to more specific blogging on certain topics, all the better. My interests could use the benefit of a little focus. My own reasons for finally setting this thing up are mostly unknown to me, but I definitely don't want this to become a public diary, a place to put myself on display and hope someone looks. Some of the hopes I do have for this blog are as follows:

1. Being away from friends and family in England, I thought it might be nice to have a place where someone could go, if inclined, to see what's inclining me these days.

2. Being a student of literature, apparently one with an embryonic gift of writing, I thought it might be useful to have a place to write things besides academic papers and show them to people who have the desire to be shown them. These things might be fiction, nonfiction, my thoughts, blatant plagiarism of the thoughts of others, or whatever else I feel like sharing.

3. Being young, I feel myself changing rapidly. I am not the same person I was six months ago, and I have a suspicion that I wouldn't right now be able to recognize who I will be six months from now. So I thought it would be good to have a place to put down who I am now and tomorrow, and thus the person I will be the day after tomorrow will be able to see how he got from here to there. A record of myself without--hopefully--being a narrative of myself. Depending on the degree of dedication, this ambition may not be realized.

4. Being one with a somewhat anomalous combination of temperament, interests and ideals, I sometimes feel it hard to find those who share any one of those things, let alone all three. I hear there are a lot of people in this internet thing, and maybe mutually beneficial connections will be made. An idle hope, perhaps.

5. Being one with ideals and ideas that clash (or at least don't fit) with nearly everyone around me, I thought it would be good to have a place where I can set down what I think and why, both to help those who know me to understand, and to help myself clarify and develop my own ideas.

6. What finally gave me the motivation I needed to start this up was an e-mail from my father. He talked about the practice of a nationally-recognized pastor, writer and speaker named Gordon McDonald. Mr. McDonald had a journal he called his "seedbed." It was in this bed that he would plant the seeds of "thoughts, quotes, observations, stories" and whatever else struck him. I guess he did this so that these seeds would grow into something more substantial. So here's my seedbed. Soon I'll plant some seeds; what they might grow into, I'm not sure. We'll see I guess.

There are other reasons of a more personal nature, but I don't feel like writing them. After all, this isn't a diary. So thank you for reading, Mr. Nobody. I will now see if I can't find some readers to keep you company.