Mags and Megs Read a Book

"The old music man gave up smoking;
offering to the gods' frustration.

The gray child born in January left
spring in a drought and desolation.

Old land corrupted with fraud and failure
demanded a virgin, but found none.

So old music man went under the knife;
the burnt leaves finally come undone."

-Jon Vowell (c) 2009

Sonnet for the Dusk that I Saw From My Car

"Blue sky, bed soft; purple rimmed, peach and gold
Crease the angel's pouting face. Billowed wings
Lined with sunset scene: an orange disk. I'm told
It burns out colors like fire does smoke; sings

"Its rays like the marching band in the street:
Trumps blow; drums roll beneath the burning blue
Of sky and cloud, in celebration; feet
Stamp in exaltation. They know what's true.

"Sound is true. The sound of the sun. The burn
Of its light, symphony of sight. The night
Lets stars take up the bars. For now we turn
To the dusk's deep dance; trance of color. Right

"Now the band creeps on; the road is silent,
But dusk is not. It asks us what it meant."

-Jon Vowell (c) 2009

REthink "The Nature of Christian Art" (Or, The Necessity of Beauty; Or, The Perilous Balance)

In a previous post, I asserted that Christian art must not distract the reader with itself (or anything else), but must serve as a signpost pointing to God. Art is necessary for us to conceive of the Truth, and thus if it distracts us with itself (or anything else) then its purpose has been defeated. I still hold to these propositions; however, after reading Lewis' An Experiment in Criticism, I feel that I must add some amendments.
In a chapter titled "On Misreading by the Literary," Lewis makes a distinction between art and knowledge: art is a structured work ordered in a specific way while knowledge is mere facts and information. Both are made "out of the stuff of life," but the former is an "addition to life" while the latter is a "comment on life." Within making this distinction, Lewis chastises those who view "art" as a medium of knowledge, who expect of artists "what was the work of the philosophers and theologians," i.e., to "teach" us "truths about life." In brief, such people want art to mean rather than be. Lewis asserts that if we view an artist's work as a philosophy or moral rather than simply art, then we do a great disservice to the artist; for the artist's skill and spirit is in the beauty of the work and not the truth it can recommend.
Such a distinction, and consequent dichotomy, seems unfair of Lewis. After all, do we not, in addition to enjoying the beauty of the art, "learn" something from it? Is it not true that it is rather impossible to view an artist devoid of and/or separated from their own beliefs and ideas, and thus is it not equally impossible to view their art as equally devoid of and/or separated from those beliefs and ideas? Didn't Lewis' own works (esp. Narnia and the Space Trilogy) reflect his own beliefs and ideas as well as being good literature? Again in brief, must art only be and not mean; can it not be both beautiful and true? The answer that Lewis gives is what has lead me to rethink my previous post on the nature of Christian art.
If we look to a work solely for Truth that it may or may not contain, then we do no wrong. However, if we do that, then we are no longer viewing the work as a work of art; for art is about order and structure, design and plan, "putting the pieces together," and thus is fundamentally about beauty, and not truth. Therefore, the primary question that we should ask is not "Is it true?" but rather "Is it beautiful?"
Do not misunderstand: the question of truth is valuable and necessary, but only as a secondary question. In the world of art, Truth is a corollary to Beauty, not the other way around. If the question of beauty is not answered, then the question of truth is meaningless; and if the question of beauty is answered in the negative, then the question of truth is moot. This is because if a work fails in beauty, then it cannot (as art) serve as a vehicle for truth (or any other message). If the work is no good, then whatever message that it contains dies with it.
It is on that point that contemporary Christianity fails, not only in regards to its own "art" but also the art of others. Take The Golden Compass for example: when this atheistic children's work hit theaters, Christian groups were so radically up in arms about fighting against the movie's message that they failed to address whether or not it was even a good film. Those few who did (or tried to) were either ignored or scorned as traitors to the Faith. Nevertheless, it was the traitors who were right, for the film (as a film) was terrible, and as such its message was lost, its presence forgotten, its impact non-existent.
In regards to its own art, contemporary Christianity fails miserably precisely because of the same problem: a Christian author today is asked to primarily present the gospel rather than primarily write a good novel. This is the point where we all get tripped up. Giving primacy to the presentation of the gospel sounds holy on paper, but no one seems to realize that if a work of art is (at best) average or (at worst) insipid as art, then whatever "message" that it may contain will be (at best) lost or (at worst) marginalized. This is why it seems that Christian art and artists no longer impact or influence the culture and its people: they have been taught to sacrifice Beauty for Truth, only to realize too late that both sail on the same ship, and thus both have gone down in the same wreck. In the realm of art, Beauty is necessary in order for Truth to be realized. If we want our art to carry Truth, then we must strive to make our art beautiful. If your goal is strict evangelism, then you had best write a sermon. If, however, you want to write a novel (or anything else), then you had better set yourself to study what good art is. Once again in brief, the Christian artist is one who has the Bible in one hand (preferably their right) and Shakespeare in the other.
This amendment adds to my previous thoughts, and in doing so makes the whole prospect of being a Christian artist just that much more challenging. As Christians, it is our very purpose to glorify God in word and in deed. Whether in proclamation or reflection, we are to let God (and Christ) be known. On the other hand, as artists, we must strive for beauty in our work; it must not be an afterthought, given second-hand garments to wear. Thus is the perilous balance: to create works of beauty that lead beyond themselves to the living God who is there.

-Jon Vowell

Penu-el

"Be with me always--take any form--drive me mad! only do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you! Oh God! it is unutterable! I cannot live without my life! I cannot live without my soul!" -Heathcliff, from Wuthering Heights

"I hear the angels are here to kill us.
Oh happy day!
God still hates us! He has not
forgotten us.
We are the mote of His eye!
He will pluck us out.
We are the desiccant ditch water!
He will spew us out of His mouth.
Oh happy day!

"Clouds and fire, you have been
(or once were)
Obscurity in our daylight, and
Clarity in the night season
You were there; now we come to the garden
alone.
We walk about with stiff-necks and
straight strides;
We miss our broken hips, your
hand against
The hollow of our thighs.

"Once you wrestled against the
sons of man,
Against flesh and blood; fleshy
Hearts were the reward for
broken legs, and ribs, and skulls,
and stone,
Shattered against your hate,
grounded into powder.
'The son of man,' they said,
'You wrestle against him,
you visitest him.'
You, the highwayman, you
the bone-breaker, you
the heart-stealer:
How we miss you.

"Once again, put the stone
at our head, and the ladder
at our feet.
May we feel dreadful in the dark,
sleep soundly in your horror
and great darkness,
once again.
Once more (as it once were)
let your cords flail our shops,
Your hammer hit stone
and bone
with the cold and deep thud.
Let your hand touch the hollow places
that we may go halting and whole,
Worshipping and leaning
on the top of our staff."

-Jon Vowell (c) 2009

On Despairing in a Bookstore

"Oh dark dark dark. They all go into the dark...." -T.S. Eliot, from "East Coker"

"We fall nine floors down, nine rings
of death.
And further still, but not still.
Even lower, even lower.
Further down and further out,
Into the burning dark
Where we shatter against its
Rocks and Ridges, rough and ragged,
Burning and hollow, stuffed with straw
and dirt.
It burns our eyes, ears, and throats.

"The dirt dries us out and burns.
The straw, hay and stubble, kindling
for the burning dark.
Our fragments fall, with no light left
to refract,
Like obsidian tears; they disappear
Into the dark, burning dark,
Hollow dark, stuffed dark.

"We walk still, still-born, burnt and dirty.
Dirt, straw, stubble, burning.
It fills us up, fills our cup.
Sweet like honey from the hives
of the house of the dead.
Toxic syrup, sweetest poison.
Who dieth thus dies hell.
I mean well! I mean well! Oh please,
let us die well!

"Lightning's crackle cracks the
iron sky and sea
of the burning dark.
From east to west it cries;
It cries, it cries, it weeps.
Tears of water, clear and cold,
Freezing cold, burning cold.
Its ice fills the dark; a burning winter
rattles our bones.

"We break apart, a house of cards
shuffled back into the deck.
Proper places are the pieces that
are missing in our heads,
In our souls, in our bones, as
they rattles on the ground,
In the dark, burning dark, the
only sound."

-Jon Vowell (c) 2009

Something (Part 1)

On his way home from grad school, Avery, a twenty-something literature major with no significant height or weight, was taking his usually trek down Thimble St., its various novelty shops and bookstores lining the three-lane road between them, when he saw a penny lying on the sidewalk like a speck of shimmery orange paint on the pavement. He took notice of the one cent piece partially because he was a poor broke student of academia, and partially because its metallic hide palely reflected the light of the afternoon sun, causing a glint that had caught the edge of his green eyes. Hesitating only briefly, he slung his tan cloth carrier bag further over his shoulder so that it would lie across his back, and he slowly bent down to fetch the coin, gripping it between his right thumb and index finger. He raised it to his face and let its image reflect off of his glasses. The coin’s surface was grainy with dirt that had lodged into its crevices, and the image of Lincoln was curiously outlined by a dark rim of grit. As he let it roll around in the palm of his hand, he began to wonder what random person dropped it and why? Pennies are so easy to lose; if one could collect all of the lost ones, one would quickly become a millionaire. He chuckled at such an imaginative statistic, his dimples etching lines across his boyish face, and it was at that moment of humored contemplation that the explosion happened.
The only thing Avery’s senses could recall was a loud yet brief noise that sounded like a “pop” followed by a moment of an intense and heavy ringing in the ears that drowned out every other noise. His eyes watched the world turn momentarily white, as though everything had become luminescent; then, when his vision quickly returned, the only thing he saw was his own legs as he went flying through the air and crashed through the large window of a pastry store that he had been standing next to. He didn’t feel the impact of the glass or hear its shattering, though he did see its numerous fragments flying away from him and glow in the light of the explosion like red and yellow sparks. Nor did he feel the impact of the ground as he slammed into the store’s checkered tile floor and skid across it into a dessert display case, subsequently causing him to be buried beneath a landslide of various chocolate coatings and raspberry fillings. There he came to rest, and for a short time he simply laid quite still, his body sprawled out under the cover of sweetness, until at last the ringing faded away, and he could hear the distant rumbling of a raging fire, the shrieks of numerous car alarms, and what sounded like many voices: some crying, others shouting, all quite terrified.

-Jon Vowell (c) 2009

Who Killed the Groundskeeper? (Part 1)

Nestled on the southeastern tip of the emerald hills of the Appalachian Mountains, somewhere between Williamsburg, Kentucky and Bristol, Tennessee, a small local church’s Sunday service is in crisis, for the high-pitched whine of a weed-eater is echoing off the stone and oak walls of the sanctuary without pause or pity. Apparently, some ambitious grounds keeper had taken upon themselves the humble task of trimming the weeds and crab-grass that often beset the roses and lilies of the church flower-beds. As his noble yet misguided efforts sounded forth within the sanctuary, the congregation was busy pulling up from the wells of righteous indignation all that the bucket of their souls could handle, all the while vigorously trying to maintaining the ethics of modern civility: silence and indifference. Miss Doublecrass, a 70-year-old widow with blood red lips and white hair puffed out like a dandelion, sat in a front-right pew where she clasped an afghan around her shoulders with one withered hand and fanned herself with the other. Every time the weed-eater’s hungry whine echoed in the sanctuary, she would tighten her grip on the afghan more and fan herself faster, all the while letting her head sink lower and lower into her lilac blouse like a turtle retreating into its shell. Across the sanctuary in a front-left pew sat Maximus Archibald Walker, a used car salesman by trade and a staunch Calvinist by choice. Dressed in a death black suit with hair slicked back so far that it threatened to peel his scalp, he was caught in the awful conundrum of whether or not it was God’s will for him to address the intruding whine of the weed-eater that rose and fell like cascading waves. He shuffled nervously in his seat and shot his cold green eyes back and forth. In the back-middle, Mr. Avery Wainshot was heroically trying to cover the noise either with an occasional hefty cough or a heartfelt “Amen” that necessity required him to blurt out at inappropriate places. Each time he exclaimed a shout of affirmation to a Sunday School attendance report or a missionary’s letter describing genocide, he occasioned many awkward side-glances, and would quickly grab the thick knot of his pink tie and shake it back and forth, causing the collar of his blue shirt to rub his neck to the point of burning. Reverend Backforth approached the pulpit like it was the executioner’s block and was furiously glancing across the pews’ front rows from deacon to deacon, hoping that one of them would capture the intimate communication that only a deacon can register from their pastor. The choir was to sing their special next, and the reverend was well learned in the fact that choirs are notorious for despising all things that distract from their performance. One deacon finally caught the desperate telepathy of the reverend: a Mr. Gary Hardwick, a man whose eyes always sat in widened bewilderment, and whose nostrils, by some inscrutable birth defect, sat just one-quarter of a centimeter too wide in each direction. His well done yet muted attire suggested that it was something that his wife had picked out for him, and thus revealed a man who was used to following orders and had mastered the art of receiving and deciphering hidden messages. In capturing the correct combination of a wink and a nod and a raised eyebrow and a tap of the shoe from the reverend, Gary stood up and bent over in that style of walking and ducking that only the religious have been able to perform without falling over or passing out. Gary walked out of the church without incident and rounded the circular sanctuary to where the sound of the weed-eater relentlessly roared from the front flower-beds. He flared his nostrils and cleared his throat while tightening his tie, all of which mark the ceremonial preparations one undertakes when they are about to be politely rude to a subordinate. Upon rounding around to the front flower-beds, he found occasion to pause when he noticed the dead body of the offending grounds keeper lying on its side and sprawled out lengthwise along the edge of the flower-bed. His skin was tanned by the constant kiss of the sun, while small shards of green grass lay lazily across his upturned cheek and neck. The weed-eater was being held by his right hand, which had clasped the machine’s trigger in the death grip of rigor mortis. The weed-eater, sprawled out across the flower-bed, was wailing loudly for the three roses and two lilies it had unintentionally beheaded, all the while being mocked by a lone stalk of field grass that stood defiantly just outside of its reach. The trembling machine caused the man’s hand to shake; other than that, the corpse was quite still.
Gary had been witness to enough church cantatas and programs in his lifetime to have all sense of joy and sorrow, and the beauty latent in each, sucked right out of his soul through his over-blown nostrils. Needless to say, he stood eyeing the deceased more out of solemn curiosity than silent horror. He approached the body slowly and kicked its leg with the edge of his black wing-tips. When there was no response, he turned to go back inside, lingered for one moment at the edge of the flower-bed, turned around, bent over the whining weed-eater, and with a sharp pull of its handle and the man’s wrist, he freed it from the grip of death. Its motor kicked out one last lone complaint before the machine lay as silent and as still as its owner. Satisfied, Gary turned to go inside and tell the reverend.

-Jon Vowell (c) 2009