The Ever After

ATTENTION: Check out the NEW Blog!

2010-05-10T13:19:00.000-07:00

Rather than splitting my efforts between three separate blogs, I have decided to merge them all into one blog. I hope you enjoy:

http://halcyon4eyes.blogspot.com/

-Jon Vowell

...fragment of the forest...

2009-12-09T10:58:00.000-08:00

...
(folio continues)

See the breeze through the trees
That sweetly sings with voices vast
Yet hidden, as only holy things are
Hidden, and must be hunted
By the whole man.

(folio cuts off)
...

-Jon Vowell (c) 2009

Against Legion (A Speculative Review)

2009-11-25T11:48:00.000-08:00

Next January, moviegoers everywhere will be treated to the likes of Legion, 2010's first "action movie" (you'd think that we would have better things to do with our time while counting down the days to 2012). What I would like to offer here is a speculative review of the film, offering predictions and critiques based off of initial impressions from trailers and plot summaries.

My initial impression is this: Legion may see some momentary monetary success courtesy of its controversial premise (i.e., God is out to kill us, again). Nevertheless, I have a feeling that the film's seemingly inherent maltheism will be its undoing.

Now, maltheism per se is not what could undo the film, or any other work of art for that matter. For example: H.P. Lovecraft (owner of one of the most ironic names in human history) used the concept of maltheism in most of his stories. The result was that he had a primary pillar for the despair caused by his "cosmic horror". In sum, maltheism was necessary in making his horror horror.

Legion, however, is not horror. It is expressly an "action film," with its protagonists (the archangel Michael and a few lone human survivors) seeming to unconsciously assert some kind of Bertrand Russell-esque sense of "cooperation," i.e., we can save ourselves if we stick/work together.

Holding to such a "solution" is nonsensical given the context of Legion's narrative. If it is "us vs. the gods" (or in this case, God), then what does our "cooperation" matter? We will lose, pathetically no doubt, to malicious indifference, and our struggles will fade in the memory of our triumphant enemy long after our ashes have been swept away. Even the presence of Michael on our side does not help us. The odds are still insurmountable: one exiled angel and a handful of humans verses the legion and God.

Thus comes the (possible) undoing of the film: there is no heroism in maltheism; there is only despair. It does not even allow for the Nordic sense of heroism found in the Ragnarok, where even though the hero goes down, he takes evil with him. In maltheism, however, evil is all-powerful, unassailable, and unbeatable. To claim (and attempt to present) otherwise is absurdity. Therefore, the film runs the very real risk of ultimately being absurd.

As stated earlier, this review is "speculative," and as such retains the right to be wrong. The film may (or may not) contain currently hidden elements or twists that, when revealed, may rebuke (or cement) my argument. Conversely, since it is unreleased, the film equally reserves the right to potentially rise above all that its trailers and current summaries purport. I will not, however, be holding my breath.

On Poetry (Or, Brief Thoughts Awaiting Expansion)

2009-11-24T12:21:00.000-08:00

Poetry is an effect where the cause is an encounter with a "numinous other," i.e., a reality other than what is empirically provable. This encounter may be localized within physical objects and places (nature, buildings, people, etc.) or abstracts and emotions (moments of joy, sorrow, love, hate, beauty, revulsion, hope, despair, etc.) or, as often is the case, a coalition of the two. Regardless, those things serve as mediums for the numinous other. We feel as though there is something greater behind them, that they are something more than themselves, something more to themselves. All humans desire (if they are truly awake and alive at the moment) the words to give utterance to this encounter, but only the poet actually finds the words. Therefore, poetry is the utterance of an encounter with the numinous other.

Mere rhyme and meter are not enough to make poetry. As a child I was often asked to make "poems" on the spot, which meant I was to make a simple yet adorable rhyme scheme based on something like the attribute(s) of a flower or a person. Such creations, though childishly sweet, are not poetry, for they do not venture past the subject/object of its consideration. There is no penetration to the other side of things. Talking about a flower (and rhyming it with "shower") is not poetry; giving expression to the numinous quality suddenly encountered within/behind a flower is.

The mere listing of maxims is not poetry either. I am sick to death of lines and lines of various yet somewhat interconnected commands and interrogatives strung together like stacked sentences. A poem is not a command; it is an expression. It shows rather than preaches. Its instruction is experiential rather than factual. Its only "commands" in the sense of incantation or enchantment, i.e., it has captured within its utterance (like fireflies in a jar) the numinous other of its encounter, and its recitation brings that quality(ies) bubbling up to the surface of reality yet again. In such a sense, its expressions are revelations, and the poet is a prophet of what they have seen and heard. What the poem expresses in these moments of revelation may very well be true (or a truer expression of the truth), but in such cases the hearer is blessed without preaching.

-Jon Vowell (c) 2009

"In the large dark room"

2009-11-24T12:12:00.000-08:00

In the large, dark room I sat waiting for God.
The hills had all crumbled into desolate dirt,
The beautiful faces mere specters of shame.
The words could not come out; I could not
find the words.

In the stuffed and stuffy dark I sat;
The cool breeze brushed a door I could not see.
"Let us hang ourselves," said my strange companion,
"If he does not come tomorrow, we hang ourselves."
Shall we accept springtime from God
But not the dark captivity? Shall we?
Silence is louder than any symphony.
Shall we not listen to the songs of stillness?
Shall we not sit at His feet and hear the
needful thing?

The stars have their sonnets and the sea its horns,
But my God has His own song: silence---
Thick like the itching wool sweater, twice as warm.
You know its presence on the cold winter's day:
It the cocoon that waits for the morning
Past mourning, when the world will be
as a star.

It the cavernous closing; the descent into hell
Before the ascension into heaven. Hang ourselves?
We are already dead; we wait for the resurrection.
In the large dark room we wait for perfection,
For the cracks of dawn to split the sky and cast fire
round about.

-Jon Vowell (c) 2009

...fragment of the madman...

2009-11-23T11:44:00.000-08:00

...
(folio continues)

So leave us our pillars,
The concrete covens of the new witchcraft.
We recount with joy the list of our spells:

The asinine acumen of mindless minutia
in the halls of theory and query, halls
hollow and sick like a diseased bone,
vomiting academic pus onto the dirt.

The clothed cubicle, riddled with red
thumbtacks like drops of blood
splattered across the dull gray,
companion to the endless clocks
nailed to the woody office walls.

The inciting smells of sewage and sin
rising from the cracks crawling
on Bourbon Street. Myriads of
mothers and men (insanity
feigning sobriety) all cast
their children down and
drown them in the filth.

Leave us, then, oh God,
To our cups running over
With madness and the machine.

(folio cuts off)
...

-Jon Vowell (c) 2009

...fragment of a voice...

2009-11-21T11:04:00.000-08:00

...
(folio continues)

I am a voice
With no story to tell.
My muse is dead; my pages blank
Like my head and my face.

(folio cuts off)
...

-Jon Vowell (c) 2009

...fragment of the discouraged ...

2009-11-17T08:08:00.000-08:00

...
(folio continues)

Against the bleak backdrop
I sense the insurmountable height looming near.
How can we be heroes when cowards command,
Making virtues out of vice?

How can we speak the enchantment
When the noise of the enemy is the vast voices
Swallowing our words like the grave?

(folio cuts off)
...

-Jon Vowell (c) 2009

...fragment of the Divine...

2009-11-03T13:56:00.000-08:00

...
(folio continues)

I am the culmination and execution
Of all perfection. The logos -longing
That's been haunting the habitats
Of humanity.

The cracked mirror has not splintered
My light, neither is the madman's sick sponge
An end to my ocean nor a hazard to
My horizon.

I am the Constitution of all subjectivity,
And the harmony of my fullness fills up
The ever-expanding escape velocity that
Outlines ontos.

The many facets and faces of the mind's
Latent content are but a jewel, one of many,
On the crown of my head; each soul
Is but a spark shed from my
Infinite flame.

(folio cuts off)
...

-Jon Vowell (c) 2009

At Sandusky

2009-10-21T14:58:00.000-07:00

"In the century old cemetery, where cracks
Etch the features of the granite faces,
Monuments to moments lost in the dirt,
See how the leaves, drops of blood and gold,
Burn off the many names of the
Mossy stones.

See the trees of the cemetery!
See the sad green limbs and woody fingers
Bearing their burdens low,
With the chalky sky slowly creeping
Through the scars scratched
Between the leaves.

See the hands that hold their final
Sacrifice, a frail yet fine offering
For autumn's fires. See the shades
Of green, like a many faceted emerald,
Give way to the vibrant death
of fall.

See the golden blood sprinkled across
The doorposts of the earth, doors
Continually open to the winds of the
World, ever receiving and losing; green
Then gone.

See now! The fruit of the fire tree is a
Shimmering star that, like a
Candle before a canvas, makes vivid its
Object: the red curtains that drape across
The arms of bark.

When the world grows weary of itself
At last, it takes the cold autumnal heat
Into its bosom and is burned to death.
Then the pure white snow will come
And melt, bringing the resurrection
Of the dead.

So burn on you trees of jaded green;
Burn on you shimmering stars!
May the burning snow rattle the bones
Planted by one, who in fear
and trembling, leaves the dead and looks
To Spring."

-Jon Vowell (c) 2009

(Update: This is a revised version of the original. The original can still be found posted on Facebook.)

Nightlight

2009-10-15T16:57:00.000-07:00

"A cloudy evening sky:
Smoky black, tinted purple,
Deep and dark like deadly pitch.
The only illumination is the
Electric orange glow of the
Chemical plant.

But in the west a dissipation
Appears, and in bleeds the night
Sky, a curious light, its ghostly
Gray hues shine like a beacon
Scratching through the silent
Ceiling.

It fades; the clouds resurge
Lazily, enveloping the sight in
Apathy. Yet the damage
Is done. I have seen behind
The smoky shell the edge
Of infinity.

Beyond the blanket that covers
This earthen bed lies the
Endless expanse, the great dance
Floor with innumerable participants
Twirling and twinkling
Without end."

-Jon Vowell (c) 2009

Moonlight and Me

2009-10-14T09:02:00.000-07:00

"As my eyes grow accustomed to
This midnight hour, the dark
Hues of the shadows deepen,
And I am troubled to learn
That the night is darkest when
It is brightest.

The moonlight is a curious thing:
Its light seems to be still.
It sits, like its source, without
Motion or gesture, bathing all
Without effort.

Moonbeams are lazy. Daylight
Is not so: it seems to dance
And romance everything that it
Touches, enriching all
With its fire.

But the silv'ry spill of that great
White throne covers all like a
Man collapsing into his bed. He will
Not be moved until the morning
Bids him 'Come'.

Yet never has something so
Static been so alive, enchanting
What it lands on: the billowy
Foliage of the near oak tree
Seems to me a giant; its branches
A low leaning hand.

The grass is given faces: every
Shadowy crevice is the rim of
Some eye or mouth. They gaze
At the tops of the trees, at the
Lingering giant, their mouths agape
As though to speak.

How I wish that they would speak!
That the lazy moonbeam magic might
Animate leaf and bark, and that the
Distant creaking that I hear would be
The old bones of the oak baron bending
Down to greet me.

But those creaks and crashes
Are but the fall of the dead
Branches: too heavy to remain,
Though leafless. They strike the dirt
Without a word.

The moon has magic; just not
The kind that I am looking for.
One day the trees will talk
By the light of the moon. They
Shall answer the grass and me
At last.

For now, let the silent influence
Fall where it may, like snow
The night before it melts.
I shall enjoy the stillness
Before the daylight wakes
And bids me 'Come'."

-Jon Vowell (c) 2009

In Church

2009-10-08T08:27:00.000-07:00

"Within these warm milky walls
Where hangs the brazen fixtures
With spheres of light, specks of white,
There hangs the satin curtain
Red like wine, dark like blood.
Upon it lies the golden icon,
The emblem of the amalgam
Of suffering and joy.

The rain clouds outside make
Gray the tall windows, but
The voice of the violin within
Warms like a fire in its hearth.
And as the bread and blood
Passes from mouth to mouth,
I pray that beauty and holiness
Adorns this house forever."

-Jon Vowell (c) 2009

A Car Ride

2009-10-01T17:48:00.000-07:00

"The sky slides slowly along,
Its clouds like a great stone wall
Etched with snow-filled cracks
And stained with indigo oils
Along the edges.

The last lingering glow of daylight,
A river of golden copper,
Underscores the solemn shroud
That sits like sackcloth on the
Shoulders of the sky.

And at the pinnacle peak of
That gray sky plane, a flare
Of white creeps along like frost
That clings to the car windows
In the cold.

The darkest shades of the sky
Spread far and wide like the feathers
Of some great and terrible bird
Of the night, chasing the sun
From her nest.

The gray cloud curtain holds
Bumps and bubbles like the
Laminate sticker that just won't
Hold its grip to the edge of the
Foggy glass.

A burst of orange on the horizon!
The high hilly clouds still hold
The daylight on their crests like
Crowns of fire, jewels beyond the
Wealth of kings.

The fiery hills peek out from
Amongst the deadened gray.
Their wispy influence stains
The sky with flakes of bronze
Warmly bright.

The burning snow of those highest hills
Puts to light all the blues and
Deeper hues of the granite vault.
The snow-tops burn quickly, like
Most fires do.

A gash of white streaks across;
Like a steam-filled crevice, its airy
Contents reach higher than its
Source, and inch into every nook that
They can find.

The darkest blues raise like a wave
Their presence, but halt their
Advance and linger without one
Word. They are fearsome, friendly,
And silent.

One great and dark cloud,
Like a spot of ink, hovers over
As a hooded specter lost in
Thought, its song made still by
Its hesitation.

The night now comes and colors all
With coal tinted blue; hinted through
The smokey puffs, the meager moon,
Like a headlight in mist, offers its
Blurry light.

And in the distance, beyond the edge
Where the night crawls and claws
Like a shadow across the ceiling,
The golden ribbon lingers just beyond
Billowy mountain tops."

-Jon Vowell (c) 2009

Memoirs from the Vansihed Horizon (Second Draft)

2009-09-28T10:16:00.000-07:00

This is an update to the original poem found here. The following changes were made: I have set each line (save one) into a strict 10-syllable meter, giving it a needed sense of control and structure; I have changed/added various words; and I have added an additional stanza at the beginning. The word changes/additions and the addition of the stanza were to give the poem smoother transitions, something that the first draft sorely lacked. Enjoy.

I.
"Oh Jerusalem! Oh unreal city!
City of man! City of dust and blood!
Hear, oh hear! The lord your god, the lord is
Bits of hair and lint in your coat pocket!

Streets stand silent with the noisome static
Of cars and the falling of fretting feet.
The sewage smell comes up from the gutters;
It comes, and seasons the food vendors' wares.

The dead ditch-diggers etch the street with graves.
(Even in death we are not left alone!)
See now! Their sweated backs are pictured much
By the plastic youths with plastic cellphones.

And the old clock-tower was tightly wound,
Its hands sit spinning; they spin to no end.
The coal black swords that carve out the hours
Are accompanied by the man in black.

There he walks the edge of the gray stone ledge,
There on the old clock-tower's meager lisp.
He casts down words that crack the hat-ed heads
And shatter, shatter, shatter on the ground.

'Misery, misery! Misery all!'
Croaked the clarion cry from up below,
'Misery! Misery!' raised the voice
That fell like glass onto the passers-by.

'Come down, strange fellow!' cry the passers-by,
'You'll trip. You'll fall. You'll break your foolish head!'
'Oh, broken, broken! Oh, all is broken!'
He cried anew before he fell as dead.

The grisly gravity did its best work
As it dashed him against the earthen floor.
The onlookers did scatter; voyeurs did hide,
When the man kissed the world and broke to bits.

'Misery! Misery!' his final cry,
The final call he let fly as he fell.
And the passers-by, inconvenienced, knew
For certain that he had gone straight to hell.

'A special hell!' they all seemed to agree
With many talks and nods and committees
That they formed just then, on the bloody street,
The dead man's head sitting fresh at their feet.
'Misery! Misery!' the head did cry,
And the committees did argue and flatter and lie.

Soon every man and woman heard the news
Without ever leaving their office seats.
The Internet had pictures, film, and words
Before any feet left the bloody street,
Filing the empty heads of soulless meat
With information devoid of knowledge."

-Jon Vowell (c) 2009

Sonnet for the Thoughts that Plagued me Sunday

2009-09-23T13:23:00.000-07:00

"Happy people feel the strength of Your peace.
Every mirror shows no reflection. They
Love to lose themselves, forgetting the face
Plastered against the glass, a mere doorway

Made to the house of God. How often I
Yearn to unmake myself, let the tap'stry
Unravel, each thread let loose to fly on
Never-ending winds. Hope in the myst'ry

Breaks all stability not found in You.
Everyday my atheism breaks loose,
Leaving me a wretched wretch and less true.
In truth, my promises lie in a noose

Ever ready to fail again, again!
Forgive; fearing to fail has been my sin."

-Jon Vowell (c) 2009

Memoirs from the Vansihed Horizon

2009-09-23T11:56:00.000-07:00

This one is a bit more experimental for me. I'm trying my hand at my own kind of narrative poetry. Let it be know that I appreciate those who willingly submit themselves to being my guinea pigs.

I.

"Oh Jerusalem, Jerusalem! Oh unreal city!
City of man! City of dust and blood!
Hear, oh hear! The lord your god, the lord your god,
Is bits and pieces of hair and lint in your coat pocket!

The ditch-diggers etch the street with graves.
(Even in death we are not left alone!)
Their sweated backs are pictured much
By the unpensive youths with plastic cellphones.

The old clock-tower was tightly wound,
Its hands that spin without an end,
Coal black swords that carve the hours,
Accompanied by the man in black.

He walks the edge of the gray stone ledge,
The old clock-tower's meager lisp.
He casts down words that crack hatted heads
And shatter, shatter, shatter on the ground.

'Misery, misery! All is misery!'
Croaked the cry from up below.
'Misery! Misery!' raised the voice
That fell onto the passers-by.

'Come down, strange fiend!' cry the passers-by,
'You'll trip. You'll fall. You'll break your head!'
'Broken, broken! All is broken!'
He cried anew and fell as dead.

The grisly gravity did its work,
And dashed him to the earthen floor.
Onlookers scattered; voyeurs did hide,
When he kissed the world and broke to bits.

'Misery! Misery!' his final cry
He did let fly as he fell.
The passers-by, inconvenienced, knew
For sure that he went straight to hell.

'A special hell!' they all agreed
With talks and nods and committees
They formed just then, on the bloody street,
The dead man's head fresh at their feet.
'Misery! Misery!' he still did cry,
And the committees did argue and flatter and lie.

Every man and woman heard the news
Without ever leaving their office seats.
The Internet had pictures, film, and words
Before any feet left the bloody street,
Filling the minds of soulless meat
With knowledgeless information."

-Jon Vowell (c) 2009

Someone Asked Me Why I Read

2009-09-23T11:37:00.000-07:00

"Line upon line, precept upon precept,
Image upon image, theme upon theme;
Conceits and words wedded together
Fall soft along the sharpened beam

Of light, the white refracted blade.
The empty page, like mirror of nickel,
Catches the falling coals of fire:
Rose red petals, cracked like a jewel
Whose facets house the sunset's orange.

The page, a drum the embers strike;
Its vibrations send sparks flying upwards.
Breathed in, purging tongue and mind and soul,
They fit a fool for the enfolding Flame;
His language fire, and Love His name."

-Jon Vowell (c) 2009

Art (and other things) as the Continuance of the Incarnation

2009-09-23T11:09:00.000-07:00

"Surely I will not come into the chamber of my house, nor go up into my bed. I will not give sleep to my eyes, or slumber to my eyelids, until I find out a place for the Lord, a dwelling place for the mighty God of Jacob." Ps. 132:3-5

The desire of David expressed here should be the desire of us all, i.e., to give the Almighty a residence amongst men. Having been indwelt by the living God (II Cor. 6:16-18), it should be our goal (whether in preaching or evangelism, art or service) to manifest in our mortal flesh the God who is there. Our lives (regardless of our personality or talents, occupations or preoccupations) are to be a continuation of the Incarnation. Too often our words and witness, our worship and work, are about the manifestation of maxims and moral lessons, or (perhaps what is worse) ourselves. As good as maxims and morals may be, they are not the best thing, the needful thing. What people need is not platitudes, but rather a holy God and His forgiveness; and if that is not what we are manifesting in whatsoever our hands find to do, then we are merely wasting time.
"Sir, we would see Jesus," said the Greeks to Philip at Passover (John 12:20-21). That is the key: to make Jesus "see-able". As temples of the Holy Ghost (I Cor. 6:19-20), all that God is is ours, and we are being transformed into His holiness (II Cor. 3:12-18; I Pet. 1:13-16), into Christ-likeness, which is God-likeness. Such an internal activity cannot and should not be hid, but we try anyway. What bushel is there that we have not tried to utilize in hiding the light of God within us? Some even have been utilized in the name of making the light brighter! Oh, how we fail! But grace is greater; grace is constant; and grace will not be satisfied until the work is finished (Phil. 1:6). And herein is the work: to build a dwelling place for the mighty God, to make the place where men can see Him face to face. Whatever we say (from the pulpit or the streets), whatever we do (from the feeding of the poor to the writing of the poem), all is to be done for the glorification and manifestation of God to men.

-Jon Vowell

Mags and Megs Read a Book

2009-08-20T15:56:00.001-07:00

"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

2009-08-20T12:10:00.000-07:00

"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)

2009-08-19T12:03:00.000-07:00

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

2009-08-18T09:49:00.000-07:00

"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

2009-08-13T09:42:00.000-07:00

"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)

2009-08-13T09:36:00.000-07:00

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)

2009-08-13T09:31:00.000-07:00

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

The Nature of Christian Art (so I think)

2009-05-26T10:29:00.000-07:00

I have written on worship lately on one of my other blogs (here and here), and those musings have got me thinking on the subject of Christianity and art. I made a point in both of those entries of noting that much modern worship is idolatrous because of its incorrect utilization of and focus on stage performance and its overt focus on individual subjectivity. I counter this mode of worship with the claim that, though our subjectivity is important, it must be bound to (and thus subservient to) the objectivity of God (i.e., who He is and what He has done and will do; His character and His actions). I do not doubt the sincerity of modern worshippers or worship leaders, but much of the stage performances that pass as "worship" serve only to distract us from the God who is to be the center of our worship. We often walk away saying, "That was a great show/performance," or "That made me feel refreshed/revitalized/empowered/etc.," rather than saying "God is so good/great/holy/loving/righteous/etc." (or if we do say that, what we mean is that Him being good/holy/etc. is contingent upon us enjoying the show and/or feeling refreshed/etc.). Older (more medieval) Christianity understood that all things are to point us towards God, and the less distractions, the better.
That has lead me to think about this: Plato (in Republic) trashed on poets and performers because (1) they are liars, or (2) if they speak any truth, they are too many steps removed from the Truth, and thus will distract their listeners from the Truth. It works like this: there is the Truth (the Form of the Good/God/Reality/etc.), then there are imitations/copies of the Truth (books/speeches about the Truth), then there are imitators of the imitations (poets and performers), and then imitators of the imitators of the imitations, etc. The farther along you go, the farther from the Truth you get as each layer of imitations/imitators could serve to distract from the Truth itself. However, that raises an important question: is Plato right that this possibility of distraction necessarily means that all imitations/imitators are bad?
The answer, of course, is no. We cannot conceive of the Truth as we are (viz., fallen and finite), and thus we need "imitations/imitators" that are of the Truth to point us in the right direction. It is true that each imitation can serve as a distraction, but that does not change the fact that the Truth is a part of them in some way, shape, or form. The issue is whether or not it points its audience back to itself (and thus becomes a distraction) or points outside of itself to something else (i.e., the Truth). Therefore, it is not the thing itself that is wrong, but rather the thing that it drives our focus towards. The same can be said of worship, which is supposed to drive our focus away from ourselves and towards God. That much worship today looks like a performances piece does not make it bad per se. That much worship today, in being a performance piece, distracts our focus away from God and to itself (or what it worse, to ourselves), is bad.
The same can be said of art, and my fellow Christian artists must be in constant prayer over this. At all cost, our works must never distract our audience with itself (or ourselves, or themselves). It must be a sign post that points to God. It is His quality and character that must ultimately be felt in the end, not the skill of the artist or the feelings of the audience. This, of course, is a matter of prayer and submission, not nit-pickyness and paranoia (remember how to write). However, we must be reminding ourselves always that our purpose is to make others aware of Truth; to guide them (whether they be believers or not) away from us and themselves to the God who is there.

(Addendum: Note amendment to these thoughts in a later post)

-Jon Vowell

Children of the Night

2009-02-21T20:50:00.001-08:00

Some thoughts after listening to Jeff Buckley:

"Children of the night cry,
'Is there more than this?'
With these stone-faced, dead eyed Judases
Who kill us all with a kiss. (Those kisses burn!)
The blind lead the blind in an
Everlasting near-miss.
We cry in the night shaking
Our fragmented fists.

"I am a flaming coal
On the tip of your tongues.
I burn right through your arteries
Your reigns, your hearts, and your lungs.
No more feeding Moloch our daughters,
Daughters and sons!
Children of the night cry,
'What have we done?'"

-Jon Vowell (c) 2009

Artistic Musings: Ecclesiastes 3:1-8

2009-01-16T12:32:00.000-08:00

That there is a "time" for every "purpose" makes one doubt whether or not anything is truly 'outside' of the pattern, outside the whole. Everything, from that which we desire (birth, healing, laughter, love, etc.) to that which we abhor (death, killing, weeping, hate, etc.), all is a part of the pattern, the music, the tapestry of God.

Perhaps (just perhaps) we err when we say (or when we suppose to say) that God 'controls' everything, the image usually being that He grapples everything to the ground and dominates it with his foot on its neck. Answer me this: does God 'control' all things as victor over loser, or as master over composition? Is the glory of God's sovereignty the immutability of his iron fist or the beauty of His flowing hand? To put it on a (somewhat) more personal level, is God merely the tyrant of the universe, or is he my mother at the piano, whose fingers flow so smoothly and seamlessly over the keys that artist and instrument seem absolutely one in being and purpose?

Perhaps God gave us art so that we could understand Him better, not only in capturing those beatific revelations of Himself, but also in understanding that He deals with the universe of space and time (and consequently its inhabitants) as does an artist with their magnum opus. God is 'in control' in that all the beauties of His work (though some beauties look ugly when focused on solely themselves) spring forth from Himself, for in Him we live and move and have our being.

Tolkien the Modernist: "Beowulf" and Monsters

2009-01-16T12:14:00.000-08:00

From Verlyn Flieger's book Splintered Light:

For all his sympathy with the poet [of Beowulf], he adds the perspective of his own century to his understanding of the Middle Ages in defending the poet's use of monsters as Beowulf's opponents. His reading of the monsters is psychological rather than allegorical. Grendel and the dragon are both monsters, true; but they are not the same kind of monster. In distinguishing between them, Tolkien is a modern, however powerful his inclination toward the past. "In a sense," he says [...] "the foe is always both within and without.... Thus Grendel has a perverted human shape.... For it is true of man, maker of myths, that Grendel and the Dragon, in their lust, greed, and malice, have a part in him." The monsters are within us as well as outside us. The hostile dark is a part of man, not just his besieging foe. The dragon may be the instrument of final defeat, but Grendel carries his own threat to humanity, for he moves in the shape of a man. And though the youthful Beowulf is victorious in his meeting with Grendel, that inner darkness, no less than the dragon's external threat, is always there to be battled.
The recurrence of these references to darkness, to the precariousness of the light, to the monsters, is forceful evidence of the emotional pull of the dark for Tolkien. His own reading of Christianity tends to emphasize the tragedy of the Fall and its consequences. [...] Tolkien's ability to enter in to the mood and spirit of Beowulf is persuasive evidence that he was acquainted firsthand with the battle [against the dark] and that, as Humphrey Carpenter comments, his experience had taught him that "no battle would be won forever." He could not have seen so deeply into the poem or experienced such near-identification with the poet unless Beowulf had struck a sympathetic chord in his own nature. It would seem clear that however he may qualify the pagan point of view, his heart is with the tragedy.

Tolkien the Modernist: "The Sea-bell"

2009-01-16T11:55:00.000-08:00

From Verlyn Flieger's book A Question of Time:

The pairing of fairy-stories and war is more complex, for they would seem to be opposites. The easy, surface reading builds on the opposition, inferring from Tolkien's words a purely escapist impulse, a retreat from the horror and boredom of the trenches into the magical world of Faerie. Beneath the surface, however, his words suggest a deep but unmanifest connection between these apparently unlikely things. In the way that extremes can sometimes meet, War and Faerie have a certain resemblance to one another. Both are set beyond the reach of ordinary human experience. Both are equally indifferent to the needs of ordinary humanity. Both can change those who return so that they become "pinned in a kind of ghostly deathlessness," not just unable to say where they have been but unable to communicate to those who have not been there what they have seen and experienced. Perhaps worst of all, both war and Faerie can change out of all recognition the wander's perception of the world to which he returns, so that never again can it be what it once was. [...]

"The Sea-bell," then, can be read and comprehended in several mutually reinforcing contexts. Generically it can be ranged alongside Coleridge's "The Ancient Mariner," Browning's "Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came," Elliot's The Wasteland as once of a number of romantic and modern poems of desperation and loss, as a statement of despair. Artistically it is a powerful expression of the dark side of Tolkien's work,
standing as both as a corrective to [James M.] Barrie and as the bleak, alternative fate that might have haunted Frodo's dreams [in the house of Tom Bombadil]. On a personal level it can be read as a statement about his own bereavement at the loss of Faerie. And in a larger context, one both personal and historical, it can be understood as an echo and a reminder of all the loss that war and peace and change and living in the world can bring.

Rumblings

2008-12-18T10:28:00.000-08:00

More of the same. I can never tell if this is something good or mere blather. You be the judge.

This is a fairytale, a
Frantic fracturing of fumbling fables with
Manic metaphors and malicious magnanimity.
Ye yo-yos yearn for youth, and yell out your
Dirty deluge, and dig deep into death's dark
Shadow and shame, showering silhouettes with
Favors forgotten by fortunate fiends. For
Love is like life, and that life is the light of
Hearts hollowed whole by hated happenings,
Crushed to contain the cold concoction of
Primeval perdition. Please place all passes in the
Fire and flames, for foolishness is forged into
Righteousness, a revolution that rights all religion, and
Wakes weary wanderers from witless whims and
Brings beneath the billows the bleeding benevolence of
All-out altruism, augmented by adversity,
Sealed with sweet sounds of savor and
Favor from fearful figures that form forever the
Line lost to love and life, lifted to larger
Horizons, heaved unto hope half-heartedly
Known by the know-nothings of night knolls
That think to trap the tempest and tapestry of time in tragedy so
Divine and delicious that deeds are dumb to deliver the
Full flavor and fantasy of fulfilled fortune and
Mystery mingled with mirth and men. Memory
Calls the cold killers of childhood to catch a
Sight of seamless sounds and syllables sent sailing on
Wind and wave, wishes and whims, the water and the
Blood boiling with big business, bouncing with
Glee over golden gaps that grow with gladness,
Till the tricks and traps of timeless torture are
Lost to love and life and light let loose upon
Mere mortal malformities. Might
Cannot count the cost, cannot crawl with care, cannot
Violate vile volition, a victim of vicious vivisections and
Delusions done by deaf dealers of darkness and
Night. No one knows the new news nailed to
Every earthly enclave and encampment, except the
Still small simpletons who sold their souls for a
Cup of cold crimson cleanser, curiously cured of
Old oddities, and offered as obligatory oblation to
The towering terror that tells all tales with truth and
Beauty bound with bonds broken by
None. Never near to nothing, the Neverland nuisance
Mesmerizes our meek mimics and murmurs, until
Every evil incantation is evicted, and enlightened
Plowmen park their perilous psalms in praise of power
Fallen in form, fearless in feature, fathomless in fact.
Lift lightly your lithe limbs and limber loves, and
Sing with sounds sought by souls still sinking in
Haughty hands, heavy hearts that have heard
No knowledge of nightmares nevermore. Noise
Quietly quickens the quirks and queer quintessence of the
Shady silence where sober souls sleep and show no signs of
Fearing the phantoms fraught with force and fright,
Hallowed hauntings of heavenly heart heaved
Upon utterly unsuspecting unities unbelievably
Broken into bits, till black bowers break the back of
Countless calling caricatures that cry and cackle at
Light left lingering on the lisp of longing.
We are the weary ones. We have no webs to weave.
Leaves like luminous liquid leave our limbs, and leave us
Naked and no more, never to know the nearby
Piercing pitch of pleasure preaching and pleading:
Jesu contra mundi.
We wreak our wills with witless wanderings.

-Jon Vowell (c) 2008

Ramblings

2008-12-17T19:41:00.000-08:00

I have no idea where this came from. It just came to me a minute ago. I am presenting it here without revision or rework. Enjoy.

This is a sob story, a
Slick spin on the selective situations of sinners and saints,
Twisting and turning, a tall tale with terrible
Convulsions and convolutions of cerebral cracks that call
Deep down to the desolate and dreary deliberations of the
Wayward wisdom of the wicked and worldly wannabes,
Saints soon to be silenced in shadows and shades,
Entombed in endless ecstasies of evaporation, executions
Woven in wombs of weary wanderings and whimsical
Plots to peel the person into pieces, and prepare
Souls to sing and sink into shallow sealed stalls
Meant to measure the method and madness, the means to an
End enveloped in excruciating examples of
Love let lose to live and light the life of
Mice and men and monsters. Medieval
Tapestry talks of times that tell of tremendous
Upheavals and utterances unleashed to undercut
Fools and follies, filling future fairytales forgotten by
Manic monstrosities of metal and meat,
Confused by callous cranks for children's
Dreams and desires, dealt devilishly by the damnable
Lies left to linger and loiter in the lungs of
Passersby and pastors perched to preach the
Abominable aroma of all-consuming
Death and desolation. Dealers of darkness
Have whole hells and hell holes to hide their
Deadly desperations, doings designed to delve deeper into
Secrets and solidarities spoken by soldiers and
Lovers, the lonely leftovers of a liberty and language
Never known till now. Neverland nuisance
Haunting hollowed holes, humble habitats of
Former friends and friars and freaks feeling
Absolutely abandoned by the aboriginal abnegation that
Stains the strains of solemn sleepers still slicing their
Good and ghastly graves. "Going to Gehenna" is the
Favorite film of familiar faces and friendly
Spirits set to sabotage the sober sight that
Recalls revolution and redemption, retribution and
Perdition, pointing to peace and pardon
Left lying in a lowly location. Lords and ladies,
Feel the fever of forgotten fire, frozen and fragmented,
Till the talk and toast of the town is telling
Itching ears incalculable implications of
Dying deity: disastrous definition or dire deduction?
Enchant the embalmed enablers evermore
With words that wound and whisper their way
Out of our oscillating overkills and over
Hills and homes that hope to have harrowing
Knowledge that knows neither noon nor night:
Pax Padre;
Enter Immanuel to enlighten the end.

-Jon Vowell (c) 2008

Tolkien the Modernist: "Writing out of himself..."

2008-12-10T10:12:00.000-08:00

From Verlyn Flieger's book A Question of Time:

A story need not be about a particular war in order to show its effects. Nor does it have to have a contemporary setting in order to mirror contemporary thought. Indeed, quite the contrary. The most effective commentary on an age or an event is as often as not oblique rather than direct. The nursery rhyme "Humpty Dumpty" says as much about the perils of kingship as does Lydgate's Fall of Princes, and Huckleberry Finn is as telling a piece of social commentary as Das Kapital. Tolkien is too often dismissed out of hand as an anachronism, a contemporary Pre-Raphaelite trying to pretend that the Renaissance and the Age of Enlightenment never happened. On the contrary, any thoughtful reading of his work that looks below the surface will show that he is in fact quite a modern thinker, dipping into the past for the stuff of his story but reworking it for the age in which he lived and felt. [...] His creative energies kept pace with the times, consciously and unconsciously recording for his audience their world and worldview, their defeats and renewals, their despairs and hopes. We write what we are, and Tolkien wrote not just out of his scholarship but out of himself and out of his response to this best and worst of times that is the twentieth century. Writing out of himself, he dared to be of a time not his own, and in doing so he made a profound and lasting comment on his own time.

The Secret to Writing a Story

2008-11-17T11:03:00.000-08:00

There is a scene from the movie Desperado that has stuck in my mind for years. Near the beginning of the film, Antonio Banderas character instructs a small boy on how to play a guitar. He tells the boy how (obviously) there are two hands involved in playing a guitar: the hand that strums the strings and makes the sound, and the hand that holds the strings and makes the chord. Antonio motions to the chord hand and tells the boy, "Forget about this hand," and instructs him to concentrate only on strumming. This scene reminded me of how my dad (who plays the guitar) told me to actually do the opposite: forget about the strumming hand and concentrate on the chord hand. In either case, the lesson is the same: there are two parts involved in making this art, and in order to do this art correctly, you must concentrate on one part at a time.

The same is true with the art of writing a story (and even writing in general). There are two parts to writing a story. One part is writing the story, i.e., getting the whole amalgamated menagerie of images, people, places, and events out of your head and onto paper. The other part is shaping the story, i.e., honing what you've written into a fine piece of literature. The first part is to write; the second part is to write well. The problem most people have in trying to write a story is that they try to do both of these parts at the same time. While trying to pour forth their soul through ink and paper, they keep distracting themselves with thoughts of using images, shaping themes, developing characters, and so forth. This can lead to a story being grounded before it ever truly takes off.

I speak from experience here. Many of my latest stories never seemed to go anywhere because the whole time I was writing them I was constantly saying, "What does that mean?" "How is the theme developed?" "What is the purpose of that character(s)? that place(s)? that event(s)? that image(s)?" My story writing was stagnant because of this, until I realized that those questions were to be asked when you are shaping the story, not writing it, and that shaping and writing were two totally different parts of a story's creation. Once I grasped that, I sat down and pounded out a new story, and the results were immediate and amazing. There was a freedom and flow to the whole process that had been absent before, and I found myself actually desiring to write on it more and more as the days went by. Compared to my old story writing style, the difference was like night and day.

The secret to avoiding the unfortunate calamity of grounded (and therefore lost) stories is the secret of guitar playing: forget about this hand, i.e., forget about the "shaping" part and concentrate solely on the "writing" part. However, unlike guitar playing (where you can forget and focus on either hand), in story writing, you write the story first and shape second. Without the written story, then there is nothing to shape. Try and shape while you write, and you will ground out and lose your story. Write it and then shape it, however, and it will come as natural as breathing.

Such concentration is truly a discipline. You may find (as I did) that you are constantly battling your own mind as it furiously tries to analyze and categorize your story in the midst of writing it. Such inclinations must be pushed under if your story is to survive, and that will take some effort. At all cost, while you write, you must put all "shaping" thoughts out of your mind. Just write the stupid thing; get it out of your head and on paper. Do not worry about characters, settings, events, and images while you write; just write. The "analyzing" and "worrying" part will come later; right now, what matters is that the story is merely written. Later on, you will concentrate on writing it well.

True Worship: O Worship the King

2008-11-17T10:54:00.000-08:00

I wonder if it would be possible for 'worship' to sound like this:

"O tell of His might, and sing of His grace,

Whose robe is the light, whose canopy space;

His chariots of wrath the deep thunderclouds form,

And dark is His path on the wings of the storm."

This is the second verse of the Robert Grant hymn. I would dare put forth the claim that all of today's 'modern' worship pales in comparison to Grant's creative excellence in word choice, as well as his theological accuracy in praising God not only for His grace but also His wrath. Goodness, has CCM ever thought of praising a wrathful God as well as a gracious one?

True Worship: Beneath the Cross of Jesus

2008-11-14T10:24:00.000-08:00

"Beneath the cross of Jesus I fain would take my stand,
The shadow of a mighty rock within a weary land;
A home within the wilderness, a rest upon the way,
From the burning of the noontide heat, and the burden of the day.

"O safe and happy shelter, O refuge tried and sweet,
O trusting place where Heaven’s love and Heaven’s justice meet!
As to the holy patriarch that wondrous dream was given,
So seems my Savior’s cross to me, a ladder up to heaven.

"There lies beneath its shadow but on the further side
The darkness of an awful grave that gapes both deep and wide
And there between us stands the cross two arms outstretched to save
A watchman set to guard the way from that eternal grave.

"Upon that cross of Jesus mine eye at times can see
The very dying form of One Who suffered there for me;
And from my stricken heart with tears two wonders I confess;
The wonders of redeeming love and my unworthiness.

"I take, O cross, thy shadow for my abiding place;
I ask no other sunshine than the sunshine of His face;
Content to let the world go by to know no gain or loss,
My sinful self my only shame, my glory all the cross."

-Elizabeth C. Clephane

Thoughts from watching "The Last Samurai"

2008-10-28T12:17:00.000-07:00

I believe it was Mark Twain who chastised Sir Walter Scott for romanticizing war. Although I have greatly appreciated Mr. Twain's indomitable wit, I am afraid that in this case his wit failed him. Sir Walter Scott did not romanticize war; the Romantics did not even romanticize it. The blame for romanticizing war lies solely at the feet of collective humanity. Mankind is the sole culprit for romanticizing war, for immortalizing it in ballad and poem and painting, for falling as one dead at the feet of that mysterious and god-like figure simply known as "the warrior". It can easily be argued that mankind romanticizes anything, that human history and even prehistory is marked with man seeing in things something deeper and more real than mere empiricism can allow.

The problem with war today (in actuality and in art) is not that it is brutal (for war has always been brutal), but that it lacks the romantic quality that it once had. This is not to say that war itself is to be seen as glorious. Any fool knows that war itself is not glorious. What romanticized war for mankind was not war itself but the men who fought it. Warriors were seen by mankind as more than merely men who war; they were the very embodiments of courage, honor, and valor (amongst others). It is those timeless attributes that the warrior brought to battle that made war "glorious" to many. The "glory" of war is directly contingent upon the view one holds towards those who fight it; your view of war (in actuality and in art) is directly contingent upon your view of the warrior.

Some Thoughts on Worship to Fellow Worshippers

2008-10-22T10:58:00.000-07:00

From the blog "Logos, Ethos, Pathos" and the entry entitled "Worship: Foundational Principles Fundamental Elements".

To fellow worshippers Mr. B, Lord S, and Sir N:

Mr. B: LEP said that creative excellence means giving the "first fruits," i.e., your best. Your best may vary by degrees in regards to the "best" of others, but it must still be your best. Your best, but still your best.

Lord S: I agree (and I think LEP would too). Sorrow (i.e., godly grief) does and should have a place in worship (I believe plenty of the Psalms were laments, and of course there is the Book of Lamentations).

Sir N: Different words, symbols, images, and metaphors are always going to be a factor across cultural lines, but the important thing is that all of our words, symbols, images, and metaphors are informed by the transcendent and eternal qualities of God. We can speak the same things without saying the same things.

Francis Schaeffer on Christian Imagination

2008-09-30T13:49:00.000-07:00

From Mr. Schaeffer's book He is There and He is Not Silent:

"I live in a thought world which is filled with creativity; inside my head there is creative imagination. Why? Because God, who is the Creator, has made me in His own image, [and] I can go out in imagination beyond the stars. This is true not only for the Christian, but for every person. Every person is made in the image of God; therefore, no person in his or her imagination is confined to his or her own body. Going out in our imagination, we can change something of the form of the universe as a result of our thought world--in our painting, in our poetry, or as an engineer, or a gardener. Is that not wonderful? I am there, and I am able to impose the results of my imagination on the external world.
"But notice this: Being a Christian and knowing [that] God has made the external world, I know that there is an objective external reality and that there is that which is imaginary. I am not uncertain that there is an external reality which is distinct from my imagination. The Christian is free; free to fly, because he has a base upon which he need not be confused between his fantasy and the reality which God has made. We are free to say, 'This is imagination.' [...] As a Christian I have the epistemology that enables me not to get confused between what I think and what is objectively real. The modern generation does not have this, and this is the reason why some young people are all torn up in these areas. But Christians should not be torn up here.
"Thus the Christian may have fantasy and imagination without being threatened. Modern man cannot have daydreams and fantasy without being threatened. The Christian should be the person who is alive, whose imagination absolutely boils, which moves, which produces something a bit different from God's world because God made us to be creative."

Echoes of Heaven: Love Comes with a Rattling Sound

2008-09-25T13:42:00.000-07:00

"Sold out souls,
Hollowed out holes
Scattered, shattered,
Forgotten forever on the
Wasteland.

"We are the wounds in the world where
Endless slings and arrows have been hurled
And disappeared.
Do not stand too close,
Lest ye fall in
And disappear as well.

"I am a broken man,
My bones left out to dry;
Our bones made bare to all.
Death is our only parade.

"Love comes with a rattling sound,
With a mighty noise
Like the wind.
It fills up the ground
With a rattling sound,
With a mighty noise
Like the wind.

"Fill up the barrenness,
Fill up the wilderness,
Fill up the dry earth.
Fill up all the sticks and stones
And all the broken bones
Forgotten forever on the
Wasteland.

"Love comes with a rattling sound,
With a mighty noise
Like the wind."

-Jon Vowell (c) 2008

Echoes of Heaven: Our Burning

2008-09-18T14:15:00.000-07:00

"Love is the movement; love is a revolution. This is redemption: we don't have to slow back down." -Switchfoot

"Cursed to be paused:
Allowed neither the dignity of slow motion,
Nor the possibilities of neutral;
Only stillness and static
Forevermore.

"I know why the lowest pit
Is ice:
Life is in motion;
If you are frozen, what good are you?
You are dead, and good for nothing;
To be cast out,
And trodden under the feet of men.

"I would take fire over ice.
Fire is motion; burning is life.
If I am to be in the pit,
Oh God, let me burn and not freeze!

"Is there no fire in Heaven?
No divine dancing sparks
With which to have and to hold
Till death do us bind?
Is damnation my only hope?
Can I burn in Heaven
As well as Hell?

"Does holiness burn?
Does it burn at the touch
Like a sword through the skin?
Like a nail through the hand?
Holiness is a fire
Spilt like blood;
Blood so amazing,
So divine.

"No news is never good news.
No news is stillness;
Good news is motion.
What good news is there?
The sparks have danced with the dust,
Holy blood has burned the stillness and static
Forevermore.

"They dance,
They burn,
With us,
Forevermore.

"Silence, oh static stillness;
Love burns eternal.
All things, great and small,
Menial and monumental,
The dust, and the Divine,
And the damned,
All move to Empyrean Love.
In thus we live and move
And have our burning."

-Jon Vowell (c) 2008

Echoes of Heaven: Beautiful Defilement

2008-09-11T20:55:00.000-07:00

"The divine has danced with the dust.
How shall we survive such a touch?
From dust we came; to this Dust we must go,
Or return to the dustbin
As ashes to ashes."

-Jon Vowell (c) 2008

Solzhenitsyn on Art and Literature

2008-09-02T16:10:00.000-07:00

The following is the first section of the late Alexander Solzhenitsyn's 1970 Nobel Prize Lecture. After you have whetted your appetite here, I suggest you go and read the whole thing. His thoughts on the role of art and literature are amazing to read and necessary to know:

Just as that puzzled savage who has picked up - a strange cast-up from the ocean? - something unearthed from the sands? - or an obscure object fallen down from the sky? - intricate in curves, it gleams first dully and then with a bright thrust of light. Just as he turns it this way and that, turns it over, trying to discover what to do with it, trying to discover some mundane function within his own grasp, never dreaming of its higher function.
So also we, holding Art in our hands, confidently consider ourselves to be its masters; boldly we direct it, we renew, reform and manifest it; we sell it for money, use it to please those in power; turn to it at one moment for amusement - right down to popular songs and night-clubs, and at another - grabbing the nearest weapon, cork or cudgel - for the passing needs of politics and for narrow-minded social ends. But art is not defiled by our efforts, neither does it thereby depart from its true nature, but on each occasion and in each application it gives to us a part of its secret inner light.
But shall we ever grasp the whole of that light? Who will dare to say that he has DEFINED Art, enumerated all its facets? Perhaps once upon a time someone understood and told us, but we could not remain satisfied with that for long; we listened, and neglected, and threw it out there and then, hurrying as always to exchange even the very best - if only for something new! And when we are told again the old truth, we shall not even remember that we once possessed it.
One artist sees himself as the creator of an independent spiritual world; he hoists onto his shoulders the task of creating this world, of peopling it and of bearing the all-embracing responsibility for it; but he crumples beneath it, for a mortal genius is not capable of bearing such a burden. Just as man in general, having declared himself the centre of existence, has not succeeded in creating a balanced spiritual system. And if misfortune overtakes him, he casts the blame upon the age-long disharmony of the world, upon the complexity of today's ruptured soul, or upon the stupidity of the public.
Another artist, recognizing a higher power above, gladly works as a humble apprentice beneath God's heaven; then, however, his responsibility for everything that is written or drawn, for the souls which perceive his work, is more exacting than ever. But, in return, it is not he who has created this world, not he who directs it, there is no doubt as to its foundations; the artist has merely to be more keenly aware than others of the harmony of the world, of the beauty and ugliness of the human contribution to it, and to communicate this acutely to his fellow-men. And in misfortune, and even at the depths of existence - in destitution, in prison, in sickness - his sense of stable harmony never deserts him.
But all the irrationality of art, its dazzling turns, its unpredictable discoveries, its shattering influence on human beings - they are too full of magic to be exhausted by this artist's vision of the world, by his artistic conception or by the work of his unworthy fingers.
Archaeologists have not discovered stages of human existence so early that they were without art. Right back in the early morning twilights of mankind we received it from Hands which we were too slow to discern. And we were too slow to ask: FOR WHAT PURPOSE have we been given this gift? What are we to do with it?
And they were mistaken, and will always be mistaken, who prophesy that art will disintegrate, that it will outlive its forms and die. It is we who shall die - art will remain. And shall we comprehend, even on the day of our destruction, all its facets and all its possibilities?
Not everything assumes a name. Some things lead beyond words. Art inflames even a frozen, darkened soul to a high spiritual experience. Through art we are sometimes visited - dimly, briefly - by revelations such as cannot be produced by rational thinking.
Like that little looking-glass from the fairy-tales: look into it and you will see - not yourself - but for one second, the Inaccessible, whither no man can ride, no man fly. And only the soul gives a groan.

A Comment to Master Jenkins about Christianity and Culture

2008-09-02T13:54:00.000-07:00

In regards to Christian Guitar Hero:

Making knock offs of culture does not influence the culture. It merely reveals the opposite, that we are influenced by the culture, and that we are just a bunch of johnny-come-latelies. Is Christianity so shallow and uninteresting that not only can we not produce any great art, but we also cannot produce even good entertainment?
Seriously now, no joke: what would happen if a Christian truly applied the mysteries of the Trinity or the Incarnation or the Atonement to a video game, or a comic book, or a commercial, or an animated series, or a movie, or a novel, or a sermon, or our individual lives? Have our wells run dry? I think not; it is we who have run dry, we who have left off the living waters of Jacob's well for the paltry dust of the world.

In Defense of Literature

2008-08-30T14:42:00.001-07:00

This article is a good (albeit short) piece on the importance and necessity of good literature that will properly affect the mind towards necessary ideals. In short, good literature give us high standards in all realms, whether those realms be moral, political, philosophical, or theological.

Echoes of Heaven: Sacrament

2008-08-24T19:10:00.000-07:00

"Broken vessels are where His grace
Fills up the cracks of shattered cups
And makes chalices fit for kings and royal hands.
And what is more basic then a cup?
What is more plain then a cup of cold water?

"What is more basic then blood?
More visceral? More base? More vulgar?
Yet in this thing is the life of men.
These things, cups and blood,
Are the things that save our lives.
Baseness and vulgarity are holy things.

"If you are whole already, healthy and clean,
Then depart from us, ye cursed!
There is no place for you
In the presence of holy things;
No place for grace to fill you;
No rags to trade for righteousness."

-Jon Vowell (c) 2008

What's Wrong with a Little Angst?

2008-08-22T13:32:00.000-07:00

This Christian review on Switchfoot's Nothing is Sound surprised me. They found John Foreman's journey's into despair disturbing and (as far as I could tell) unChristian. I find this surprising, and would like to ask what's wrong with a little angst?
Do not misunderstand: by "angst," I do not mean those singers who cry and screech about death and darkness, and then play the hypocrite by not committing suicide and continue to make more CDs and more money. What I mean by "angst" is what a former professor of mine (Dr. J) once said: being honest. "Angst" is an openness in regards to the very real despair that is caused by very real darkness.
A friend of mine had explained to me that Nothing is Sound was John Foreman's journey through being bi-polar. This explains why his songs seem to rise and fall in being upbeat and minor (1st song, minor; 2nd song, upbeat; 4th song, minor; 5th song, upbeat, etc. The 3rd song, being the title track, is a mix of minor and upbeat). Foreman's journey into despair is him being honest about a condition that can lead him to despair. There is nothing unChristian about journeys through despair; read the Psalms if you disagree.
The review was wrong when it said Switchfoot goes through despair without offering any hope. If you treat each song in isolation, then you can make that assumption. However, the CD is a whole work of a journey. The hope comes from the final upbeat song, which is called (surprise, surprise) "We are One," a song that makes no sense unless you see it as Foreman coming to the end of his journey of dealing with being bi-polar ("We are One" is perhaps an answer to Foreman's pray in "Twenty-four" from The Beautiful Letdown, "Twenty-four voices, and twenty-four hearts...but I want to be one today, centered in truth...").
There is nothing unChristian about being honest about despair. What we have in Nothing is Sound is a great piece of musical art, a journey through despair, ending in hope (with "We are One"), and going on to offer gentle encouragement to another ("Daisy").
What we also have here is on obvious lack of artistic understanding in mainstream Christianity. Once you understand the theme behind the form, you can see the artistic Christian representation of a journey through humanity. The only purpose that review serves is as another example of mainstream Christianity's disconnect with any artistic vision or sense (but what can I expect? This is the same review site that said Switchfoot's Oh! Gravity song "Head over Heels (in This Life)" was singing about John Foreman's wife and not Jesus Christ).

Letters to the Editor: An Apology for "The Dark Knight"

2008-08-22T13:23:00.000-07:00

The following is a letter I sent in to the editor of the American Spectator, in regards to this piece about the movie The Dark Knight. To see my published letter, go here and scroll about half-way down:

Dear Mr. Editor,

In regards to the piece by James Bowman titled "The Dark Knight":

While I am very impressed and awed by Mr. Bowman's obviously scholarly mind and well-informed thinking, I am afraid that I must frankly disagree with his conclusions. I believe that he completely misread and misinterpreted the film, and has thus robbed himself of the true message that the film is offering. Without being too convoluted, I wish to offer a small rebuttal to his well written (yet incorrect) criticism of The Dark Knight.

I find Mr. Bowman's condemnation of "evil for evil's sake" to be quite odd. I especially find odd his assertion that this type of evil is somehow "post-modern." "Evil for evil's sake" is the furthest thing from post-modern views of evil (and morality in general). The post-modern view contains a severe blurring of good and evil until they are indistinguishable and finally lost: "Well, the bad guys have good motives (or understandable motives), so are they really bad? Well, the good guys have bad motives, so are they really good? Can we really know what good and evil is?" That is post-modern morality, i.e., the loss of morality. "Evil for evil's sake" is in direct conflict with post-modern morality, because post-modernism asserts that motivations complicate the moral; but if it is "evil for evil's sake," and thus (as Mr. Bowman points out) motivation is removed, then post-modern morality dies out. There is no complication--the thing is just evil; there is no way to explain it away.

Contrary to what Mr. Bowman says, characters like the Joker and the killer from No Country for Old Men do not reinforce post-modern morality. Direct and blatant demonstrations of evil are actually breaths of fresh air in the post-modern smog. Specifically in regards to the Joker, here we have a character whose evil has no motivation other than itself, and thus there is no way to sympathize with his evil, because we see it as strictly evil. Villains like the Joker are refreshing in a world that wants to sympathize with evil to the point where we have trouble recognizing evil at all.

In addition, Mr. Bowman's statement that "evil for evil's sake" makes evil some kind of "fashion statement," and thus makes it "glamorous," is completely erroneous. First of all, "evil for evil's sake" does not make evil fashionable; it makes it satanic. John Milton expressed as much in Paradise Lost when Satan proclaimed, "Evil be thou my Good." "Evil for evil's sake" is not a lesser kind of evil; it is the "purest" evil, the truest evil, the most complete absence of anything good. Second of all, there is nothing "glamorous" about "evil for evil's sake." There is nothing glamorous about Hannibal Lector or the Joker, aside from their momentary deceptive charm. In the end, however, they are always revealed as pure moral negations, disturbing demons wrapped in human flesh.

Mr. Bowman's analysis of the Joker is (unfortunately) horribly off. For starters, his claim that the Joker is out to "seduce the best of us" is just plain incorrect. To say that the Joker "seduces" anyone is a misnomer. The Joker was not out to "seduce" people to be as evil as himself; he was out to prove that people already where as evil as himself. "I'm not a monster," he says to Batman, "I'm just ahead of the curve." The Joker is not a seducer; he is an unholy prophet, an "agent of chaos" as he himself put it. He is not out to win an argument; he is out to demonstrate that he has already won the argument.

Furthermore, Mr. Bowman perfectly captured the Joker's gospel: "both heroism and villainy grow out of reason and law and civilization, and that, therefore, these things are mere shams and subterfuges masking a Hobbesian reality devoid even of honor, in which man is a wolf to man and there is nothing to believe in but the individual Nietzschean will, either to good or evil." I thunderously applaud Mr. Bowman's analysis here; he nailed the Joker's gospel on the head. Unfortunately, he strays far off course when he claims that that is the message of The Dark Knight. I was shocked at such a conclusion. Had Mr. Bowman (that illustrious scholar) not watched the film? Did he not realize that the Joker's gospel was the very thing that Batman was embattled against? Could he not recognize that Batman was the direct antithesis to the Joker? That Batman believes "these people [of Gotham] are ready to believe in good," good that is more fundamental than law, reason, or civilization? Could he not see that Batman's gospel is the direct opposite of the Joker's, and that it is his gospel that wins in the end?

Actually, Batman's gospel is entirely absent from Mr. Bowman's analysis, the gospel that says that heroism and villainy grow out of our choices, choices that lead us towards real good or real evil. It is this gospel that triumph in the movie. In the climax with the Joker in the film, the Joker's final scheme is to get two groups of people to kill the other in order to save themselves. If they did so, the Joker would have proven that, indeed, all reality really does boil down to the individual nihilistic will that does what it wants. However, the people choose the good, choose not to kill each other, and the Joker is rebuffed. His gospel is defeated. True, abiding morality wins. The Joker fancied himself as the only sane man (notice in the film his anger at being called "crazy" or a "freak") and that all others are the fools ("Their moral codes," he tells Batman, "are a bad joke"). In the end, however, he has lost the battle for Gotham's soul, and Batman tells him, "You're alone." Mr. Bowman's assertion that the Joker is a glamorous, "villainous hero" whose gospel is the film's message is completely untrue. He went wrong when he assumed that the films core was "how the hero and the villain are really just two sides of the same coin." That issue is never once mentioned or addressed in the film. Instead, the film deals with choice: the choice to do real good or real evil, and whether or not good and evil exists and therefore whether or not such a choice exists. The Joker claims no morality, and thus no real choice; Batman claims morality, and reaffirms choice. In the end, Batman is proven right.

There are a few minor, yet still serious grievances in Mr. Bowman's piece that I must address. His assertion that The Dark Knight is "strictly a comic book movie" misses the scope of Director Christopher Nolan's vision. Mr. Nolan's intention (which I believe he succeed in) was to completely avoid the stereotype of "a comic book movie," to avoid a "childish fantasy...in which anything can happen." Perhaps I can understand why Mr. Bowman so grossly misjudged the film: he was looking at it through the wrong lenses. Mr. Nolan asked that everyone remove the lenses of the "comic book movie" and to actually take the film seriously because he was going to take it seriously. Perhaps if Mr. Bowman had done this, he could have better understood the film. For now, his claims upon the films "preposterousness" and outlandishness are the only gross exaggerations present.

Mr. Bowman's assertion that other characters besides the main ones merely serve to "contribute to the body count" is absurd. Equally absurd is his claim that their death's are "faceless, anonymous." I am afraid that the character of Rachel Dawes cries out against this claim. Her death most certainly was not faceless and anonymous, nor did it merely add to the body count, nor was her death "comic or spectacular." Mr. Bowman does a grave disservice to Mr. Nolan's ability to not waste characters. Every death (or seeming death) is a punch in the gut, a disturbing drama, a rude awakening to the question of, "What would I do if I was given the choice?"

As a literary student, I must call a personal foul over Mr. Bowman's assertion that "the measure of the seriousness of any dramatic work is whether it takes death seriously." I find this to be a gross simplification. Are there not other themes for a dramatic work to take seriously besides death? What about choice (the theme of The Dark Knight)? Or honor? Or love? Or justice? Or good and evil? Or even seriousness itself? There is much, much more to drama than merely death.

I also must (for the sake of literature) heartily disagree with Mr. Bowman that "the reality of the Homeric epic is conveyed by the fact that those who are its heroes do die." This is false. Achilles may have died in The Iliad, but Odysseus did not, nor did he die in The Odyssey. Virgil did not kill Aeneas in The Aeneads; and Nolan does not kill Batman. The hero lives on, surrounded by the consequences of his own choices, the choices of others, and the choices of the gods.

I would appreciate it greatly, Mr. Editor, if it was made clear that I mean Mr. Bowman no disrespect. I am quite sure that I will never reach his scholarly heights of intellect. However, I do sincerely believe that he was wrong on the previous counts, and that his errors have done himself a serious injustice, robbing him of the true potential of a film that asserts the reality of true evil, confirms the reality and power of choice, and digs deep into what it truly means to be "heroic."

Your humble servant,

Jonathan Vowell

Frick-a-Frack Goes the Fire

2008-08-10T21:15:00.000-07:00

"Frick-a-frack," goes the fire,
Brick-a-brack on the mantle.
All the room's all a glow
With fiery embers from below.
Golden sparks and jeweled flames
Shimmering burning of all the names that
Cause my heart to ache and head to swim.

"Purging fire! Beautiful flame!
A washing no ocean can supply!
Free me from all the names that bite me;
Like nails, they pierce my hands and feet.
I am crucified with my past, nevertheless, I live;
Yet not I, but my past that lives within me.
There is no resurrection from this death.

"Free me, fire! Free me, flames!
Free me, sparks! Burn up the names!
Sing ever louder, "Frick-a-frack!"
Burn up the mantle and brick-a-brack!
Scorch through the walls and eat up the floor.
Burn up the windows and out all the doors.
Burn up the roof; raise smoke to heaven.
Eat up my deadness; beat out the leaven.
I am crucified with fire, nevertheless, I live;
Yet not I, but the fire now lives in me.
It ate up the names, and set me free."

-Jon Vowell (c) 2008

Song of Songs 2:1, 2

2008-07-21T21:09:00.000-07:00

"Blood red rose:
What a mysterious display
Of beauty and pain,
Of blood spilt glory,
Of sin split blades
That spiked the rose of heaven
To wooden bark of death.
And the red rose bled,
And there was beauty in pain.

"Light white lily:
What a beautiful display
Of desolation and glory.
Beauty in the pits of the world;
Glory in the midst of thorns
That cannot pluck it asunder
From the ashes of wooden death.
And the red rose to white
And all whithering to life."

-Jon Vowell (c) 2008

A Comment to Madam Firefly

2008-04-28T13:47:00.000-07:00

In regards to American usefulness:

The problem with America today is that in trying to be productive, we have become absolutely useless. I say "absolutely" because in an immediate sense we are not useless; but ultimately, we are. We will not outlive our rate of production; once we stop delivering the goods, we become a liability on the world's radar. Poetry, literature, wrestlings with the infinite, things that can perpetuate a nation, people, and civilization beyond its own finite existence are generally wasted in America. We have no time for them, as they are not immediately useful. Perhaps America will fulfill T.S. Elliot's prophecy of the "Hollow Men": we end, not with a bang, but with a whimper.

On Good and Bad Literature: An Introduction

2008-04-10T20:46:00.000-07:00

It should be the goal of every writer (especially a Christian writer) to be able to distinguish good literature from bad literature; it can help tremendously in your quest to become a good writer. Of course, exactly what constitutes good literature and how its constitution contrasts with bad literature often requires much studies; it has taken me four years of undergrad literature work just to scratch the surface of the issue, and I'm sure my graduate work will take me deeper still. Therefore, any findings I have are, at best, ultimately lacking in the end. However, regardless of how little I know, I think it still beneficial (for me as well as you) to write them down and give some concretion to my thoughts. I hereby propose to argue for at least one finding of mine: bad literature is more often than not an imitation of good literature. For this argument, I offer four proofs (a nowhere near exhaustive list, I assure you).
First of all, good literature is tradition bound, while bad literature is merely genre bound. By "tradition bound," I mean literature that has its roots firmly entrenched in a tradition of writing that gives it focus and structure beyond mere formality. By "genre bound," I mean literature that has the form of a tradition, and no more. For example: in a book bound to the tradition of science fiction and a book bound to the genre of science fiction, your will find them both utilizing similar forms: future settings (post-apocalyptic, alien, utopic, dystopic, etc.) and future elements (robots, spaceships, lasers, aliens, etc.). The similarities, however, end there; for you see, in the genre bound book, these elements are mere plot devices, i.e., things that move along the succession of events. To the tradition bound book, however, these elements are more than plot devices; they are carriers of the theme(s) of that tradition.
An example is needed: in the tradition of science fiction, the questions have often been asked and explored of whether or not man has the means to save himself and what are those means; to the genre of science fiction, however, such questions are irrelevant. Therefore, a genre bound science fiction book will have a war between humans and a race of aliens that use robots as weapons, and no more; but a tradition bound book will go further. For example, it may have the aliens telling humanity that its robot army was invented to destroy all weaponry, and thus the aliens found peace; they now demand that we surrender ourselves to this same peace. Now we are stuck with larger issues than merely winning a war: what is peace? is it the absence of conflict? the absence of weapons? is the absence of anything? have the aliens really done away with weaponry (for are not the robots their weapons now)? which aliens control the robots? do not they have the power now? have the aliens created universal peace or a new form of tyranny? To the tradition bound science fiction book, these questions are paramount; to the genre bound book, however, they are superfluous, and merely distract from the plot. Thus is the case with all traditions and genres; the former treats its tradition as fundamental, and the latter as superficial, which leads me to my second proof.
Good literature is thematic, while bad literature is merely formal. By "thematic," I mean driven by a theme; by "formal," I mean driven by the plot. As stated above, good literature typically concerns itself with deeper issues and ideas that permeate its entire composition, while bad literature deems such issues and ideas as irrelevant. To bad literature, only the plot is supreme (what is happening); to good literature, only the underlying ideal is supreme (why is this all happening). When a book is thematic, all the elements of that book serve to stress the theme; when it is merely formal, all the elements only serve to form and advance the plot, which leads me to my third proof.
Good literature has unified elements, while bad literature has wasted elements. By "unified elements," I mean all the elements of a book are bound up in the theme and are therefore necessary. By "wasted elements," I mean all the elements of a book are bound up in the plot and may as well have not been there as been there. For example: to the good science fiction book, all the elements are crucial; even the very color, shape, and movement of the alien robot army says something to the theme of the book. To the bad science fiction book, however, all the elements are expendable; the robots may as well have one color, shape, and movement as well as another. The elements in a good book are not there just to be there, for they serve a higher purpose (i.e., reflect the theme); the elements of a bad book, however, are just there, for they merely serve a mechanical purpose (i.e., advance the plot). That, at last, leads me to my fourth and final proof.
Good literature is presenced, while bad literature is hollow. By "presenced," I mean possessed by the theme. By "hollow," I mean empty of a theme. When the elements of a book are bound up in a theme, there is a certain life to them all; they are not mere cardboard cutouts dancing on an imagined stage. They become real people, with real issues, facing real evil, and real monsters. When the elements are bound to a plot, however, there is deadness; they are merely cardboard cutouts dancing on an imagined stage. They are no more real to you than before you even read about them. Good literature, because it is presenced, cannot leave you untouched in some way (even if you can't quite describe how); bad literature, however, can.
I conclude that bad literature is constituted as that which imitates good literature because it has merely the form of a tradition without the tradition, which results in hollow formalism with wasted elements. Thus concludes my argument (so far).

An addendum is necessary: these proofs, though I believe true, are nevertheless blanket statements that must be taken with a slight grain of salt. It is possible for a book that fits my scheme for "bad" to momentarily touches upon a theme of its tradition that moves you slightly in mysterious ways; it is possible for a book that fits my scheme for "good" to momentarily be hollow and plot driven. Not every book perfectly fits the "bad" scheme; no book (though arguments could be made) perfectly fits the "good"scheme (except for the Bible). Regardless, I still offer my argument and its proofs as at least guidelines, if not actually rules.

Echoes of Heaven: Let My Bones Burn

2008-03-31T13:17:00.000-07:00

"Let my bones burn whenever they see
Another pretty face, or a fragile flower,
Or the cold mountains in the blaze of dawn.
Let the restless rattling rage, lest they rest without You.

"Let my bones burn as I fumble about
This sensuous curtain, bumbling about
Like a blind man in a fog, double blind,
Unable to even see shadows as they are.

"Let my bones burn until I tell
All that there is to tell in this tale that
I find half-told and unfinished, with an end
I shall never know, until I am known.

"Let my bones burn to a crisp
If I foolishly fall into fakes and forgeries
And dare say that this is Thou.
This is Thou; yet this is not Thou.

"Seeing many, may I see One.
Of a sea of faces, burn One into me.
Let it burn, lest I forget it; let it burn,
So I know that I am known.
Let it burn in my bones forever."

-Jon Vowell (c) 2008

There and Back Again

2008-03-24T13:35:00.000-07:00

When you stand on the frontier of yet another writing endeavor, you should pause to consider the past. Though you see nothing ahead of you, you can indeed see for miles when you look over your shoulder. Before you lies a wilderness of blank pages; behind you lies a wonderland of freshly written words and writings. At your feet lies paths untrodden; behind you lies the well-trodden paths across familiar lands. Before you lies discoveries unknown; behind you lies a wealth of treasures already dug up. Before you lies new lands and oceans to cross; behind you, with you, all around you, is the God that has led you thus far, and He will lead you further up and further in.
Never once think that you can ever plumb the full depths that is the well of God (Romans 11:33). You can never search across all His lands and find nothing new under the sun. Every new poem, story, journal, or post started, every new journey begun, stand as defiant testimonies before all the world that the God you serve and know has no end in sight, that He is indeed the perpetual mystery, the eternal adventure, the everlasting undiscovered country. As you step out once again, let Him keep your feet, and you will be swept off into Him.

Writer's Prayer

"Now I set my pen to write,
I pray the Lord, my light, my life:
Even if I die before I wake,
This journey shall have no end..."

-Jon Vowell (c) 2008

Some Questions (a slight doxology)

2008-03-12T21:12:00.000-07:00

"Can it be that sweat drops of blood
Can pierce the armor of Sin and shame
Greater than swords of steel and iron?

"Can it be that the power of Sin,
Which stood like a rock undaunted,
Now withers before the meekness of Heaven?

"To fathom the strength that is the Cross,
Salvation won through suffering shame.
Can my mind come near to grasping the whole of it?"

-Jon Vowell (c) 2008

Dreamer

2008-03-07T19:35:00.000-08:00

"You and I were always meant to wake the dreamers from the dark." -Nichole Nordeman

"I can't sleep in the bed I've made.
I can't sleep because I'm wide awake
To the rubble of my failures.
They have choked up the source of grace.

"I am awake, but it feels like falling asleep.
I wander under the sky a sleeping ghost,
Sleeping in a sick land of slick coverings and cheats
That serve to silence my quiet desperations.

"I am a dreamer desecrated by I know not what.
I hover in a hazy maze of monotonous monstrosities,
Hiding hearts and hopes; concrete pillows for broken heads
And broken souls, which lie like shards of glass
Forgotten.

"I can't sleep in the bed I've made.
If I could, I'd give it away today, forever,
And seek the dream that is awakening.
To sleep; perchance, to wake, and live."

-Jon Vowell (c) 2008

Echoes of Heaven: Old Man of the Hills

2008-03-06T22:02:00.000-08:00

Within the fog-cloaked hills of the Appalachians, just about ten miles north of Williamsburg, Kentucky, there walks a lone old man, thin and sturdy, like a withered tree. He walks a path worn and torn by many years of his endless, relentless trodding. In his right hand he holds a sapling; in his left hand he wields a shovel. His balding head is covered by a grey fedora, his back and shoulders by a thick, grey coat, and his hands and feet smell of earth. There is a wiry smile on his face, and a slow, comfortable stride to his step, the heels and soles of his feet caressing the ground with a familiarity that has been well earned. The farther up he went, the further the fog clothed him in an odd robe of splendor, single-colored, a fitting addition to the man as the man was to it. As he walked, it was as though he slowly and silently gave himself up to the fog, to the hills, to the earth, all the while holding a tree in one hand and wielding a shovel in the other. Unperceivable to the naked eye was that strange and holy fellowship between man and nature in which all the trees are his brothers and a walk through the hills is the communion of saints.
His walks into the hills are a might matter of legend to the people of Williamsburg. Many stories hover about in regards to the secret meaning behind his monthly trek into the hills, a tree held in one hand, a shovel wielded in the other. Some said that he was merely keeping a tradition, and others said that it was in remembrance of something or someone. Others said that it was merely a cover to go into the woods and smoke or drink without his wife knowing. Still others said that there was no secret meaning to whole thing, that he was just planting trees. Others still (the occasional ignorant passerby) denied that there even was a man who climbed into the hills, a tree held in one hand, a shovel wielded in the other.
The children, however, had the most interesting stories. One boy said he buried treasure where he planted trees; he always talked about going up there and finding some of it. Another said that he buried the dead bodies of victims he had ceremoniously axed to death; he said he’d write a story about it some day. One little girl said that the man had lived forever and had planted the trees on all the hills, that he kept the hills alive. Whatever the story (or lack thereof), however, no one ever thought to simply ask the man what he was doing, or (even better) follow him up that hill, along that worn path, and see for themselves what things he hath done. That no one asks is sad; the stories are becoming fewer and fewer, the children more and more indifferent. The fog recedes higher into the hills these days; the old man must walk farther every year, but he is not weary. His stride is ever faithful, his face ever friendly, his grip ever firm as he holds a tree in one hand, and wields a shovel in the other.

The Second Fall (Or, Chesterton on the Fundamental Flaw in Modern Realism)

2008-03-05T15:57:00.000-08:00

I know many good men and women who love Realist literature, and I can in no way blame them. To the Realist, what is real (whether it is good, bad, or ugly), is beautiful because it is true; there is no gloss or artificial layers to it. I understand the logic quite clearly, and agree with it whole-heartedly.
Still, I cannot bring myself to love the Realist tradition quite like I love the Fantasy tradition (note: I differentiate between tradition and genre). I often wondered why. There is a part of me (a spiteful, doubting, nagging part) that claims I am merely a child at heart and that I need to grow up and see the world as it really is. It says I need to put away childish things. However, there is another part of me (an enlarged, more wholesome part that is not really me) that still defiantly claims that my hesitation (and sometimes downright dislike) of Realist literature is not unfounded; on the contrary, its roots run right into the ancient core of another tradition I love, i.e., Christendom. The problem is, I could never quite articulate what it was that caused me to hesitate at the threshold of Realism; I never could say why I held it at a distance, admiring it for what it was but never embracing it as gospel. This inability to explain myself has left myself in a quandary more than once.
It was Oswald Chambers who said that the ones who affected us the most in life are not those who told us something new, but those who gave utterance to that which has been "dumbly struggling" in you for utterance. Well, Chesterton has given me utterance. From his book Heretics, in the chapter titled "On the Negative Spirit," I give my reason for why I, as a Christian writer, cannot fully embrace modern Realism (I emphasize the main point):

"Much has been said, and said truly, of the monkish morbidity, of the hysteria which has often gone with the visions of hermits or nuns. But let us never forget that this visionary religion is, in one sense, necessarily more wholesome than our modern and reasonable morality. It is more wholesome for this reason, that it can contemplate the idea of success or triumph in the hopeless fight towards the ethical ideal, in what Stevenson called...the 'lost fight of virtue.' A modern morality, on the other hand, can only point with absolute conviction to the horrors that follow breaches of the law; its only certainty is ill. It can only point to imperfection. It has no perfection to point to...
"[It] is this great gap in modern ethics, the absence of vivid pictures of purity and spiritual triumph, which lies at the back of the real objection felt by so many sane men to the realistic literature of the nineteenth century...The tradition of calling a spade a spade starts very early in our literature and comes down very late. But the truth is that the ordinary honest man, whatever vague account he may have given of his feelings, was not either disgusted or even annoyed at the candor of the moderns. What disgusted him, and very justly, was not the presence of a clear realism, but the absence of a clear idealism. Strong and genuine religious sentiment has never had any objection to realism; on the contrary, religion was the realistic thing, the brutal thing, the thing that called names...But if it was a chief claim of religion that it spoke plainly about evil, it was the chief claim of all that it spoke plainly about good. The thing which it resented, and, as I think, rightly resented, in [modern realism], is that while the eye that can perceive what are the wrong things increases in an uncanny and devouring clarity, the eye which sees what things are right is growing mistier and mistier every moment, till it goes almost blind with doubt.
"If we compare, let us say, the morality of The Divine Comedy with the morality of Ibsen's Ghosts, we shall see all that modern ethics have really done. No one, I imagine, will accuse the author of the Inferno of an Early Victorian prudishness or a Podsnapian optimism. But Dante describes three moral instruments--Heaven, Purgatory, and Hell, the vision of perfection, the vision of improvement, and the vision of failure. Ibsen has only one--Hell...
"All I venture to point out, with an increased firmness, is that this omission [of an enduring and positive ideal], good or bad, does leave us face to face with the problem of a human consciousness filled with very definite images of evil, and with no definite images of good. To us light must be henceforward the dark thing--the thing of which we cannot speak. To us, as to Milton's devils in Pandemonium, it is darkness that is visible. The human race, according to religion, fell once, and in falling gained knowledge of good and evil. Now we have fallen a second time, and only the knowledge of evil remains to us."

The problem with the modern mind (and a character in Pan's Labyrinth demonstrates this well) is that it thinks fantasy is merely "childish" or "blind" or "immature" because it only sees the good and ignores evil. That is an utter lie. If there is no evil in a story, no antagonist or antagonism beset against the hero(es), then there is no story. To borrow words from Dr. W, modern Realism has a whole lot of tension, but no resolution other than the realization that all is not well. Christians firmly hold that, in the real world, evil is a fact, and the good guys do not always win. However, Christians also hold that, in the real world, the Good does win in the end. In the realist fantasy (like the LOTR), it is indeed a long, dark road to get there, but we will get there.
Further comments about Christianity's stance on good and evil in regards to reality can be found in this other blog entry of mine.

The Marriage of the Living and the Dead (Or, A Reply to a Rant, and a Realization)

2008-02-29T12:07:00.000-08:00

The Inklings (esp Tolkien and Lewis) did not see fantasy as an escape from reality, but as a way to get at Reality so that we can see reality better. Lucy and her siblings didn't stay in the wardrobe forever. They came back to war-torn England, and that is the point: not to stay in wonderland, but to come back from it and use what you learned there in the "real" world. Tolkien knew this incredibly well; that is what the whole "Scouring of the Shire" was about. What was the point of going through the salvation of Middle-earth if you can't even go back and save the Shire in the end? My final claim will always be that fantasy (insofar that it takes us to Reality) is more real than reality as it is given to us.

However (da da dum), I have come to a realization. I discovered (just yesterday) that, in regards to literary pursuits (and not necessarily spiritual or intellectual pursuits), I am not a student of Lewis (gasp!). I am, in fact, a student of Tolkien. Here is why:
Though the closest of friends, Tolkien and Lewis fundamentally disagreed on a philosophical level that influenced their fiction. Lewis was a firm Platonist. In his mind, there is the "real" world, and then there is the Real world, a transcend realm of abstract ideals by which the "real" world has its being (insofar as it "partakes" of the Real world, i.e., a tree's "treeness" is determined by how much it "partakes" in the ideal Tree of the Real). The Real world is the "magic," and the only way to get to that world is by a transportation (or, as Lewis put it, a "transposition") into it: so the kids had to go through a wardrobe (or a train station, or a picture, etc.) to get to Narnia; so Elwin Ransom has to go to another planet in the Space Trilogy. In order to get to the Real, one had to escape to the Real. As a Platonic Christian, Lewis saw the Real as God, and one must escape to Him in order to get to Him (and, conversely, bring Him back into this world, such as in That Hideous Strength). Though the "magic" (the Real) can be brought back to this world, it is fundamentally separate from the world.
That is where the two part. Tolkien was (in contrast to Lewis) a staunch Aristotelian. To him, all things are made up of two elements: the accident and the substance, i.e., the outward manifestation and the inner disposition. It is similar to Platonism in that there is a "real" and a Real, and the "real" has its being insofar as it partakes of the Real. The difference, however, is that, in Aristotelian thought, the Real is not separate from the "real." On the contrary, it is intimately a part of its being. Everything is substanced with the Real, although its outward manifestations may differ (all trees look different, but they are still all trees). Thus, in Middle-earth, everything is substanced with the music of the Valar. The "magic" is not a fantasy world you escape to; it is in the "real" world, in the now, in varying degrees (with evil being that which completely rejects it). It is not merely abstract; it is concrete as well. That is why in the LOTR (both the books and the movies) it all seems so real. You feel like you are reading/watching ancient history (or something you wished was history), not merely a fantasy. The "magic" is (and this is the amazing thing) not seen as magical. It is just there, simply a part of reality, all reality, including the good and the bad (for the music of the Valar knows both joy and sorrow, from the majestic trumps of Manwe, to the mournful horns of Ulmo; and all are beautiful because they are of the music). Tolkien did not like that Lewis made the Real, made the "magic," something separate that you had to escape to and bring back. In his mind, the Real/"magic" is (and forever has been) in the world and a part of the world right now, as real as any river or tree, bird or beast, man or woman.

I (as I discovered yesterday) hold to the latter. Reality is not something that is completely separate from us that we have to "get at" and bring back. It is with us right now, as we speak, in this very room; Immanuel, i.e., God is with us. The Fall marred the world's ability to present it, and muddled our vision to see it; but it is not totally silent, and we are not completely blind. We catch a glimpse of glory every once and a while, a stab of joy here and there. Christianity has always believed in the sacramental, that God is enmeshed with as well as independent from creation, that the finite can (and does) contain the infinite. As a Christian (esp. as a Christian writer), I believe this wholeheartedly.
And I find this exciting, because as a writer in love with the fantastic, I find myself struggling to tell my story so that it can find relevance and be taken seriously in a world dominated by Realism (which I do not despise like I used to, but that is another story). In a unexpected move, God pointed me to someone I had set on the back burner in my mind, i.e., Tolkien. Of course, the unexpected is typically God's modus operandi.
Perhaps an argument can be made that the Inklings "copped out," that they chose to attack modernity from the outside instead of engaging it from the inside (like Elliot or O'Connor). Perhaps you can say that about them all, except for Tolkien. I here proclaim that he (as best as I understand it) was a true paradox: he was a Fantastic Realist, i.e., his Aristotelian philosophy allowed him to create a realist fantasy! He found (or was found by) the secret to bridging fantasy and realism, to the marriage of the living and the dead: sacramental theology makes the "magic" real--not idealistic, not fluffy, not abstract, not disconnected, not contrived, not naive; but actual, dense, concrete, relevant, mysterious, and ancient. The key to making a realist fantasy is, not to escape to a magical world, but to live in one.

Through the Woods

2008-02-25T20:27:00.000-08:00

"If I wander through the woods,
I wonder what rivers I would find
Winding their way further up and further in
To where I want to be.

"If I wander through the woods,
The sensuous curtain of bark and branch,
Would I find the curtain false?
Fleeting fantasies for weary eyes?

"Beyond the wonder of the woods,
Those mythic pillars of elvish tales,
Is there but the concrete chaos?
Monuments to monotony, altars to apathy?

"Is every wood a deception only,
Covering colossal coves of earthen Hell?
Where is the wood, gates of splendor,
That hides the home all hearts howl to have?"

-Jon Vowell (c) 2008

A Bit of Encouragement to Lady K

2008-02-22T13:15:00.000-08:00

In regards to our creative writing class:

I noticed you said (in a comment on J's blog) that you're having a conflict of interest with Dr. W because he's interested in "reality" while your heart lies in "escaping reality." I feel the need to address this, as I have been there and am now there (since I'm in his class again).
Tolkien helped me immensely with this (as well as Dr. W). In his essay titled "Faerie," Tolkien stressed that the point of fantasy (and I would say fiction in general) is not to "escape" reality, but to "see" reality clearer than we originally saw it. We go into wonderlands to see things as they really are and not as they are given us.
That is why the medium of story is powerful for Christians. We are in constant awareness of and contact with how things "really are," and it is our job to testify of those things to the world. Any story (whether it is realistic or fantastic) can accomplish this.
Dr. W may stress realism (which can be necessary to help ground us when we need to be grounded), but he stresses even more the value of a good story. "Don't let anything get in the way of a good story," he has said before, and that will always be his final teaching.
In addition, he would also say (and has said) that we each have not only our own voice but also our own story to tell, and it will be different from others: some will be realistic, some fantastic, others in between. The point is that you learn how to tell your story, and tell it well.
Your tale is not frivolous or trivial. God gave it to you, and it is yours to tell. If anything, that is what you should learn (and what Dr. W would want you to learn) from the creative writing class.

Amusing (a response to snobbery)

2008-02-21T12:47:00.000-08:00

I've heard some people say, "Such-and-such or so-and-so is my muse!" I find it quite charming, and envious, because I can make no such claim as of yet. However, having been raised in churches that contained rather hard and constricted conservative environments, I can always predict the possible reaction of my church brethren to such phrases and ideas. "Only God is my muse!" How very Corinthian of them to say so; and though I certainly damn idolatry as sin, I equally damn such statements as snobbery.
Of course, I vehemently deny the necessity of middlemen. As a good Baptist, I hold firmly to freedom for immediacy. However, as a good Protestant, I also hold to the sacramental capacity of the physical world, that the "finite can contain the infinite," as Luther said. People, places, things, ideas, and all kinds of nouns can be bound up with the presence of God and used to convey that presence to the world. Whether it be a sunset or a song, a circumstance or a sibling, all things can be swept up into Him and used for His purposes.

What Shall I Play?

2008-02-21T12:38:00.000-08:00

"I am an instrument.
What shall I play?

"Am I done for the song of dawn that dances
In the heart of each man and woman?

"Am I made for the mellow melodies of the
Noiseless night that stir the silence?

"To what song and symphony am I to sing
And play with perpetual purpose and passion?

"What song shall I encompass?
What song shall encompass me?"

-Jon Vowell (c) 2008

Chasing Our Tales

2008-02-21T12:01:00.000-08:00

"It is amusing to watch us
As we chase our tales.
Round and round we go,
Never forward, never back,
Neither to the dread of progress,
Nor the dignity of error.
Ever moving, never moving.
All we do is
Circle
Circle
Circle
Circle
Circle
Circle
Circle
Circle
Circle down and out,
Until we fade into self,
Fade into nothing.
If ever we catch our tales,
We consume ourselves,
And are no more."

-Jon Vowell (c) 2008

Echoes of Heaven: Magic

2008-02-21T12:00:00.000-08:00

"It never comes when you look for it,
But only on its own terms,
On its own time,
In its own way.
To seek it is to lose it.

"It's silent, then sudden,
Like a stab in the dark
From a friendly fiend
Trying to make us remember what we forgot.
To lose it is to seek it.

"You hate it when it comes to you:
Its pains are too deep, too heavy, too eternal.
You hate it when it goes from you:
Its pleasures are too sweet, too joyous, too eternal.
May they ever end and never stop.

"Oh to place the pool that runs these rivers!
Oh to find the fountain that sends these streams!
Will I ever find that exalted ocean,
Of priceless pearls and unglittering gold,
And drown forever beneath its waves?"

-Jon Vowell (c) 2008

How Clever We Are

2008-02-21T11:59:00.000-08:00

"How clever we are
To be able to escape from God,
The one who is everywhere.
Let me tell you how it was done.

"First we ripped out our eyes
And hid ourselves from the heavenly declaration.
Then we ripped off our ears.
Nature's glossa can no longer reach us.

"The orderliness of words is laced with His presence.
So we ripped out our tongues and throats.
Even this poem is an abomination.
(Oh, can we never escape Him?)

"Life itself is an evil;
Every beat reveals its maker, every breath its source.
So we cut out our hearts, and lungs too,
And passed them through the fire.

"Our very minds betray us to Him:
All thinking betrays to reason, all reason to truth,
All truth betrays us to Him,
It is illumined by His presence.

"This thing we will do: we cut off our heads,
And dashed our brains against the rocks.
We have put away childish things:
God, and our hearts, and our heads.

"How dare our hands feel and commune!
They offend us; we cut them off.
How dare our feet touch the earth of legend!
They offend us; we cut them off.

"But whither shall we flee from Him?
All things contain Him; so we turn to no-thing,
We cast our bodies live into Hell.
We are very clever, indeed!

"We finally escaped Him.
In the burning dark you hear us sing,
'We are damned and doomed! Alone and afraid!
We couldn't be happier!'

"Escaped at last.
How clever we are, indeed."

-Jon Vowell (c) 2008

The Winter of the Numinous

2008-02-21T11:57:00.000-08:00

"The Numinous, they used to play
They used to sing and dance
They used to love and say,
'The world is full of magic!'

"The Numinous, their playing was heard
In ever tale and laugh
In every poem of man and earth.
The heavens declared their play.

"The Numinous, their song was sung
By every rock and rill and stream and sea.
There was no language
where their voice was not heard.

"The Numinous, their dance was seen
Across the sky and in the stars
Skimming the surface of dawn and dusk, saying,
'The world is full of magic!'

"The Numinous, their love was felt
In every touch and every kiss,
In every heart and every soul.
All communion was filled with their presence.

"The Numinous, their words were echoed
On every lip and instrument and pen.
The whole earth in chorus sang,
'The world is full of magic!'

"The Numinous
are gone.
Their play
is gone.
Their song
is gone.
Their dance
is gone.
Their love
is gone.
Their word
is gone, is gone, is gone, is gone.
We have killed them.
We wash our hands of their blood.

The world was full of magic."

-Jon Vowell (c) 2008

Echoes of Heaven: Into the Ever After

2008-02-21T11:48:00.000-08:00

"I come to the edge of all things,
Beyond the fragments of the shattered sky,
Beyond the vanished horizon and dried ocean,
Beyond the cold clouds, beyond the burning blue,
Beyond all learning and yearning,
Into the Ever After.
I take it in,
and am consumed."

-Jon Vowell (c) 2008