Something (Part 1)

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

-Jon Vowell (c) 2009

Who Killed the Groundskeeper? (Part 1)

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

-Jon Vowell (c) 2009

The Nature of Christian Art (so I think)

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

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

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

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"

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

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

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..."

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.