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.

The Secret to Writing a Story

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

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

"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"

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

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

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

"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