Youthful Poem

This is continuing my search to find images of my 16 year-old self, as described in my Friday entry. I was essentially influenced by a number of brave souls (including our friend, Dr. Omed), as I mention. Anyway, not being able to find a photo of myself at 16 (I think such as existed were lost in one move or another), I thought I'd post a poem that was written when I was 16 or 17:

the prisoner

i am the prisoner who holds his own key,
the lock i have to bear is kept within my soul;
the chains which surround my body are very old,
but i have worn them just a few years;
the rust collects along the links
which could be the path to my mind;
if you should find where i hed the key,
could you return it to me?
i am the priest with no psalms to sing,
no prayers or offerings to give to you;
i grasp our little cross and
preach from the burnéd bible
even while the flames of Hades
consume my temple;
is there no saviour among [you]
who will save this sinner from his self-made Hell?
i am the mighty businessman who throws his money away,
giving it to the poor whom i will never hire,
using it to pay for the flowers at some unknown
   faithful servants grave, or
to pay for advertising to save the world (though
i will never buy pollution controls); but
this work and toil is killing me,
i must get out, i must get out, please
   help me get out.
are we all then not prisoners of our own
longings, needs, hungers, and greed?
we ask: who holds the key to the chains?
a voice, distant, answers: we do.

---

Yep, preachy as only a 16 year-old can be. Let's try a sonnet, written 2 – 3 years later, shall we?

Fantasy in Corners of a Sandcastle

The ancient tides will flow across the sand
as my love and i sit upon the beach,
a warm and tender hand in hopeful hand
when faith and dreams seem to be well in reach,
and our castles will be built in the air.

We hear the waves upon the open sea
as my quiv’ring hand flows through here sweet hair
and all of the pretty castles we see
belong to no other lord and lady
than ourselves in our cloth of illusion.

I will visit my mistress fair daily,
and my passion will be no delusion —
which i will know when we lay down our heads
and all of our fleeting false dreams are dead.

---

I know there's a number of problems with this sonnet, but I've generally been inclined to let these old poems stand, unedited, so there can be measure of growth & improvement. For example, how does this juvenile poem compare with the free verse which appears immediately below?

Wind Pays a Visit

Wind walked through the house
at seven under rain-heavy sky;
she slipped though an east window,
in my bedroom, wandered
the dry corners of my house,
then slid out the front door
(which faces east). Or, perhaps
she made it all the way to
the southern laundry room.
I couldn't say.
She left no kiss or calling card.
Just a touch in a dream,
and a jonquil promise.

More on The Passion

Some quick links, worth your perusal:

• Fr. Bojangles says much of what I've been trying to say regarding this issue the past couple of days.
• Excellent review in The New Yorker
• Penetrating questions from Real Live Preacher
• Another review by the Rev. Mark E. Stanger, canon precentor and associate pastor at Grace Cathedral in San Francisco, CA

As for myself, I probably won't see this movie until next week-end, at the earliest.

In the meantime, Elsie and I have chosen the Lenten discipline of watching other cinematic passion plays. We hope to rent The Last Temptation of Christ this evening

Dreams of Our Youth

A number of folk in the Salon blogverse have been posting pictures of themselves at 16. This began with a challenge from Dick Jones, and includes (among my personal faves) pictures from Ms. Candide and Marsh Mallow. I did a frantic search of surviving photos in my collection, and failed to find anything specifically from my sixteenth year. However, I can embarass myself with a couple of shots on either side of that mythic time.


I estimate I was aroung eleven when this shot was taken. I cropped this from a picture taken with my father, step-mother, and step-sibblings; you can see my step-brother's elbow on my left (your right). Don't quite know why I have that goofy expression on my face. My comment this morning was that I looked like a dork.


Here I am, eight years later — 19 years old, with long hair and a hint of of a goatee. The gentleman on the far right is my father (as you may have guessed), and the lady in the middle is gran. You see just the top of my guitar bag, which represents my very first guitar, a Silvertone.

Ideé d’jour

What soap is for the body, tears are for the soul. — Jewish proverb

Remember, o child of God, that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.

This evening, a memento mori will be etched on my forehead as words very much like this are spoken. The ashes used for Ash Wednesday come from burned palm branches, which had been waved during the previous year’s Palm Sunday service. In at least one church, the palms were burned in the furnace of a local funeral parlor; as it is difficult to sweep all the ashes out of such a furnace, there was no way to be sure the ashes used did not include a bit of someone’s Uncle Joe. At least, that’s what one minister told me, and I have little cause to doubt it. It does seem appropriate though, doesn’t it?

In a culture obsessed with youth, it is good to remind ourselves of our mortality. America seems like a young adult at present – which is to say, the policies seem to be predicated on the assumption that our country will exist with its current strength and resources forever. World history suggests this is a self-deluded view. It’s a view that denies the reality that cultures and societies have their own sort of mortality. So, again, it’s good to have the ash drawn on our forehead, to remind ourselves that death rules the collective as well as the individual.

The word “Lent” is from Middle English, meaning “Spring.” And what we do for the coming forty days might be seen as a sort of psychic spring house cleaning. It’s very common to think of Lent as a time one gives up things, e.g., colas, candy, and so on.

Sunday evening, Pam and I were discussing an alternate way of observing Lent: taking on disciplines. For example, Pam plans to attend more church functions during the week. She also plans to exercise more, a discipline aided by the fact that she will be teaching racquetball four days a week.

As for myself, I am “giving up” watching TV for Lent. This is something of a tradition for me. I think this has been my stated discipline for the past two to three years. I have learned, much to my chagrin, that TV addiction is as hard to “kick” as cigarettes – maybe harder. So, last year, I limited myself to one hour an evening, with the stipulation that the hour in question be “quality” programming (i.e., the sort of thing you’d see on PBS). This year, on the theory that nature abhors a vacuum (at least the addictive personality does), I am taking on some disciplines in addition to giving up television.

I plan to read during the time I would normally watch TV, for one thing. I have about four or five books I hope to read during Lent (they’re about 500 pages each, at most). I also plan to write more during Lent.

This web-log may be the beneficiary of that last discipline.

Do you have plans for your psychic house-cleaning?

Ideé d’jour

Even a lie is a psychic fact.
— Carl Jung, psychiatrist (1875-1961)

Unrelated to this image (more fun with filters in Photoshop), check out Rob Salkowitz's entry "O Jesus" at Emphasis Added. Sadly, I can't currently link directly to the entry in question, but it was entered on Sunday, February 22. Rob offers a rather cogent discussion in response to the question "Are the Christian gospels inherently anti-Semitic?"

Part of his response echoes something I heard on NBC's Dateline this past Friday: there is little anti-Jewish sentiment in the earliest gospel written (probably Mark), and more in the last gospel recorded (certainly John).

Once again, this is in response to Mel Gibson's little cinematic Passion play. Mel has made some ill-advised comments that might lead one to believe the movie will be antisemitic. I suspect there is an element of promotion in Mr. Gibson's comments, as the controversy insures free publicity.

The bottom line is that if one goes into the movie expecting to see antisemitism, they are likely to find it. If one goes in hoping to have their "sacrificial lamb" Christology re-affirmed, they are likely to receive that.

I have heard the torture scenes go on for 45 minutes, which seems extreme. The infamous D-Day sequence in Private Ryan lasted 30 minutes, and that was plenty intense.

I did see a few scenes in a "Making of" special which aired on the Pax network Sunday night (it will run again this evening). I especially remember the Garden sequence, in which Jesus speaks lines that I don't recall from any of the Gospels. It's possible these lines came from some other portion of scripture, but I'm fairly certain they weren't from the gospels.

So, I will carry a degree of prejudice with me as I go into the movie.

Ideé d’jour

The whole idea of pilgrimage is translating into a literal, physical act the pilgrimage of moving into the center of your own heart.
— Joseph Campbell, Transformations of Myth Through Time.

---

This came by way of my new friend, Joyce, who is a fellow admirer of Campbell and Carl Jung. Speaking of synchronicity, Joyce is part of a team at our church who will be studying Chaucer's Cantebury Tales — as you know, this little collection of stories centers around a group of pilgrims.

I actually saw a church with this sign this past Saturday. Bo Strofeda, who posts under the auspices of the venerable Dr. Omed,  recently suggested that Xians admit their religion is insane. Well, this was his response to the news that some fundy pastors are encouraging their parents to take young children to see the graphically violent Passion of the Christ.

This sign does seem to me a sort of insanity. I can't imagine why a church would want to associate itself with a corporation whose practices are unethical, at best, and would likely qualify as Unchristian. Obviously, they are attempting to piggy-back on Mall Wart's successful ad campaign.  Perhaps they are even clever enough to be aware of the play on the meaning of the word "saving".  But this church seems to suggest that it is no more than one more business when it appropriates the advertising slogan of a business. And since the business in question is motivated by commerce rather than ethics or community service, the comparison calls into question the ethics of the church.

I don't recall the denomination of the church this sign actually appeared at. Perhaps it really was a Baptist church. And perhaps they have the view — as the "one, true, church" — that their mission is to drive all other denominations out of business as Mall Wart has driven locally-owned stores out of business. One doubts the church in question would be so blatant.

As for the controversial Passion, what I have heard reported suggests it would be inappropriate for young children. It might be suitable for 16 years and up, but I would recommend parents carefully read a variety of reviews prior to encouraging their children see this. If the parent in question objects to violence in video games and other media, I would suggest they maintain some logical consistency by not sending their tweens (or younger) to this movie.

The director, Mel Gibson, has stated he believes the Christology that "Christ died for our sins". Given that, I think it likely the film will be biased in that manner. Many who have seen previews of the movie have reported having that position confirmed.

To return to Mr. Strofeda's challenge: is Christianity, or faith, insane? A former priest once said that Christians are like the Red Queen: we are called to believe six impossible things before breakfast. These impossible things — the existence of a Supreme Being, a human manifestation of that Supreme Being, and so on — are matters of faith, not logic. Belief in a Supreme Being is value neutral; how one acts in response to that belief is another matter.

Mr. Strofeda may maintain that belief in a Supreme Being is insane. If so, we disagree. I can't prove God exists, nor can Bo prove the negative. In order to even have that discussion, we would have to agree on the definition of quot;God".  Regardless, I would maintain that belief, by itself, is value neutral.

The problem arises, I suppose, when people act contrary to what they claim to believe. This is a familiar argument, to the effect that Christians are hypocrites. I think there are two levels to this: one would be a sort of cognitive dissonance, where one says one thing on Sunday, acts in a contrary manner during the week, and never recognizes the disparity. The other level is when one actually strives to "practice what she preaches, and fails. That's pretty much the human condition.

I suppose Bo to be railing against the former.  I count myself among the latter. To be continued . . .

You're A Prayer for Owen Meany by John Irving!
Despite humble and perhaps literally small beginnings, you inspire faith in almost everyone you know. You are an agent of higher powers, and you manifest this fact in mysterious and loud ways. A sense of destiny pervades your every waking moment, and you prepare with great detail for destiny fulfilled. When you speak, IT SOUNDS LIKE THIS!
Take the Book Quiz
at the Blue Pyramid.

---

Interesting that I could be a book I've never read. What book do you say I am?

Verse d’jour

I took month-long vacations in the stratosphere and you know it's hard to hold your breath
I lost everything I ever loved or feared, I was the cosmic kid in full costume dress
Well, my feet they finally took root in the earth but I got me a nice place in the stars
I swear I found the key to the universe in the engine of an old parked car
I hid in the mother breast of the crowd but when they said “pull down” I pulled up
Ooh ... growin' up
Ooh ... growin' up
— “Growin’ Up,” The Boss, © 1972

Did I mention that I'm a Bruce Springsteen fan? This particular tune originally appeared on the lp Welcome to Ashbury Park, NJ, I still have the vinyl to prove it. However, I just copied the lyrics from the cd booklet for 18 Tracks. Listened to this tune as I was getting dressed. I was especially struck by the second and third lines, which seem to me to echo our friend Walt Whitman.

This cd is filled with rarities (I primarily bought it for "The Fever"), including an early recording of "Born in the U.S.A." Sounds like it was taped in the same living room Bruce recorded Nebraska in. The concerns are similar to that seminal recording, also: the song opens with the line "Born down in a dead man's town." Does that sound like Reagan's fantasy America to you? Then the second verse: "I got into a little hometown jab / And so they put a rifle in my hands / Sent me off to Vietnam / To go and kill the yellow man." Thing is, you can hear the hopelessness in this recording. It's easy to see how Reagan's people missed the point when they heard the single version, with the pounding drums and defiant guitars.

OK, this huge image is the one I just wrote about. Dr. Omed says I need more images on my site, so here you go. This is a radically altered histological slide of a rather nasty disease, tweaked within a pixel of its reality through the venerable auspices of Adobe Photoshop.

As for the nature of the nasty disease? Ah, let's leave it at "The less said, the better."

Octologue

Katey, at One Good Bumblebee has introduced me to a new poetic form: the Octologue. Katey, in turn, had picked it up elsewhere, but I leave it to you to follow that particular daisy chain.

The form is composed of eight (“octo”) very short lines, with the additional restriction that it be a monologue or dialogue. Most of my recent verse has been built on the short line, so that appeals to me — yet, the longest line is only five syllables long, which is radically short, even for me.

Naturally, I had to try it out. Here's a first draft. Sticklers for the rules, like Mike Snider, and others who have read the rules (see Katey's post), will quickly see the problem: too many syllables in line two. This is what I get for trying to compose a structured poem on the computer. Especially a structure which I have not previously attempted. Do take a moment to click through to that draft, though; it's in postcard format, and I'm rather proud of the image I created for it.

But I do want to try to obey the rules (really, I do!), so here's a second draft:

Driving south
On Classen, silver
Jag, license
Plate “INCA”,
Rolls down middle lane
Past white car,
Donut shop,
And points north.

Just FYI — one of the restrictions is that each line be "traditionally capped," as Katey puts it.

Well, it's a fun challenge, and I think I'll try it again soon.

Belated Valentine’s Day Report

Elsie gave me some interesting Valentine's Day presents. One was a Sharp electronic organizer, the Wizard. It includes a "memo" function in which one may write drafts of letters, etc. Naturally, I had to try writing a poem on it:

fire on the street
lightning bugs fly through
stolen windows

Um .... would you believe Surreal Haiku?

She also gave me a copy of American Dynasty by Kevin Phillips, who was a Republican campaign strategist during the Nixon and Reagan years. The book concerns the House of Bush, and is considerably less than favorable. Since I have taken up hating the current Resident as much as Rush & his friends hated Clinton, this was an inspired gift.

What did I give Elsie? Well, Friday night we went out to Tom & Jerry's, a very nice "surf & turf" restaurant here in town. I had steak filet with a blue cheese and hazelnut dressing, and lobster tail. It was excellent — they even got "medium well" right. Elsie had salmon, which was also excellent.

Saturday evening, I took her to a local production of the off-Broadway musical "Pageant".  The pageant in question is a beauty pageant sponsored by a (fictional) cosmetics company.  The contestants are broad stereotype characters: Miss West Coast is a multiple-lives air head; Miss Texas is rough and ready; Miss Bible Belt hardly needs an explanation.  Most of the humor is in these stereotypes, but some initial humor is gained by the fact that these contestants are all portrayed by men in drag.  We were especially impressed with the gentleman who portrayed Miss Texas — he was an excellent tap-dancer, and did back-flips, all in heels.  Elsie did wonder, during intermission, how they managed to hide their "equipment" so well.  Otherwise, we soon forgot the gender of the performers and focused on the characters they portrayed.

The daylight hours of Saturday were somewhat marred by the fact that part of my garage door broke.  I have an old-fashioned manual-lift door, and part of the spring broke.  Afraid I don't know the name of the piece, but it looks like an angle brace and goes from the door to the actual spring (which is attached to the door frame).  Naturally, this piece broke just as I was lowering the door Friday evening (before dinner), so my car seemed to be "trapped". I chose not to tell Elsie about this that evening, for fear it would spoil her enjoyment of dinner. As for my own enjoyment, I focused on Elsie, the food, and the leisurely ambiance of the restaurant.

Now, Elsie had a number of "to-do's" she wanted to accomplish while in OKC.  But once I told her of the situation with the garage door, she made that her first priority.  We worked together to take off the broken brace (for lack of a better name).  We discussed a variety of options to resolve the problem. Elsie tolerated a wild-goose chase to a chain hardware store to see if a replacement could be found. Ultimately, she helped raise the garage door so I could release my car. We then lowered it again, as there is a neighborhood cat who likes to hide in my garage.

All this may seem unromantic.  But, what impresses me about it is we got through it without fussing even once.  I think this is partly maturity on my part, as I tend to get fussy when I feel vulnerable & out of my element. It also seems emblematic of the maturity of our relationship.  One thing that has remained constant has been our ability to talk respectfully to each other. That's something to give thanks for, and may be worth more than two dozen roses.

As for the garage door — I've chosen to wait until after pay day to deal with that one.  And, by the way, we achieved at least two of Elsie's "to-do's", in spite of the fandango with the garage door.

Automatic Apocalype

Woke early this morning to view Apocalypse Dawn. Howard Dean was walking with Bertolt Brecht. As they were talking, forty horsemen drove by. The street was full of lightening. Strata clouds built the sky dome.

Morning Star signed a contract with the Burned Bush. We understood the terms imperfectly, but were happy with our toasters. We loved our new digital colors, and the stories they told us. We read our palms by fiery sword light.

In secret corridors magpies muttered. Horses held obedient conferences. Then snakes pledged allegiance to purgatory. The sky dome fractured sunlight, infinite magnifying glass on bureaucratic liturgy. Towers knelt before flowers. Sons knelt before dark mothers.

Ti Jean, will you hear me now that time has stopped? Henry Miller is practicing your blues harmonica. Walt Whitman is walking across your alternate America. The Rosenbergs are studying the Talmud of your Zen Constitution.

At last, the continent drifted. The perfect trial was over. We were shadows. Our homes were shadows. The cancer had been excised, and dwelt in the sun’s sweet furnace.

What To Do

What to do
when shadows dance?
Join them.

Under dappled leaf
shadows
the veil parted.

Morning's corona
danced over dew grass
then filled the world.

Subliminal

1. Dragon:: wisdom
2. Molecule:: atom
3. Tire:: less
4. Mighty:: Quinn
5. Octane:: High
6. Troll:: crossing
7. Atmosphere:: ozone
8. Guide:: book
9. Leash:: law
10. Dustmite:: bed bug

Belated Lectio Divina for Epiphany 6, 14.Feb.2004

Reading.  Luke 6:17-26

Meditation.
The thin places.
Where earth meets sky.
Where the clouds meet the mountains.
The depths of the deeps, Leviathan's sport.

The thin places.
St. Brigit's pool (home of Goddess Brigid)
Stonehenge's circle of stone.
Jacob's stone pillow.
Quartz Mountain.
The corner of my room,
where a small altar stands.

The thin places of my life,
when all I could pray for was bread.
When my heart has broken,
and light could enter
through the cracks.
When my heart has overflowed,
and I could not remain blind
to its celestial fire.

The thin places.
Where past and future collapse
into eternal now.
Where the divine spark within leaps up,
rejoicing to greet the divine spark
that breaths all around us.

Prayer.
I will arise & refresh my spirit;
I will visit the thin places.
I hold the holy beads
and count the 150 songs
the thin places have taught my heart.
I walk forth in beauty.
I strive for justice.
I walk in the light.
I give thanks for the thin places
where my eyes could be open
to ever-present goodness & mercy.
I give thanks for the thin places
where the wind is blessing,
where the water is joy,
where my face is kissed by the divine.

Contemplation.
Consider highs & lows in your life. Do you see patterns? Are these "thin places" where time has stood still?

Ideé d’jour

Never spend your money before you have it. &mdash Thomas Jefferson, third US president, architect and author (1743-1826)