To return to my writing—a year, two years, three years after the fact—is an odd experience. Occasionally, I feel a smug satisfaction of writing something so well. It's as if standing in a mirror admiring one's physique: very vain. More often than not, though, I am a bit embarrassed. I find a comma-splice here, a misplaced modifier there, and sometimes plainly horrid writing. Today I was re-reading an essay I wrote a year ago, trying to rewrite the ending in order to submit the essay as a writing sample for a job for which I'm applying. In the final page of the essay (on how I came to love poetry through reading Auden's "Musee des Beaux Arts") I found this section:
"Perhaps Stevens is right when he says that death is the mother of all beauty. But if so, it is in a different way than the woman in “Sunday Morning” thinks. Milosz shows us this when he says in an interview that, “every poetry is directed against death–against death of the individual, against the power of death” (64). Death fosters beauty, but only insofar as the beauty is directed against death. But poetry cannot be relegated to books on grief or anthologies of poems for those mourning the loss of a loved one, although some are only read in such contexts. (I am thinking of Auden’s “Stop all the Clocks” or as it is now called, “Funeral Blues.”) In fighting against death, poetry embraces life. The poet and the poem exist not only to give us comfort in the time of need, but also to confront us with hard truths, truths that can sometimes only be uttered in the words of poetry."
What strikes me now is that what I wrote was probably a bit heretical—or at the very least, very Calvinist (perhaps they're synonymous.) Saying that death is the mother of beauty, in that beauty is directed against death, leads to the idea that death is necessary for beauty. This is one step away from saying that God (or the True, if you like) needs death to exist or at least needs it to bring about certain ends. Which is heresy.
Should one go back and rewrite old essays? I don't know....I don't know that much about writing. I tend to want to leave them alone after a few months; they become mile-markers in my past, then. In this case I'm going to rewrite the ending, if only because the recipient of the submission happens to be an ecumenical journal that would notice the conclusions being drawn.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
The Eucharist and Non-Baptized
At a Vespers service on Sunday night, I stuck around for communion after the service had ended. I must admit that I was not delighted about the communion cups that the school uses or the Methodist pastor who was serving, but being forced to attend non-denominational free-Church/Presbyterian services had made me glad for any chance to take the Eucharist. I was a little uncomfortable that several avowedly non-Christian students had also hung around to take communion.
Growing up in the Free Church and then a Southern Baptist Church, the Eucharist was merely symbolic. Anyone who professed a commitment to Christ could take it, regardless of baptism. When I started to attend and Anglican church, I was initially dismayed that, since I hadn't yet been baptized, I could not partake. In retrospect, though, I think the prerequisite of baptism acknowledges the worth of the Eucharist.
Was what these students did wrong, or, perhaps better put, not the best idea? Or was it something beautiful? I suppose it depends on one's view of the sacraments. For that reason I do not take the Eucharist in Catholic masses, though I have often wanted to.
Any ideas?
Growing up in the Free Church and then a Southern Baptist Church, the Eucharist was merely symbolic. Anyone who professed a commitment to Christ could take it, regardless of baptism. When I started to attend and Anglican church, I was initially dismayed that, since I hadn't yet been baptized, I could not partake. In retrospect, though, I think the prerequisite of baptism acknowledges the worth of the Eucharist.
Was what these students did wrong, or, perhaps better put, not the best idea? Or was it something beautiful? I suppose it depends on one's view of the sacraments. For that reason I do not take the Eucharist in Catholic masses, though I have often wanted to.
Any ideas?
Friday, January 18, 2008
A poem
Since my year of teaching began, I have all but stopped writing. Which is unfortunate, to say the least. I managed to bang out this poem for Wheaton's yearbook next year, though. It's modeled on Milosz's "Elegy for YZ"
"Elegy for Luke Anderson"
Dear Luke,
At your funeral, I stopped crying
To marvel that a coffin could
Contain so large a man.
You suffered under the weight of caring too much
And I was amazed that a burdened
Man could laugh so beautifully.
You did not question your lot:
The boys whom you tutored in a Chicago
Ghetto whose hallways smelled
Of stale urine—they had it worse.
Once you told me your dream:
To feel that you belonged,
To know that you could be
Someone—a dream postponed by then
For well-meaning discussions with
White-coated men about imbalances
In your bile. Unruly, melancholy,
Witty, brilliant, you threw off authority
Like a Bolshevik—but in love, Luke,
Always in love. To escape your beliefs
You flew South like a bird
At the first sign of frost. There,
In a baptism of rum, a letter you wrote me:
"Too tired to debunk my faith. Relief."
Now your death is for many just the painful reminder
That suffering must be acknowledged,
Like a drought that strikes a fertile valley–
The farmers would love to ignore the heat,
The three rainless months, but hear the crunch
Of burnt grass with each step.
But lives cannot be reduced to lessons,
Or three part sermons, or elegiac poems.
Pray for us now, that we might bless
The banal, rejoice in our stodgy suburban lives.
That we too will one day gather at His feet
And join the chorus of Mercy. Of love. Of relief.
"Elegy for Luke Anderson"
Dear Luke,
At your funeral, I stopped crying
To marvel that a coffin could
Contain so large a man.
You suffered under the weight of caring too much
And I was amazed that a burdened
Man could laugh so beautifully.
You did not question your lot:
The boys whom you tutored in a Chicago
Ghetto whose hallways smelled
Of stale urine—they had it worse.
Once you told me your dream:
To feel that you belonged,
To know that you could be
Someone—a dream postponed by then
For well-meaning discussions with
White-coated men about imbalances
In your bile. Unruly, melancholy,
Witty, brilliant, you threw off authority
Like a Bolshevik—but in love, Luke,
Always in love. To escape your beliefs
You flew South like a bird
At the first sign of frost. There,
In a baptism of rum, a letter you wrote me:
"Too tired to debunk my faith. Relief."
Now your death is for many just the painful reminder
That suffering must be acknowledged,
Like a drought that strikes a fertile valley–
The farmers would love to ignore the heat,
The three rainless months, but hear the crunch
Of burnt grass with each step.
But lives cannot be reduced to lessons,
Or three part sermons, or elegiac poems.
Pray for us now, that we might bless
The banal, rejoice in our stodgy suburban lives.
That we too will one day gather at His feet
And join the chorus of Mercy. Of love. Of relief.
Monday, November 12, 2007
College Withdrawal begins
As I left for college and when I was in college, people would often tell me that college was the greatest time of their lives. Some would recollect fondly on the learning or the emotional growth. Others would grin as they described it with vagaries, though I could almost envision the keggers they were remembering silently. There was, of course, the occasional advice about "hooking up with a lot of girls" because college is the time for that. The people who suggested the latter hadn't actually been to college, now that I think about it.
Pessimist that I am, when I was in college I would often ask recent graduates if they missed college, trying to prepare for the inevitable fallout after college. “Yes...but I don’t miss the tests and papers,” was the common rejoinder. I would chuckle and nod. Yes, that must be nice.
But now I'm done with college....and I miss the papers and tests.
There was something inherently satisfying of trying very hard to achieve a goal and being evaluated based upon my labors. In high school, I would study very hard for the college board tests in order to get into good schools. In college, I would work hard for papers and tests...not because I necessarily wanted a good grade or wanted to get into a great graduate school, but because I wanted to learn the material. This is still true of my learning. But I also wanted the immediate satisfaction—or disappointment—of seeing my work evaluated. Of seeing the fruits of my labor.
I suppose this is why some people go to graduate school and never leave...
There is no longer someone standing over me with a carrot dangling from a stick, encouraging me to learn. Or perhaps there is. I want to maintain my dignity in front of my students, to know the material well enough to answer their questions. This is not so much of carrot in front of a stick as a man with a hickory stick threatening to beat me if I don’t learn and learn fast enough to present to the class I have in thirty minutes. I learn out of fear now.
In my role as a teacher, I expect to see a few small progressions in students. Perhaps a student will learn to craft a thesis. If I’m lucky, a student may see the value in history. Yet I will never see most of the results of my current labors. In fifteen years, a former student might think of me vaguely when he remembers to put a comma before a coordinating conjunction. But the immediate satisfaction—what often keeps me going—is gone. I want to be rewarded, and I wanted to know that there is an end to my labors and an end to my trying to read and write obsessively during my free time (emphasize “trying”). I want to take all the knowledge that my curiosity has led me to accrue and synthesize it into a greater work. I have hopes of writing a novel and publishing poetry and essays...but there is no guarantee. Though they pale in comparison, school tests and essays provided a guaranteed reader and conversation partner—even if only one. I have listeners now....but they don't really listen. They stare mindlessly at the screen and take notes or talk in the background, surreptitiously texting on their cell phones.
Pessimist that I am, when I was in college I would often ask recent graduates if they missed college, trying to prepare for the inevitable fallout after college. “Yes...but I don’t miss the tests and papers,” was the common rejoinder. I would chuckle and nod. Yes, that must be nice.
But now I'm done with college....and I miss the papers and tests.
There was something inherently satisfying of trying very hard to achieve a goal and being evaluated based upon my labors. In high school, I would study very hard for the college board tests in order to get into good schools. In college, I would work hard for papers and tests...not because I necessarily wanted a good grade or wanted to get into a great graduate school, but because I wanted to learn the material. This is still true of my learning. But I also wanted the immediate satisfaction—or disappointment—of seeing my work evaluated. Of seeing the fruits of my labor.
I suppose this is why some people go to graduate school and never leave...
There is no longer someone standing over me with a carrot dangling from a stick, encouraging me to learn. Or perhaps there is. I want to maintain my dignity in front of my students, to know the material well enough to answer their questions. This is not so much of carrot in front of a stick as a man with a hickory stick threatening to beat me if I don’t learn and learn fast enough to present to the class I have in thirty minutes. I learn out of fear now.
In my role as a teacher, I expect to see a few small progressions in students. Perhaps a student will learn to craft a thesis. If I’m lucky, a student may see the value in history. Yet I will never see most of the results of my current labors. In fifteen years, a former student might think of me vaguely when he remembers to put a comma before a coordinating conjunction. But the immediate satisfaction—what often keeps me going—is gone. I want to be rewarded, and I wanted to know that there is an end to my labors and an end to my trying to read and write obsessively during my free time (emphasize “trying”). I want to take all the knowledge that my curiosity has led me to accrue and synthesize it into a greater work. I have hopes of writing a novel and publishing poetry and essays...but there is no guarantee. Though they pale in comparison, school tests and essays provided a guaranteed reader and conversation partner—even if only one. I have listeners now....but they don't really listen. They stare mindlessly at the screen and take notes or talk in the background, surreptitiously texting on their cell phones.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
How I lost my iTunes Store Virginity
Since it’s inception, I have resisted purchasing songs from the iTunes music store. This is in part because I like owning CDs. The main advantage of CDs is the ability to read the liner notes in their original form. I’m not interested in having the conversation of whether reading from a computer screen is comparable or preferable from reading from a book. It is not. Despite this product. For a more detailed investigation of reading on computers, you can read parts of this. But I’m getting off topic....CDs also provide a sort of insurance policy. I can load it onto my hard drive and still have the original disc in case my hard drive crashes—or if I want to bring it into someone’s car. Yes, yes, you can burn CDs from computers, I know. And truth be told, I have tended to rip CDs from friends, so I suppose I can’t claim that I prefer CDs over MP3s. I don’t want to risk being compared to one of those atavistic hipster bastards that still listens to vinyl despite the fact that vinyl was mostly fazed out before his birth. But I was determined that I was not going to pay for an MP3.
This changed two weeks ago when Radiohead released their brilliant new album, In Rainbows. If you don’t already know, the band decided to circumvent iTunes and sell the album from its website. However, not only was the band selling the album itself, it let the customer set the price. I like Radiohead’s music and wanted to support the band’s new venture, so I put aside my qualms, told myself I was being hip, and purchased the mp3-cd. (Since you’ll want to know: I paid around seven dollars. You can blame my cheapness on a poor paying job or the combination of my Midwestern-Småland-Jewish background. The ultimate in miserly genes.) The downloading was easy, and because I’m a guilt-ridden person, I found I enjoyed obtaining the MP3s legitimately. This was the first step to what happened last night.
The second step was downloading Wes Anderson’s short film, Hotel Chevalier from the iTunes Store, where it was being offered for free. To download the film, I had to create a username, which included surrendering my credit card information to the Itunes store for future purchases.
Yesterday morning, before my first parent-teacher conferences, I found myself reading RSS feeds in an effort to put off getting ready for the coming day. I came across an article about an English guy making his own fan-commercial for Apple, which then saw the video on You Tube and decided to purchase it: Apple Fan's Homemade Ad Goes from YouTube to Boob Tube. I watched his video. Then I watched it again. And again. And again. I wasn’t watching for the slick footage of the iPod Touch, though. What had me glued to my computer with only twenty minutes to shower, get dressed, and get to parent teacher conferences was the song, “Music is my hot, hot sex,” by a Brazilian Group, CSS.
The song was in my head all day as I talked to twenty sets of parents. The phrases which I no doubt repeated dozens of times—“The big problem is an attention to detail,” and “vocabulary quizzes are killing the grade,”—were layered over the commercial’s opening guitar riff. After conferences were over, I was determined to hear the song again.
Now normally I would turn to my Swedish friends at the Pirates Bay, but the crazy filter here at the school would most certainly block the site. I don’t even want to try. After being blocked from Twitter, Facebook, The Best of Craig’s list, Vanity Fair, MySpace (I linked CSS on good faith), and seemingly every art site that I would like to visit, a piracy block would almost certainly lead to a direct confrontation with the IT guy.
So I caved in and went to the iTunes store. It was only 99 cents, I reasoned (I didn’t want to by the whole album, which I have a hunch is terrible). I experienced a momentary lapse of determination when I forgot my password, but Apple quickly sent a link to reset it. So I took a sip of the cheap port I was drinking, the after-conference celebration, and purchased the song.
Now here I am the morning after. Though I’ve listened to the song many, many times, I’m not proud of purchasing it. It’s not a great song. Rather, a tawdry version of Le Tigre, a band I find more annoying than anything. The song’s playcount sits at 11. It will probably climb no higher than 20 before never being played again. In the meantime, I’m going downstairs to make some coffee and listen to Bob Dylan, a prayer of repentance.
This changed two weeks ago when Radiohead released their brilliant new album, In Rainbows. If you don’t already know, the band decided to circumvent iTunes and sell the album from its website. However, not only was the band selling the album itself, it let the customer set the price. I like Radiohead’s music and wanted to support the band’s new venture, so I put aside my qualms, told myself I was being hip, and purchased the mp3-cd. (Since you’ll want to know: I paid around seven dollars. You can blame my cheapness on a poor paying job or the combination of my Midwestern-Småland-Jewish background. The ultimate in miserly genes.) The downloading was easy, and because I’m a guilt-ridden person, I found I enjoyed obtaining the MP3s legitimately. This was the first step to what happened last night.
The second step was downloading Wes Anderson’s short film, Hotel Chevalier from the iTunes Store, where it was being offered for free. To download the film, I had to create a username, which included surrendering my credit card information to the Itunes store for future purchases.
Yesterday morning, before my first parent-teacher conferences, I found myself reading RSS feeds in an effort to put off getting ready for the coming day. I came across an article about an English guy making his own fan-commercial for Apple, which then saw the video on You Tube and decided to purchase it: Apple Fan's Homemade Ad Goes from YouTube to Boob Tube. I watched his video. Then I watched it again. And again. And again. I wasn’t watching for the slick footage of the iPod Touch, though. What had me glued to my computer with only twenty minutes to shower, get dressed, and get to parent teacher conferences was the song, “Music is my hot, hot sex,” by a Brazilian Group, CSS.
The song was in my head all day as I talked to twenty sets of parents. The phrases which I no doubt repeated dozens of times—“The big problem is an attention to detail,” and “vocabulary quizzes are killing the grade,”—were layered over the commercial’s opening guitar riff. After conferences were over, I was determined to hear the song again.
Now normally I would turn to my Swedish friends at the Pirates Bay, but the crazy filter here at the school would most certainly block the site. I don’t even want to try. After being blocked from Twitter, Facebook, The Best of Craig’s list, Vanity Fair, MySpace (I linked CSS on good faith), and seemingly every art site that I would like to visit, a piracy block would almost certainly lead to a direct confrontation with the IT guy.
So I caved in and went to the iTunes store. It was only 99 cents, I reasoned (I didn’t want to by the whole album, which I have a hunch is terrible). I experienced a momentary lapse of determination when I forgot my password, but Apple quickly sent a link to reset it. So I took a sip of the cheap port I was drinking, the after-conference celebration, and purchased the song.
Now here I am the morning after. Though I’ve listened to the song many, many times, I’m not proud of purchasing it. It’s not a great song. Rather, a tawdry version of Le Tigre, a band I find more annoying than anything. The song’s playcount sits at 11. It will probably climb no higher than 20 before never being played again. In the meantime, I’m going downstairs to make some coffee and listen to Bob Dylan, a prayer of repentance.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
