Although, of Course, You End up Becoming Another Dead White Author.

My posts have been sporadic at best, I know, but every now and then inspiration will hit that's slightly larger and weirder than a typical facebook post, and then low and behold, I'm provided another brief Sabbath moment to capture that inspiration in blog form. Maybe next time, I'll write about Bernie Sanders, but I like having the few friends I still have on both sides of the political spectrum, so I might have to pass. So instead, I'll play it safe and write about Hollywood movies, literature and racism.

I  finally saw The End of the Tour, a film that is based on David Lipsky's book-length interview with David Foster Wallace which I haven't read. This is fine, because prior knowledge of the book or David Foster Wallace is not required to appreciate this quietly moving film. Far from a biopic, Tour captures a starstruck/jealous small time author simultaneously trying to interview and befriend a rising star on the literary scene. Jesse Eisenberg sells his role competently,and Jason Segel defies criticism with a complete transformation and vulnerable performance. The writing, direction, and acting make simple, quiet scenes come to life in a film that is composed of mostly two men talking. What they are talking about and the meaning behind it sells the tension and pathos. This should take home several Oscars, especially for Segal, but even as I type that I feel guilty. Yes, this is another movie about two white authors, giving the male whiteout of literature and Hollywood an almost poetic intersection. So maybe it needs to step aside and make way for more diverse pictures that are just as deserving of praise for their craft. Too bad it's so well made.

It's not like the movie is unaware of this, or at least DFW in the movie. When Lipsky asks him who he thinks his primary audience is, he says something to the effect of "probably other nerdy white men". Earlier, he speaks of the loneliness of being a writer and wishes he had someone to share his time with who is not a dog. "Please tell your readers my relationship my dogs is platonic," he tells Lipsky. Even when there's not much at stake, there is for DFW, who doesn't want to give his readers the wrong impression (a concern sustained through the film). A white male superstar writer tells an insecure white male worshiper to be conscious of the  insecure white male audience who will be judging him. Some might consider his admission of his audience as an aside: I see it as an interrogation of literary fiction itself. I know that the names are factual, but both men being named David shades this picture of men basically writing to themselves for approval (think about Lipsky's desire to share his book with DFW and receive feedback from his hero/rival) and in effect feeding their own loneliness. There could be a solution, but their egos won't allow it.

As a white male who appreciates much of what DFW has written (although, good as it was, this film captures what DFW was saying about loneliness and addiction more concisely and possibly better than Infinite Jest) I also can't escape the truth that there are other voices out there who deserve to be heard, and the more voices that I listen to, the less lonely I feel in relation to the world as it stands. Once I read the Achebe's, the Morrisons, the Angelous, the Marquez's, the Murakamis, and, heck, even the Welty's and O'Connors, I feel connected to something larger than myself. I'm not longer trapped in a staring contest with myself, but I'm participating in a much larger conversation. It's freeing, and I'm also convinced that it's much more productive than the alternative. I can set aside my pen and listen, and wait until I have something to say. In the meantime, I can point others towards the wide selection of voices  worth listening to. The theme is universal: we're not alone.

I'm not sure how this connects to the movie. Whether this subversion of "another man story" was intentional, it's still another white male story. It's a well-crafted one, and worthy of praise, but is that enough to justify the continual silencing of diverse artists who are just as deserving? I can't say, but I do think that if the hidden critique makes its way into the collective conscience of both fans of literary fiction and movies, it might not be that much of a waste after all.

The Failed Novels that Haunt Me

I'm a firm believer in storytelling and its potential to convey even the ugliest of truths in beautiful ways. Stories, even the ones we admit are made up and not the kind we pass as fact, have the power to subvert our senses and open our minds to questions we wouldn't even dare ask otherwise. This is why I felt compelled to share an excerpt of a story I failed to tell well.

I wrote a novella, which I recommend everyone try once, especially if it's a poorly made one. I tried twice. I abandoned the second attempt after I realized it just didn't know what it wanted to be. This is what writers do. We pass the responsibility on to the story. Anyway, I wrote a lot of unpublished fiction that I'm proud of. In Good Conscience, the novella ,doesn't fall into that category.

Why, then, am I sharing an excerpt? Simply put, because it haunts me. Something about it, especially the scene on the subway, reminds me of what is happening to our collective reading and thinking, at least in the U.S. I wrote this before I was aware of the push towards nonfiction informational texts in education, but the more I see art and beauty pushed out of our lives, the more Jack's subway commute haunts me. I stand by the opening--I only wish I had figured out the rest of it. Be that as it may, I hope this haunts you as well.


The walk to the subway station was silent and uneventful as usual, a good sign which reassured him. He had a good ten minute wait ahead of him, but that’s the way he liked it. He gazed across the tracks at nothing in particular as he felt the cool morning air against his face. The daydreams would have started next, but for the habitual interruption.

“Morning, Jack.”

“Good morning, Warner,” Jack greeted the man beside him. Soon another commuter would join him, suited, like his companion, in gray, and then another. Within moments a solid gray line would form in front of the track, ready to board the train as a single unit. No pushing, no arguments, just a silent relocation from here to there.

“The crowd’s here earlier than usual, I see,” Warner observed.

Jack nodded as the air became warmer around him. Besides the occasional obvious statement, no one said much. Today however would be different.

An unimpressive thud a few feet in front of him caught his attention, not because of the sound, but the murmur that followed it. Jack heard a scream, and he gently pressed his way through the crowd to see the tracks. A young man sat on the track holding his ankle, crying out in pain. Jack heard a whistle and noticed Warner stood next to him.

“Must have been a nasty fall.”

Something unsettled Jack at times like this, like he wasn’t sure how to react, so normally he kept his silence. Curiosity got the best of him, however, and he had to ask.

“How did it happen?”

“How? Same as always, he slipped and fell. That’s the only way for it to happen.”

Warner’s response and expression put Jack on the defensive. “Of course.” He immediately wanted to kick himself. Of course he slipped and fell. What else would have happened? Accidents happened, and sickness. If harm came any other way…what? His mind couldn’t even begin to grasp it. To consider any other pain, whatever it was, would be ridiculous. And looking more ridiculous was the last thing he needed.

Warner’s gaze returned to the man on the tracks, and Jack soon saw why. The train would arrive shortly, and the kid could barely move. He scrambled up to one leg and soon discovered the other was caught on part of the track. He moved the injured foot toward the crowd and the climb to safety, but the cuff of his pants was attached to the track. He tried to free it, but it wouldn’t move. He paused to listen as the faint rumble of a train started, then went back to work on the pants leg.

“He’s not going to make it,” a bystander observed.

Someone should , Jack thought, then trailed off. What someone should do, he couldn’t say. Not knowing how to react, he agreed with a grave nod.

With a final burst of energy, the young man tugged, ripping the bottom of his pants halfway around his leg. Still, the cuff was caught, and him with it. If he had one more chance, if the train saw him or waited one more moment, he could make it. He gathered up his strength and managed one last tug.

The train arrived on time, taking the man’s remains with it. Unflinching, unaware of incident, it continued to its destination with typical efficiency. The train’s trademark screech drowned out all other sound, and was instantly gone.  

Jack joined the crowd in staring silently at the tracks in front of him, now mostly bare. For a moment or two, no one spoke. Finally, Jack heard a low “Wow,” followed by an “Unbelievable.” Jack tried to find a better word, but it wouldn’t come.

“Those things are sure built to last,” someone observed.

“What?” Jack spun around, surprised as the observer at this sudden confrontation. The other man looked startled and Jack noticed his fists were clenched and pointed threateningly at the poor fellow. He unclenched his fists but receiving no reply demanded, “What did you say?”

“Well, look at it. There’s pretty much nothing left of that poor guy over there, but he didn’t leave a scratch on that train.” The observer no longer looked threatened, only puzzled at this unusual display of behavior.

Jack couldn’t talk, because he couldn’t describe what he felt next. He wanted to punch this man, but he had no idea why. He was right, after all. It was a well-made train, and he did acknowledge the unfortunate situation. Why was he angry at him?

Warner interrupted Jack’s thoughts with an arm around the shoulders. “Take it easy, friend”, he muttered. “This sort of thing rarely happens, so he doesn’t know how to react. It’s hard for all of us. To be honest, I was about to say something similar.”

Remembering he had no way to explain himself, Jack softened and forced a light chuckle. “It is true, those things are made to last.”

“That’s quality,” Warner agreed.

            They nodded, and Warner released his friendly grip as they returned to their place in line. The train arrived soon after, and the crowd moved as one from platform to train. There was an empty seat in front of Jack, and he took it. Around him passengers began to take out their electronic books, doubtless filled with practical advice for the day. Each passenger had a title to fit his or her individual needs. For some reason, this unsettled Jack. He glanced out the window and looked away one second later, but it was too late. The image was there to stay.  The not quite decimated remains of the would-be-survivor disappeared into the distance, in the glance and in his mind.

He looked for Warner, but his neighbor had already moved to another car to find a discarded newspaper according to routine. Jack looked for any other familiar faces, but none could be found and he began to feel somewhat sad as he realized he was as good as alone. Dozens of books made dozens of good points and dozens of intent readers nodded their agreement. Left with no other material, Jack read the blank seat in front of him, still, even after long having passed the corpse, refusing to look out the window.  However, he remained surrounded in a sea of calm faces, all prepared for a normal day. Jack wasn’t so sure anymore.

He reminded himself that while accidents like this were rare, they still happened, and life went on as normal. Of course, it went on as normal because most people didn’t have thoughts like his, but he tried not to think about it.

The crowd nodded to their material again, which soothed Jack somehow. This time he offered a nod of his own.  This would likely be a normal day, like any other, but it wasn’t off to a good start.   

Redeeming the Time, or, Here are some Poems

To make a long story short, I've been given the gift of some extra time this week. I've tried to make good use of that time, cleaning, reading, etc., but after the dust should have cleared but instead scattered from all that cleaning, and my eyes reminded me mid chapter that I could use a nap I didn't have time for, I felt the urge to share some writings. So below I've included some short poems I hope one of us gets something out of, even if something is the truth that I shouldn't write any more poetry. If it's you who get that, please let me know by message. If you don't know how to message me, just keep trying to eat those goats that cross the bridge you live under and move on. Anyway, here's my first attempt to do the opposite of wasting time through poetry. Please enjoy.

This Is Not a Poem

I am not a poet.
A poet would view this pasture
Take it in
And articulate more than
"Man, those cows look delicious."
This is not a poem.
Call it something else.

Baptist Church
It is not blasphemy to claim
"Christ plays in ten thousand places",
A truth I've internalized since birth.
But it surprised me all the same
I could still find His sweet traces
Inside the doors of this baptist church.

Treason
Walking to the library
Can be an act of treason
In a world thriving on waste.
I say things like this
To sound less boring.

Let me know what you think, because there's more where that came from. Have a good one, all.

A People's Commentary on Luke 1

So, I'm dragging this old dusty blog out of retirement for the sake of a worthy subject and something like a challenge. David Zimmerman, over at his blog Loud Time, is starting a project based on the premise that many of us have lost touch with the perspective of the people and writers of the Bible. Read more about his challenge here. The short version is that much of the Bible is written through the perspective of the oppressed and marginalized. Once we adjust the lens in this way, many of us would have to admit we are more like centurions than  the disciples. That seems as good a reason as any to re-examine the New Testament through a revised point of view. The following is my own meager attempt to contribute to this conversation. The challenge is to choose a chapter of the New Testament and interpret it online with the hashtag #PeoplesCommentary so David Zimmerman and other contributors can see what you found.The more the merrier, since "people" is part of the whole idea and happens to be a plural word. I chose Luke 1 and will highlight what stands out most to me in this perspective. Feel free to join in.

Luke 1:5-24

Gabriel announces the birth of John the Baptist to Zechariah, a priest in the order of Abijah. It's worth noting that priests were not like the clergy we imagine today, with fairly stable salaries and benefits. The Levitical law made provisions for priests to receive a part of the tithe along with the poor and needy, since not receiving a paycheck per se, they were poor and needy. Add the Eastern tradition of children taking care of their parents, and it's safe to assume the The Baptist parents weren't exactly secure financially. And we can't forget that Zechariah was a priest operating in occupied territory, making the limits of freedom a possible threat. All this to say, the prospect of having a son could have many implications for rectifying any of these situations. Instead of hope, however, he has settled on resignation.

In this passage, we see Zechariah losing his voice for being resigned to the fact that the promise of God's kingdom breaking through probably won't happen anytime soon. It is easy to just keep one's head down and accept the reality that very likely has been all one knows. Zechariah lost his voice because he had lost hope, or at least set it aside for later. He will regain it, when he sees the hope begin to come to life. Accepting the current realities of oppression and powerlessness can crush hope, which makes faithfulness impossible. Gabriel reminds Zechariah to keep hope alive.

23-24

Elizabeth would have been disgraced in her culture for being a woman who could not bear children, and Luke makes sure to mention her joy at having this "disgrace" removed. Even within the limited confines of cultural understanding, God is interested in bringing hope and joy to all. It is also worth mentioning that Elizabeth's immediate joy and hope are a stark contrast to Zechariah's resignation. This one verse reveals that the one who  lacked the same access to the temple and privileges as a male priest showed the most faith and immediate obedience.

26-56

Mary questions Gabriel at his announcement that she will be the mother of the coming King, but she quickly accepts the new reality and like Elizabeth, embrace hope. Elizabeth says "You are blessed because you believe what the Lord has said." Luke takes extra pains to show the faithfulness of women in this passage, a group who was often marginalized and silenced at the time. And if that wasn't enough, Luke even includes a song sung by Mary herself.

"For He took notice of His lowly servant girl, and from now on all generations will call me blessed." It would be too easy to overlook the weight the perspective lends to this verse. Someone who is seen as lowly by her own culture based on something as arbitrary as gender is praising God for noticing those who the culture overlooks. Like Elizabeth, Mary knows the score. It's almost like Luke is trying to tell us these are voices worth listening to.

In verses 51- 53, Mary imagines a world in which earthly power is subverted. In God's Kingdom, those who hunger after power will become powerless, and those who fill themselves to the detriment of others will be sent away hungry. The hope of Christ is that justice will be restored, that the needy will have their fill and the oppressors will go home empty handed. A hope without this reality is incomplete and does not reflect God's vision for the world. As a member of an oppressed and marginalized group on many counts, Mary sees the reality of the need for this component of hope right away.    

That's Not Funny (Is It)?

It's been a random year so far, and I've successfully sucked the fun out of that random goodness by neglecting to write about it. Today I decided since I probably already lost any semblance of an audience by not writing in this blog, this would give me the perfect chance to entertain myself by listing things that make me laugh. So here they are, in no specific order.

Things that only I Find Funny

1.Phrases that sound bitingly sarcastic but are not. For example, Anne of Greene Gables (I had two sisters so shut it) had a great experience and one of her friends cheerfully said "Why don't you write a book about it." The context of her facial expression suggested sincerity, but the words did not. See? I'm laughing my (rear) off right now and you don't know why.
2.Euphemisms that sound worse than just being crude and/or swearing. I won't give specific examples, this being a "safe for the whole family" blog (even though no one reads it as I stated above) but network TV excels at this. Uh, keep up the good work?
3.Charlton Heston movies. This might be a cheat, because I may not be the only one, but locally speaking (friends I encounter the most) I think I am. But for me, the Statue of Liberty scene in Planet of the Apes is up there with William Shatner's"Khaaaaaaan!"
4.Imagining rich people buying "golden" everything. This extends to the extreme image of prosthetic limbs. Hey, when employment is low and luxury car sales are up, nothing's too much of a stretch.
5.The third season of Arrested Development. What can I say? I'm a loyal fan to the end.
6.Sock puppets. I've used this image as a punchline a lot in my lifetime, and if you don't get why this is the funniest concept ever, well, I guess you're just not me.
7.Recent Simpsons episodes. I've seen a couple, or maybe a few, but they made me laugh. I guess that's me being a loyal fan again.
8.Referring to Back to the Future as "THE Trilogy." No, wait, that's not funny. It's just awesome. And accurate.
9. 2 Timothy 3:3 in the KJV. I don't care what it meant then, using the word "incontinent" to convey a lack of self control is priceless.
10. Writing in a blog no one reads. Yeah, that one was a cop out, but to make it funnier I'll ask a question that no one will answer. Because no one reads...yeah,you get the idea.

What are some things that crack you up?

On Books (of a Spiritual Nature)

Not sure who's still reading these, but since this has always been more like a journal for me, I'll pretend not to care too much. But just in case there's still one or two of you, I'll clean up my language and try to keep the poop references to a minimum. All that aside, I've had a lot of thoughts on reading within the past couple of days, and many of them pertain to two books in particular. So, enjoy the ramblings of one trying to make sense of things, unless of course you're not reading this. In that case, as you were.

I read the Shack a couple of weeks ago, having heard good and bad about it, depending on whom I talked to. A lot of the bad was warranted (the author couldn't find an editor so it had a shaky start), and if you take this novel as doctrine, that criticism would be as well. But I enjoyed the storytelling with a dead-on perspective on forgiveness, and a God whom we'll never have all figured out. I didn't see universalism in it, as some claim, but I saw a human being challenged to step out of the judgement seat and forgive. This is powerful stuff.

The biggest problem with the depiction of God according to critics, if I understand it, is that He is shown in a form that's too human. That's funny, I thought, because that's what kept me from finishing Wild at Heart. The author of WAH was talking about men's insecurities while (gently, I guess) blaming them on women, and interjected at some point that God is always showing us that He has what it takes. Wait a minute, I said to myself(in my head because I'm crazy, but not THAT crazy) is he saying God is insecure and needs to prove himself? Does God gloat at the mighty oak and hope we don't notice asparagus? Or, if we do notice,does he mutter something to the effect of "size doesn't matter?" I guess what I'm asking is, do we think God is a man, insecurities and all?

This (perceived) limitation of God to human form (and half that, since humanity is made up of two genders)led me to do what I do best: criticize. So if others found good in it, and insisted it helped them to be better husbands, fathers, or men of God in general, I turned a deaf ear. As Jerry Springer would say, I had baggage.* In the meantime, God spoke through whatever means He chose and encouraged me to shut up and let Him talk.

I don't think I'll finish reading Wild at Heart, but if you do, and it encouraged you, God bless. But whatever we read, whether it be by Eldridge or Young, we should be challenged and encouraged by the good, while realizing the limitations of human authors trying to catch a glimpse of the divine. And whatever it is, we need to remember the only safe reading, regardless of the author, is done with discernment.

What do you think? As always, all opinions are welcome.
Where do you draw the line with reading selections? Are some books safer than others?

*If you don't get this game show reference, you are fortunate indeed.

Media and Marriage: Round 2

In the last post I talked about marriage and how tough a subject it is to capture successfully on film. Many are comforted by the redemption in Fireproof, and I agreed that it has helped people regardless of whether I like it as art, especially since most attempts at brutal honesty put too much emphasis on the brutal part. Which movies are honest, yet show hope?

I'm expanding the list to include TV shows, as this question I can handle. I'll share a few of my favorite TV marriage counseling sessions as it were, and feel free to share yours as well. Here they are, in no particular order.

1. Breaking Bad. This is darker fare about a scientist who starts a meth lab to pay medical bills. He keeps it from his wife who naturally at first thinks he might be having an affair. Through the course of three seasons they have fought for power in their relationship, both come out fairly empty, and separated. At one point Walt (the main character) refused to move out or sign divorce papers and I began to question. Is...this...a...love...story?* Time will tell on that one, but the struggle for control is a real one and (so far) handled fairly effectively. I look forward to seeing how it turns out. Of course, it is a darker show, so maybe I don't.

2. Modern Family. I've heard many complaints that men in sitcoms are idiots. Well, sometimes we (men) are, and comedy is exaggeration. However, the old fashioned "guy screws up the world and apologizes" plot does get tired fast. That's what I like about Modern Family. Everyone screws up. The Dumpheys are one of my favorite couples to watch, because a lot of their mishaps(such as the husband saying the opposite of what his wife said about needing to lie to their children and proudly admitting it's because he wasn't listening) are relatable. Yet you have the sappy group hug moments in the end and somehow they work. Maybe it's because Phil says "Don't apologize (for crying). I love it when you're human." Played for laughs, but it works.

3. The Simpsons. Yes, the Simpsons. Again, it's comedy, and add to that satire and a cartoon. All flaws will be exaggerated, Homer's included. His just tend to get the most attention because he's the funniest. Marge is the characterization of the boring uptight nag, so I wonder why that hasn't got more complaints. Still, no matter how many screw-ups all these characters endure, these two stay together and actually seem to enjoy the ride, at least as much as two drawings can.


I'm out, but I'm sure there are more. What do you think? Did you like Fireproof? What did you enjoy about it? What TV show, movie or book has your favorite married couple?

* The "..." represent insecure pauses. Some of us hate being wrong, even when asking questions.