Recon, starring Peter Gabriel

Just discovered this short student film (!) starring Peter Gabriel and Charles Durning. I wish I could find it in higher quality, but you'll get the idea from this, regardless. Clocking in at just under ten minutes, it is a neat little piece of cyberpunk noir. Enjoy -

Victory is mine

For the past year or so, Kira and I have been increasingly conscientious about composting our food scraps. This has been, on the whole, a positive experience, and it has been pleasing to see the subsequent reduction in our weekly flow of garbage that gets hauled away from the curb.

I say "on the whole," however, because composting is not, at the end of the day, a bed of roses. The song of the lonely composter is, at best, bittersweet -- a mixed melody of virtue and sorrow.

I sing, dear reader, of fruit flies.

It started with the advent of warmer weather a few weeks back. We have been keeping a small, charcoal-filtered scrap bin inside near the kitchen trash cans. When preparing food or slicing up fruit to put on our cereal for breakfast, the location of the pail made it easy to get rid of the bio-waste as it was being generated. Throughout the cold months pf winter, this arrangement worked just fine. Come the summer, though, things started to change.

Without being too graphic, it got to the point where every virtuous lift of the lid on the small bio container brought its own "reward" of a small cloud of very active -- and hungry -- pests. It didn't take long for the strawberry tops and banana peels, doing their fetid business in the small green pail, to become a breeding ground for these harmless, but quite annoying, swarms.

What to do? What to do? Both Kira and I have been trying to avoid harsh chemicals lately. Allergies, general health, and a host of other concerns leave us leery of fumigating rooms or zapping the little bozos directly. We both, my wife and I, have been on a "home remedies" kick of late, and I was curious if there was a more "old world" solution to the problem then resorting to the wares of DuPont and Dow Chemical.

Turns out there is. After a little thinking, and some digging on the internet, I came up with this: take a shallow dish, fill it with a dash of port wine, stretch some cling wrap over the top, and poke a small hole in the middle with the blades of a scissors.

Some of you who know me, reading this, may recall that I have a particular fascination with the theme of monkey traps. Being a theologian, I think a lot about the workings of systems, and I am particularly interested by systems that are powered to deliver results on the basis of "lowest-common-denominator" operations. That is to say, I like systems that are so elegantly simple that they continue to work even when they are in what is known in the biz as a "failure condition."

For a system to work, even while its failing, requires the sober understanding on the part of the designer of some factor, outside the system, which can be depended upon to deliver a satisfactory result, regardless of the condition of the system. In the case of the monkey trap, that consistent factor is the short-term thinking of the monkey. Because the monkey cannot let go of the immediate desire to have the fruit or the nuts in the bottom of the trap, it gets caught -- and held -- by its own fist, refusing to let go of the treasure in the trap.

This fruit fly catcher functions using the same principle: the files are smart enough (and driven enough by the scent of the sweet, sweet wine) to get in through the hole, but they have no capacity whatsoever to get back out again.

The first morning, after laying the trap, there were ten flies floating in my little scarlet sea. Two days later, there are thirty, and I no longer spot pests on the wing here in the house.

Given all the catastrophic failure we have seen recently, I am encouraged by this. With a little thought and planning, systems can be designed to incorporate failure into their flow, so that even when they aren't directly "working," they can still work. Part of this, I think, involves a willingness to let go of active control, and to allow passive factors to operate.

Passive factors are not nearly as glamourous, of course. It would probably be a lot more macho and satisfying to grab that can of D-Con and zap each individual winged beastie in turn. But there's a lot of ways that that macho crap can fail, and pretty quickly. Can't be everywhere at once, in the first place. Second, the little pests might outbreed me, and develop a resistance to the chemicals. And finally there is the worry that I and my loved ones might not be as resistant to the chemicals as the bugs are (an ultimate sort of system failure, this).

What I love about the port-wine trap, in contrast, is that none of these factors drives the success of the system. All that matters is that fruit flies keep having a mad lust for fruit juice -- and I think its fair to say that nature is on my side with that one.

Take my advice, O reader: build to fail.

Gives new meaning to the phrase, "celery stalk"

When I lived in Atlanta, years ago, the bathroom in my small apartment had a window. The tub was an old clawfoot tub, and it was set out from the wall, so the landlord had installed a wraparound shower curtain that ran all the way around the tub, obscuring the window.

One day, while cleaning, I pulled back the curtain to find that an ivy vine from the outside wall had worked its way through the window sash, and was extending several inches into the room. As it extended, it was not attaching to anything. Instead, it was just suspended in air, as if it were reaching toward the shower, to grab.

Say what you will about Al-Qaeda. For my money, that mute tendril of intrusion was as terrifying as any Hitchcock film. You northerners might not understand, but down here, we've got kudzu, and kudzu will freakin' eat your car.

At last, I have found someone who shares my fears. Watch, and be edified, citizens.

(It seems to have an ad attached to it - apologies!!)

The discreet charm of the bourgeoisie

Today, in the parking lot of the post office, I observed a family (with a small dachshund, no less), driving a Volvo with truck nuts.

And I thought, already in my horror:
What if this is not irony?

An historical Rhyme

I made this up in the shower this morning. Sing to the tune of "London Bridges Falling Down":


In a duel you lost your nose
lost your nose
lost your nose
Now it's made of brass and gold
Tycho Brahe!


Don't blame me. Blame Wikipedia.

The 23rd Grand Illusion

Once, many years ago, I lived in my mix tapes. For me, they were an art form; a style of communication better than a written letter (back when we used to write letters). What was wonderful about the medium to little teenage me was the ability (the hope, at least) of conveying not just semantic meaning, but emotion. Like all teenagers, I was inarticulate about feelings when it came to using mere words, but I found I could achieve something like communication through a collage of sounds. I wooed with mix tapes. I worked out anger with mix tapes. I found the possibilities that arise out of juxtaposition and combination. A few cubic inches of plastic and iron filings were my palette. Into this space, which was not a real space but rather a space of the mind and the ears, I painted and collected and assembled sound.

What I found then, and find often now, was that this language of assembly and sound was not (as Wittgenstein cautioned against) any sort of "private language." The assemblages on my mixes spoke to me, certainly, but the only reason I really found them useful was because I believed they would speak to others, as well. To the high school crush to whom I could not bear to reveal my feelings, I could give a mix tape. The mix was crafted and constructed to convey without literal conversance. The mix spoke a secret language of Gnostic inference and ghostly symbols, but it was never meant to be indecipherable. The whole point was for the assemblage to be deciphered.

Years later, I find that I am still bound to those crushes who have remained in my life, no longer or never as lovers, but as friends, by these secret languages. An old acquaintance (for whom I never made a tape, though I am certain she was offered many by others) once said that she did not trust the medium of the mix tape: "They are always political; they always mean to say more than they are." Precisely.

Assemblage is powerful. Assemblage accomplishes, and its accomplishment is always and often unintentionally greater than the elements assembled. How is this so? The answer is not in the elements, or even in the assembly. The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves, that we are interpreters and meaning-hounds. In psychology, the word apophenia is used to describe an overly heightened state of pattern recognition, where the sufferer seems to be seeing connections in every unrelated thing. If we take a step back from the precipice of pathology, however, we find that each of us benefits (it would be hard to say "suffers") from this condition. Without a certain level of the apophenic, a good game of chess would be impossible, negotiating city streets would be a nightmare, and we would never be able to locate a loved one's face in a crowd. We differentiate and combine, and in that process we associate and imagine that which is not there, but should be. We connect the dots, we fill in the colors among the spaces and the lines, we find new things. For the majority of humanity, this is simply what we do. Hence the articulate inarticulate joys of the mix tape, given and received.

Where the Hell have I been?

Okay. So apparently I am the last human in Hipsville to have heard of the Athens, GA band Now It's Overhead. Oh, my goodness, but I find them enjoyable in a dark and moody sort of way. Check out the vid, kids. Howl.

Halifax Dispatch

The water in the lakes and in the ocean is always cold here. That is what my wife told me before I got on the plane. Now, banking at below eight thousand feet above the little finger lakes surrounding the final approach to Halifax airport, I believe her. Even from this height, the water looks cold. And clear. I can see the bottoms of the lakes, we are so low now. It is actually quite an uncomfortable way to arrive somewhere, this low to the ground while still in the air. The descent is bumpy. I am glad to be on the ground.

Ahead of me in the border control line a man juggles and drops the duty-free bottle of Scotch he had carried from the airport shop in Newark, where we all got on the plane. In the brisk aroma of the aftermath the man, a religion scholar like myself (most of us were, on this flight), opined simply that "Shit happens."

Every time I fly North, I get the old Thomas Dolby song, "Flying North," stuck in my head - partly because it is a catchy song, and, well, I'm flying North. If you've never heard of Thomas Dolby, you actually have. He's the dude that did "She Blinded Me with Science, back in the '80's, and everybody has heard that. If you've never heard "Flying North," however, don't feel bad. I am one of six people on the planet that has actually heard that song (We have a club, which meets semiannually, usually somewhere in the tropics, like Tahiti).

There are no seagulls in Halifax. At least none that I have been able to find. Again, my wife tells me that this is likely because Halifax is so far North. Same basic reason, for the birds and the water. North. I am wondering if this also would account for the wireless internet reception, which is spotty, it seems, no matter where I go.

Everyone makes eye contact here. Most people smile when you walk past them. If you say "hello," they respond in kind. Evidently, no one here has gotten the Great North American Memo on Standoffishness, which seems to have such a firm hold on the lower 48. Needless to say, for the next two days, I am, for almost the first time, not out of place. These Nova Scotians seem to engage, quite naturally, in behaviors for which I have been scolded and teased for over three decades. Friendliness. Who knew? It is a reasonable substitute for the lack of seagulls.

Apparently, according to a debate I read about in one of the local free papers, Halifax has one adult club where topless dancing is permitted. Only the club is not actually in Halifax; it is in nearby Dartmouth. I noted this because the debate reported was over whether or not local entrepreneurs should be allowed to open Halifax's second topless adult club. Which will not actually be in Halifax, but rather (again) in nearby Dartmouth.

Last night I took myself out for dinner. I had the Surf and Turf at a local establishment that came highly recommended. It was a very pleasant meal. It is reassuring to know that, much like the skill of riding a bicycle never really leaves you, I can still navigate the innards of a crustacean. That being said, the Turf was a lot better than the Surf in this arrangement. When I comented about this to my wife, she reminded me that, traditionally, Maine lobsters are considered superior to Nova Scotian lobsters, whose meats are used primarily in derivative dishes such as bisques.

As a side note, I find myself wondering how my wife seems to be so confidently knowledgeable about the ways and means of Haligonian geography and lifestyle. I think it is because she went to Alleghany College, and received a very good liberal arts education there. Memo to self: start college fund.

This is, without a doubt, the most socially pleasant conference I have ever attended. At the reception last night I was invited to join tables of scholarly strangers who, apparently, just liked the looks of me and wanted to say hello. I am not used to this; I am used to the much more bellicose receptions at the American Academy of Religion. Everybody has an angle there (even me), and the Memo is in full effect. Not so in Halifax, and, perhaps, by extension, not so in the Catholic Theological Society of America. The proof of the pudding will come at next year's conference. Not for the first time are the hopes of a continent riding on the sturdy shoulders of Cleveland. O, sainted land of the Great Rock 'n' Roll Hall of Fame and the Flats, do not fail us again.

I can only imagine, from the examples I have seen, that the kilt is a difficult fashion choice to accessorize. All or nothing, really, the kilt is. Can't be half-assed about it. Not, at least, without looking a lot sillier than you look already, wearing the kilt. One of the many reasons Alec will always have my undying respect. That man can wear the devil out of a kilt.

Halifax has a surfeit of art galleries and used book shops. Both are a great pleasure to me, but I have not seen many patrons frequenting any of the ones I have visited. However, it is clear that both the galleries and the bookshops have been in place for a good, long while. Now that's an invisible hand I can believe in.

It interests me that the online spell check system for Blogger flags "pungence," which is a perfectly good word, and one I had considered using in a paragraph above (the one referring to the broken bottle of Scotch), but seems to bat nary an eyelash at "Haligonian." Obscurity, like rank, hath its privileges.

Halifax is an hour ahead of Eastern Daylight Time. I have never been in such a timezone, and I think it is adversely affecting me. When going to Europe, the shift is so dramatic that everything is naturally unnatural. Traveling across the US is a known quantity, so I don't think my body has trouble adjusting. But this slight inching ahead in time is just unnaturally natural enough to completely bollix up my circadian rhythms. I am a night owl by nature, and that is a recipe for dead-of-night disaster here in Halifax.

Speaking of disasters, there is no need to mention that a great many of the victims of the Titanic disaster are buried here in Halifax. I have searched in vain so far, but I am still hopeful that before my visit is over I will locate the grave of Leonardo di Caprio.

I got up last night and wanted to wash my hands. The warm water took a very long time to reach the tap. This is because the water is always cold this far North.

This morning, waiting for my taxi to take me to my airport departure, Louis Armstrong's "What a Wonderful World" played over the in-house stereo system in the hotel. I found myself warmed and, by turns, a little tearful.

My Father, thanks to the Army, traveled the world, though he had little taste for the circumstances he was in and what he saw. My Mother cared little for the world outside America, but America she loved fiercely and explored fiercely, at least when she was younger. In both cases, I know of these travels mostly through the pictures I have inherited. They sit in my well-ordered boxes now, these photos of my parents - pictured here together, here singly - along with nameless faces and locations I can only hazily identify by landscape and geography. I find myself wishing I had the stories behind those photos.

Somewhere between my Father's forced marches and my Mother's hermetic isolation, there are my travels. It is, I think to myself, a wonderful world. Halifax ain't bad, either. Here, in my own way, are the pictures.

Books that changed my life: How Children Learn / How Children Fail, by John Holt

Years ago, during the first couple years of high school, I had a pretty cool English and Literature teacher, Mr. Youngblood. Being who I was at the time, I didn't particularly care much for English, or Literature, or sitting in a desk to listen to much of anything being taught to me (so goes adolescence). I did, however, care about Mr. Youngblood. Mr. Youngblood was pretty cool.

I guess he thought I was okay, too, because when he was packing up to move (he left for new horizons and opportunities between my sophomore and junior years) he invited me and a couple other kids to his house to get first crack at a bunch of his stuff before he pared it down in a series of yard sales.

Mr. Youngblood pointed me to a stack of albums by Captain Beefheart and the Magic Band - and since that moment there has not been a day gone by that I am not eternally grateful for that gesture. He also had a large and unruly pile of unsorted books, and, being who I was at the time, I didn't particularly care much that they were unruly or unsorted. I dove in.

Turns out a lot of those books in that pile were about education, and it turns out that a lot of them soon made it into my car and eventually into my personal library. Mr. Yougnblood had been schooled in the sixties and early seventies, and a lot of the education books I found had a sort of granola/hippie uselessness to them (I was them, as I am now, essentially a punk rocker at heart, and I distrust mightily all that "peace-love-dope" crap). These were eventually read, considered, and discarded from my own unruly pile. Wheat and chaff, after all.

Despite my skepticism, a handful of the books were worth keeping, and reading, and re-reading. Among these - the top of the unruly pile, certainly - were two books by John Holt: How Children Learn and How Children Fail.

The books are actually collected excerpts from a series of journals Holt kept during the early-to-mid sixties, as he was observing classrooms as part of his own training as an educator. His reflections on what he saw was revelatory to me - both concerning my own difficulties at the time with my schooling, and in years hence as I have worked with students of my own.

A basic thesis of the books can be boiled down to the fact that what a teacher believes is happening in an educational moment, and what the students believe is happening, may be profoundly different - even alien - from each other.

Education, of course, always involves discrepancies of power. Teachers are more powerful than students in that teachers have the power to grade. The difficulty arises in the fact that, in our culture, grading a student's "performance" feels (in many, if not the majority of cases) from the standpoint of the student herself like a summary judgment of her worth and quality as a person. This is not just true of young children; think about adults you might know who hear criticism as attack or disrespect - these responses are similar to how students, young and old alike, feel in such moments. Our culture blends ontology (the state of one's being and worth) with how well one "performs."

Holt argues that the result of this unspoken blending is a situation toxic to learning.

It works like this:

1. the feeling of being judged and found unworthy is uncomfortable, and it is an understandable and shared human trait to want to minimize or eliminate this discomfort as quickly as possible Schools subtly use this discomfort, especially in early education, to keep students "focused on the problem" they are given (as Holt puts it, "We ask children to do for most of a day what few adults are able to do even for an hour" [HCF 198]). Teachers use the unspoken threat of disapproval and rejection to corral young students into "working hard."
2. Instead, students - motivated to minimize or eliminate the discomfort of feeling judged as quickly as possible - redirect nearly all their energy away from the educational moment in favor of working on the real problem, as they perceive it: how to stop feeling, as quickly and decisively as possible, the discomfort of being judged and the threat of being rejected or disapproved of as a person.
3. As a result, what students really learn from these exchanges are simple strategies to end the discomfort quickly. This learning is reinforced, again, and again, so thoroughly that by the time most of us are out of kindergarten they are already fully formed defensive maneuvers.

For some of us, the strategy is to simply learn whatever details will help us answer the questions we are asked so completely that we can always "perform" properly, and thus be praised and rewarded (we all know folks like this growing up. I remember in my class in second grade when one of them I knew got his first "B" - the terror and the tears of the tantrum that followed showed just how much pressure this poor little kid felt he was truly under). Others - perhaps the majority - learn how to "fake it." That is to say, they make a good show of pretending to wrestle with the problem, all the while watching the instructor for subtle, nonverbal clues about what the right answer might be - all amounting, in the end, to a highly theatricalized guessing game. Still others simply quit trying altogether, and just take their lumps, put their heads down on the desk, and tune out (I was one of those).

What is common to the entire spectrum of responses, says Holt, is that whatever the motivation for the student was coming in - curiosity, love of learning, enjoyment of community - it is very quickly replaced by fear.

What is essential to understand - and what is most brilliant in Holt's analysis - is that in every educational moment learning is always taking place. The problem is simply that what is being learned may not what the instructor, or the institution, thinks is being taught.

As a teacher, I may think I am neutrally teaching "a subject" like Algebra or Theology. Some of my students may have come there out of an actual interest in the subject. Many others are simply there because they were told they had to be there (and this is as true in college and seminary classes as it was in grade school). The subject is complex; I give what I think is an adequate and sufficient explanation - some of the students' brows furrow, and I glower at them. "I explained it once already, people - aren't you smart enough to get it...?"

The problem, of course, might not be in my students. The problem might (and often is) in the way I have structured the course, or my examples, or communicated my thoughts. But here we are in a situation where I have the power to make my judgement that some of them are stupid (not me) a matter of permanent and semi-public record. It is a lot easier (and advantageous, in the short run) to perpetuate the illusion that my teaching and reflection on teaching is up to snuff, and it must just be that some folks are too stupid to get it. They simply failed to learn.

But Holt makes this a much more complex interchange. The students are aware, as I am, of this power dynamic at every moment. The difference is that the students are often much smarter about how this dynamic can be used to their advantage. Many of them, from the very first moment of class, are undeniably learning: they are learning to fool me. Most of them will be able to make me think they have learned something, despite the confusing and mis-thought manner in which I have presented the information. I will, unconsciously, communicate enough of my likes and dislikes that students will feed me exactly what they, very perceprively, have learned that I want. In that case, the subject of the class is no longer "Algebra" or "Theology," but rather "David's [or fill in any other instructor's name's] ego." I know, when I was a student, I sometimes got a decent grade in classes exactly this way - I imagine some of you have, too. It took a lot of study and critical thiking to get that grade - but not study of "Algebra" or "Theology." As Holt puts it, "[Students] in the right-wrong situation will naturally grasp at every available clue. We teachers have to learn to present [our educational tasks for the students in such a way that] irrelevant clues will not so often lead to correct performance" [HCF 183].

Other students, by contrast, develop elaborate strategies to outwit the educational expectations entirely. This may be for a variety of reasons. For some students, the instructor presents the material in a manner that is fundamentaly disrespectful or demeaning to the student's background or culture. The strategies developed in such a situation are no less elaborate, but they are much less pleasing to the instructor's ego. If you have been a teacher and ever wondered why certain students, who seem to be so alive and intelligent outside the classroom, suddenly become to dull and unresponsive when they sit down in the chair, it is likely that this is a strategy. By "playing dumb," the student allows herself the means to "preserve a small part of their integrity in a hopeless situation" [HCF 195]. As Holt goes on to say:

Subject peoples both appease their rulers and satisfy their desire for some human dignity by putting on a mask, by acting much more stupid and incompetent that they really are, by denying their rulers the full use of their intelligence and ability, by declaring their minds and spirits free of their enslaved bodies [HCF 195].

I think both Holt and I are pessimistic when it comes to the institutions of education currently in place in our society. Far too many of our classrooms reflect the unspoken dynamics of power mentioned in the quotation above. What I learned from these two books, however, is that I could work to be a better teacher than some that I had (and don't get me wrong - I have had some excellent teachers, and I'm not just saying that on account of the Captain Beefheart albums), and that it might be possible in some moments for actual, real and good learning to take place.

If you are an educator (like me), Holt will give you some concrete lessons in learning to listen to what is not being said (though it is very loud and apparent, once one has ears to hear) in your classroom. If you are a former student who has difficulty remembering multiplication tables and long division (like me), his books may help you unearth what went awry in your own learning all those years ago.

What I think you will most gain from Holt's books, though, is the hope and possibility that (whether student or teacher), even at this late hour, we still might learn something new and useful, together.

Of the Human and the Sublime

A few weeks ago, back in late March, I was in Manhattan for a conference and to visit with some old friends, and I had one of those moments that linger with you and affect you for a long time. In order to adequately describe it, I need to give a little context about myself and these sorts of "defining moments" that pop up every decade or so.

Years ago - a lifetime ago, really - when I was eighteen, some friends and I drove to Atlanta to see a show. We went to the Metroplex, a punk club in the heart of downtown Atlanta. It was 1988, and I think the Metroplex was on Moreland Avenue or somewhere like that. At any rate, we were there to see Fishbone. I hadn't seen many shows at that point in my youth. This night, however, would in many ways change and define my life.

The Metroplex was a fairly sizable club. It was rare in that, in addition to "the pit" (the area in front of the stage where the slamdancers "moshed") it had a balcony that circled three sides of the performance area. I was sitting in the balcony. That detail is important.

(The opener was the truly mighty Follow for Now. I remember they started their set out with an instrumental riff on the Rush song "Tom Sawyer" that opened a can of whoop ass in the room. But that just set the stage for what was to follow.)

To say that Fishbone was energetic would be an understatement. They started their shows hard, and then intensity just grew continually through the evening. The very first thing Angelo (the lead singer/saxophonist) did was run across the stage and dive into the audience, surfing on top of the crowd. The crowd, needless to say, was with the band from the first, and the spasmodic energy was palpable.

I have seen a lot of Fishbone shows in my time. One of the common threads to each was a point in the set where Angelo would induct the crowd into what they called the "Fishbone Familyhood." Though never exactly defined, the Familyhood was a sort of transracial love-fest. Ambassadors of goodwill to the cosmos, sort of like if the Deadheads moved faster and looked more like the Rainbow Coalition.

In most shows, the Familyhood induction speech happened from the stage, with Angelo leading the crowd, eventually, in a common "oath," of sorts, culminating in a chant: "Peace. Love. Respect. For everybody! Peace! Love Respect! For everybody!"

This night, however, when it came time for the Familyhood speech, Angelo had surfed the crowd to the back of the room. He had climbed one of the support columns beneath the second floor, and was now hanging from the balcony railing. He was less than ten feet from where we were sitting, and about fifteen feet above the floor below, hanging on with one hand while his other held the wireless microphone. Soon the whole crowd was chanting, "Peace! Love! Respect! For everybody! Peace! Love! Respect! For everybody!"...

...and Angelo leapt into the air, into the empty space above the crowd.

There is something about watching a human body hang in the void, even for a spit second, that stops your breath. I thought of this again, a few months ago, when Kira and I, along with our friend, Katy, went to the Belcourt to watch the award-winning documentary, Man on Wire.

There is a point, right at the end of the film, when - after all the preparation and intrigue, the planning and covert research that preceded Philippe Petit's tightrope walk between the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center - Petit mentions that he "made the decision to shift [his] weight from the building to the wire."

What follows is a slow series of still photos of Petit in the air, a quarter mile above the ground, as lilting strains of Eric Satie play without voice or comment. I have seen the film now several times, and the sight of this still stops me short and chokes me up. (If you have yet to see the film, see it. The moment is indescribably beautiful. Sublime.)

So on that day back in March I was walking around Central Park with my old friend Anson. I was feeling bummed because part of what I had planned to do during my visit to New York was to go see a play he was in, "Mourning Becomes Electra," but it had been canceled before the end of its run. Anson, however, was insisting that this was good, in fact, because this meant I now had a chance to go see what he claimed was "the best show in New York" at the time, "FuerzaBruta."

I'm not much for last minute schedule changes, so I was initially hesitant. Anson, however, was both enthusiastic and insistent, and I soon agreed. He made a call on his cellphone to another acquaintance of mine (who was in the show), and arranged to have a ticket discounted for me. Done.

A couple of hours later, I was on the subway heading south to Union Square, in the heart of Greenwich Village. After looking around a bit, I found the Daryl Roth Theatre, which apparently used to be an old bank. I stood in line, got my ticket (thank you, Jon!) and walked up the stairs as the show was just beginning.

How to describe FuerzaBruta? It was like that moment when Angelo leapt out over the crowd; it was like the moment in Man on Wire when Petit makes the decision to shift his weight from building to space; only it went on for more than an hour.

The performance space is cavernous. every inch of it was utilized - horizontally and vertically. The sweep of the themes and narratives (there is very little dialogue) is cavernous as well. The narratives are open-ended and infinitely interpretable. Horrifying, startling, liberating, exhilarating, euphoric... every moment brings a new possibility for feeling huge feelings. I have never seen anything like it. It was beautiful. Afterward, in fact, when discussing it with Anson and Jon (the performer who helped secure me the ticket), I said it was probably one of the most beautiful events I had ever seen. I meant it then, and I mean it now. Beautiful.

More than beautiful, though. The right word isn't "beautiful," I think. The right word here is "sublime."

The sublime was important years ago to folks like Shelley, Wordsworth and Lord Byron - Romantic poets dealt with the sublime. "The sublime has its source in the associated qualities of 'power,' 'vastness,' 'infinity,' and 'magnificence,'" M.H. Abrams wrote in his classic, Natural Supernaturalism, "and its characteristic effects on the beholder are the traditional ones aroused by the conception of the infinite power of a stern but just God: 'terror,' 'astonishment,' 'awe,' 'admiration,' and 'reverence.'"

You will think I am exaggerating, but this is not the case. Standing in the crowd at the Daryl Roth Theatre that evening, I felt those feelings. I think many around me felt them, too, though I am also certain that the range of responses was vast and unpredictable.

As I stood in the crowd, I thought of my Mother, who passed from this Earth the month before. I thought of how differently she and I saw things, and yet how we were still both able to be moved so deeply, in our own ways, by huge intangible things like "Beauty" and "Truth." It is a connection we shared, though our lives together had been been broken asunder by time and circumstance. Standing in that crowd, I missed her and mourned her, as I do now, typing this: in my own way. Death has a sublimity, too. But love, strange and broken and interpretable thought it may be, is still the stronger, in the end.

You will want me to link to video and show you pictures of what I saw that night. I will not. You will want to go to Google and look it up yourself. I cannot stop you, but I will say: you should not.

What I will tell you instead is that you should go to Manhattan. Get on a plane and go to Manhattan and get on the train and go to Union Square. Go the the Darryl Roth Theatre and buy your ticket and stand in the crowd and never forget that you are human. Frail and fragile and lost in the immensity of the universe you may be; but you are human... And it is wonderful to be human.

Angelo leapt into the air. The crowd reached up to him with its arms, and caught him.

Go to Manhattan.

What would Nietzsche say?

...plus I got depression

Happy birthday, Roast Beef.

YouTube slightly bruised the Radio Star

This one's for you, Alec.

FeedBurner

Hello folks,

Later today I will be switching some of the behind-the-scenes aspects of this blog around. In particular, the "feed" is going to be ported over to a service called FeedBurner. On my end, this will help streamline things, because I'll now get a more accurate picture of site traffic and ego-based things like that.

On your end, this shouldn't interrupt anything if you are a subscriber. However, even though I am assured by the FeedBurner folks it won't, it might. So after you get this, check back in a few days and see if you are getting new posts in your feed reader.

If you are not getting the new posts, please leave a comment here, or email me at dault.workTAKEOUTTHISPARTBEFORESENDING@gmail.com. (Take out the part in all caps and you'll have my proper address. Have to do it this way or the spam bots grab it and then I'm buried in pop up ads for brill creem and chia pets)

Or, if you want to take matters into your own hands, the new feed address is http://feeds2.feedburner.com/Figaro-Pravda

Again, you shouldn't have to do anything on your end. Let's hope that works. Fingers crossed -

Thanks for reading,

David

The pirate's life for me

So I just got a message from FastWeb about an article on alternative sources of income for graduate students. One of the items on the list of suggestions, I kid you not, is plasma donation.

Don't ever forget, sweetcheeks, the product is you. Now go enjoy grad school while you can still stand.

It is going to happen

Just got this from the grad school:

Your electronically submitted dissertation has been approved. You have
completed the requirements for a Ph.D. in Religion, to be conferred May
8, 2009. Congratulations.

Hoo-freakin'-ray, y'all. The countdown begins!

Yoko Ono - "Cut Piece"

Those of you who have been to my apartment may recognize these images. The framed poster in our front room is from this short film. If you are unfamiliar with this work, it is worth watching in its entirety. Yet another reason why Yoko is my favorite Beatle.

YOKO ONO CUT PIECE
Uploaded by TECHNOLOGOS

My new media crush

Thanks to a recent episode of The Daily Show that I watched on my laptop, I learned a little bit about MSNBC and Air America host, Rachel Maddow. Turns out she watches The Daily Show on her laptop, too - because she doesn't have a TV either. Cool.

And there are lots of other things we have in common, too. We're both wryly witty, we both like radio a whole bunch, we're both sorta-lefty, sorta-not. Oh, yeah - and we both dig girls. So much in common! I can't believe I didn't know about her before.

I'm totally crushing, here.

[Sigh...]

Lesson number one

A great deal of my life has been spent apologizing - or at least feeling like I should be apologizing. Now admittedly, there have probably been a lot of things that, if I am honest, should have been apologized for, so this is not entirely an out-of-line self conception to have. Just like twelve-step says: when you are wrong, promptly admit it and try to make amends.

There is, however, one habit I have had for many years, and I no longer am interested in apologizing for it. In fact, I would like to encourage more of my friends, or the people I meet, or the readers of this blog (or any combination of the above) to take up this habit as well. I cannot recommend it highly enough. I will admit, I used to feel like I should apologize for this, but no longer.

I am talking about lunch.

Actually, not lunch per se. Rather, lunch with interesting people. Regularly. Weekly, if not more. Not a rushed, sit-down-get-up sort of affair, either. Leisurely. Long stretches of ideas and conversations. Two hour lunches.

I used to indulge this pleasure furtively - once a month or so. It felt so decadent to just, you know, sit with someone and simply enjoy the company and the conversation. It would feel strange to see tables around us fill and empty and fill again as we sat and enjoyed time together.

2008, however, was a turning point. Maybe it is because I see my middle age coming fast upon me (my birthday, right around the corner, inches me closer to 40 every second). Perhaps it is because I have finally given up on small talk - the kind of vapid shallowness that keeps people invulnerable and at a safe social distance from one another.

Maybe, at the end of the day, it was finally reconciling myself to the fact that I am a loquacious bastard: I have a well-developed vocabulary and vast, disconnected interests. For many years I felt compelled most of all to apologize for this - for the fact that some people do not follow the connections I make or understand the words I use, or especially because I do not seem to have the interests many others have in sports or television or the lives of celebrities.

What I have discovered, over these years, is that there are individuals who do follow my thoughts, understand my style of speech and vocabulary, and who are themselves robust in their brilliance and fascinating to talk to. And I guess it took me a long time to figure out that these are the people I should be focusing on - not the many who will find me confusing or a chore to speak to.

So I abandoned all hope, and entered the world of leisurely lunches.

What I have discovered is that I was never that smart by myself. I am smart (and exponentially smarter) when I interact with interesting, smart people. I learn things, discover things about myself and about them and about the world. I am, slowly but surely, becoming a good listener (I have always been a good, if occasionally banal, talker). I find I like the listening better, honestly. Interesting people are interesting. Moreover, I am discovering that, given time, even many people who are not interesting are interesting, if given time and encouragement.

So now I am shameless. I have a wonderful wife who loafs for hours with me, talking about all sorts of things. I have a dear friend with whom I have a standing lunch date once a week, and we have been meeting now for over three years. I go out of my way to meet friends for coffee, and have made amazing discoveries about the world and my life in the process. I am not exaggerating when I say that, on more than one occasion, lunch has saved my life, or at least my sanity.

The world will tell you not to indulge. The world will tell you to rush, to keep the "fast" in the food. Do not listen. Take time in huge gobs and spend it lavishly on people who feed you - spiritually, emotionally, intellectually. Even as you feel ashamed or sheepish at first, persevere. There is no substitute for quality relationships and friendships that touch your soul - money will not substitute, nor will fame, nor your own carefully-constructed self-aggrandizement (nor mine). People who are worth your time are simply worth lots and lots of your time.

To the many friends who have expanded my life and my soul with the generosity of themselves and their company for vast and leisurely hours, I thank you. I am the better, always, because of you. Thank you.

Christmas Letter, 2008

Dear friends and family,

We wanted to take a few moments and fill you in on our adventures over the past twelve months. We thought about sending a Columbus Day letter, but, after some discussion, that just seemed weird. So, Christmas it is. Enjoy.

The year started with some upheaval. Charles and Allyne stopped through Nashville on their way home from St. Louis. We had a fine visit and we gave them a tour of Nashville, ate a really huge breakfast at the Loveless Cafe, and showed off our wonderful little apartment in the Whitland neighborhood. David's dad remarked that he couldn't believe a place like that hadn't been turned into condos, given the real estate market. Little did we know.

In early January, we received word that the wonderful apartment building we were living in had been sold and was being turned into condominiums. With thirty days notice, we were asked to find a new place to live and move out. Mind you, this was occurring during the period when Kira thought she would be finishing her master's thesis, and David believed (oh, yes he did) that he would have the whole Spring to put the finishing touches on his dissertation and get it defended in time for both of them to graduate in May.

Oops. Needless to say, that did not come to pass. We did not graduate in May of 2008. Instead, we moved, for six months, into a cave. At least, that was how it felt. It was an oversized, overpriced, under-heated and under air-conditioned behemoth of a place that was a semi-reasonable storage area for our things, but was by no means a home. The Cave had four windows total, and what windows it had backed out onto a high-rise construction site, which was noisy at the best of times and unbearably annoying the rest of the times.

So, like any sane couple, we fled the country.

Well, maybe it wasn't that dramatic, but we were overdue on a honeymoon, and Kira needed to see her ancestral stomping grounds in the Netherlands, and David was itching for a good excuse to learn (read: butcher) a new foreign language. So in May, Kira and David each packed a bag (one bag apiece! We took carry-on only!) and hopped the pond to Amsterdam's Schipoll airport. From there we were met by our good friend Alec, and we hopped a train to nearby Leiden, where we spent a wonderful ten days with Alec and his wife Kathy. We threw a weekend trip to Germany in for good measure, as well as several day trips to four beautiful Dutch cities and one really ugly one (Rotterdam). Kira got her first taste of international travel, and David got to taste many versions of Boerenomelete ('Farmer's Omlette'), and a pleasant time was had by all.


Upon our return to the states, we were overjoyed to join both sides of Kira's family, as the Bandstras celebrated Marjorie's 90th birthday in New Jersey, and the Hartgers celebrated Harold Sr.'s 90th birthday in Grand Rapids. There was much laughter, at least one new song, David discovered the joys of really huge family reunions, and again, a pleasant time was had by all.

In June we started packing up the Cave, in anticipation of moving (at the time, we weren't sure where, just that We Had To). Then, in good form, with our boxes packed, we skipped town and headed for the beach.

So early July was spent with Harold Jr., Susan, Philip, and Philip's friend Gabe at Oak Island, NC. A week of seafood, body surfing, pelican watching and oh-so-minor intoxication, that has come to be a yearly ritual, ensued. Nobody managed to tan, sadly, but we did see some fireworks (for several nights before, during and after the Fourth).

After our return, we moved again (second time in one year). The new place is a lovely little duplex with lots of windows and good places to take long walks through the neighborhood. It's not perfect, but it is a home, and we are thankful for it.

In August, Harold and Susan came to visit us for a long weekend, and Harold and David hung a ceiling fan and did some minor house maintenance. We took a tour of the Opryland Hotel and had a really huge breakfast at the Loveless Cafe. Then, in October, we made a trip to Cincinnati and spent a long weekend with Harold and Susan there as well, halfway between Nashville and Washington, PA.

Then, in Late October, we travelled to Chicago for the American Academy of Religion conference. David had several job interviews, and Kira slept in. While we were there we were very happy to catch up with several friends, including an old friend of David's from high school, Matt, who took us out on the town, including a wonderful dinner and a show at the famous Second City Improv Theater.

During the year, we also have been happy to have several friends visit us from out of town. At one point or another, Katy, Robert, and Henry all stopped through, as well as Kira's brother, Philip. In a couple of these visits, as well, we managed to work in a trip to the Loveless Cafe.

In late December, we will travel once again to Pennsylvania to see Kira's folks and, as has become our practice, flee Nashville at the slightest excuse.

Now, some specifics:

Kira did finish her master's thesis, and her degree. She got word in October that the thesis had passed, and she will officially graduate in May. Meanwhile, in September, she began a one-year residency in Clinical Pastoral Education, and is now working as a chaplain at nearby Baptist Hospital. Last January, after much soul searching, she joined the RCIA (Rite of Christian Initiation for Adults) group at Christ the King, the parish we have been attending, and during the Easter Triduum she was received into full communion, joining David in the Roman Catholic Church. This fall she was asked to be an RCIA sponsor herself, and enjoyed becoming more involved in the parish.

In January David finally said goodbye to Central Presbyterian Church in Culleoka, TN, a rural congregation about an hour south of Nashville where he had served as the (covertly not-Presbyterian) weekly minister for the last five years. Thus, for the first time since they had met, Kira and David were able to sit next to each other during worship. David was also able to serve as an RCIA sponsor, along with Kira, and to become a more active member at Christ the King. In October, after many months of rewrites and agonizing all-nighters, he was given the green light to schedule his dissertation defense. On December 4th he defended successfully, and in May you can finally call him "Dr. Bozo," and no longer simply "Bozo." He continues to teach for American Baptist College here in Nashville, and in November he signed a contract with Yale University Press to write a book called The Accessorized Bible, about the phenomenon of "boutique" scripture.

It has been a remarkable (Kira suggested "tumultuous") year, and we count ourselves blessed. Thank you, each of you, for your part in our lives. With much joy and love,

David and Kira