Monday, June 30, 2008

On Putting Down A Book

I've never been one who believed finishing a book proved something. I'm from the Costanza school. The most recent evidence to this belief was Dune, which I gave up on after 150+ pages. As a fact, there have actually been very few books I have given up, sent away to the literary bench.

Thursday I was prepared to give up on Atonement. I knew the plot (or lack there of, depending on the critic). I had seen the movie. Though that's a simple reason for abandonment, sometimes the writing pulls you in despite your objectivity. But such wasn't the case here either. I kept reading. Over the weekend I poured into 300+ pages. And I'm left with the same conclusion: I can put this book down and very much want too. It isn't particularly great. It's good. Introspective. A character study. But it's too extraneous. Too preachy and condemning. Too much prose devoid from substance. And most of all it's too long. At almost 500 pages and rather rambling around it's simple central thesis, you'd think it'd be shorter.

All of this is sufficient a reason, in my belief, to abandon the book. But why can't I? Why do I feel the need to finish this book? I want to move on. I've got another book lined up on the bookshelf, Love in the Ruins by Walker Percy, with a great opening line:

Now in these dread latter days of the old violent beloved U.S.A. and of the Christ-forgetting Christ-haunted death-dealing Western world I came to myself in a grove of young pines and the question came to me: has it happened at last?

That's a fantastic opening line. But still I hang on to complete this book that long ago became banal. Still I hang on, not expecting any of these reason to be atoned for in the book's final pages. After the opening line of Love in the Ruins I fought every urge to keep reading. Feeling as though I was cheating something by doing that. The book, it seems, will not let me go. It's stalking me.

Actually, it's more like a song that gets stuck in your head.

Didn't know books could do that.

Sunday, June 22, 2008

What Would You Do

So the Mrs. proposed a rather interesting question on a recent road trip: If you could do something else for your job, something very much different -- perhaps hinging on a regret of sorts from our youth (yes, we're that old these days!), what would it be? Now in the past, we've used this means of questioning to determine career direction. In fact, it was what first suggested to us a different career path for me (one I'm still working towards, mind you!). But in this context, current work happiness and future work happiness did not play a role. It was more simple and straightforward a proposition: What sounds cool and sounds like something you'd want to do?

My answer, to her somewhat surprise, was: work for the CIA. Of course, I'm too passive and possess the complete inability to fool anyone, so being an agent was not my intent. I supposed to her something at Langley in either the tech field or maybe even languages. Leading too my wishing I had spent more time learning languages as a youth.

And this is why the Mrs. and I work. For as much as we are different, we are alike in the cool, essential stuff. The same overarching abstract types of things govern the differences we espouse on a day-to-day basis.

The Mrs. too wished to be a translator. She figured to work in a hospital, being the person people of different cultures can turn to in a crisis. Having witnessed the compassion, comfort and strength the translators can show at her own hospital.

Of course, we went into our explanations for why we chose what we did (my reason, well, it'd be cool to say you work for the CIA. Wait! Can you say that?). I found in fascinating to think it through. To not think what you want to be doing now, but if circumstances were different, if you had taken a different step somewhere along the way, you wouldn't be entirely different than you are now, but you'd be different and doing something different. So what would that be?

Friday, June 20, 2008

Random Tidbits

So if I can't get a tan after being in the sun for 6 hours yesterday, and 12 over the past three days, there's no hope for me. None. A friend joked that Isaac had been in the womb for 9 months and he had more of a tan than I did. Sad, but true.

Isaac is saying his own name. While I don't think he identifies himself yet, the "I" association that differentiates our consciousness from animals, it's still hilarious. The other day he just kept screaming Isaac in the grocery store. I even got him saying it on the phone yesterday. Nothing, and I mean nothing, beats that.

So glad the Celtics won. Banner 17. Fantastic. I am also so glad the playoffs are over. 2 month! 2 months I watched games every other night. It's been exhausting and seemingly worthless. I'm not belittling the greatness of the championship, but it felt more like winning a marathon than winning an all out sprint. The NBA. It's Fan-tastic.

Tiger's performance over the weekend: Best golf I've ever seen. Perhaps the single greatest sports performance (up there with MJ's Flu game) I've ever seen. That was worth it. As was the 9-holes I was inspired to play.

Set-up the hammock yesterday afternoon. I know I'm prone to hyperbole (especially in this post) but it's probably the most comfortable thing ever. I laid there for 20 minutes looking at the sky and rocked in the breeze.

The DVD/Surround Sound System broke. Much to my luck we are looking to get another one. Maybe we'll wait awhile. The iPod plays all our music. We don't watch many movies during the summer. I'm willing to wait. It's been sort-of nice. We'll see if I can get one on the cheap on the eBays.

And I'm reading Atonement. Apparently one of the best 100 books of the 20th Century (and slightly beyond). Not impressed so far -- nor was I with the film version. So I'm not expecting to finish it, we'll see.

Indiana Jones was terrible. Terrible. Terrible. Can't say that enough. Ugh.

One more thing: enjoy summer. Spend time outside, even just for walks. Drink cool drinks and indulge in a coffee on a cool evening. Don't be afraid to wear sweatshirts and shorts. Take the opportunities to be still -- those summer nights. Listen to the summer, it's got such nice things to say.

Wednesday, June 18, 2008

How Sweet, Sweet, Sweet It Really Is

There's not a lot to add. I can tell you where I was when the Celtic's drafted Paul Pierce and how I hugged Hep. Where I was when Reggie collapsed. How 15 wins sounded on the radio during the M.L. Carr year. The sound of Pitino's whining that quickly drowned the excitement he gave us that opening night against the 72-win Bulls. My confusion after last year's draft when we traded for Ray Allen. My downright, soul-shaking joy when we traded for Garnett weeks later. I can tell you, I can tell you, I can tell you.

There was much joy in my household last night. Phone calls were exchanged. Screaming. Chills. Quiet. More screaming. More chills. Bouncing up and down. Disbelief. Shock. Joy. Screaming. Screaming. Yes. Victory.

Winning it all is all. Winning like last night added a flavor to it by not merely winning, but by dominating the game. That was special and historical and memorable. KG, Allen, you guys played your life for that. Pierce, you played your life and your heart for that win, for this team. You deserve all it entails. You are champions.

I am wearing my Celtics shirt today. I am bouncing off the walls and annoying everyone. What more can I say?

The Boston Celtics have won their 17th NBA Championship. The Boston Celtics are World Champs. The Boston Celtics, The Boston Celtics, The Boston Celtics.

The Boston Celtics.

Monday, June 16, 2008

A Reflection On Father's Day

Yesterday was my second Father's Day. The 28th for my Dad. The 51st and 55+ for my grandfathers. I maintain the only thing that rivals being a Dad is being a Mom. The point being that having a child is the largest of little gifts. Wrapped in little smiles here and there, an occasional temper-tantrum and this feeling of more-than-responsibility.

Isaac's infused my life with an immeasurable joy and pride. I am at once teacher, disciplinarian, jester, comforter, entertainer, entertainee, duck and goose. That I love being a dad, that I well up with emotion when merely approaching the idea that I'm a father to this boy, this blue-eyed, yelling, screaming, pacifier throwing, doubled-over laughing, crying, pushing a toy lawnmower around for 2+ hours, child is my me.

The other night he had trouble sleeping. So I scooped him up before the tears could mount and sat with him in my arms. His grip on his green blanket was impenetrable as his breathing eventually slowed and the tears, watery and large, fell silently away. We sat there, like we do on occasion, for about 15 minutes and then I put him back in bed for the remainder of the night.

There's is a lot to fatherhood. But sometimes, that's all there is.

Tuesday, June 10, 2008

The Weight Of Glory

It is another aside from the movie "review" I posted about yesterday. And it concerns the child's love as well. For the boy in the film, his goal, his achievement in love was to be to have this particular girl notice him. He believed she didn't even know his name and set about correcting that. After a fervent chase scene, he manages to stand before her only briefly. He calls out her name, she responds in kind. And the boy can say nothing else. He is rendered speechless. She has noticed him. That more happens later is moot as this is the culmination of his story. When he appears back before his father, he is smiling, content, awed. Being noticed by her was his ultimate.

The idea of being noticed recalls to mind C.S. Lewis' greatest piece of writing: The Weight of Glory:

We should hardly dare to ask that any notice be taken of ourselves. But we pine. The sense that in this universe we are treated as strangers, the longing to be acknowledged, to meet with some response, to bridge some chasm that yawns between us and reality, is part of our inconsolable secret. And surely, from this point of view, the promise of glory... becomes highly relevant to our deep desire.

The promise of glory is the promise, almost incredible and only possible by the work of Christ, that some of us, that any of us who really chooses, shall actually survive that examination, shall find approval, shall please God. To please God...to be a real ingredient in the divine happiness...to be loved by God, not merely pitied, but delighted in as an artist delights in his work or a father in a son—it seems impossible, a weight or burden of glory which our thoughts can hardly sustain.

Monday, June 09, 2008

Actually, I Loved It

Caught a rom-com (read: romantic comedy) on TV the other night: Love Actually. Quite an impressive movie (a caveat: I would not have seen had it not been edited). All-star ensemble casts are endeavors that do not guarantee success, but this one worked. And worked well. What I was most impressed by was the adeptness with which the idea of love was handled. Love is a many splendid thing, to be sure. It wears many hats and guises. There's the classical categorization of love into 4 categories. Those were present in the movie, but so were the sub-fields. The unrequited loves. The marriage love. The romantic love that exists when the physical is stripped away and in fact, transcends that aspect of Eros (done in a very interesting and counter-intuitive way).

It was the child-like love that I most appreciated and enjoyed. The storyline ran through the movie like a spine -- suggesting the writer/directors belief that this was the love we are to show others. Born out of tragedy it presented the truest, simplest and ideal form of love. Love that has no fear, has no comprehension, has no concern for convention, no selfishness, no motives, no strings attached, no regrets. It was just love. And if it hurts in the end, so what: "Let's go get our heads kicked in by love." We saw, in that perspective, the freedom that love can give a person.

Love is a battlefield? Love lift us up where we belong? All you need is love? In the name of love? I'll be loving you forever? Love, love, love?

Yes. Actually.

Tuesday, June 03, 2008

Is Man A Myth?

I was reminded today of a funny aside in Lewis' The Chronicles of Narnia. When Mr. Tumnus appears, he is cradling a book bearing the title "Is Man A Myth?". Within the context of the story -- Lucy has walked through the wardrobe and into the white world of Narnia at winter-- the aside is humorous. A dose of irony in fact. But Lewis, whose series as a whole is laced with context and subtext, is suggesting a much more salient point than a smile or slight chuckle can capture.

At stake here, in the answer to the question, is not whether or not Lucy is real. Lewis is asking us a question of much more profundity. Long a studier of Greek, he delved heavily into the literary traditions of the culture. Most notably you will see this play out in Narnia superficially, like in fauns and centaurs. Myth, in such a culture does not imply falsity, a value we readily associate with anything involving that term. "Oh, that's just a myth!" we often cry. But for the Greeks, it simply involves the idea of a story. Prometheus getting his liver pecked out doesn't remotely intend to imply fact but rather to shed a truth upon or about something (and makes for a funny diary). But I am no connoisseur of Greek literary traditions, merely a lover of stories and tales.

Wonder for a moment on the new implication of this title: Is Man A Myth? Are we, simply and profoundly, a story? Played out in time, passed on through time? How important is it that we transfer and concern ourselves with the exactitude's of our livers being eaten out, metaphorically speaking? Is it rather more important that we use our lives, our stories, to shed a truth upon or about something? That we carry on our stories against a backdrop of the greatest of stories?

Getting back to the original irony of the scene, Mr. Tumnus had the question on one hand and the answer staring him in the face. Yet he does not nod in approval of having the question answered, instead he yells "Goodness, gracious me!". In one other famous myth I remember another who had the answer staring them down, the first words spoken that time were, "Mary".