Coming Across That Line

I read frequently throughout the workday. Blogs, websites, news articles. From there, in the evenings with cups of coffee apres-diner, a book. Those books are always, when I have time, listed on the right. I read a lot. At least, I try to read. Admittedly, some days reading the info guide on DISH is as close as I come. And on those particular days, when I "veg", I feel I have unheralded success of "getting home" by "never leaving".

Occasionally, I will stumble across a mantra for the day. A word, phrase or idea that extends past my fluttering eyes. Today's comes from a random blog I stumbled across fumbling through another blog I am an avid reader and proponent for (if not for the name alone). In a not atypical fashion, it involves G.K. Chesterton:

[Man] is also quite extraordinary, and the more sides we see of it the more extraordinary it seems. It is emphatically not a thing that follows or flows naturally from anything else....man would most certainly not have seemed something like one herd out of a hundred herds finding richer pasture, or one swallow out of a hundred swallows making a summer under a strange sky. It would not be in the same scale and scarcely in the same dimension. We might as truly say that it would not be in the same universe. It would be more like seeing one cow out of a hundred cows suddenly jump over the moon or one pig out of a hundred pigs grow wings in a flash and fly...Something happened; and it has all the appearance of a transaction outside of time.

Read the full excerpt...

If you have the patience for a well-thought, hard-at-times-to-follow argument, read The Everlasting Man. It's an effort, but a well worth and hard fought battle, whirling all-the-while-like-a-dervish, a paragon of profundity.

Inaugural Poem

I was bothered greatly by one thing yesterday. The Inaugural Poem. While I understand that not every poet can be the next Maya Angelou, I ask: can we at least attempt it? Because that was the worst poem I've ever heard. Worst. Ever. While much of it had to do with the way it was read (it is my sincere belief that poets probably shouldn't be the ones to read their own work. Poetry is a cathartic endeavour. It's art expunged. Left to interpretation. A poet reading their poem is interpolation. And it's wrong). See and hear what I mean. I did read it aloud later and it came across much better.

It suffered from a poor panoply of unpoetic words. Chesterton (and Whitman too) will argue me to the death (they win) on this but words like "tire", "pencils", "boombox" and "bus" lack depth and exegetical nuance. And "darning" pushes the edge of poetry as well. Pushes it into the mundane, the muck and mire of everyday life. Poems and Poetry is supposed to put "our heads into the heavens" (take that Chesterton. Your own words). So I was eager to hear the artist's take on yesterday. The person looking down and past and behind and through and alongside.

I was confused by the lines "We walk into that which we cannot yet see" in the middle of the poem when the ending, anti-climatic, demands that we "praise song for walking forward in that light."

Furthermore, if you want me to understand "Praise Song", don't throw at me images. Use sounds and images that inspire sounds. None of the invoked images she chose even approached the power of a song (again, Chesterton, stop talking. I hear your argument loud and clear. I don't disagree with you. I don't. There is great joy in the mundane. In the normal. But is that the function of poetry? C'mon? Is it? That's right. I'm right. Admit it, G.K.).

Overall, I was vastly disappointed with the Inaugural poem -- even upon the re-reading which did make it seem much better.

So I leave you with THE POEM to charge you forward in this new day. I still remember hearing it and being moved during that 7th grade pizza party. Take the time and read it. It's greatness lies in the unassailable timelessness of it. How it was just as striking and brilliant 16 years ago and resonated even more loudly yesterday in me.

The Wrestler

There is always lots of laughter. Giggling, chuckling, a chortle. And he usually sets himself up across the room from me. I, on my hands and knees, growl, lower my shoulders, engage the enemy. He laughs some more. Puts his hand to his mouth and thinks. But only for instant. I am sure the tactics of Patton cross his mind. Some advanced mathematics perhaps. But it only takes him an instant before he moves forward. Before he is resolved to the fight, to the war, to the wrestle. Sometimes there are weapons. He will use his prized green blanket. Either it will be a cape or a whip. In the latter, picture the stylings of Linus imitating the Power Rangers. And there is laughter. Much, much laughter.

He is a cheater. A little bit of a cheapskate. He will jump on my back, usually by way of my fulcrumed shoulder. From there, he may bite me, right below my scapula. Right on a good piece of skin. It is his arrow. He is Bard and I am the Middle Earth dragon. And I will fall and roll. Throwing him off. Begin again. Subsequent times he will use his fingers, eye gouging, mouth pulling little fingers. The ones not holding the green blanket.

Wrestling is something boys and Dads do. Since time immemorial. Isaac has learned some strategies recently. And it's gotten to the point where it's a little more of a struggle. A little more of a wrestle before it descends into tickling and calling out to Mommy because someones bumped his head or been unfairly (whatever, he ran at me, I just lowered my shoulder and lifted him up) tackled and pinned beneath Daddy.

But there is always lots of laughter. And it is the most fun.

Now unlike a particular wrestling episode with my father, I've yet to break a bone in him. Yet to be forced into naming a place in the living room Peniel. Though I've more than once found it profoundly moving that God wrestled with man. Like a father and son. I know I complain more than often about unfair pinnings, lowered shoulders and have bitten much in my own time. And it is here I am most like my Isaac. Grossly out-manned, out-strengthened, out-maneuvered. Constantly relying on weapons. But each time I am pinned. And there is this great foolishness. This great silliness prevailing over those times. Like I could out-wrestle The Wrestler. Still it is something that must be done. Must needs be part of our relationship. And He presses me, but does not crush. And while laughter does not permeate the engagements, there is, by the end, this deep abiding Joy. A closeness with God. A Peniel.

Tell me, friend, can you ask for anything more?
Tell me can you ask for anything more?

Bylines That Violate My Mantra

I try hard not to believe in a liberal media bias. It exists. But I like to think better of my fellow journalists. Then I see things like this just today:

1. Byline, CNN.com: Commentary: Bush Still doesn't get it. Ironically the writer of the byline didn't get the article.

2. Byline, Huffingtonpost.com: Catholics Forced to Keep Quiet Over Virgin Visions. Leaves me conviced that the Huffpost et al has a Mad-libs field generator that automatically takes the words Pope and Catholics and Vatican and turns out: Oppression!

Now I know #2 is the Huff Post. It's liberal anyways. I read it as a whetstone. Same reason I will parlay a glance at Fox News. I expected what I read. Doesn't mean it doesn't bother me.

Also Random Question for all: Is buying a cordless drill at an outlet store an example of irony? I'm white. I like irony.

Text Messaging

So I'm not one for the latest crazes. Count me in the minute minority of people who don't have a Facebook page or MySpace page. I don't Twitter either. The theory: I have better things to do with the time it would take to keep up with them. And it being not a worthwile exercise, merely a billboard creation in the InterWebs, I truly don't see the long-reaching point. But I'm in the minority.

And until lately I've not been a fan of text messaging. Mainly because of the labor it took to weild a worthy message; i.e. typing on a telephonic keypad. But, with my new virtual keyboard, typing is a breeze (unfortunately I can't send pics unless you have an iPhone -- nor can I receive them from you). I can even type big words: shout at me your imprecations!

Yesterday, after a brief conversation with my pastor, I was needling for the 411 on some things, I received a txt msg from him, complete with what I had asked for. At first, I wasn't sure how I felt about that. My pastor? txt msging?

See I've always believed that IMing and Txt msging don't foster good communication skills. That they acquiesce to the introvert/social pariah in all of us. I believe that, in part. They don't foster those skills when one uses them in place of talking to a person directly -- albeit by phone or in person, the former which doesn't actually do much for communication itself seeing as how it omits two important facets of communication skills. But to send a quick note off to someone about something that remind one of someone or some such reason as that, I think it's great. Whereas a phone call leaves one with the awkward responsibility of ending a call after what's been said has been said: Really, that was all you called for? (Have you ever tried to end a txt msg conversation though? Is it possible?). Of course txt msging has it's detractions: the frustrating part of limiting yourself to a sentence or two in response because of the time it takes to type out a response so that the other person knows you're responding and doesn't think you're ignoring them and then feels bad and wonders what they did to offend you and wonders if you'll ever talk to them again. Txt msging can bridge that chasm of social awkwardness in some respects. A quick note. Just keeping in touch. Sometimes that's all it takes, really. Because the uniqueness of some daily happenings a phone call undermines.

And I applaud my pastor. It'll cross a line when he txt msgs me his sermon points while he's speaking.

Or if he starts Twittering during the service.

A Triumphant Return

It's time to return. To begin writing again. To share, vent, propose, challenge, extend, contract, blabber. This morning I came up with the Top Ten things I think about in the shower. I'm not sure why; I'm quite sure it's not funny and so I won't share. Only know that I'm pretty sure it's time to re-frost the bathroom window when I can see what the weather is like outside.

To say life has been simply tough or easy or hard or fun over the past month would do the experience of life no justice. It has deserved no category. It has been an odyssey of "finding and losing and laughing and crying". I have learned much, grown much. And life does that. Stretches and tugs and pulls. Laughter is immensely important, as are a decent pair of sneakers. And to say that airline difficult is easy underestimates the inconsolable experience of my latest aviary excursion. Books can be sloggingly brilliant while sucking every ounce of endurance. A surprise movie is a little delight. Technological arrogance now pervades from my pocket -- and it's awesome.

And if I could have learned everything, I would maintain only this: "winter by spring, I lift my diminutive spire to merciful Him Whose only now is forever".

Now I have always marveled at the size of humanity. Where we stand in relation to the universe, and the nearest tree. But marvel doesn't describe the weight of glory in seeing your child for the first time, tossing and tumbling: