It IS a Magical World

Let's be honest, this happened a while ago. But it's time. Follow me over there. It's been great being here and thanks for coming along. But...

My (365) Days With Lucy

It has been one year. And so I look back on those words I wrote one year ago to the day. It has been one year. One year. ONLY so many days and ONLY so many nights can be measured to have occurred since that day. And that feels un-right. Because what I have enjoyed in this past year has been moments covered in Cantor dust. The further down Lucy has ventured into my heart, burrowed as I hoped it would be 365 nights ago, the deeper yet she has been able to go. There has been no end to the joy she has uncovered in my heart, in my life. With her wide, sometimes goofy, sometimes heartbreakingly happy, sometimes startlingly sweet smile. With her apex of the sky blue sky eyes. Yes, these kinds of platitudes are expected. I figured them in last year at this time. It's part of what you come to expect the second time around. It's still awesome. It's still beyond words. It's Christmas morning. And you just gotta get up, you gotta get up, you gotta get up... It's Christmas morning.

But for all of the Cantor dust, with Lucy there has been that little bit of fairy dust too. Those moments that make you stop. Straight on halt you. For all of Lucy's trying to be like her brother in climbing stairs or by wrestling with daddy, she's got her own magic too. How she dances and claps to certain music and not to other music. Or like when I'm having a bad day or hour and my eyes meet hers and she will deliberately blink at me and smile and blink deliberately again. Always makes me laugh. Or when I find her in her room with several books open in front of her and she is pointing to the pictures. Or when you give her a stuffed animal and she looks at it and smiles and then cradles it under her neck and hugs it tightly. Or when the Mrs and I go away for five days and return with two particular gifts that we placed around her room and that now every morning when she gets up she has to touch these particular gifts. That's the fairy dust. Those are the happy thoughts that make you fly.

Last year I supposed it but it has come true. My chest has been ripped open and filled with treasures. And to borrow a phrase again, Don't ask me how I knew, it just was the first time I saw her.


*new videos on YouTube*

On My Final, LOST Thoughts

It was a superb end to a great, great show. Not the final ten minutes; the final episode. I have been on record as despising Sideways world but after the Finale, came to appreciate it for the moments of remembrance between the characters. Most notably Sun and Jin, Sawyer and Juliet. At the end of it all, it was those singular moments with the characters and their experiences of their characters that made the entire 6 seasons worth the investment. I've seen it numerous places, but concur with the thought that it was a fantastic 2 hours and 20 minutes followed by a head-scratching and hand-holding, light infused 10 minute miasma of fakeness. Though the final, literary motif ending with the dog and with Jack was apropos. And the Ben and Locke final scene together was powerful and moving as anything I've scene on the show. Just gut-wrenching good acting (seeing as how the last time they were together, one killed the other). And that Ben stayed behind... loved his character more than any other on the show. A very, very powerful character arc portrayal by Michael Emerson. He was astounding.

I'm at peace with the open-endedness of the finale. What happened to the final five on the plane that left the island? How did Penelope end up with Desmond (and where the HECK was their reunion iso) in the church? What became of the three on the island? Why was Jack still alive on the island for that final shot? Walt? Michael? It doesn't matter to me. Not one bit. Though there are a few floating theories that explain it and the more I've dwelled on the Sideways world being a temporary world for all the LOSTies to reunite, the more more is explained. So I'm on board with that.

The ending certainly reminded me of The Great Divorce with some choosing to stay behind in Sideways world. And, most notably, with characters coming to enlightment/awakenings by being touched by those whom they loved or experienced the events with, and that touch being shocking and painful and good. Very much The Great Divorce's idea there. It reeked of the best and worst of the relativistic branch of post-modernism ("Make your own rules" followed by Hurley giving everyone the chance to reunite).

But more profound was its attitude toward love. Toward forgiveness and loyalty and happiness and morality. And of sacrifice.

I would've preferred an ending like this:

Jack sacrifices himself in the pool of water and light. He dies at some point, much like he did. The other three get off the island or the island sinks and disappears. Sideways world happens because Jack wills it with his last breath even though in it Jack becomes the only one who can no longer remember the Island world. That was because he made the ultimate sacrifice: he died and remained lost so others could remember and move on. He then doomed to live out in the gray world, in sideways world, off the island. That would've been harder and more difficult and a more risky play from the show than they may have been willing to take. But would've been infinitely more profound. One character remains LOST. C'mon. How did they not think of that!

Anyway, I've thought about this all day and made updates to this post and I know that I'm not done thinking about it. And I miss that it's over. And for the Kumbaya moment at the end, I'm more okay with it now that I really do believe that Sideways world was a type of purgatory/gray world That it was timeless and existed when everyone had already died even though some escaped the island, and some didn't and that the island was very much a real place and the events were very much real events (the last shots of the wreckage not withstanding).

It was a great show and this was one of many ways for it to end and that it chose to end like this sits better with me the more I think about the characters and what I loved about the show -- and really, wasn't that the point?

On Lost

If you've followed me on Twitter, it's been no secret that I love Lost. The Mrs. and I started watching it last summer and finished all five seasons in time for the start of season 6. Sometimes we watched three episodes a night. Once or twice maybe four episodes. Sometimes up till 1 in the morning watching this show. I've maybe not as much invested as those who've toiled for six actual years, but I've got a lot invested in this story. In it's characters and ideas. So to say season 6 has been a disappointment is being nice.

I'm okay with the Sideways world plot-line. My only complaint has been it has sucked momentum out of the Island plot-lines. The cutting back and forth has pulled us as viewers too thin. Too much guess work to see connections between the Sideways stories and Island action. Where cut-a-ways before helped with character arcs within the plot, here they dilute the plot itself. It would have been a better strategy to just concurrently run the Sideways world plot at the start of the season sans Island story. This way we actual invest time and interest in Sideways world. Then, finish the season strong by building straight on the Island plot to the end.

They didn't do that. So where are we?

If this season has done anything it's cleared up Jacob and the Smoke Monster. It has given us back story. It has made the archetypes actual characters. Brilliantly in the "Ab Aeterno" episode too. And for awhile we couldn't decide who was black and who was white. Who was evil and who was good. When the line was drawn for us (or when we were roped into believing who was good and who was bad -- I'll explain) we all seemed to find ourselves on Jacob's side. Jacob was the good guy with the noble heart. And after watching the penultimate episode I found myself very bored. Very bored. I fell asleep. I was annoyed. It was all so predictable. So pedantic in dialogue. So...so... exactly like I was being lulled to sleep by hearing what I expected to here. That Jacob had brought them there. That they were better off for being there. That the island saved them and now they must save it...Blah blah blah. I just considered it a terrible episode and both Jen and I wished the show would just end so we didn't have to care. It felt like the show had just lost something. It's sense of magic. It's sense of a one idea that was making this whole thing have purpose. Everything was heading right where it had no choice but to end. I considered that maybe there was never actually a completed ending when this story first began. That what's coming just happened organically through the writing. I can appreciate that, but this show has always suggested that's not the case. But after this last episode, it felt, well, lost in some plot and character contrived corner and was ready to keel over and just end.

But a lot has been revealed about Jacob and the Smoke Monster/FLocke/MIB in the past two weeks. Last week we saw Jacob a mere patsy for his crazy mother and MIB as a man who sought knowledge and enlightenment. Jacob became narrow minded and cultist in his grasp on the "source"/ "light". Borderline fundamentalistwack job. In this last episode he conceded he was just that. He brought all this people there for his reasons. For his ends. Making the ends justify the means (a philosophy well represented in the six seasons of Lost). He claimed everyone was flawed. But that he only made one mistake and needed to fix it. That mistake? Killing his brother in the first place. So he created this situation and then created the situation to get out of the situation. Selfish. Arrogant. Not what I look for in my hero. And what about the Man in Black? He seemed a good soul. Hard-working. Seeking knowledge and escape from his crazy wacky murderous step-mother. I can appreciate that more than Jacob's patsy attitude.

MIB wanted to reveal the light. To let everyone experience it. And here's my revelation. LOST has drawn from innumerable sources. From religion to history to literature to music. It has referred to a panoply of knowledge. So much so that to call it Christian or to call itKabbalah or to call it pagan pigeonholes it into something it is not. It is consistently universalism . So we have this light source that we are told if it leaves the island, if it is uncorked, will no longer be on the island but unleashed on the world.Hmmm. That seems universalist. And MIB who, we can wonder, is that actual light source (after he was thrown in the cave the light went out and out came the smoke monster), and if he gets out, will give everyone that light. Seems rather noble, again.

Say what you will about FLocke's cold, murderous hand. But he has always given people the choice to follow or not follow. Jacob has been gray at his best. FLocke is black and white. Blame him for Sayid and Sun and Jin but remember he didn't actually kill any of them. Despite what Jack claimed in this episode. Sawyer did it. They did it by making the wrong choice. The choice not to follow him. Call it cold. Call it justice. But he's never beenwishy-washy. He's always been clear. Jacob is controlling under the guise of free-will. But Flocke has always been for free-will and displayed it at all costs. Remember that names have always been referential on LOST. From Lewis to Sawyer to Jack to Locke toBentham to Faraday to Hume to Penelope to Eco. Jacob's name means liar. We don't know MIB's name.

So, I'm rooting for FLocke to win. It explains Sideways world (notice how when all of them see the alternate Island life, it's via a bright flash of light). It wraps up the show very neatly. It shows there was always a set ending in place. And it fits in with so many themes of Lost I can't even begin to get at here (this is long enough, Doc Jensen eat your heart out).

Finally, this Sunday is Pentecost. LOST's pre-season cast photos modeled after the Last Supper painting. There are numerous references in this season to the idea of Easter weekend and beyond. Numerous. And what is Pentecost? When the Holy Ghost was poured out on the world. When he was uncorked from heaven.

At Almost Thirty

My 30th birthday is this Sunday. I've already received a card from Nana and Grandpy (not allowed to open it yet, but thanks in advance Nana and Grandpy) and three small gifts from the Gilchrests of Waco, TX (slightly disappointed that the included Starbucks Gift Card was not for the $1,000,000 that Eric had penned on the sleeve). The rest of you... let's go. Let's get those gifts here.

If you're looking for gift ideas here are the only three I ever and always ask for and really only ever want if I want of anything: books, coffee, t-shirts. Maybe it's sad, sure. I'm a grown man and I wear t-shirts everyday (it's in the job description, though!). Maybe it speaks of being content. Of having the things that really matter: health, salvation (as much as I can be sure of something like that -- oohh, there's some theology for you), family, friends, two really wonderful and special children and the stillness and passion of loving and being loved. But if you're looking for gift ideas, I only asked that the coffee be of good quality; used books and Goodwill t-shirts are preferred.

I suppose at this point in my life I should muse over the past. That I should entertain and relish those things I am thankful for, those things I have learned from, those things I have striven and attained and those things I've yet to attain. And I suppose I've done that as I approach this day. But not more or less than I've done it in approaching any other day -- or tried to do. Yet one thought in the past months that has circled the drain of my 20s has been my enjoyment of fairy tales. I know on Twitter I've mentioned that I like them more at almost 30 than I did as a child. I'm not sure why exactly. But get past your conception of the word. Though here's a perfect sermon on why you should and can(seriously listen to it. It's inspiring. And on Easter!).

And here's Chesterton on it:

"In the fairy tale an incomprehensible happiness rests upon an incomprehensible condition.
A box is opened and all evils fly out.
A word is forgotten and cities perish.
A lamp is lit and love flies away.
An apple is eaten and the hope of God is gone.”

And Tolkien on it:

[Fairy tale] does not deny the existence of sorrow and failure: the possibility of these is necessary to the joy of deliverance. It denies (in the face of much evidence, if you will) universal final defeat...giving a fleeting glimpse of Joy;
Joy beyond the walls of the world, poignant as grief.

I find great pleasure in seeing the imaginative side of things. Seeing things maybe as not what they are but maybe what they could be. Sure, it's not always the realistic viewpoint, but it's also not idyllic. My worldview takes into account much that isn't right and allots for it. But it sees past that -- or tries to. Maybe this is of fairy tales. Maybe I just walk around with the magical realist viewpoint. Maybe I'm crazy and maybe my 30s will fix all of this.

But for right now, at almost 30, give me that warm hand I love to hold, and lips I love to kiss, that merriment of laughter I love hearing every morning, some coffee, a crisp t-shirt, an old book, ripped jeans, some sunshine, a cool breeze, maybe a birthday party at a giant indoor playground for adults with lots of bouncy things to bounce on and into, a melody with a hook and a beat.

Tell me it's all a fairy tale. And I'll tell you it's my life. My incomprehensible joy and happiness that is based on the incomprehensible condition of me: a man who insists upon always wearing t-shirts and ripped jeans.

On Broken Things

It's been the better part of the past two days but certain things around the house have been fixed. The blinds have been taken down and new ones installed: white, faux-wood ones. Then there's the leaky bathtub faucet which has been plaguing my quiet moments for four months. I finally got the whole thing disassembled thanks to my frustration and a hacksaw. After some running around, I found the replacement part and we're back in business; that means the water's back on in the house.

But as I finished cleaning up the final project tonight, I found myself circling a kind of drain. A steady maelstrom going around and round. I am waiting for what I fixed to be broken again. I'm listening now for the drip that I can feel coming. I'm anticipating Isaac swinging at the blinds and destroying them again. Call it a lack of faith, but it's inevitable. What's fixed will be broken again.

Quite possibly we lose our faith in products and machines and even people when they breakd0wn. For right or for wrong we expect them to maintain their equilibrium. Their status quo of reliability. I for one don't always mind a broken and fixed item. I buy refurbished Apple products (same warranty, 15% cheaper). I buy cars used. I read books from the library. Yet still this feeling lingers. Even my previously broken bones ache thanks to some mind over matter thoughts. These things repaired will break down again. They will have to be fixed again. What it must be like for God...

As I take survey of the thoughts present in my quiet moment tonight, as I come to the realization of things fixed and things broken, I am quieted even more by the importance of not making junk in the first place. There's a whole theology in that. Know things in this life aren't perfect. Love, passion, happiness, joy. It's all flawed somehow. It's all besought with mortal wounds. But it's got built into something that bespeaks the ideas of a Quality. Of Not-Junk. And so if those things must break, let it be so; it will be an easy repair. But may we not lose faith in them.

As for my faucet repair, stay away from the Delta 1700 Monitor series. And from me, the plumber.

The Pacific Northwest

Perhaps it's because the last MFA application I'm waiting on (due any day now) is from a school in the Pacific Northwest. Seattle. Maybe it's because the book I'm currently reading, "Snow Falling on Cedars", is set on an composite island in Puget Sound. Maybe it's because I've been there. Been to Seattle. Visited Mt. Rainer. But I've been enamored all morning with Washington State.

Sitting over breakfast with Isaac I was suddenly warmed by the memory of a picture taken on our honeymoon at the national park at the base of Mt. Rainer. Jen is standing in a red t-shirt and light brown cords. Her then long black hair pulled tight. Sunglasses atop her head. Head tilted, eyes squinting in the sunlight. Small in the foreground set against the backdrop of the mountain. It's a picture of her I love. Loved taking it. Love looking at it. And holding it, I can feel the mountain trembling in my hand at her beauty.

The trees in Washington, especially around Mt. Rainer, are massive and prolific. They stretch high and tall into cloudless blue skies (incidentally, Seattle gets less rainy days per year than New York City). The landscape envisions most accurately what G.K. Chesterton surmised of man's attempt to place himself in relation to the universe, "Man has always been small when compared to the nearest tree". And I have never seen trees that tall anywhere else. Sequoias I think is what they were. Stolid giants stood still over time. Possibly speaking slowly, like Fangorn. Telling us, in the slight swaying of the branches, their names over the millenia. For a moment that that trip through the forest on our honeymoon, I had a moment to listen to them. To stand, small and contrite and in awe of the structures of nature.

What I hear today is that memory of a time some eight years ago. And that I am still small. Small compared to the Sequoia. Small compared to the pine tree teetering next door. Small next to the saplings. But I have a love that is giantesque. A love, I suspect, that has only just got around to speaking to me her name.

Knives and Spoons

Maybe it's a sign of this generation but occasionally phrases arise that spark in me this idea, "Hey, that would make a great blog title!" It's the transference of doing it for band names I suppose (do they even have bands in music these days?). But as I'm doing dishes this afternoon (yes, we do not have a dishwasher. And once Lucy is off the bottle... please let it be soon. No more bottles to hand wash)... Anyway the phrase "Knives and Spoons" popped into my head. This probably had more to do with the inordinate number of knives and spoons I've noticed I wash on a daily basis. So if I were to write a blog about being a post-modern housewife I would call it "Knives and Spoons".

Then it occurred to me that I may be measuring my life in terms of knives and spoons. In terms of the banal work around the house I do daily as a result of me being home with the kids. T.S. Eliot's Prufrock certainly had a similar sense about him, proclaiming "I have measured out my life with coffee spoons". It's been easy to succumb to this entrapment of sorts. Recently I've been bombarded with 4 MFA rejection letters. Part of the staying home and not working idea the Mrs and I had was so that I could work on my writing. And I have (not on the blog though). I've gotten better. Yet here I sit with four rejection letters in front of me- on my inspiration board no less. There's still one school I'm waiting to hear from -- so maybe... Regardless of what transpires I've found myself slipping into the temptation of "Knives and Spoons". Of seeing myself unapart from the daily routines. Perhaps it's the failure of MFA applications -- the embarrassment of failing anyway is certainly palpable. So I've measured my life, I've discovered, my days by the daily tasks. The coffee spoons, the peanut butter knives, the diapers, the bottles, the hours.

But the preceding line in Eliot's poem is transcendent. It's the realization of the best part of why I am staying home. For I "Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons". I have had time with my children. With my son. With my daughter. With my wife. I have had days upon days of books and building blocks and Curious George and bike rides and soccer and crawling contests and standing contests and singing and OREOs while watching LOST. And not only have I had them. But morning, noon and night I have known them. Felt them in the deepest and best parts of the chambers of my soul. And I know that I am lucky and that I am blessed. And I know that I am loved because yesterday Isaac on one of our patented early evening bike rides turned back to look at me and the Mrs and said, "It's my mommy and my daddy. And I love them."

So is it worth it, after all -- Prufrock senses us asking, I sense myself asking as I count the knives and spoons and rejection letters. I will certainly have the knives and spoons tomorrow and the next day. But I will also have the human voices that will wake me. And they are singing, often. And to me.

On Six Months

We are celebrating Lucy's half-birthday. I recommended half-cupcakes in honor of the occasion; alas, no. But here I am, 6 months into my daughters life. I am fully invested in diapers and bottles (again) and making our own baby food. Fully immersed in getting her to roll over, crawl forward, sit up and laugh. Laughing the best part. Lucy, like her brother, loves to laugh. Mostly at him. The way he dances about and sings songs to her. Her laugh is true and simple, full to the brim with happiness and joy. And like the best of all laughs, utterly contagious.

With Lucy it's been a different experience entirely. And not because she's a girl or because she's the almost opposite of Isaac in temperament. But because I'm around. I was around for Isaac, always. But I wasn't home for Isaac. And wow what I missed -- I realize now. I am home now. For four of the six months. Like I said, fully in the process of her growing up. Right before my eyes.

Being home has been a blessing. How Jen and I did it before, I don't know. Why we did, I don't know -- I do, but... This is better. Raising your kids is better. Watching Lucy outgrow clothes isn't as sad, because you realize she's worn that outfit everyday for two months because she goes through six outfits a day because she throws up all the time (ask Isaac, "she spits up", he'll say. He'll also jump out of the way if she even burps and he's across the room to begin with. "She can't spit up that far Isaac," we'll say. But it doesn't matter).

Lucy hasn't outgrown many clothes. She's little. Maybe a little too little even. Enough that we're monitoring it. Increasing food where we need to. Some of it may be because of the September scare she gave us -- in the hospital for almost three days. But she's little -- she'll be little. But man can she eat. Out eats her brother at this age. Complains to me because she's hungry after I've just fed her three helpings of sweet potatoes.

Have I mentioned the laughter? That our house is filled with it? We named her in part because her name meant light. And she's brought light to the house -- to other people (see previous entry). But she's brought the lightness of merriment. Of joy unmitigated by constraints of time. There has been time aplenty for her to laugh and smile and cackle, and time for me to enjoy it. So maybe that's it. Maybe that's where her light to me has been cast: showing me the absolute importance of time and of making time.

And in one more place: she lights up when I enter a room. Literally lights up. A switch goes on. A jolt of energy released. A 108-minute button never pushed. Smiles, eyes wide and blue. Recognizes and exudes a smile of recognition and happiness when she sees me. There is no feeling that encompasses that moment. No real way to describe it. You know it when you see it. When it blinds you.

















And you never forget it.