joy-loss

I've had a realization of the most obvious yet horrifying kind. Mankind is disgusting and evil. This is the sort of disillusionment those greater than me have endured but not survived, for I have seen them carry it to its seemingly logical extension of understanding. But I am not prepared to accept nihilism as the final conclusion to my despair. Nonetheless, something must be done, intellectually and practically speaking. For not moving beyond this realization through understanding and applying it in some way results in paralysis. And to ignore it or pretend it is not reality is to live a life not worth a breath or a moment.

Man is essentially evil and depraved. This is a biblical reality I have always accepted. Christ's death on the cross and His resurrection is the only remedy. This is a biblical reality I have always known. But in moments when considering daily relationships, daily life, what are we to do? That Christ's redemptive power is whole and complete, I cannot dispute, but even believers are left in their sinful nature and, indeed, they dwell in it more naturally and consistently than in their redeemed state.

All humans are self-centered, greedy, and deceitful. I myself act in my own best interest, at the expense of any and all others, 99.9999999% of the time, and even those rare acts of sacrifice are not without personal gain. So who is to be trusted? What are relationships but mansions built on fragments? For nothing can be known or believed. The truth is entrenched, buried beneath the dark nasty stuff of our self and desires. How is intimacy even possible? Purity is fraud. Honesty is falsehood. Relationship is farce. And even in the midst of those whom we think we love and who think they love, we are isolated and alone, apart from anything real or true. When you say you love me, you mean that you want me to love you, or you love it when I love you, or you love the feeling you get when you say you love me. Likewise when I say I love you, I mean that I love being a lover, or I love the way you make me feel or I love it when you find me your lover. When you tell me fact, is that truth? What are you hoping that I will not discover or suspect? What am I hoping that I have concealed from you with no seams?

I feel that a deep and dark shadow has enveloped my world, your world. My idealism and hope have been suffocated, dashed against the jagged rocks of the known unknowable nature of reality. I wander about in a permanently precarious state, knowing the evil of my own heart and how it pervades my every action and also the evil in every heart of every man. I would willingly give my life so that you may find me a martyr. I would willingly give my house so that you may call me a saint. I would willingly post this blog so that you may call me enlightened. I would willingly bare my soul so that you may call me deep and chaste. And yet in so doing, I am none of those things. And I ask, how could you be also? I am not better than you, most certainly, but neither am I worse. And so there are no heroes; there can be no heroes. Any belief otherwise is willful idealism and self-deceit. So now I just want to be alone in my confusion and unsurety.

note: i found this unpublished post of mine from about a year back and thought it worth putting up. even though i am currently in a better place, i still believe and remember these feelings. there seems to be something beautiful and hopeful in them. perhaps you will agree.

je ne sais quoi

i know it's been a while... this post may or may not have been worth the wait.

it is a woman's struggle to know and believe that she is beautiful. indeed, in this time, in this world, as in any perhaps, the cultural standards of beauty are hollow and unattainable, so we are left to struggle in a losing battle. without innate confidence, we seek to define our beauty by the perceptions of others rather than something objective and true. we peruse pages of magazines and frames of films for an absolute of beauty (but how can beauty be found there, in these static, lifeless images?), and we are left believing, often against our own best intentions, in a hierarchy of beauty where even the top-most positions are precarious and unsatisfying. it seems to me that beauty is not in the shape of a face or in the tone of skin (though these can be more or less pleasing subjectively, i suppose), but in the élan, the intangible spirit that exposes itself in the eye or the laughter or the touch, that can startle in unexpected moments.

this leads me to a particularly lovely passage in virginia woolf's jacob's room.

"as for the beauty of women, it is like the light on the light on the sea, never constant to a single wave. they all have it; they all lose it. now she is dull and thick and bacon; now transparent as a hanging glass... the women in the streets have the faces of playing cards; the outlines accurately filled in with pink and yellow, and the line drawn tightly round them. then, at a top-floor window, leaning out, looking down, you see beauty yourself; or in the corner of an omnibus; or squatted in a ditch - beauty glowing, suddenly expressive, withdrawn the moment after. no one can count on it or seize it or have it wrapped in paper. nothing is to be won from the shops, and Heaven knows it would be better to sit at home than haunt the plate-glass windows in the hope of lifting the shining green, the glowing ruby, out of them alive. sea glass in a saucer loses its lustre no sooner than silks do. thus if you talk of a beautiful woman you mean only something flying fast which for a second uses the eyes, lips, or cheeks... to glow through."

April Showers

Today began beautifully. There was a lovely breeze gently shuffling along the clouds that speckled the blue sky. It is Spring, and the trees and flowers are lush with greens, purples, yellows, whites. Today was pregnant with promise and beauty.

The afternoon turned the weather dark and gray with the storm clouds clipping on the heels of that blue sky. Time was lost, and moods matched the murky weather. The small wind calmed, and we were left with a balmy, moist afternoon. What once was looking up now looked askance, avoiding our gaze of hope and disappointment.

I came home this evening frustrated and exhausted from a day of taxing experiences and stressful introspection. I needed an outlet, a repose. And then time slipped quickly, stealthily by. The oncoming storm darkened the day quickly, and I fought my mood's desire to match the pace.

Storm clouds are intense because they hold, behind their unassuming gray and low-hanging billows, power and majesty. They burst at their imaginary seams, teasing us and playing with us. Like us, they conceal the fullness of their nature until it explodes from them with fury and beauty. Tonight's clouds finally broke, and there I found my haven and my release.

My younger brother and I stepped out into the night aglisten with lightning and played in the fresh-scented rain. As the heavy droplets soaked our clothes through, we kicked through muddy puddles and splattered amongst wet leaves. Gleefully, I forgot my age and my concerns. I forgot about all I have and all I desire. I forgot to care about the silliness of the moment and the seriousness of who I am or am not. It was the only responsible thing to do.

Eden

I have a favorite spot in the warmer months, on a hillside in a well-tended garden. During the Spring, it is rife with the violent colors of blooming azaleas. The wood-chip paths meander through bunches of full, enormous, wise bushes, schooling us with their subtle-but-intense colors and speckled petals, humming with bees and butterflies hard at work within their horticultural metropolis. One feels, if not an intruder or vaguely criminal, at least humbled and small when amongst this life, honored to be allowed to experience this perpetuation of creation without the smallest effort or investment as a price.

The other day, I chose a rustic wooden bench in my haven and dined on veggies as the insects danced from flower to flower to flower. An older lady passed by, her arms lovingly entwined in her husband's, and exclaimed, "There is an azalea fairy!" And I wished desperately that I was truly one of these, part of this, instead of a mere spectator, and asked, "Who? Me?" "Yes," she replied, "isn't this just beautiful!" I think perhaps she is the fairy or angel, granting me my wish, if only for a moment.

The Gardens stand tall over a restaurant nestled among trees and a carefully groomed golf course and lake. The view is scenic and green. From the other side, however, the vibrant colors are hidden behind the trees and building. It is a wonder that they do not explode and burst through. Instead, the other side is lovely but plain, and one might never believe what joyful, painful beauty it conceals. It is overwhelming to consider how much beauty we miss, forget, or do not know because it is hidden behind the plain and beneath the common.

One feels a certain invisibility here from what might ordinarily threaten. Bees buzz happily near me, but I do not fear they will sting me. We are one today, coexisting on each other's side. Today, he sees a friend in me, and so I am safe. When feeling like this in this place, I could do something truly silly like fall in love or make extravagant promises. Perhaps it is like faerie land, and when I return, I will forget my foolishness and not be held to account.

There are ferns that delicately graze just above the garden floor. I love ferns. They are, I believe, the most human of plants, with insecurities and shyness and clumsy and understated grace. When young, they curl tight and tense, turned inward, protecting themselves from the wild. They seem frightened, introspective, and even a little aloof. But with the change of season and loving care and attention, they unfurl, opening their fronds in a soft gesture of welcome. They remain quiet and reserved, but they invite you to know them and maybe love them if you might.

You Can't Handle the Truth

This post is actually a reply to a friend's blog. It turned long, and I thought perhaps you all would enjoy some of these thoughts as well. He was pondering the nature of truthfulness and how it looks in our daily lives and our relationships. He asks if an honest person is necessarily one who reveals all of himself and, conversely, if a person who in some way conceals or holds back the truth of his reality, does that make him a liar? His post hits close to home for me and has inspired many of my own thoughts and questions, as I often struggle with the idea of truth and full transparency in relationships and what it means for me as an individual in general and a Christian specifically. In fact, it has illuminated another facet of a verse on which I've been meditating: He who has My commandments and keeps them, he it is who loves Me. And he who loves Me will be loved by My Father and I will love him and disclose Myself to him (John 14:21 NASB; my italics).

My friend's post seems to be somewhat inspired by the American courtroom pledge to "tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth" (my italics). Pulling the idea of honesty versus falsehood entirely out of the courtroom, I am left wondering: is there a difference between truth and fact? And is there a difference between honesty and truthfulness or honesty and the "whole truth"? It seems to me that an honest man is one who is straightforward and truthful in spirit and word to the best of his ability when it is asked of him, but he must not volunteer all potentially relevant, though unasked, information in order to remain honest. Indeed, he is still honest because he is not false in his answers (my caveat here is that his honesty is consistent in spirit and in word and not just in word, that he does not come by truthfulness on a technicality).

And what of the virtue of Christ's own partial concealment of self that we find so frequently in John and elsewhere? Can we apply similar tactics in our own lives without fault? There are innumerable instances where we are expected, by God, to understand and live in faith on what could be argued to be a "half truth." We are told what we need to according to His wisdom, not to our own, and often times that leaves us with what we may perceive to be a partial truth of a situation. Furthermore, I see that the more faithful we are with the truths He offers, the more truths He will reveal. In this sense, it is a trust to be guarded and doled out wiselyand over time. I feel that we can and should do likewise in our own lives. What's more, in adult relationships (for Christians specifically), a reassertion in the place of God in individual lives releases the pressure to bring about full disclosure the facts at all times.

Finally, I wonder what is more true: who or what we are or who or what we desire to be, and is this not a possible difference between fact and truth? First the truth must be known by us before it can be offered to someone else. Often it is not a matter of dishonesty to not reveal it so much as it is a matter of appropriate timing. Some things that are not or should not be known by another in the present may or must be known later, and tempering the revealing of intelligence in this way does not always equate guile. I think knowing that timing can be the difference between a wise man and a fool, perhaps, instead of a liar and an honest person. Ultimately the question for me is: "Am I a lover of truth through and through and do I feel something die a little when (not if) I bend or break it?"”. That sort of existential system of accounting may be just the ticket.

One Step Closer to Knowing

About six years ago, a friend of mine was killed in a car accident. He was only 18 years old. Though he was not my closest friend, his death was the first over which I grieved. When I learned of his passing, I was wrought, confused, and angry. I wept for days; I prayed angrily and without ceasing; I wrote bitterly in an attempt to exorcise the intense feelings I encountered. Through his death, I found a glimpse of my own purpose. I was finally given peace in spite of my lack of understanding.

A few years after that, another acquaintance passed on from this life. I barely knew him, but I know that his life was marred with physical pain and hardship including blindness and several severe illnesses. Everyday of his life on this earth was a struggle beyond anything I could even feign to comprehend. In spite of his own tortures, he dedicated his life to bettering the lives of others around the world. His life’s work supported and eased the bitter lives of enslaved Christians in Sudan. For him on his death day, I wept tears of joy. What a beautiful picture: that after over twenty years of physical blindness, he opens his eyes and see his Savior. Even today, my heart is overwhelmed with this amazing thing.

Two years ago, a good friend mine lost her brother to a rare and evil disorder that was only revealed after his death. I never met him, but I knew and loved my friend deeply. And so I mourned for her. I prayed that a portion of her pain would be given to me, that she might be sustained through my intercession if it should be. The pain was mysterious and complete, and I have hope that it helped bring about her healing even in a small portion.

This month, my grandmother passed away. She was almost 82 years old and died from the sickness that old age enables. I am almost ashamed to say that I did not cry on her passing, but I did cry the last time I saw her alive. I mourned then over years and love lost, never to be regained in this stage of eternity. I mourned then over this person, this spirit, being brought to the brink with the flesh and being overwhelmed with her own failings, her deep need and love for her Savior. By the time of her death, I had already released her.

As an adult, I barely knew her though I spent a few summers of my childhood in her old Florida home eating sandwiches made on the most delicious Cuban bread. I remember her small, yellowish kitchen (perhaps it was not yellow but is yellowed by years of memory like an old photograph or love letter) with an old linoleum floor and a simple wooden table. Attached to it was a bathroom, aged and rusted from years of use. I remember the cubby-hole tunnel that ran beneath the staircase from her room to the dining room. Hidden there were treasures of a porcelain dolls, old photographs and yearbooks, and my own imaginary world of mischief and intrigue. I remember the black, sooty sand hidden beneath her barely-grassed lawn and the pungent sea odor that wafted through the palm trees surrounding her house.

The last time I saw my grandmother, my mother sat next to her fragile body, holding her hand, and encouraging her as she overcame her feebleness to speak. I was impressed by the magnitude of the moment, three generations of a family—grandmother, mother, daughter—occupying the same time and space. I felt my spiritual, emotional, personal inheritance from these two women almost tangibly. I yearned for the intimacy that should be present, but is not always, amongst individuals whose existences are so profoundly intertwined. I saw in us all the same desires and the same fears, the same weaknesses and the same strengths, the same love, and the same anger. In this moment, I felt sorrow. In this moment, I felt closure.

Two weeks later, she went on from this life. At her funeral, she was honored as a matriarch of her church, her community, and her family, and I think I somewhat understood the meaning of that because of my experience two weeks prior. That weekend was spent mourning her death, recognizing her life, and learning from her mistakes. As her children and grandchildren move forward, they are left to find their way without her help or hindrance. In that is freedom and responsibility. And so with her end, we are granted a fresh start and healing and understanding and hope.

Remember: All Chairs Are Musical

This is one of my recent favorites found on www.mcsweeneys.net. Stay tuned below because there is a second small nugget of McSweeney's goodness immediately following "The Pretentious 17-year-old's Guide to Dating." Gracious me, I love Timothy McSweeney's Internet Tendency. (www.mcsweeneys.net)

THE PRETENTIOUS 17-YEAR-OLD'S
GUIDE TO DATING.

BY JEFF BARONSKY

- - - -

Talking to a Cheerleader

She is standing next to her locker, wearing her uniform and shuffling her books. You stare at her tanned, muscular thighs. There are rumors, almost credible, that she thinks you're cute. Last night, you could barely read Proust because you kept imagining Odette in a cheerleader's outfit, cheering for Marcel:

Marcel! Marcel! That cough will be your death knell!

"What's up?" she says to you, her eyes glittering like the lights of Combray. Or is it Rue de Flamb??

"Nothing," you say.

"Cool."

"Have you ever watched the flowers bloom on the Champs de Rue?"

"What? Champs Street?" she asks.

"What?"

"I take French. You asked me if I've ever seen the flowers bloom on Champs Street? Did you mean the Champs-?lys?es?"

You can't hear her last question, because you are already halfway down the hallway, longing for the moment when you can rest your head on your pillow and succumb to the sweet regret of a broken heart, waking only to hear if Mother has come back from her job as a night-shift nurse or to see if they are playing Emmanuelle on Taboo Island on scrambled Cinemax.

Breaking Up With Your Girlfriend

Bebop music plays as French-movie versions of you and your girlfriend walk down the streets of Paris. One of you is wearing a long, black trench coat with khaki pants and a turtleneck. The other is wearing a short skirt with knee-high boots and a beret. Both of you dangle short cigarettes from your lips.

You and your girlfriend appear to be out of sync with the picture, as in a badly dubbed foreign film.

YOU: I would enjoy having sex with you.

GIRLFRIEND: And what of the movie star?

YOU: Katrina? Oh, I desire sex with her also. Sex is pleasurable and sorrowful.

GIRLFRIEND: The pain.

YOU: C'est la vie.

GIRLFRIEND: What's that mean?

YOU: I don't know. It's French.

GIRLFRIEND: Let's rob a bank.

YOU: OK.

You pull out guns and run into a bank. Soon you run back out, chased by police into the street, where you are both shot hundreds of times, for a ridiculous amount of time. As you die, you speak to each other.

GIRLFRIEND: If I believed love was possible in this crushing void of an existence, I believe I would express love for you.

YOU: Nothingness. The void.

GIRLFRIEND: Darkness.

You die, and break up.

Losing Your Virginity

This one will probably take a while, especially since you've been spending too much time on your novel, The Singularity of the Muscle Called Heart, which is written in the fourth person??except for the Uzbekistan sections. It took forever to invent the fourth person, but it was necessary if you wanted the novel told entirely from the perspective of the protagonist's nonsurviving twin's fetus. When your parents are away in Las Vegas, and Olivia Martinez calls and starts telling you her sexual fantasies, save what you've written, turn off the computer, and invite her over.

Going to the Prom

Of course, this is first and foremost the place to discuss class warfare. Marx will clearly enter the conversation, but be sure not to forget about Warner (specifically, in the context of American society) and Bourdieu. Consider why you are driving your 10-year-old Corolla to the dance with your brother's girlfriend ( Northwestern sophomore!) while the girl you wanted to ask is in a limo somewhere sitting on the lap of Hamilton Parker, probably promising him a hand job later. In the middle of the dance, after you sit through seven slow dances talking to the guy who brought his mother about the validity of comic books as an art form, you notice that a group of future country-club members and ex-frat boys have started to mosh to "It's the End of the World As We Know It." Of course, they're not moshing. They're standing together with their arms wrapped around each other's shoulders and are sort of bouncing up and down. They've taken an expression of proletarian rage about low wages and no future and turned it into a glorified conga line. You walk over to them, stare for a minute, and then shove them. They tumble like true bourgeois, controlling the means of production but not the dance floor.

Sleeping With Your Teacher

She may have studied with Helen Vendler at Yale, and is able to recite Chaucer in Middle English from memory. She even knew Susan Sontag, once, after she published a piece in The New Criterion about the radical aesthetics of prewar Hungarian puppetry, and even though you've always looked at the photo of the young Sontag on the dust jacket of Against Interpretation and thought you'd totally hit it, come on. Dude. It's Mrs. Kessler. She smells like bologna, like, all the time. And she wears her pantyhose rolled at the knee. Not even you are that pretentious.

AND FOR GOOD MEASURE

IF POETS NAMED
BREAKFAST CEREALS.

BY JOSH MICHTOM

- - - -

Orgasmic Clusters of Searing Pain

Bran and Plump Raisins, Pregnant With Earthy Promise

Opalescent Flakes of Lonely Night

The Sharpness of a Breath of Winter Air (with real strawberries)

Cookie-Crisp

(c) Copyright 2006 McSweeney's Internet Tendency