Chapter 5

The seas were calm. The boy sat, cramped in his little alcove, smooshed between the stuffed lion and the stuffed zebra, who, conceivably, were most certainly enemies.

There wasn't too much to do but sit and think. His first thought every morning was of his brother; whether he would ever see him again this side of heaven. Charlie was always supposed to be there. For you see, throughout the young lad's life, he had Charlie by his side. Charlie was his conscience. His great advocate, his true companion. Many men lead lives of intrigue, but if they have no one to relate their stories to, what's the point? Stories are only worth living if you have someone to tell them to.

In this contemplation, the boy became overwhelmed with loneliness.

Such a sensation was fraught with a deep, internal coldness. Though his skin, bundled up amongst his ark of zoo animals, remained warm to the touch, his bones shivered. What if this journey led him nowhere? What if he never finds the owner of the lock? What would his key then be? Without Charlie, who was there to live for? The boy was never particularly blessed, so he pondered... why now did he presume that the tides would change? What hope was there?

It rained.

The seas became violent.

Water seeped into the shaft of his vessel. He couldn't stay dry. The animals gained pounds in wetness.

The horrendous pattern of waves smacking and catapulting the little albatross also caused much sickness. Rounds of vomit became an inevitable aspect of these dark days.

The boy lost weight. He lost energy. He was beginning to lose hope.

And then his sail broke off.

Just like that, in an instant, a violent wind blew the whole thing sheer off its base. Gone baby, gone. This meant one thing: every inch now had to be earned. No more resting on the laurels of the wind. Rowing was the cost.

The boy began to row. He would never stop. This was his fate. This was his call. He would bleed out this voyage, putting forth the weight of his whole being; mind, emotion, will, and now body -- all for a goal he couldn't fathom.

Hope, like a commodity in high demand, seeped out of every orifice. As the stormy days lingered, what once was hope morphed into perverse thoughts of end-games. Maybe a tiger shark would come and eat him. Maybe a title wave would push him to the bottom of the sea. Such thoughts, such thoughts...

Then the sun came.

Sprinting away as if to a sudden impulse, the dark clouds parted. The seas calmed. Daylight. Sunshine. Peace.

The change alone rejuvenated the boys' audacity to hope. He rowed once more with meaning, with purpose, with direction.

He paddled and rowed onward in a hurry, concerned that if he were to for a moment relent, that the sun would deem him unworthy of her presence, and hide herself once again behind the vengeful dark of cloud. He rowed for hours and hours, perhaps days even. As long as he continued valiantly, the sun would not escape him. Daylight would not abandon him to utter darkness. The moon dared not creep up. The sun refused to go. Hour after hour. How long that time remained, this author knows not, but many have auditioned the thought that time itself had stopped so that the boy could make his way through the sea world.

He tried to hold onto the moment, the peaceful bliss of calm sun light on his brow, but his body ached. His muscles contracted and groaned. As much as he longed to continue ever onward, he knew a rebellion of flesh was upon him. He couldn't keep this up forever. His bones would forsake him.

The chance had to be tested. Since he couldn't bear to row forever, since he would have to stop eventual, the boy began to ponder how that moment was to come. He could row until he could row no more. But that was risky. Who knew what would happen to him under the reigns of such exhaustion. It would be better to stop before he reached his own end. But would the sun then betray him? The silly worry welled within his bosom.

Logic won out in the end. Surely his rowing had nothing to do with the rising and the setting of the sun. It couldn't be! The sun is no respecter of mere boys! This was not the world of the greeks, the world of fickle gods concerned with the fortitude of overly zealous young chaps. Neptune and Ra were not real.

Reason dictated the answer; the boy stopped rowing. At long first, he held his breath in frightened anticipation. The relief slowly crawled in. Moment after moment, second after second -- as his tired muscles thanked him for release, the boy whispered divine thanks, for he closed his eyes, lifted his head, and still felt the happy sun caressing his face. How sweet the feel!

With his eyes resting, basking in the contented moment, the boy's ears perked up. A familiar sound. Coming from behind.

He looked back just in time to see a pigeon fly down and squat at the edge of his tub. The bird indignantly shucked its left foot. A small scroll fluttered down off the leg onto the bow of the ship. The bird then, at once, lifted off and resigned itself back from whence it came. The boy scrambled to read the note. It read:

Charlie is dead. Please come home. 

The lad passed out.

In his exhausted state of sleep, the boy dreamed many dreams. They were not about Charlie. They were not about Seattle. They were not about his adopted parents. No. They were about the future. They were about touch. They were about a certain feel, a certain elevation. He could see only intense close-ups... images seen too nearly to be composited. Grass. Flowers. A smell. A bare shoulder. And hair. Lots and lots of hair. The rest of it. The boy smiled in his sleep.

A jerk and he was awake. The lids on his eyes arose to behold quite a new view. His boat was at rest. Land.

The Top 28 Lingering Fragrances of 2010

But thanks be to God, who always leads us in triumph in Christ, and manifests through us the sweet aroma of the knowledge of Him in every place. 2 Corinthains 2:14

I remember being told that the olfactory scent is the strongest medium for memory in the brain. My experience strengthens this idea, as certain smells viscerally remove me from my current dwelling and transplant me to some far off place I once knew. Sunlight seeping in the living room as my mother dusts the furniture to the beat of 50's music. A high school girlfriend. An 2nd grade sleepover party with The Mario Bros. movie as the centerpiece of our attention. These memories come back potently when the certain whiff slithers up my nostrils.

All things have a fragrance in the mind. Some beautiful and alluring, others sickening. This list is my effort to make known those experiences with art and being that carried the most potent aromas to my soul in 2010. The list includes anything that I encountered, whether new or old, that stirred me to some mode of passion.

If you find the list excessive, know that it is only so because words fail where passion begins.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

28. Rize documentary film, by David LaChapelle

Many years ago, on the special features on the dvd of Shadow of the Vampire, there was a trailer for a bizarre film called Begotten. The trailer terrified me. The film appeared to be some sort of surreal, incomprehensible creation parable. From this experience I made a hasty conclusion; that which is absurd is not from God. The documentary Rize by David LaChapelle examines the crunking and clowning circles that arose in the late 90's in South Central LA. Crunking appears like some sort of demonic form of dance. It involves contortions of the body that mimic a psychotic episode of horrific seizures. The film, however, explores the roots and function of the dance style. By the end of the film's narrative argument, I am swayed to believe that this dance movement not only can be free of demonism, but could very well be a pleasant worship to our Lord. My context of suburban church life informed me that such radical dancing must be absurd... and so it is that I discover that at times my very cultural lens can keep me from recognizing a holy dance of thankfulness to the God of all cultures.
Inhale the Trailer here!

27. Mariel's Brazen Overture song, by Margot and the Nuclear So and So's

This particular song marries together 4 devices that I find particularly effective and emotive in music:

• A dialogue between man and woman
• A toxic mixture of regret and nostalgia
• An Abrupt tempo change
• An undercurrent of tragedy

 Listen here!

26. Horton Hears a Who! film, by Jimmy Hayward and Steve Martino

I purchased this movie before ever viewing it because it was cheap and boasted a Slovenian audio track as well as both English and Slovenian subtitles. I've watched it many times since that day in an effort to expand my Slovenian knowledge -- whether or not it was an effective tool of language acquisition is anyone's guess. What the li'l Suessian knockoff did do for me was rip out my tender little heart every time that third act comes around. The film features an elephant who can hear the voice of a certain Who who lives on a dandelion world of microscopic Whoville-ians. None of the other animals in the forest can see or hear this miniature universe, so they hastily conclude that Horton the elephant is insane. Naturally, they decide to destroy the dandelion of Whos. At that moment, those instances right before Horton's world of friends is to be executed, an underlining of empathy strikes me in the face. Every damn time. Horton has a kind of faith in the Whos. His faith is being not only put on trial, but executed. Horton is alone in his knowledge and hope, and can't seem to make others understand and believe what he knows. Thus I see a parallel with the life of the zealous Christian. It makes my heart hurt... but it's the good type of hurt.
Breathe in the trailer here!

25. Red Riding Trilogy film series, by Julian Jarrold, James Marsh, Anand Tucker

The world is a shitty place, brimming with ugly people committing the ugliest of deeds. These three movies are an unpleasantry. They are not fun to endure. Evil act follows evil motive. On and on the corruption and vileness continue. Only there, in that moral destitution, can a visceral, all-encompassing moment of grace be appreciated. At the tail end of the trilogy, a scene that surely is no longer than 20 seconds lifts us up past the sewage of our sins, to the very feet of the Mystery who loves us. Those few seconds effortlessly redeem the whole of the film trilogy.

Trailer here!

24. Inception film, by Christopher Nolan

Robert Angier reveals at the end of The Prestige, "The audience knows the truth: the world is simple. It's miserable, solid all the way through." I’ve been a faithful admirer of Christopher Nolan’s filmography for a long length of time now. The man is incapable of making mediocre films. What has been ever so fascinating, is that his characters almost universally tend to flow from a self-willed beliefism towards a final sense of nihilism by the each film’s denouement. What makes Inception special, is that his protagonist starts with this premise of nihilism. From the getgo he assumes the world is solid, but his desires keep him searching for something more… and so we witness a birth of a form of existentialism. Out of this nihilistic premise grows the same quandaries that Shakespeare wrestled with; is life really worth living? Nolan appears to be answering yes, if only the dreams that may come can manifest themselves now.
Trailer here!

23. Ruby Tuesday song, as sung by Franco Battiato

Children of Men is a film of mastery. Set in a world that is rapidly spinning toward its own end, somehow wonder is found. The film is directed with many breathtaking cinematic shots. If the film's cinematic lens represents the film's creative mind, then the cover of The Rolling Stone's Ruby Tuesday is the heart. We tend to believe that innocence is a thing that is lost somewhere amidst children. The world siffens its essence from us, and we become damned to its aroma. Nevertheless, within the confines of the song's anthem lies a delicate hope that innocence can be regained for even the most battle weary among us. Innocence restored and life regained.

Breathe in the song with video montage here!

22. White Dog film, by Samuel Fuller

Animals are a conundrum for me. On the one hand, they innately, to me, represent God's creativity. In observation of them, it is easy for my mind to worship God. Yet on the other hand, animals present a glaring disturbance to my sometimes violent Christian faith. Adam sinned. He fucked up the world over. And yes, we have been separated from God and now are prone towards evil. We sin. Yet animals, those creatures of which Adam was given to name and claim authority over, suffer because of us. They are a potent reflection of our vileness. And yet they themselves are without blame. They have no moral conscious. They are simply receptors of the outpourings of our sinful lusts. White Dog reminds us of the damage done. Death is coming.
Trailer here!


21. Ghost Dog: The Way of the Samurai film, by Jim Jarmusch

Once upon a time I saw within this film something that intrigued me. It seemed to me that Ghost Dog hid within its bosom some sort of great secret that was waiting to be unlocked. I decided to take it upon myself to unveil this covert enigma. Often I ended up playing the film in the background as I worked on other projects, as if hoping to absorb the film's latent meaning through some sort of osmosis. Well, the osmosis didn't take, and I still can't tell you what the film is about... but I can tell you that it means something. What that is, I have no idea. But it's something. Something, alright.

Trailer here!

20. The Blue Mosque building

As the time of advent hurdled towards its summation this December year, I ventured into an active mosque for the first time in my life. I didn't exactly know what to expect, or know how I would respond. I still don't know how I should respond. Can you tell me? Should I feel pity? Mercy? Compassion? Righteous anger? I cannot be devoid of a position on the matter, and yet, I am frozen by my indecisiveness as to how to deal with such an experience. My soul seems quiet on the subject. What do I do with this?

19. The Films of Terrence Malick director

Tree of Life is coming. I don't know anything about Terrence Malick the man. I know much more about Terrence Malick the filmmaker. He is contemplative. He thinks thoughts that others do not. He is compassionate... and he has never made a bad film.  Above all, he appears to be concerned about the state of the individual soul, and the actions that mold it. Few people are.

Watch the trailer for the Malick's upcoming Tree of Life!

18. Burek food

Slovenians inform me that Burek is a Serbian food, but wikipedia tells me it has its origins further south amongst the former Ottoman empire people. Nevertheless, for me, burek represents cheap Slovenian fastfood – and I mean that as a term of endearment. Not only has 2010 been the first full year that I've lived abroad, but it has also been the first time I've lived on my own... and burek can stand as my stoic flag of rugged bachelorhood.


17. The Suburbs album, by Arcade Fire

Our lives are meant, I reckon, to be exciting. God made us with a sense of adventure. We long to discover. We long to play. We long to conquer. Somehow, along the way, we move to the suburbs. We become mechanisms of our society. We spend our time complaining and eating. The Suburbs is a fantastic effort to keep us baroque before we turn roccocco.

Listen to the single We Used to Wait here!

16. Rumi poetry, as translated by Coleman Barks
Often, I want to call certain people my friends. Eight centuries separate Rumi and I. I think that Rumi would say that eight centuries would be nothing for two friends. Rumi was a sufist and not a Christian, supposedly. I hope that maybe he found Christ as an answer before his end came. I hope I can someday meet this man of whom I want to make friends with. I hope.
The following is taken from the poem A Dove in the Eaves:

You push me out on many journeys;

then you anchor me with no motion at all.

I am water. I am the thorn 

that catches someone's clothing.

I don't care about marvelous sights!

I only want to be in your presence.

There's nothing to believe.

Only when I quit believing in myself

did I come into this beauty.

I saw you blade and burned my shield!

I flew on six hundred pairs of wings like Gabriel.

But now that I'm here, what do I need wings for?

Day and night I guarded the pearl of my soul.

Now in this ocean of pearling currents,

I've lost track of which was mine.

There is no way to describe you.

Say the end of this so strongly

that I will ride up over 

my own commotion.

15. The Mind of Charles Williams novelist

Who would C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien care to hang out with? Answer: men like Charles Williams. I've only now finished one of Williams' novels, but it was a doosy. Splendid times, I tells ya. Williams is obsessed with the marriage of the spiritual and the physical. He tells me of things I long to reach.



 14. Frailty film, by Bill Paxton

Slippery slopes are made for sliding. Frailty is a queer little film about a father who is given a list of names from an angel of God. This father is expected to kill the people on the list. The movie might seem foolish, but ask yourself what makes a thing right or a thing wrong. God. Only God. Whatever God deems as good is good. The ninth commandment tells us not to lie, and yet Rahab is blessed for lying and hiding the Israelite spies. God alone dictates what is good; not you or I. Remember Rahab.
Watch the Trailer here!


13. Where the Wild Things Are film, by Spike Jonze

The young boy Max is told in school that someday the sun will die. An hour later in the film, Carol, the 'leader' of the Wild Things, shows much melancholic distress about the sun's demise. All things die. How does a child register that fact? Nothing is forever. Perhaps above all, children long for security, but how is that possible, if even something as big as the sun is going to die? Max says, “I have a sadness shield that keeps out all the sadness, and it’s big enough for all of us.” No one tell Max that shields rust.
Trailer here!



12. Eh Hee music video, by Dave Matthews
This music video seethes anger through the cracks of its jagged teeth. Such fascinating anger... and yet, I find that I can empathize with such frustrations. What does that make me?
WATCH IT NOW!





11. The Angel of Death Came to David's Room song, by Mewithoutyou

The Myers-Briggs psych exam, among other facts, evaluates one's extroversion. How is extroversion/introversion defined? – the answer is interesting to me. It is not simply a matter of whether you like to be around other people or not. No. Extroversion is calculated by the degree to which one draws energy from other people. This song, with its hypnotic critique of the moral life of King David, is a concrete source of energy for me. Press play on that sucker a few consecutive times, and soon I'll be bouncing off the walls.
Listen Here!

----------------------------------------

-- A brief word about the top ten -- 

 6 of the 10 top fragrances of 2010 are people. I see this as a direct result of a growth in my relationship with God and understanding of the care into which he formed creation. As mighty as buildings like the Hagia Sophia can be, they are merely aesthetic offerings sculpted in time by men. The infinitely greater thrill is the men themselves. Every individual has more inherent value than all the cathedrals of the world. It is this conviction that must permeate our attitudes towards the rest of creation. That which the Lord made is beautiful beyond our capacity to enjoy it.

----------------------------------------

10. Infinite Jest novel, by David Foster Wallace

David Foster Wallace committed suicide. And then there's the title of his novel. I should have seen this coming. I had no right to expect some sort of euphoric ending from Infinite Jest, but I did. I hoped that this story of a movie so entertaining that it kills anyone who watches it (once you start watching you literally are never willing to do anything but keeping watching it – so all cases lead to death), would finish with some divine insight about the state of my reality. No luck. Wallace’s novel is a painful lesson that genius does not necessarily lead to revelation. The will to genius is not the same door that leads to revelation -- this was a paramount lesson for me to learn this past year. Vital, really.

9. LOST television show, by J.J Abrams, Damon Lindelof, Carlton Cuse

I've had some bad breakups in the past, but nothing like this. LOST left me. And it hurts. I want to go back. I want to make it right. I want to change the way things went. I want to fall in love again. But I can't. What happened, happened.
Click here for a concise recap of the show!

8. Richard McGraw musician

Mr. McGraw is my patron saint of misgivings and irreconcilable desires. Born into a Catholic environment, McGraw's songs are laced with spiritual angst. He asks Jesus to let him sleep with the girl he knows he shouldn't be with (The Things that Devils Bring), he prays for the soul of the doubter (Hopefully), and cries for a grace that he can't yet feel (That Old Song). He is a man both plagued and inspired by his spiritual convictions. He is a relatable guy. Keep singin', brotha.
Check out his myspace page: http://www.myspace.com/richardmcgraw

7. Soren Kierkegaard philosopher

 Ol' Kierks gets an honorable slot on this list for one simple reason: he finds the whole story of Abraham and Isaac as a bit absurd. In fact, I would say that at some point, Kierkegaard was left dumbfounded by the Biblical account. He simply couldn't just leave it as is and say, “Yeah, that makes sense… moving on.” No. He fought to understand. In his Jacob-esque wrestling, Kierkegaard arrives at a decision. He declares that those among us who are most intimate with God may act in such a manner that appears silly to us. They are being truly, madly, and deeply Spirit led. Of course, the argument is far more layered than that, but who cares! Soren resonates. Let such wings flap.
Download a free ebook of Kiekegaard's collected essays: On Faith and the Self Here!

6. Ayran food

Ayran is a crazy milk/yogurt/salt mix. It does not taste good. It tastes bad, in fact. Upon arriving in Istanbul, I was introduced to the bizarre liquid. Upon first taste, I found it instantaneously displeasing. Despite my taste buds cries, I was driven to experiment. Ayran may just be the most popular drink in Turkey. How can this be? It tastes dreadful. Then I remembered being a child, tasting coffee, and being absorbed entire by the conviction that all people who love coffee are crazy. Now I chug coffee everyday. It is pleasing to me now to drink it. Remembering this, I took it upon myself to drink ayran at every opportunity. Everyday. It took nearly two weeks, but just a mere two days before my departure from Istanbul, I came to a place where I can honestly say that the drink is pleasing to me. Ladies and gentlemen, taste is entirely subjective -- Even more substantial, it can be bent to our will! I wonder, what else is subjective?


5. Jon Stewart political comedian 

Comedy is relaxing. Glenn Beck is not. Mr. Beck held a giant-mega-super-awesome rally in Washington D.C. earlier this year. The rallying cry of that mob appeared to be a deep seated conviction by a great legion of Americans that the country is heading towards dark days. Apparently, many people are fearful of the coming night. I'm no optimist when it comes to politics. I see bad things coming down the bend as well, but I ardently reject the methods of retaliation that many of my fellow Christians are promoting against those in power. Anger will not solve the Christian's problems, nor will mere protest. Two sidepoints: (1) corruption in Washington is across the board, not solely a disease among Democrats. (2) The spiritual state of people's souls is infinitely more important than how your tax dollars are being used. Mr. Stewart this October held what appeared to be a rally in reaction to Beck's, entitled Rally to Restore Sanity. He is brandishing tools of compassion, understanding, and common sense as his arsenal to combat rampant political corruption. Who on the political right speaks of such things? I disagree with much of what Stewart believes, but I respect his methods of approach. Mr. Beck merely cries and whispers of vast conspiracies. What's the point in advocating truth if hate gets you there? Come what may. If America dies, it dies. What matter is it? As for me, I will love my neighbor as myself.
Watch Jon Stewart every week on The Daily Show at: http://www.thedailyshow.com/

4. Lars von Trier film director

He started it. After enduring a sick feast of masochistic torture bled in the form of the film Antichrist, Lars Von Trier has the audacity to tribute his film to Andrei Tarkovsky, one of the great fathers of Christian Spiritualism in Film. Lars Von Trier is a stunning force of filmmaking mastery. The man's genius can no longer be denied. He is great. He is great. He is great... and he is wrong. I will continue to see his films as remarkable feats of artistry and passion, but with much power comes much responsibility. I don't believe he cares for his audience, only his intuition blended with conviction. 'To hell with them,' he thinks. I respond, 'Soon enough.'
Be Careful as you watch the Antichrist trailer here! 

3. Ayn Rand philosopher/novelist

Ayn Rand ruined It's a Wonderful Life!. I was just sitting there, minding my own business, relishing the Christmas season enjoying the wit and wisdom of Mr. George Bailey, when she suddenly had to butt her dumb old persuasive philosophy in my face. Old man Potter is set as the evil moneygrubber in that film. Director Frank Capra paints him as only concerned with profit and progress. In an instant, I am caught off guard by my own question. »Why is that so wrong to want to run a successful business? Mr. Potter isn't doing anything illegal. Why is it so wrong to not want to loan money to people who can't pay you back? Isn't that exactly how we got into the whole mortgage crisis in 2008? Thanks for that one, Ayn.


2. Sufjan Stevens musician

The question posed now has a tremendous elevation. The stakes are staggering. Is Sufjan a prophet? Is he a priest? Sufjan Stevens has a tremendous portfolio of musical expression that resonates deeply into the soft spots of my heart. In his latest album he looks no longer at the theme of whole States of the American Union (as he has done thus far with Michigan and Illinois), but at the individual. His album etches an outline of a deeply disturbed artist. Listen deeper, and you can make out the expression of an autobiography as well. Sufjan finds a source of commonality and union with this artist (as he did once upon a time with the serial killer John Wayne Gacy Jr), and merges their singular voice as an anthem of authentic emotion to God. The icing on the cake is finding myself in his lyrics also (as in I Want to be Well). Now the hope remains as this: that Sufjan's voice would not only remain beautiful to me, but be universally seen as a work of tremendous achievement. But ultimately more important, I hope Sufjan takes up his cross and actively acknowledges that he may, with his current arsenal of tools, lead a wandering band of soul-searchers ever closer to the Architect of all souldom.
Click here to read my previous column concerning Sufjan.
Listen to all of Sufjan's new album The Age of Adz here for free!


1. Equus film, directed by Sydney Lumet, written by Peter Shaffer

I am not recommending this film. That would be unwise. I am merely advocating its thoughts. Its convictions.

Alan: Gods don't die.
Dr. Dysart: Oh yes they do.

I will merely state that the viewing of this film in conjunction with the manner and time in which I observed it led to a series of highly influential murmurings in my head. Equus is the story of two people: a tortured young man, and an aging psychologist who uses the young man to find his own torment. Simple enough, eh?

Passion, you see, can be destroyed by a doctor. It cannot be created.

The story runs like this:

• Alan loves horses – until the day he gouges out their eyes.
• Dr. Dysart wants to cure Alan of his abnormalities.
• Alan tells the doctor about his worship of the god Equus.
• Dr. Dysart becomes jealous of Alan's capacity for passion.
• Alan is cured by talking through the events that led to his attack. He becomes normal.
• Dr. Dysart is left with a burning doubt as to whether he did the right thing.

Read my initial thoughts on the film here.

Sigh... I'm such a sucker for doubters.

I need, more desperately than my children need me, a way of seeing in the dark.

Peter Shaffer likes to write stories about people touched by God, and those around them who feel excluded from that ray of light. What I take away with from Equus, unlike from his other masterpiece Amadeus, is that everyone is touched from the divine, but most of us systematically work Him out of our lives. We refuse the divine for the mundane.

Somehow, someway, the watching of Equus set off this little notion in my head that dabbling with insanity might very well be a dandy idea, if it is in pursuit of God, the Divine. This thought leads me to vomit out my Aristotelian lens which speaks of balance as the key ingredient to Godliness. Forget balance. I want communion with God. And I want it all the time. We can't balance God. He is unbalancable.

Dr. Dysart: Moments snap together like magnets forged in a chain of shackles. Why? I can trace them, I can even with time pull them apart again. But why at the start were they ever magnetized at all. Why those particular moments of experience and no others, I do not know! And nor does ANY BODY ELSE! And if "I" don't know, if I can "never" know, what am I doing here? I don't mean clinically doing, or socially doing, but fundamentally. These whys, these questions, are fundamental. Yet they have no place in a consulting room. So then do I? Do any of us?

May we move closer in community with Jesus our Messiah in 2011 than ever before. 

Amen.

 

Mindshot: Seize the Day/Where the Wild Things Are

My ninth grade English teacher loved books.  She loved books so much that she'd tell us every morning about whatever story she was involved with over the last twenty-four hours.  One story that stuck with me was called Angle of Repose. According to dictionary.com, the angle is, "the maximum slope, measured in degrees from the horizontal, at which loose solid material will remain inplace without sliding."  The arch-question that this novel presumed to ask was, 'exactly how much can a person take before they are overwhelmed by their misfortune.'  To laymanize; 'How much shit can you take before it hits the fan?'

Three years before Robin Williams would whisper "Carpe Diem" to the schoolboys of Welton Academy, he portrayed desperate salesman Tommy Wilhelm in the film Seize the Day.  Tommy was, by story's end, catapulted far past any semblance of repose.  He tumbled down the mountain of doom, and we watch every gratuitous, methodical centimeter of descent.  The key with any great tragedy, is to have hope until the bitter end.  Films that deprive us of hope, deprive us of meaning, and so we check out early.  It is human nature to hope.  We long to hope just as we long to live.  Seeing a person reach that moment just past hope, just past the angle of repose, is merciless.

When we enter Hell, Dante (the not me one) tells us to Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.  For some reason, it seems to me that such moments of hope abandonment come with a groping of one's own face.  

Some years ago, I experienced a push against the angle of repose (not me actually... per se).  Through an extravagant night of hyper-drama, I had lost my best friend.  He was checking out of my world -- the world we shared.  It was one of those nights in which you have a full sense of realization in the moment that come morning, everything would be different.  It was an end.  We knew it was final.  Even if he would change his mind and come back to us, he wouldn't be the same, and we would all look at him differently.  We were living an unstable existence, and it had to break.  

So it did.

I walked solemnly back to my dorm.  I walked slowly, still keeping some glimpse of hope that someone would stop me before I got home.  If I got home, if I made it back, well then I had to start facing the next day.  I didn't want morning to come.  Somewhat mercifully, I did hear my name shouted from behind me.  "Dante - DANTE!" 
  

That voice belongs to the friend's girlfriend -- who got to play the role of victim that night (don't ask which role I filled).  As I turned back and saw her running towards me, I realized that we shared this collective desperation.   Just as she reached me she collapsed and fell into sobs.  I've come to notice that the experience of loss of hope often comes with one putting their hands on their face.  

The final shot of Seize the Day is like a dry heave.  There's nothing left to give, nothing left to hope.  So it is for Tommy Wilhelm, as that angle finally tips past any chance of repose, that he no longer has a will to cry.  He laughs.

I Can Only Remember So Much

Although I have little doubt that I would recollect "Where the Wild Things Are" as a grand experience even if I hadn't grown up with the images ingrained in my mind from early childhood goodnight readings, I must admit that my memory most likely sweetened the whole endeavor for me.  And that's all just a-okay to me.  Nostalgia plays such a large, yet unspoken role in the film, that my having old memories of the story by Maurice Sendak only adds a bittersweet aroma to the film that is oh-so-pungent in the happiest sense of the word.

But let us acknowledge the elephant in the room that is nostalgia, and leave it be.  Can we do that?  I think there's a more pressing matter at hand.

Before Max Records visits the kingdom of the Wild Things, he bites his mother.  I'm sure he doesn't know why he did it, that is to say, he can't explain it, the things he does.  Perhaps we get a bit of insight much later when the strange KW tells Max, "Don't go. I'll eat you up; I love you so." ...Frustrated oral fixations as a means of expressing angry love.

There's an undercurrent to Max's action on the beastly island.  While he's governing over the lot of melancholic monstrosities, he's sorting through his own identity.  And the predominant inquiry is indeed: 'am I a good guy, or a bad guy?'

---Am I good or bad? ---

I recall the first time I discovered the invention of lying.  I was of course, as a youngster, taught to tell the truth, but through a series of 1 + 2 = 3esque experiments, I was able to surmise that if bad things happened, lying was the best way to avoid punishment and humiliation.  I reflect back upon those years and wonder if I realized how evil I was aspiring to be.  On the tail of lying came the more subtle, and in many ways more venomous application of manipulation.

Once, I wanted a Sega Gamegear.  This was overwhelmingly enticing to me because the Gamegear had the promise of color on its screen.  My measly Nintendo Gameboy expressed itself in just boring old black-and-white.  So, I did what any boy would do, and asked my mother for the upgraded handheldic device.  She reasonably told me that as long as I had a functional Gameboy, no Gamegear would be making the rounds in the Stack household.  The next day I filled the sink with water, and the poor Gameboy just-so-happened to find itself submerged in said sink.  The result was a broken device.  I looked like the sad victim.  Whence my next birthday rolled around, I was filled with glee as I unwrapped my brand new Sega Gamegear.  Manipulation of environment was the key to the game.

Every happy boy plays Cops vs. Robbers, Cowboys vs Indians, Superheroes vs. Villains, or just plain old Good Guy against Bad Guy.  At a young age, we are taught (and learn) that there are good people and bad people.  And ever so slowly, as the selfish lies mount up, we must wonder to ourselves, 'am I really a good guy?'

Max is a good guy.  We know this because he leaves his beloved Wild Thing World to return to the embrace of his mother.  Did you catch how worried she was?  She needed Max to return home.  That's was the good guy thing to do.  And with this resolution, Max finally crowned with his true banner of goodness, the movie concludes.

For me, the question of goodness was much more murkier.  The lies continued into adolescence.  And then came the awful guilt of being raised in a Christian household, but having deep yearnings to have sex with pretty much any female thing that I could see, hear, or smell (I didn't really get the opportunity to touch or taste, being a rather shy and geekish 13something).  Where did these despicable inclinations come from?  Perhaps I was pre-ordained to be a bad guy.  After all, there have to be bad guys -- without them, there's no way to know who the good guys are.

Now things are much easier to discern.  A fair understanding of Christian theology has sufficiently informed me that we are all bad dudes, but get to be rescued from our own malevolent anti-virtues, because we choose to stick by the side of the one real Superman that lived... but boy, I wish I could remember what it felt like, when every moment predicted your future.  What was it like to always be at the threshold of good and evil... between being just a Wild Thing or becoming a real monster?