Truth

Respectfully dedicated to Marshall McLuhan and Pontius Pilate

In the end, the world is not a book.
The stars cast their finite light
but they refuse to tell me answers.
The truth is an obsidian statue
with a hooked nose
and a large frown,
staring hawklike at a world
that refuses to acknowledge it.

Look, books are old news,
which is sad news
to those of us born from them.
But because God gives his message
in a book, should we snap up
a book's prejudices?
No.

The truth is not a black-and-white
film, it is not either-or,
it is not a boundary line.
If truth is that, it is worthless.

Truth is an obsidian statue with many sides,
all of them absolute.

Truth is an awning,
a shelter into which the smell of the hot dog cart
wafts, off of which acid rain
cascades, leaving us unharmed.

Truth is a flashlight,
so why do we shine it in our own eyes?
Thus we are only blinded,

and our either-oring
makes us into prostitutes
who can see only original sin,
not salvation.

Truth is not a page in a book,
but the light that comes from reading
shines within us
(not by our doing)
shines through us
to illuminate the dark.

Truth is not the arbitrary lines
we draw in the sand
because we think we have the basis
to follow a page of print
containing it to the only possible conclusion.
With rare exception,
those who reach the only possible conclusion
are to be feared.

Truth is not the pages of the book
we have written about the world.

Truth is the sun, and its illumination
of the hills and vales, its light and its dark.
Truth is the noise a sunbeam makes as it falls to earth.

Thought of the Day

Evangelicals and others can get excited over their "Yes, Lord" and "This is the air I breathe." It's a free country. But personally, having been through much of that sort of thing, I don't think it was until I was singing "Chief of Sinners Though I Be" and unexpectedly found tears rolling down my cheeks, or until I found myself walking back from Communion suddenly struck by the knowledge that, no matter how I felt, the eight or so sins that had been deeply bothering me were wiped clean away, that I experienced anything like true emotion in worship.

Poetry Blog

A few days ago, I thought, "I should write a poem every day this month."

A few seconds after that, I thought, "Nah."

However, as it happens, I have written a poem every day since then. So apparently it's been three days. At any rate, if I keep this up, I will have 23 poems by the end of the month. And I would want somewhere to go with them besides DA. However, while I occasionally post poetry on this blog, and while it seems to be EVERY OTHER POST these days, I feel as though those who originally signed up for this blog did not sign up for a poetry blog, and whether there's any truth to that or not it's MY BLOG and I'll POST WHATEVER I DARNED WELL PLEASE and, furthermore, I DO NOT DARNED WELL PLEASE to post poems EVERY SINGLE DAY for most of a month.

So in short, I have done something I probably should have done a long time ago, and created a separate poetry blog, on which I shall dump all of my poems. It is here:

www.themuseandfriends.blogspot.com

I will link it to facebook, so those of you who generally read me there will probably not notice much of a difference.

Drought

This has been a pathetic year for blogging. Looking at my numbers, my previous low for posts was 23, way back in the ancient days of 2007; this year I am at 16 (17 with this post), 3/4ths of the way through the year, and I'm fairly sure a deplorable amount of those have been poetry (which somehow I count less even though I probably write more of it these days than of anything really blog-gish).

That's all. Just wanted to say something about it, even while I continue the trend.

Ah, E-Readers

Here we have yet another perspective on the e-reader. This one comes from one of my favorite theoretical perspectives, that of Media Ecology. The thing I love about these guys is that they tend to be able to look at technology with a cool head, noting that any given technology is not necessarily good or evil (or if it is, it is not so for the simple-minded moralistic reasons that fundamentalists of various stripes would have us believe), but it will change things. Because of Media Ecology, now every time I hear someone praising some new form of technology and all the wonders it will bring, I can hear almost as audibly the shadow side of any given list of praises: the trade-offs, the obsolescence, which any widespread change in technology inevitably brings.

Now, every time an article like this appears, there are those--some of whom are indeed media ecologists--who in their technophility will in shrill tones denounce the complainer, and will wonder to the stars why people are so ignorant that they can't just GET ON THE BLOODY BANDWAGON and see, finally see, that we don't lose anything in the switch to digital, or anything we do lose can be made up for by a simple software upgrade, and even if we DO lose some things it's a necessary trade-off in the inevitable march of Progress, and those who wail and gnash their teeth will be seen by history as minor, unimportant breakwaters in the inevitable tide of Evolution. Thus, Mr. Grossman entirely misses the point that it is incredibly easy to do a word-search on a reading tablet, that we can (or will be able to) use all kinds of electronic bookmarks, and that anything we lose from the book can be replicated just as handily on a compact, eco-friendly screen.

For me, until the day when I can leave a tablet behind on a train (or, you know, some form of transportation that won't soon be as obsolete as books) and replace it for a fiftieth or less of what I make in a week; until the day when I trust electronic media enough to believe that things I have paid for won't evaporate at the whim of some corporate bureaucrat, and believe that somebody's idea of political correctness or making me a good citizen will not arbitrarily change certain words or phrases or entire books in my electronic library; until I see it proven that a power outage will not evaporate my entire electronic library; until I decide that it will be healthy for my ENTIRE life to consist of interfacing with screens (as opposed to just the majority of it)--for all this read: never--books will continue to be my friend and boon companion, and I will continue to sound my halcyon cries in their defense by use of this most electric form of media.

I shall diminish, and fade into the West...

Holy Crap Holy Crap Holy Crap

I'm teaching a college course for the first time ever 2 hours from now.

Holy crap.

That is all.

The Caravan of Those Who Have Turned Their Face to the Sun

I walk in the shadows, dear,
and I wear the mask we all wear:
a mask made of shadow and of starlight
a mask that hides my face
by showing it

covered in colors,
gold and red and black,
showing a mask
that transmutes the things of this world
into something we can comprehend,
and comprehending,
something we can despise.
And if we have faces, dear, they are faces so colorful,

with hues of the soul's spring and the spirit's fall,
that only a monster with teeth of crystal rose,
only a professor with terrible tweed skin,

only a warrior with sand for soul
could ever hope
to know us,

could ever hope to comprehend the weakness
that keeps us from turning our faces to the sun.

We walk in shadows, dear,
and when we look each other in the face

we cringe and turn away,

hoping to preserve some part of that old world,
the one where the sun through crystal leaves transmuted everything into sea foam, a green
and waving sea that we swam
one night
when your shining body fell into my embrace

one night when above us whispered the white wings
of one whose whispers saved us.

Take my hand, dear, and we'll
walk together in the shadows and we'll look
each other, blindly,
in the eye, until one day we do not sleep but are all changed,
until we
can look each other
in the eyes,
and join the caravan of those who have turned their faces to the sun.

On Politics

Dear Christian Conservatives: Trying to legislate things like a specific stance on marriage, homosexuality, or indeed sexuality in general is like throwing sharp darts at a child with acne in the hope that his zits will pop. It might be effective, but you won't like the peripheral effects. There are many other ways to fight this battle, and I would be willing to bet you a million literal dollars that all of them are more effective than cramming one more piece of legislation or one more sophistic legal definition down everyone's throats.

More political thoughts are fomenting, but I will only write them down if, as the narrator says in Fitzgerald's This Side of Paradise, "My ideas either clarify or depart altogether."

4 Free Verse Riffs From a Sleepless Night in July

Riff 1-- 1:00 AM

How far away is Heaven
and what flowers will bloom there?
As you sit upon your chair
and blink stars pinwheel overheard
spinning dancing raven's claws
staring like eyes of the dead

as you sit upon your chair

what eyes, what circles

what starlight what gaslight

will we breathe there,

will the flickering flame

the candle's wick

become one flickering flame all across the sky?

Will the sun, no bigger than a basketball,

sputter and flutter in your hand, as the eyes of the dead stars look on,

jealous,

singing in their fear,

until one day, bathed in snow,

they blink and awaken,

wrapped in golden wings

with lips turned black as pitch

and burning with a coal,

staring, swaring, swaying,

round the blazing trees

as the midnight smell was

in our hair and the midnight

taste upon our skin?

Riff 2--1:35 AM

I take my baptisms when I can:

the cool of a morning shower

washing away all the sins of the night

(the minotaur with three rose

of crystal teeth

devouring the wheat I planted

while, tied to a stake,

I could do nothing),

the soft sister's tears of a spring rain,

washing March's dirty snows

and crying down the whiskered

face of the hare, my friend,

who twitches and sniffs

and pushes away the earth

seeking cover while I lay down

in the grass, spread my arms,

and the rain covers me with her tears

the grass rising up, a

straining stretch staring wide-eyed

tower of Babel, embracing me,

and

I

am

the place where the earth

rests her head on her arm,

the scrying pool

where her tears form a well

looking out at the future

(I dislike what I see),

taking my baptism

in the warm inviting pleasance

of a friend's smile,

a promise of springs swelling

from the earth, a swelling I fear

irrationally

will dry up,

as I take my baptism

in the aching beauty of the night air,

in the dreaming embrace of night wind,

the wings of the night

teasing me,promising me

far things--

bedouin fires

czars' spires

golden sails

ruby lips

a thousand roses,

all aflame--

but always I timble from

the silver shimmer of a flying carpet

onto the back of my bed,

a hundred-headed glass-toothed minotaur

looking at me with judgement,

until I flick my wryst

and he is gone.

Riff 3--2:33 AM

A late december night

snow sprinkling

dandruff from God's tonails

and it should cry out as it hits the ground

and I should smile

but neither of us do.

How can snow

make a song

in the night air?

How can I smile

when my dreams don't care?

I made a snow-angel today--

see?

There's a man with wings

pressed into the lawn

and on his wings

smeared dirt and blood

a thousand things

pressed

into the green slime

of my

brain

your smile white-toothed

your flickering

eyelashes

like angel's wings--

see?

Riff 4--2:40 AM

Grass scratches at my calves

tall, itching, as gnats

fly into my eyes,

my mouth,

droplets squishing full of life

snuffed out

in the ocean at the back of my throat

cicadas shreik in fear

I am

the sheikh,

the shreik,

in your eye, your head

and did you know your cat

clawed me? Here, on my hand, and if you'd

kiss it,

but you're off, grass crunching beneath your feet,

skirt flying up around your pale knees,

grinning at me,

laughing,

rolling your eyes because

my face has gone dark and solemn,

like the thunderhead charging behind you across the sea of the sky.

Overheard Tonight

At the West Side Target store, a manager talking on the phone:

"What's that, sir? You're caught... you're stuck... you've got your head caught in a vacuum cleaner? What, it's not your head, it's technically your turban? And why are you calling Target about this? Sir, shouldn't you be calling 911? No, sir, I realize you called Target. But what I'm saying is, if you've got your head stuck in a vacuum cleaner, shouldn't you call 911? What? You're stuck in your dirty American hotel? What hotel are you staying in, sir? A Super 8? No, sir, I'm fairly sure even a Super 8 would have vacuum cleaners... Sir, I'm having a hard time believing your story...

Best Man Speech

[What follows is a transcript of the speech I gave on May 28, 2011, at the wedding reception of Aaron and Heidi Nemoyer. It is a transcript because, while I have a first draft of it typed out somewhere, I edited that first draft in my head over the couple weeks between writing it and giving the speech, and the version that I gave was a generally better one but one which exists nowhere but in the unit of time, now past, during which I gave it. Thus, this is written from memory, and while it may have different wording than the speech I actually gave, the spirit and the idea of it are the same. Also, at one point I (completely inadvertently, I swear) started to call Aaron the bride, but I can't remember where that was.]

ETHAN: To give you all a taste of my history with weddings, when I was six and my brother was three or so--my brother is over there, the taller, skinnier, uglier version of me--we were at the wedding of some old friends of our parents. Both our parents were in the wedding, so we were in the charge of some friends of theirs. Just as they got to the exchange of vows, I turned to my brother and said very loudly, "This is the part I hate." My brother loudly agreed, and we made it onto the wedding tape. I feel I have matured since then.

As best man, I am here to support the groom. And as such, I am supposed to say things like, that Aaron is the handsomest groom I ever saw, and I am terribly happy for him, and I hope his marriage is long and joyful and happy.

Well, I'm afraid I can't. The reason I can't is that I have been Aaron's roommate for the last three years, and as such, have been keeping a list of his faults. Here is an abridged list of Aaron's faults:

He snores.
That is, when he sleeps at all, which is seldom.
When he does sleep, he will carry on conversations with you as if he were awake.
He also hogged all the covers, which was quite a feat since we slept in bunk beds in separate bunks.
He killed my pen. I had named my pen Boswell, and Aaron killed him, and then drew a sarcastic grave marker for him on a cardboard box.
Aaron then took a bite out of the cardboard box.
I once saw Aaron eat a leaf.
Also, he ate all the muffins.

Now, can we allow someone like this to get away with marrying someone as lovely and wonderful as Heidi? I think not. What I'm saying is this: Heidi, run away with me. It's not too late. There's a taxi waiting outside, I've booked a flight to the Bahamas, we can go into witness protection. This can work.

KAREN: I object!

ETHAN: Oh dear, my girlfriend objects. We'll have to deal with that later.

Before Heidi and I get out of here, you all may want to hear a real best man speech. Like I said, I can't give one, but if I did, it would sound something like this.

In one of my favorite short stories, "Babette's Feast," a character makes the sort of speech I think is appropriate at almost any time, and especially so at a wedding. He starts off quoting the Psalms.

Mercy and truth, my friends, have met together. Righteousness and bliss shall kiss one another.

Man, my friends, is frail and foolish. We have all of us been told that grace is to be found in the universe. But in our human foolishness and short-sightedness we imagine divine grace to be finite. For this reason we tremble. We tremble before making our choice in life, and after having made it again tremble in fear of having chosen wrong. But the moment comes when our eyes are opened, and we see and realize that grace is infinite. Grace, my friends, demands nothing from us but that we shall await it with confidence and acknowledge it in gratitude. Grace plays no favorites and singles out none of us in particular; grace takes us all to its bosom and proclaims general amnesty. See! that which we have chosen is given us, and that which we have refused is, also and at the same time, granted us. Ay, that which we have rejected is poured upon us abundantly. For mercy and truth have met together, and righteousness and bliss shall kiss one another.

Aaron and Heidi, if there is one thing I have learned in my admittedly young life, it is that there is grace in everything, whether you know it or feel it or not. Throughout your marriage, God will pour out his grace on you, whether you think he is or not.

[PAUSE]

It's a pity I can't make that speech, really.



FIN.

Things To Do

...If You're in a Celtic Song

1. DO NOT let your lover get anywhere near the ocean.
2. DO NOT, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, go anywhere or do anything on All Hallow's Eve.
3. If you are in love, do not get anywhere near weapons, wars, or wild animals.
4. If it speaks English, run away.
5. If you have done anything like plighted your troth with your true love, it's probably best to hide under a rock or in a cave for at least 7 years.
6. Ships. Just burn 'em all.
7. If you are in love with someone, but there's some sort of cultural
taboo or political reason why it might not be wise for the two of you
to be together... go spend some time with them anyway; one of you is
about to die, regardless.
8. If funny things are happening at your expense, for the love of
everything, stay sober. Drinking will only make things more hilarious.
9. If children are involved in any way, you're going to need some kleenex.
10. If you're a lass and have overly protective male family members, have your ticket, yourself, and your love on board a something headed for somewhere else far, far, away before you let the relatives know about your relationship. Best to send the announcement by a letter without return address after the nuptials and the first few children, if at all.
11. If it's named Charlie and wears blue, invite it, feed it, and fight for it, and (lasses) marry no man who won't.
12. If you're a lady, remember that the lads are more fragile than they will be in a few hundred years. If you refuse them, they'll simply lay down and die.
13. Be sad, be very, very sad.... Then either die dramatically or make the best of it and move on.
14. If you've got to kill, it's got to be complicated and unexpected. The details of the dispatching must take up at least a whole verse.
15. Be beautiful - all the ladies who make it into the songs are. Probably that forced anorexia; appreciate the hunger.
16. Don't use metaphors involving wilds horses. They always come back to bite you. (The metaphors, that is, not the horses.)
17. If you have anything to live for AT ALL, do not get involved in revolutions. Conversely, if you have nothing left to live for, revolutions should probably be your first destination.
18. If you're a woman, always be prepared to waste away in the woods. All the best tragic heroines do it.
19. If you're a man, DO NOT get into a fight with ANYTHING EVER, no matter how sure you are that you can win.
20. If there's only one way in which you can die, DON'T make it mad.

[Credits: 7-9, Nat; 10-15, TruthQuestioner; 20, Mental Llama; the rest, me. This list is under construction; additions are welcome.]