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| Currently directing a play about Edna St. Vincent Millay. Challenge is to make the play even half as interesting as her life. What a case--this girl had more lovers than Google has web pages. That life has a way of wearing you out though. My wife has a good old Ozark hill country phrase for people who don't look so hot--"She looks like she's been rode hard and put away wet." That's pretty much what Edna looked like by the time she got to be around 40. She could sure write poetry though. Read "Renascence" to find out why she was a national celebrity at 20 (hard to imagine a poet as a national celebrity).
Art about art. A play about a poet. Last play I directed was Picasso at the Lapin Agile, with Picasso and Elvis as major characters. At least Einstein was in that one too. Is it becasue artists feel isolated from the rest of society that we write so much about ourselves? What makes artists tend to be such . . . goofballs in their personal lives. Does genius creativity and bankrupt morality go together? Actually, the artists I work with are, most of them, moral people, caring and supportive. In contrast to the celebrity-driven Hollywood culture of scandal and silliness, community arts people just want to do what they're good at in the company of others who want to do the same thing. Thus *community* theatre. But Edna sure was a case. | | |
| Not actually reading the Buechner book, just gave it to Mercy and she's reading it. How many Christian writers can actually surprise you as you read? Not many, this guy's maybe the best. A lovely, bizarre twist on a story from the Hebrew Apocrypha involving a girl whose first 7 husbands all die on their wedding night. Hmmm . . .
So it turns out there's a lot of art in Italy. Who knew? In fact, you can't walk down the street in Rome without tripping over some. "Damn pesky art. Shoo, go away." Keep a culture around for 3000 years and that happens I guess. It just starts to fill up the place. Check out the ancient Roman column and the Medieval ? frescoes in the tiny piazza that has absolutely nothing else in it but a dozen parking spaces.
When they started piping fresh water into the city in the aqueducts, they hadn't invented fire hydrants yet, so they piped it into communal fountains. They threw some statues around just for looks (I'm not making this up). Here's one, the Trevi.
 
Cool, huh? This kind of stuff is everywhere.
Then there's Florence. These pics all come from the central square.
    
The David is of course a copy, though the original stood here for centuries. The huge outdoor gallery has all originals, dating from ancient Rome through the Renaissance. The Rape of the Sabine is just one of the statues in that gallery, you can see it towards the right, along with the lion at the steps. Rhonda is shocked, shocked to discover that some of these statues are nudes.
You wonder what is must be like to live always surrounded by art like this, practically on every street corner (notice I haven't even started on museums yet). Do yo become blind to it? Does it just disappear when you see it every day, or see so much of it? Or are you enriched by it daily? Does it affect you in ways you never realize? Is your soul somehow different because you live immersed in the works of some of the most brilliant and talented chroniclers of humanity who ever lived? | | |
| My kids tell me I need to get up to speed on the whole zombie "situation." Looks like the key piece of equipment I'm missing is a cricket bat. btw, the movie is really pretty good.
We got back from Italy a week ago last Thursday. My wife and I went to Italy to celebrate our 25th anniversary. Five nights in Florence, five in Rome. The days get thrown in as part of the package. And let me tell you, Italy is everything it's cracked up to be. The David, the Collesium, St. Peter's Cathedral. The Duomo, the Catacombs, the Pieta. Romance, food, people from all over the world, and fine wine that is sometimes literally cheaper than water. The Sistine Chapel. Leonardo DaVinci, Botticelli, Masaccio, and my God, Michaelangelo. Words cannot express . . .
So anyway, it was okay. One of the little details that impresed the most was the whole transportation situation. Here's some thoughts (I'll talk about art next time):
Yes, everyone drives like a maniac. However, people pay much more attention to what's going on around them. They have to be, since traffic lights and such are more suggestions than anything else. I once watched a stop sign on a busy street for 15 minutes and never saw a single person stop. But if you need to cross a street, you can literally step in front of oncoming traffic and people will stop. Here they'd just hit you and say you should have waited on the light. And then sue you for the damage to their car.
Cars are incredibly small in Italy. Gas is like $5 per gallon or more, so there's that. Also, since there are no true lanes on Italian streets, the smaller the car, the easier it is to zip in and around other drivers. Half the vehicles on the road are motorcycles, for the same reasons. Traffic in Italy is like a herd of cattle on stampede. Until someone just steps into the street in front of the stampede and everyone either stops or manuevers around you.
Then there's public transportation. The bus system is . . . amazing. It's essentially free if you need it; yes, you are supposed to buy a ticket, but no one checks if you do. Everybody rides, which means busses are extremely crowded. Standing room only most of the time. You get used to it. The point is you really don't need to own a car. And for short trips to the grocery store, walking is good for you anyway. The train system is clean, fast, and cheap.
With gas at $3 and headed up, get ready for scenes like the following in the good ole USA (note how narrow the street is in 3rd photo, and the 'pickup truck' in the 4th):
 
 
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| What does your t-shirt say?
The Academy Award for most obnoxious person I've ever known goes to a person who would remain nameless except that his name is David Solomon. Back in the 70's, before most of your grandparents were even born, Dave and I met each other through a mutual friend (Mr. Doobie), and I took a more or less an instant dislike to him. Which was fine with Dave. Antagonism and obnoxiousness weren't just second nature to Dave, they were a life strategy. Why? Who knows, although like most things in Austin Texas during the 70's, drugs no doubt played a part. After awhile though, I learned that it wasn't personal with Dave. He didn't dislike me, or any of the other people he was constantly annoying, he just did it to see what my, or their, reaction would be. It was, so to speak, a challenge. A game. Since I liked games, I learned to play--though not very well--and we became, if not friends, aquaintances.
For awhile, Dave's phrase du'jour was "Eat some fuck," a saying I believe he originated. He might say this to total strangers, if they fell even slightly crossways of him. One day, after a particularly bizarre confrontation with a waiter, he got it put on a custom made t-shirt. "Eat some fuck" in big letters on the back. Over the pocket, in a stunning summation of his entire life philosophy, he had them put "DLMBY." Don't Let Me Bug You.
It was the only time I felt that Dave had lived up to the legacy of the Hebrew kings for which he was named. He had shown himself to be worthy of direct descent from Kings David and Solomon, such was the courage and wisdom of that t-shirt. An entire philosophy, summed up in 3 words and 5 letters. Aristotelian in its scope, Nietzschean in its brevity.
Eat some fuck. DLMBY. A zen koan of obnoxiousness.
Of course, we were all jealous. Or at least I was. How could we get a t-shirt like that? A piece of clothing that summed up our very essence? I felt that if only I could come up with the words, the fitting phrase, I would at last discover who I was. I longed for the simplicity of a t-shirt identity.
It was not to be. Perhaps I lacked Dave's merciless insight that enabled him to see into the darker recesses of his soul, or perhaps my soul was simply too fuzzy around the edges to be so brilliantly defined. Perhaps I just lacked his sense of poetry. But for whatever reason, neither I nor any of our circle matched or even attempted to match Dave's triumph. Except for Monte.
The first thing you wondered about Monte was how a guy like that got such an amazing girlfriend. Without the details, we'll just say that in contrast, Monte was . . . less than amazing. But we all should have nice things in our lives, we all need somebody, and they both were happy. Obviously she saw something in him, and if I had to guess it probably was a little-boy sweetness that he had, a Neverland Lost Boy come back to live in London quality that, perhaps, appealed to the Wendy in her. Except that Monte cheated on her with a mutual friend, and the betrayal soured whatever it was she had felt, and no matter how he tried, he'd lost her.
Monte did not do well after the breakup. Drugs had been a big part of his life for a long time; now they became something more. Even at his best, he'd always looked strung out, like the tail end of an acid trip, bemused at perpetually unfamiliar surroundings. Now, he began to look far less than his best. He went into a tailspin.
This isn't Monte's story, though, because I have no idea as to the ending. I didn't stay in Austin, and the last time I saw him I was passing through town, back from California, still looking for that perfect t-shirt phrase, when I discovered that he had found his. We sat and played a little guitar, and the shirt he wore bore witness to the fact that he had achieved that merciless moment of self-insight that still eluded me. He wore his soul on his chest like a gunshot wound.
When I'm dead, she'll be sorry
So . . . what's your t-shirt say? | | |
| I stumbled across TheTheologiansCafe the other day (link in subscriptions at left) . The interesting thing here is that each day he posts several questions, on politics and religion mostly, and invites you to post your answer. The temptation to have one's opinion on 'important' matters out there for all the world is apparently overwhelming. He gets over a hundred answers to each question.
The one that drew me in was "How do you know that your system of beliefs are the right ones?" A big hit , over 200 responses. The most popular responses are what you might expect--"Faith", "It feels right in my heart", and "You can't know." Most Christians seem to opt for "faith," which is our topic for the day.
What is faith anyway? I think the people who answered that way are seriously misguided as to what faith means in Christianity. Which isn't too surprising, since a lot of churches seem just as confused. Is faith convincing yourself something's true? This is what many people seem to think. But really, that is not a difficult trick. It's fairly easy to believe in almost anything, especially if that belief is comforting. People have faith in Jesus. People also have faith in crystals, L.Ron Hubbard, and Amway. They have faith they're going to win American Idol. If faith is nothing more than belief, then faith is as common as dirt.
The real problem there is that that kind of faith doesn't cost you anything. Believing is easy. Whereas what I think Scripture means by faith is something more like faithfulness. Faithfulness always occurs in the context of a relationship. Belief is private. Which one does it seem like God would be more concerned with? As I understand it, we're in a relationship with God, and He wants us to be faithful. And He's faithful to us.
What we believe--about God, morals, the world--is going to change as we grow and learn more about these things. Otherwise we're stagnant, stuck in our little baby beliefs, afraid that if we grow up God won't love us anymore. Faithfulness though, is a tough standard. A standard none of us fully achieve. But, unlike our beliefs which need to grow in different directions depending on where we've started from, there's really only one direction for faithfulness to grow. | | |
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