"The first time I saw Eric (Clapton) I thought, 'Wow there is a master guitar player.' But Eric was a guitar player, Jimi was some sort of force of nature..." -Jack Bruce
It's fascinating to watch musicians age. On the one hand you have the Rolling Stones who are trying their darndest to give fans the same experience of 30 years ago. Nothing quite like watching a 60 year old man on stage in leather pants. On the other hand you have Clapton, who, when I saw him in concert a few years ago, opened the show by pulling a single chair on stage, grabbing his acoustic guitar and jamming away without any accompaniment. I loved it, but just a little different from his Cream days, pinning over George Harrison's wife and strung out on heroine. He changed, and naturally his music changed.
Nothing in the world of music would have been more fascinating than watching Jimi Hendrix age. Unprecedented talented colliding with pure musical obsession. I can't see him going Rolling Stones on us and I can't see the back end of his career being defined by an acoustic guitar like Clapton.
So dear readers, let's play the "What would you change if you could go back in modern music history?" game. Of course, I'm sneaking into that London flat and stealing the sleeping pills. Of course I'm bringing 60 year old Clapton with me to convince Jimi to go to rehab. And, from there I hop back in my time machine and learn that the following has transpired: Jimi goes under ground for a couple years and gets clean of his drug and sex addictions. He resurfaces with Eric as his Narcotics Anonymous sponsor and steps back onto stage for the mother of all reunion concerts in Monterrey, California where it all began in the U.S. for Jimi. A media feeding frenzy ensues like Jordan returning to the Bulls after baseball. As soon as Jimi steps off the stage, Clapton is waiting for him. "Jimi, how do you feel?" "Ah, Easy (I think Jimi would call him Easy, I don't have a good reason for this) I feel groovy man, just groovy, the people man, ahh, I love these people...groovy man." "But do you feel like acting out? You just stepped into your old world, do you want to get high?" "Nah I feel good, Easy. I'm high on Love brother." They then decide that Jimi will check in with Easy after every show. No exceptions, this is the safe guard. He gives Clapton permission to ask his managers and handlers how he is doing. He knows EC loves him and wants to live a transparent, sober life. He makes his millions over the next couple years, cuts 3 amazing albums giving the fans exactly what they've been missing.
Then Jimi gets bored. He decides he's not being challenged as a musician. He dives into Jazz and Blues but naturally loses many of his main stream fans. He doesn't care though, he's had a spiritual awakening; the cries of the people mean nothing to him. He cuts a couple of Jazz and Blues albums with BB King and Miles Davis but the albums barely break the Billboard 100. Hard core musicians know they are transcendent but they aren't selling. These Jazz/Blues albums create a whole new group of "Jimi Snob" fans who look down their nose every time someone starts humming, "The Wind Cries Mary." You don't know the real "Jimi" they snicker. But know no one knows the real Jimi because he's off the grid, no one's heard from him ever since he skipped out on Jimmy Kimmel Live a few months ago. wheresjimi.com gets off the ground but only Clapton knows where he i,s and he ain't talking. A year passes and Jimi is found in Mumbai dressed in a kurta learning to play the sitar from a Hindu monk named Punjab whom he dubs his new "Spiritual Advisor/musical soul mate." Clapton is secure in himself and doesn't feel threatened by Punjab and welcomes him into Jimi's inner circle. Jimi thanks the media for their interest but he's happy in India, and he's not coming home yet. Jimi then uses his millions to make a kick-ass Indian recording studio to cut his own sitar album because no major record label is touching a sitar album called "The Smooth Grooves of Punjabi-land." Jimi doesn't care. EC does a guest solo on one of the songs but declines to wear the kurta. Les Paul offers to make Jimi an electric sitar with distortion and even a wah wah pedal, but Jimi's had an awakening and he isn't about to commercialize this.
Eventually Jimi is playing the sitar behind his back, with his teeth, and in every way surpasses his mentor Punjab who is more than happy for his protege. Jimi heads back to the US but doesn't have a desire for a traditional tour. Jimi invents a new form of touring called, "Bonzai!" He shows up at random public places and spontaneously starts whaling away. The concerts are free and you never know if he's going to have his stratocastor or sitar. Sometimes he's got both at the same time, one in each hand, coming at you like two machine guns, Scarface style. Sometimes EC will make an appearance. Some nights Punjab is in town you just never know on the "Bonzai." Naturally there are several "Bonzai Websites" that pop up, trying to predict where he will show up next, and announcing to the world whenever a show has started. Jimi goes to NA meetings in every city Bonzai takes him, encouraging local groups and continuing his process through the 12 steps. He's had an awakening and after 50 years of music you still don't know what's coming next.
Nothing would have been more fascinating than watching Jimi Hendrix age as a musician. This story would not have been outside the realm of possibility. I'm no different than any other music fan reading about Jimi. Ultimately I have nothing but a cliche to offer; "What a waste." Jimi dying of a sleeping pill overdose, on some random chicks couch, after a drug induced stupor is like pouring a $500 bottle of wine down the bathtub drain. Almost impossible to know his story and feel anything different.
However, let me leave you with a couple of my favorite Hendrix songs outside his super mainstream hits like "All Along the Watchtower", "The Wind Cries Mary", "Fire", etc. Before you listen though, do me a favor. Put your headphones on. Don't listen to these songs through your crappy computer (or phone) speakers. Put your headphones on, close your eyes, turn up the volume just a little louder then you normally do and remember that perhaps the greatest guitarist ever poured himself out over this recording. If other guitarists of his day spent 1 hour on a song in the recording studio, Jimi spent 15-20. He once spent a week trying to get one 10 second guitar solo to match the sound that he "heard in a dream." Come on! Just put the headphones on and press them to your ears a little.
Savor this.
All true beauty is His beauty and all amazing guitarists were gifted by Him who loves music more than we do.
Thanks for making it this far.
Enjoy.
Little Wing
Bold as Love
Can't resist this one even though it's more mainstream: You will never listen to Like a Rolling Stone the same again.
Monday, December 12, 2011
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
Blow Your Nose Please...
The 25 book pace that once seemed daunting now feels normal. I'm like a minor leaguer who has finally adjusted to life in the big leagues. Playing four out of every five days is not a problem any more, just a way of life. I've found a rhythm. I know what I need to do to make it through this long season.
But all this talk about libraries has gotten me a little distracted and I haven't mentioned a word about, Rising from the Plains, The Writing Life, or The Road. To be honest I don't have much to say. All of them were very good. Rising and The Writing Life will stay in my collection, The Road was well done but just a little drab. It's the only book I've ever read that I have almost no desire to see the movie. A sunless, post-apocalyptic world ruled by fear. Once through was enough, thank you Cormac. I will give him another chance, however, for I can not deny the talent nor the tears that welled up at the end of the book. He's a great story teller; he might just be a little dark for me. We'll see.
What I really want to write about is a little self-indulgent. I understand if there is little desire to read what I'm about to write. But, as I've discussed libraries, I noticed the groups of author's that give my collection it's shape and feel, it's texture if you will. The first and most obvious author group is what I like to call the "Nose Blowers." If an authors in this group blows their nose on a few pages, gives those pages a sturdy binding and places it on a book shelf, Travis will buy it without any question. They are the heart of the library, they pump blood to everywhere else and feel somehow connected to all of the other books. They are as much a part of the structure of the library as the shelves themselves. They write books my other books want to be when they grow up. My Nose Blowers are as follows: Rick Bass, Leanne Payne, CS Lewis, JK Rowling, and David McCullough. While discussing my library, I have simply grown more appreciative of these authors and want to take a moment to share what they have meant to me over the years.
Leanne Payne:
With Payne I feel like I have breathed deeply the fragrance of someone writing in the Spirit. She doesn't pretend to be a master of prose like Lewis, but her words carry the weight of the Spirit, of ancient Sage-like wisdom. A modern day, wordier, Oswald Chambers.
Whether it's me or the guy standing next to me, she convinced me that the Lord can really heal (Restoring the Christian Soul). Her thoughts on masculinity made Eldridge feel like an idealistic 20 year old who has grasped a deep truth, but hasn't quite lived it out yet (Crisis in Masculinity). She opened my eyes to the reality of walking in the Spirit on a moment to moment basis (Restoring the Christian Soul & Healing Presence). She gave this slightly ADD person practical help in prayer. She helped me cut out the philosophical wanderings and musings from my prayer journal; she's helped my prayer life grow up (Listening Prayer). Books can't replace the face to face, the iron sharpening iron, from peers and mentors. But for me Leanne Payne has maximized the impact of the written word outside of scripture.
Ernest Hemingway:
Seems a little redundant to have his full name doesn't it? Anyway, I love him. Not everyone understands this, but he simply captures human longing in such a way that makes me sigh and say, "Yeah, I have that ache too..." Every book feels like you are looking at an ocean sunset as the love of your life slips beyond the horizon in a sail boat.
He makes writing seem so simple, like anyone could do it. I get done reading him and say, "Ah, Hah! Get me a computer, I can do this!" He is so concise he'd be the world's worst blogger-- he'd say everything bloggers do in one paragraph and then we'd all have to get back to work. He shares my love of the ocean and I'm convinced captures it's essence better than any other author (Islands in the Stream). Of course, he also makes every alcoholic drink sound like some sort of timeless, delicious, work of art. The ocean, booze, and longing; there is no one better than Hemingway.
JK Rowling:
These are the only books I have every wanted to own in hardback. JK, I was hoping you might take Stephen King's suggestion and turn Harry into a Sherlock Holmes type character, a character that just keeps having adventure after adventure. I understand the need for closure though. I can't imagine the connection you feel with these characters. I thought Frodo and Samwise held a place in my heart, but this was simply another level. How did you deliver book after book with more hype in the human history of the written word? I'd understand if you never touched your keyboard again. The truth is, you really don't need to. Go on, JK just blow your nose on something, I will buy it.
David McCullough:
I often reread his ending to the Brooklyn Bridge out loud. It was so beautifully sentimental, so efficient at summarizing the essence of it's history. I read it out loud, like it's poetry. I want to go to New York primarily to see this bridge and walk across it on a spring day. The author description on the back of all his books should read something like this, "David McCullough: he can make you care about a bridge." The truth is, he makes me care about absolutely everything he writes. I simply do not care what the topic is anymore, I trust him completely. A 1,000 pages on Gerber Daisies? I'm in. Let's do it, Dave. Let's do the daisies.
At the risk of losing current readers, I will not gush any more about Rick Bass and CS Lewis.
The next group I call the, "I've Got My Eye On You Group." They've earned my respect enough that I will consider reading and buying every book they write but not without a little investigation and preview first. I probably own a handful of their books. Many times they were in my "Nose Blower," group at one time and now I've moved on a bit or they've had a few bombs and lost my trust. Some I've outgrown a little. I'm sure in 20 years some of my Nose Blowers might be downgraded to this group as well. Rick Bass just wrote a book about a country music family and sadly, I fear like he might be a few books away from this group. Nevertheless, this group has earned my respect over the years and make up a good portion of my collection.
Stephen King:
I need you to remember one simple fact about Stephen King: he wrote The Shawshank Redemption1. People forget this so easily. All they think about is the creepy monsters and all the children he has killed in his books throughout the years. He wrote Shawshank. Please don't forget that. Let us change his name to Shawshank King so that we might not forget. Many of his other books have been almost as beautiful. Try Green Mile, or one of my favorite books of all time Hearts in Atlantis ("It was the kiss by which all others would be measured, and found wanting"). Even The Stand and Duma Key entered the Shawshank ballpark. He knows how to inspire, he knows how to pull at your heartstrings as well as torture children. With Shawshank always in mind, I have to consider everything he writes.
He's a sentimental favorite as well because he really got me excited about reading. I discovered him early in middle school and hid his books in my room because my parents knew I was a little young for some of his stuff. The first time I read him I thought, "ooooo...you can swear in books? That...is...awesome!!" No one swears like Stephen King. He's always got some new obscene name that, as a middle school boy, just rolls off your tongue and makes you think, "How come no one ever put those two swear word together before? That's awesome! I should try that out at school tomorrow on my friend Nick." And then that new swear word becomes one more brick in the wall of your mind that causes you to forget he wrote Shawshank.
I have a 20 year history with King; I know him pretty well. I have this cocky belief that I can read the first couple pages of any book and tell immediately if he is writing from the Shawshank/Heart's in Atlantis place in his heart or if he's regressed back to Gerald's Game (a book with a plot so awful, I can't even begin to describe it.) If you are at a party and your best friend since middle school starts telling a story to a group of people, you can immediately tell if he is being honest or putting on a show. I think a pastor's wife probably feels the same when her husband takes the pulpit. I sniffed out Duma Key a while back with this system and found a great story about forgiveness, healing, dealing with your demons and a Hemingway-esque appreciation for the ocean. I give every Shawshank King book a fair test; he's earned it in spite of himself.
John Eldridge:
Love most of his stuff. Seems a little immature now that I'm a little older, but I will always be thankful for the way he spoke out against the passivity and the feminization of the suburban, North American church going male. Will always thumb through any of his new books to see if they strike a chord.
JR Tolkien:
Trailing only Hermione, Ron and Harry, Frodo and Samwise will always be remembered with tenderness and a sigh. Reading about Frodo sailing on to the Gray Havens will forever be etched in my memory. I thought I was done with Tolkien after The Fellowship series but a friend gave me The Similarion and now I'm not so sure. The Similarion was fabulous. I can't fully enter the world of Tolkien, but what I've read will always have a place on my shelf.
Fredrick Buechner:
Buechner claims that his books are too religious for the mainstream but a little too secular for the conservatives. This appears to be in my strike zone. I discovered him in high school and while not all of his books make my library cut, he was the first Christian theologian/author I ever read. He lead me to Lewis and others. My parents were probably relieved to see his books in my hands as opposed to Stephen King. At his best, I have memorized entire pages of his books and still recite them out loud today. He is one of few overtly Christian authors ever nominated for a Pulitzer (Godric) and his daily devotional is one of my all time favorites (Listening to Your Life).
Those are my two major groups. There are still the, "One Hit Wonders" and "Childhood favorites" but I think I have taken your generosity as far as I should for now. Thanks for letting me indulge a little.
Would love to have a collection of everyone's "Nose Blower List!" Please feel free to comment!
Happy Reading,
-td
ps. It might be a little while before my next post. I need to write about Mizzou leaving the Big 12 which doesn't really fit in this blog. I'm not sure what I'll do with it, but I need to get it down. This means this blog might be on hold for a week or two. I'll be back though and promise to move past my library talks... :)
1. It was actually titled Rita Hayworth and the Shawshank Redemption and is part of the collection of stories called Different Seasons.
But all this talk about libraries has gotten me a little distracted and I haven't mentioned a word about, Rising from the Plains, The Writing Life, or The Road. To be honest I don't have much to say. All of them were very good. Rising and The Writing Life will stay in my collection, The Road was well done but just a little drab. It's the only book I've ever read that I have almost no desire to see the movie. A sunless, post-apocalyptic world ruled by fear. Once through was enough, thank you Cormac. I will give him another chance, however, for I can not deny the talent nor the tears that welled up at the end of the book. He's a great story teller; he might just be a little dark for me. We'll see.
What I really want to write about is a little self-indulgent. I understand if there is little desire to read what I'm about to write. But, as I've discussed libraries, I noticed the groups of author's that give my collection it's shape and feel, it's texture if you will. The first and most obvious author group is what I like to call the "Nose Blowers." If an authors in this group blows their nose on a few pages, gives those pages a sturdy binding and places it on a book shelf, Travis will buy it without any question. They are the heart of the library, they pump blood to everywhere else and feel somehow connected to all of the other books. They are as much a part of the structure of the library as the shelves themselves. They write books my other books want to be when they grow up. My Nose Blowers are as follows: Rick Bass, Leanne Payne, CS Lewis, JK Rowling, and David McCullough. While discussing my library, I have simply grown more appreciative of these authors and want to take a moment to share what they have meant to me over the years.
Leanne Payne:
With Payne I feel like I have breathed deeply the fragrance of someone writing in the Spirit. She doesn't pretend to be a master of prose like Lewis, but her words carry the weight of the Spirit, of ancient Sage-like wisdom. A modern day, wordier, Oswald Chambers.
Whether it's me or the guy standing next to me, she convinced me that the Lord can really heal (Restoring the Christian Soul). Her thoughts on masculinity made Eldridge feel like an idealistic 20 year old who has grasped a deep truth, but hasn't quite lived it out yet (Crisis in Masculinity). She opened my eyes to the reality of walking in the Spirit on a moment to moment basis (Restoring the Christian Soul & Healing Presence). She gave this slightly ADD person practical help in prayer. She helped me cut out the philosophical wanderings and musings from my prayer journal; she's helped my prayer life grow up (Listening Prayer). Books can't replace the face to face, the iron sharpening iron, from peers and mentors. But for me Leanne Payne has maximized the impact of the written word outside of scripture.
Ernest Hemingway:
Seems a little redundant to have his full name doesn't it? Anyway, I love him. Not everyone understands this, but he simply captures human longing in such a way that makes me sigh and say, "Yeah, I have that ache too..." Every book feels like you are looking at an ocean sunset as the love of your life slips beyond the horizon in a sail boat.
He makes writing seem so simple, like anyone could do it. I get done reading him and say, "Ah, Hah! Get me a computer, I can do this!" He is so concise he'd be the world's worst blogger-- he'd say everything bloggers do in one paragraph and then we'd all have to get back to work. He shares my love of the ocean and I'm convinced captures it's essence better than any other author (Islands in the Stream). Of course, he also makes every alcoholic drink sound like some sort of timeless, delicious, work of art. The ocean, booze, and longing; there is no one better than Hemingway.
JK Rowling:
These are the only books I have every wanted to own in hardback. JK, I was hoping you might take Stephen King's suggestion and turn Harry into a Sherlock Holmes type character, a character that just keeps having adventure after adventure. I understand the need for closure though. I can't imagine the connection you feel with these characters. I thought Frodo and Samwise held a place in my heart, but this was simply another level. How did you deliver book after book with more hype in the human history of the written word? I'd understand if you never touched your keyboard again. The truth is, you really don't need to. Go on, JK just blow your nose on something, I will buy it.
David McCullough:
I often reread his ending to the Brooklyn Bridge out loud. It was so beautifully sentimental, so efficient at summarizing the essence of it's history. I read it out loud, like it's poetry. I want to go to New York primarily to see this bridge and walk across it on a spring day. The author description on the back of all his books should read something like this, "David McCullough: he can make you care about a bridge." The truth is, he makes me care about absolutely everything he writes. I simply do not care what the topic is anymore, I trust him completely. A 1,000 pages on Gerber Daisies? I'm in. Let's do it, Dave. Let's do the daisies.
At the risk of losing current readers, I will not gush any more about Rick Bass and CS Lewis.
The next group I call the, "I've Got My Eye On You Group." They've earned my respect enough that I will consider reading and buying every book they write but not without a little investigation and preview first. I probably own a handful of their books. Many times they were in my "Nose Blower," group at one time and now I've moved on a bit or they've had a few bombs and lost my trust. Some I've outgrown a little. I'm sure in 20 years some of my Nose Blowers might be downgraded to this group as well. Rick Bass just wrote a book about a country music family and sadly, I fear like he might be a few books away from this group. Nevertheless, this group has earned my respect over the years and make up a good portion of my collection.
Stephen King:
I need you to remember one simple fact about Stephen King: he wrote The Shawshank Redemption1. People forget this so easily. All they think about is the creepy monsters and all the children he has killed in his books throughout the years. He wrote Shawshank. Please don't forget that. Let us change his name to Shawshank King so that we might not forget. Many of his other books have been almost as beautiful. Try Green Mile, or one of my favorite books of all time Hearts in Atlantis ("It was the kiss by which all others would be measured, and found wanting"). Even The Stand and Duma Key entered the Shawshank ballpark. He knows how to inspire, he knows how to pull at your heartstrings as well as torture children. With Shawshank always in mind, I have to consider everything he writes.
He's a sentimental favorite as well because he really got me excited about reading. I discovered him early in middle school and hid his books in my room because my parents knew I was a little young for some of his stuff. The first time I read him I thought, "ooooo...you can swear in books? That...is...awesome!!" No one swears like Stephen King. He's always got some new obscene name that, as a middle school boy, just rolls off your tongue and makes you think, "How come no one ever put those two swear word together before? That's awesome! I should try that out at school tomorrow on my friend Nick." And then that new swear word becomes one more brick in the wall of your mind that causes you to forget he wrote Shawshank.
I have a 20 year history with King; I know him pretty well. I have this cocky belief that I can read the first couple pages of any book and tell immediately if he is writing from the Shawshank/Heart's in Atlantis place in his heart or if he's regressed back to Gerald's Game (a book with a plot so awful, I can't even begin to describe it.) If you are at a party and your best friend since middle school starts telling a story to a group of people, you can immediately tell if he is being honest or putting on a show. I think a pastor's wife probably feels the same when her husband takes the pulpit. I sniffed out Duma Key a while back with this system and found a great story about forgiveness, healing, dealing with your demons and a Hemingway-esque appreciation for the ocean. I give every Shawshank King book a fair test; he's earned it in spite of himself.
John Eldridge:
Love most of his stuff. Seems a little immature now that I'm a little older, but I will always be thankful for the way he spoke out against the passivity and the feminization of the suburban, North American church going male. Will always thumb through any of his new books to see if they strike a chord.
JR Tolkien:
Trailing only Hermione, Ron and Harry, Frodo and Samwise will always be remembered with tenderness and a sigh. Reading about Frodo sailing on to the Gray Havens will forever be etched in my memory. I thought I was done with Tolkien after The Fellowship series but a friend gave me The Similarion and now I'm not so sure. The Similarion was fabulous. I can't fully enter the world of Tolkien, but what I've read will always have a place on my shelf.
Fredrick Buechner:
Buechner claims that his books are too religious for the mainstream but a little too secular for the conservatives. This appears to be in my strike zone. I discovered him in high school and while not all of his books make my library cut, he was the first Christian theologian/author I ever read. He lead me to Lewis and others. My parents were probably relieved to see his books in my hands as opposed to Stephen King. At his best, I have memorized entire pages of his books and still recite them out loud today. He is one of few overtly Christian authors ever nominated for a Pulitzer (Godric) and his daily devotional is one of my all time favorites (Listening to Your Life).
Those are my two major groups. There are still the, "One Hit Wonders" and "Childhood favorites" but I think I have taken your generosity as far as I should for now. Thanks for letting me indulge a little.
Would love to have a collection of everyone's "Nose Blower List!" Please feel free to comment!
Happy Reading,
-td
ps. It might be a little while before my next post. I need to write about Mizzou leaving the Big 12 which doesn't really fit in this blog. I'm not sure what I'll do with it, but I need to get it down. This means this blog might be on hold for a week or two. I'll be back though and promise to move past my library talks... :)
1. It was actually titled Rita Hayworth and the Shawshank Redemption and is part of the collection of stories called Different Seasons.
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
Why I want a Library Part 2!
In my previous post I discussed why I wanted to own a personal library. I got wonderful feedback and thoughts from many of you. My friend Micah posted a comment that has got me thinking more about personal libraries. So, instead of moving on....yahoo! More library talk!
Micah's post was as follows:
"TD...there is so much about owning a great library (books & physical space) that really appeals to me but I have my own inner struggle that has not been resolved...it comes from a notion in a story in Rachel Remen's book Kitchen Table Wisdom...I don't want to own more things than I can love...I just can't love that much stuff"
From my research this quote comes from a story about a poor, young boy who owns only two Hotwheel toy cars and loves those two cars more than any other possession. A more affluent friend of the family notices the boy's passion for Hotwheels and, out of love, gives the boy a box full of Hotwheels. Time passes and the friend notices that the young boy no longer plays with his Hotwheels. When asked about this, the boy replies, "Rachel, I just don't know how to love this many cars..." The author's conclusion from this touching story: "I don't want to own more things than I can love..."
As with most thoughts from my friend Micah, it has the subtle, simple ring of truth. It reminds me of a line from my current book, The Writing Life by Annie Dillard. "The life of sensation is the life of greed; it requires more and more. The life of the spirit requires less and less; time is ample and its passage sweet." Here's a run down on some of the thoughts that have been running through my head as I wrestle with this quote and it's application to the wonderful world of personal libraries.
As many of you know, the word "love" is horribly broad. As I learned from Matt Chandler a few years back, the word "love" has three separate words in Hebrew. You've got Raya (friend and companion like), Ahava (the emotion that leads to life long commitment), and Dod (the physical and sexual element in a relationship). It's hard for me to apply any of these Hebrew sentiments to any object--hotwheels or books. But we all do it, it's an ever present hyperbole that our culture has embraced. We love our sports teams, we love Knorks, we love open floor plans, hardwood floors, granite counter tops, and large back yards (yes, my wife and I are currently house shopping). I'd like to be in a place where I don't love any objects. Ya know, like trying to save Raya, Ahava, and Dod for things like God, wife, people and of course my old dog Booker (minus the Dod). Besides, isn't love an unlimited resource? When the Lord said to love your neighbor he seemed to suggest that we couldn't use the excuse, "Well I can't love that many people, all of my love is used up." If God is love than surely we are unlimited in our capacity to love.
But alas, this whole conversation feels like Christian-ese deflection, right? Nothing like a distracting conversation on the semantics of the word "love" to really hide from the question on the table: Is it healthy to try and attach that much meaning and value to so many books? Or more specific to the story: Does my collection of books hinder my enjoyment of reading as it did with the boy and his Hotwheels?
On our four-week honeymoon, my wife and I took a ridiculous 1,100 pictures (teachers get to do silly things like take four-week honeymoons). We picked about three hundred of the 1,100 and got a Shutterfly book that we share with friends and family. Of course, I could survive without many of the three hundred pictures. But they all have meaning to one degree or another, and the collection as a whole is a joy to peruse and share with other people. And, by trimming down the number of pictures we printed from 1,100 to three hundred, the sheer volume of photos doesn't seem to distract from the purpose of the book: to remind me of the lavish gifts the Lord showered on my wife and me.
When I ask myself, "Can I really love all these books?" it feels like someone looking over my shoulder and scowling while I'm in a comfortable chair enjoying my honeymoon pictures.
It is not hard to see the danger in a library. As you know, I love having a section of unread books (the Raven book just winked at me) but it's not hard to see how this could flow into the stream of gluttony (more, More, MORE!). I've noticed that eyeing my unread section doesn't ever seem quite as sexy as a stroll through Half Priced Books, for a truly "new" book. To help combat this and my propensity to keep books that have little to no meaning, I have a self imposed library limit. Right now it's two bookshelves. If we buy a house it will hopefully be one room with built in book shelves on one or two walls. Whatever the limit, it prevents me from accumulating countless boxes of books that end up doubling as a nesting cave for attic spider eggs (that clicking sound you hear is my wife copying, pasting and saving the previous line just in case the love of her life needs a gentle reminder one day). It helps me limit my Half Priced Book expeditions and helps me enjoy the books I have. It also forces me to dispose of the ones that didn't stir my heart (I'm looking at you Cormac McCarthy).
As previously discussed, my reasons for owning a library are as follows: 1) it honors parts of my heart, 2) It provides great conversations, 3) It allows me to share with others, 4) It sets a quiet, reflective spirit in at least one room. It'd be easy to just say these things just make books different than Hotwheels. Hotwheels (at least for me) can't speak truth, can't make me laugh, and can't make me cry. But it's more than just that. It feels like a CEO father thumbing through the sketch book of an artistic son and asking, "Which ones don't you love? Which ones can we get rid of?" I'm not entirely sure it's the right question for me to be asking in this particular situation, at this particular time in my life, as much as I love and affirm the quote.
Maybe to get around the whole thing, I can just get a little sneaky. "But Rachel, this doesn't apply here, I don't love that many things, I only love one thing... I love my book collection!"
It's a great thought Micah, I love the quote. Thanks so much for reading and sharing something personal.
Happy reading and Hotwheeling,
-td
Micah's post was as follows:
"TD...there is so much about owning a great library (books & physical space) that really appeals to me but I have my own inner struggle that has not been resolved...it comes from a notion in a story in Rachel Remen's book Kitchen Table Wisdom...I don't want to own more things than I can love...I just can't love that much stuff"
From my research this quote comes from a story about a poor, young boy who owns only two Hotwheel toy cars and loves those two cars more than any other possession. A more affluent friend of the family notices the boy's passion for Hotwheels and, out of love, gives the boy a box full of Hotwheels. Time passes and the friend notices that the young boy no longer plays with his Hotwheels. When asked about this, the boy replies, "Rachel, I just don't know how to love this many cars..." The author's conclusion from this touching story: "I don't want to own more things than I can love..."
As with most thoughts from my friend Micah, it has the subtle, simple ring of truth. It reminds me of a line from my current book, The Writing Life by Annie Dillard. "The life of sensation is the life of greed; it requires more and more. The life of the spirit requires less and less; time is ample and its passage sweet." Here's a run down on some of the thoughts that have been running through my head as I wrestle with this quote and it's application to the wonderful world of personal libraries.
As many of you know, the word "love" is horribly broad. As I learned from Matt Chandler a few years back, the word "love" has three separate words in Hebrew. You've got Raya (friend and companion like), Ahava (the emotion that leads to life long commitment), and Dod (the physical and sexual element in a relationship). It's hard for me to apply any of these Hebrew sentiments to any object--hotwheels or books. But we all do it, it's an ever present hyperbole that our culture has embraced. We love our sports teams, we love Knorks, we love open floor plans, hardwood floors, granite counter tops, and large back yards (yes, my wife and I are currently house shopping). I'd like to be in a place where I don't love any objects. Ya know, like trying to save Raya, Ahava, and Dod for things like God, wife, people and of course my old dog Booker (minus the Dod). Besides, isn't love an unlimited resource? When the Lord said to love your neighbor he seemed to suggest that we couldn't use the excuse, "Well I can't love that many people, all of my love is used up." If God is love than surely we are unlimited in our capacity to love.
But alas, this whole conversation feels like Christian-ese deflection, right? Nothing like a distracting conversation on the semantics of the word "love" to really hide from the question on the table: Is it healthy to try and attach that much meaning and value to so many books? Or more specific to the story: Does my collection of books hinder my enjoyment of reading as it did with the boy and his Hotwheels?
On our four-week honeymoon, my wife and I took a ridiculous 1,100 pictures (teachers get to do silly things like take four-week honeymoons). We picked about three hundred of the 1,100 and got a Shutterfly book that we share with friends and family. Of course, I could survive without many of the three hundred pictures. But they all have meaning to one degree or another, and the collection as a whole is a joy to peruse and share with other people. And, by trimming down the number of pictures we printed from 1,100 to three hundred, the sheer volume of photos doesn't seem to distract from the purpose of the book: to remind me of the lavish gifts the Lord showered on my wife and me.
When I ask myself, "Can I really love all these books?" it feels like someone looking over my shoulder and scowling while I'm in a comfortable chair enjoying my honeymoon pictures.
It is not hard to see the danger in a library. As you know, I love having a section of unread books (the Raven book just winked at me) but it's not hard to see how this could flow into the stream of gluttony (more, More, MORE!). I've noticed that eyeing my unread section doesn't ever seem quite as sexy as a stroll through Half Priced Books, for a truly "new" book. To help combat this and my propensity to keep books that have little to no meaning, I have a self imposed library limit. Right now it's two bookshelves. If we buy a house it will hopefully be one room with built in book shelves on one or two walls. Whatever the limit, it prevents me from accumulating countless boxes of books that end up doubling as a nesting cave for attic spider eggs (that clicking sound you hear is my wife copying, pasting and saving the previous line just in case the love of her life needs a gentle reminder one day). It helps me limit my Half Priced Book expeditions and helps me enjoy the books I have. It also forces me to dispose of the ones that didn't stir my heart (I'm looking at you Cormac McCarthy).
As previously discussed, my reasons for owning a library are as follows: 1) it honors parts of my heart, 2) It provides great conversations, 3) It allows me to share with others, 4) It sets a quiet, reflective spirit in at least one room. It'd be easy to just say these things just make books different than Hotwheels. Hotwheels (at least for me) can't speak truth, can't make me laugh, and can't make me cry. But it's more than just that. It feels like a CEO father thumbing through the sketch book of an artistic son and asking, "Which ones don't you love? Which ones can we get rid of?" I'm not entirely sure it's the right question for me to be asking in this particular situation, at this particular time in my life, as much as I love and affirm the quote.
Maybe to get around the whole thing, I can just get a little sneaky. "But Rachel, this doesn't apply here, I don't love that many things, I only love one thing... I love my book collection!"
It's a great thought Micah, I love the quote. Thanks so much for reading and sharing something personal.
Happy reading and Hotwheeling,
-td
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Why I want a library
I've had this blog planned out in my head for a while. I was going to lay out point by point why owning books and having a personal library is a more sophisticated way of reading; but as with most things, I don't fully know what I think about a topic until I sit down and write about it. I've found that I can't argue it's better to own books any better than a stamp collector can lay out why it's better to own 1000's of stamps. They just love stamps. I love books. It could be the world's shortest blog. The more interesting thing for me to explore is why I own a library. Or, in more descriptive terms, why I must own a library and why checking out books from the public library makes me feel so flimsy.
CS Lewis told me as a doubting freshman in college, "unless you teach your moods 'where they get off,' you can never be either a sound Christian or even a sound atheist, but just a creature dithering to and fro, with its beliefs really dependent on the weather and the state of its digestion." The moment I read that, my spiritual life turned a corner. I could finally tell the questioning voice in my head that he was a spoiled child and somewhat of a doofus. It was a glorious moment of freedom. To just give that book away feels like some sort of betrayal. I want Mere Christianity on my shelf to remind me of that moment. I want to be able to pull it off the shelf again and read it out loud. I want to be able to share that quote with a friend who wants to talk Lewis. I want, at any hour of the day, to be able to pull it off the shelf and read it, cover to cover.
Of course not every book was as formative as Mere Christianity. I keep my Daniel Boone biography simply because I read that he killed 80 bears in one summer. I like to be reminded that such people exist. Not really a life changer, but the meaning is there. Some books were favorites at different points of my childhood, some just made me laugh, some thrilled me like jumping out of an airplane, some have guided and shaped my marriage. Getting rid of a book that has meaning just feels like what I experienced didn't matter, like I'm betraying my heart. And so maybe at it's core its my little way of saying my heart matters. A monument to all the times my heart leapt a little, cried a little, or beat a little faster on a random Tuesday night.
I'm somewhat of a boring dinner party host. Small talk is lawkward for me. Lucky for me, wife is glorious in this role and can engage with most people on about any subject. I'm trying to learn from her. However, I do love to talk books (surprise, surprise). I love when people start looking at my library and suddenly they are telling me why they can't stand Hemingway, or ask me, "Who the heck is Rick Bass and why do you have twenty-five of his books?" The other day, I was over at a friend's house and while looking at his bookshelf, we mapped out the typical reading journey of most 25-35 year old, evangelical males. Started with some Lewis, progressed to more modern day, Fresh wind, Fresh Fire perhaps. Then John Piper, then Wild at Heart and other Eldridge books. Then came Blue Like Jazz and Velvet Elvis and that's about where both of us veered from the evangelical reading list. It was a great nostalgic conversation that took place only because someone had a library. Never would have happened otherwise. And this is reason #2 on why I want a library. It allows me an opportunity to talk books. Plus, guys just like have something to look at and talk about other than themselves while hosting a dinner party. Girls, having a bookshelf in the living room might help your husband relate with dinner guests (My wife is nodding her head).
As much as I love looking at past books, I also love stealing glances at the unread section of my library. Oh, the pleasure of looking at the next book to read! If you had a ticket to travel anywhere in the world wouldn't you put a map up in your room? Maybe thumbtack a few postcards up of the places at the top of your list? Yes, yes you would. How dull would it be to say, "Ahh, but I can just look at those pictures whenever I go to ______(Insert here, internet, library, photo gallery, museum, computer etc.). I want to look at those next books, think about them, wrestle in my mind a little bit where I'm going next.
Most people, however, would look at my reasons thus far and say, "So why not start by checking a book out from the library and just buy the books that are 'meaningful?'" I don't have a great answer other than, "Well, I don't want to." It feels like a summer camp romance. I can't give my heart to something that I know is leaving in a week. I learned that lesson in 6th grade at Camp Wildwood with that silly red-headed girl. In my weird mind it lacks commitment, it lacks resolve. Plus, I have such a hard time buying a book that I've already read. I'm always thinking, "But you haven't read that book over there, let's buy it instead!" And then I never get around to buying it at all unless it's on the clearance rack at Half Priced Books. No, I've learned that books rules are opposite the rules of dating: 1) Dive in fully and quickly with anything that stirs your heart and 2) cut ties quickly if you get bored for any reason.
Last and probably least, I do want the ability to loan my books to people. If I check a book out at the library, I can't give it to someone that I know will like it. There is a reason this is last. I use to kid myself when I argued this as the top reason for owning a library. But this is a little white lie. I don't loan many books because as Rick Bass pointed out, "....for the morons and diarrhea people who do not return books but treat them instead as decks of cards, pencils, chewing gum. Oh may I borrow a piece of paper? And then they never return them (Mississippi, The Watch.)."
The truth is, I've been that diarrhea person who doesn't return books. Which is why I don't just give my books away willy-nilly. I also don't want to be a book pusher. It's hard because, as you can see, I am passionate about books. If someone shows even the slightest interest in Rick Bass, I'd likely slip three of them into their car while they weren't looking. I want the freedom to lend books, but the truth is, I do it very rarely.
Just humor me and picture this for a moment: It's a bitter winter evening. You've eaten dinner and the dishes are put away. A day of work is over. The sun set a couple of hours ago. In the front of the house, there is a room the size of a large, one car garage. Inside this room, a real wood fire place crackles, making the dark wood floors warm enough to walk on with bare feet. From the floor to the ten foot ceilings are built in book shelves, also in a rich, dark wood. A ladder rests on one side of the bookshelves, inviting you to come explore the top shelves. Are there secret books up there? In front of the fire (Did I mention the fire? And that it's crackling?), two recling leather chairs sit on a large rug with an end table in between them. A simple desk near the back wall is dedicated to writing. There is no TV in this room, no internet. Multitasking seems silly here. People come here to learn the lost art of reading by fire light. The shelves are lined with with wonderful memories as well as the excitement of the unread books. In here, husbands get down right chatty with dinner guests. Books here are borrowed with ease but people respect this room enough to realize it's important to return them.
I know, some of you aren't seeing it. My wife will always love the public library. She says things like, "But just look at all those books! You can read any of them, anytime you want to, it's almost limitless!"
I agree, my love.
And that's exactly why I want one.
Happy reading,
-td
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Michael Jordan and Teddy Roosevelt
Well, the first quarter is in the books (pun intended). Nine weeks and six books at my reading level. The pace seemed frantic at first; but once I got the shorter books knocked out (Moreau & Perelandra), I took my time and enjoyed some longer books (Mornings on Horseback). I look at the six required books for 2nd quarter and my 'inner reader' (the one who could stay in every Friday night and read) has a greedy smile on his face, taping his fingers together like he is hatching a sinister plan. "What's that you say? Six more books of my choosing? Come here, my precious..." Before I get swept away into what is next; my thoughts on Mornings on Horseback, the Teddy Roosevelt (TR) biography.
Leanne Payne once said that the false masculine manifests as either restless activism or paralyzing passivity. According to her, the unhealed male psyche travels down one of these paths or some strange combination of both. While reading Mornings on Horseback, the phrase "restless activism," came to mind over and over again. His energy seemed to know no bounds, but underneath it all, McCullough painted the picture of someone striving. He emphasized things like the huge portrait of TR's deceased father that was his first decoration in the oval office. TR said he wanted to always be reminded of his guiding question, "What would my dad think of this decision?"
In his early twenties Teddy lost his twenty-two year old wife and forty-eight year old mother, all in about forty-eight hours. He buried both of them next to his father who died a few years earlier. Three days later he was working twenty hour days in New York politics, fighting every perceived injustice he could find. Once the political battles died down, he dove head first into his Dakota cattle ranch. He spent 18 hours a day on a horse, outworked every grizzled hired hand, tracked down wild west thieves, got in fist fights, and in his spare time, wrote a book about the west. In his quieter moments, he admitted that having nothing to do was the most unbearable thing in life. It gave him the old "caged wolf," feeling. He also wondered to his friends if life was worth living, if his daughter was better off with out him.
At times, the book felt parallel to Michael Jordan's hall of fame induction speech. There seems to be a level of darkness it takes to go down in history as the Greatest of All Time (GOAT). Jordan needed to manufacture insult after insult to fuel his competitiveness. And while we celebrate MJ's greatness, very few of us (until his speech) really stopped to ask the question, "What does it really take to reach that level of success?" Or, "Can you really reach that GOAT level and still be a well-centered, healthy person?"
Of course, it's easy for me to point the finger at the high functioning, driven extrovert, the restlessly active, if you will. For my own brand of off-centeredness is burying my head in a book or movie (ie paralyzed passivity), and it's not quite as celebrated as the restlessly active. Which makes me and my fellow low, energy introverts a little jealous. "How come my coping mechanisms are not celebrated by society!?"
My favorite quote from the book: "A man in a fight has little chance to be lonely." What great insight into the heart of the restlessly active. It seems to look under the hood of the great achievers and point out the fuel source. And I think that quote will stay with me as a sort of defining line for Teddy, whose list of accomplishments put him near the top of the most celebrated American lives in our nation's history. But, I didn't walk away from this book thinking, "What an amazing man," although he was certainly that. It was the source of his energy and drive that fascinated me. It was the picture in the oval office, the finishing touches of his first book that he squeezed in during his honeymoon, the caged wolf, and the depression that eked out when there was nothing left to cross off the list. I hope wherever Teddy is he has found a himself good book, a good view and a place to put his feet up. I think he might have earned it, I think he might need sometime to recover.
Thanks for reading,
-td
Leanne Payne once said that the false masculine manifests as either restless activism or paralyzing passivity. According to her, the unhealed male psyche travels down one of these paths or some strange combination of both. While reading Mornings on Horseback, the phrase "restless activism," came to mind over and over again. His energy seemed to know no bounds, but underneath it all, McCullough painted the picture of someone striving. He emphasized things like the huge portrait of TR's deceased father that was his first decoration in the oval office. TR said he wanted to always be reminded of his guiding question, "What would my dad think of this decision?"
In his early twenties Teddy lost his twenty-two year old wife and forty-eight year old mother, all in about forty-eight hours. He buried both of them next to his father who died a few years earlier. Three days later he was working twenty hour days in New York politics, fighting every perceived injustice he could find. Once the political battles died down, he dove head first into his Dakota cattle ranch. He spent 18 hours a day on a horse, outworked every grizzled hired hand, tracked down wild west thieves, got in fist fights, and in his spare time, wrote a book about the west. In his quieter moments, he admitted that having nothing to do was the most unbearable thing in life. It gave him the old "caged wolf," feeling. He also wondered to his friends if life was worth living, if his daughter was better off with out him.
At times, the book felt parallel to Michael Jordan's hall of fame induction speech. There seems to be a level of darkness it takes to go down in history as the Greatest of All Time (GOAT). Jordan needed to manufacture insult after insult to fuel his competitiveness. And while we celebrate MJ's greatness, very few of us (until his speech) really stopped to ask the question, "What does it really take to reach that level of success?" Or, "Can you really reach that GOAT level and still be a well-centered, healthy person?"
Of course, it's easy for me to point the finger at the high functioning, driven extrovert, the restlessly active, if you will. For my own brand of off-centeredness is burying my head in a book or movie (ie paralyzed passivity), and it's not quite as celebrated as the restlessly active. Which makes me and my fellow low, energy introverts a little jealous. "How come my coping mechanisms are not celebrated by society!?"
My favorite quote from the book: "A man in a fight has little chance to be lonely." What great insight into the heart of the restlessly active. It seems to look under the hood of the great achievers and point out the fuel source. And I think that quote will stay with me as a sort of defining line for Teddy, whose list of accomplishments put him near the top of the most celebrated American lives in our nation's history. But, I didn't walk away from this book thinking, "What an amazing man," although he was certainly that. It was the source of his energy and drive that fascinated me. It was the picture in the oval office, the finishing touches of his first book that he squeezed in during his honeymoon, the caged wolf, and the depression that eked out when there was nothing left to cross off the list. I hope wherever Teddy is he has found a himself good book, a good view and a place to put his feet up. I think he might have earned it, I think he might need sometime to recover.
Thanks for reading,
-td
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Choosing a Book as Practice for Life
Let me tell you why ravens are cool. There once were some mean scientists who came into possession of rock-hard, stale bread. They broke the bread into pieces and fed it to unsuspecting birds at a local park. The mean scientists giggled as a poor robin frantically pecked at the granite bread that was much too hard to eat. A sparrow came and pecked until his beak was bent and their laughing turned to howling. A cardinal attacked the bread with vigor and they told the poor red fellow that his mom was some sort of deranged wood pecker (I'm assuming this is an insult in bird world).
When a raven landed, however, a hush fell over the scientists. The size of the raven (some as large as a red tailed hawk) was a bit jarring, it was like the robin's big brother showed up. The jet black, wet eyes, looked at them completely unimpressed. He sauntered over to the bread devoid of twitchy, nervous bird movements. The raven pecked at the bread. Too hard. The raven tried another piece, nothing. The raven then picked up the bread, and flew to a nearby bird bath. He placed the hard bread in the water of the bird bath, watched it soak for a few minutes, then swallowed the mushy bread whole. Too cool to even waste his time with a scientist mom joke, the raven flew away. Check mate mean scientists.
After watching this scene on National Geographic (and yes the scientists were demonized...slightly) I then spent the next hour watching YouTube videos of ravens doing the craziest things. They solved logic puzzles to get food, played catch with ping pong balls and even completed one of those toy balls with the different shaped pieces that fit into matching slots. It was a great extended Friday lunch break. Turns out a raven's intelligence rivals that of the smartest mammals, chimpanzees, dolphins, elephants etc.
Last week, while strolling through Borders' going out of business sale, I came upon a book titled, Mind of a Raven by bird expert Bernd Heinrich. The book chronicles Heinrich's experience raising ravens in his home and observing them in the wild all over the earth. With a quick scan of the cover I discovered the book was a finalist for the Los Angeles Times Book Prize, a New York Times Noteable Book of theYear and won the John Burroughs Medal for natural history writing. I looked at the price and found the book was 70% percent off. I then held the book up above my head and shouted, "CHECK PLEASE!" My fellow book store scavenger placed the book he was looking at on the shelf, and slowly made his way to next section while trying to avoid eye contact. I remembered I was not in a restaurant and made my way to the checkout counter.
I share this story with you because it is a perfect example of my process of choosing a book. And if choosing a book is indeed like having a blank check to travel anywhere in the world then it is imperative that we have a process. You cannot just open a map, close your eyes and pick a spot. You could end up somewhere awful like Lawrence, Kansas. It's simply too dangerous. Being able to go anywhere in the world is an honor that shouldn't be degraded to blind luck.
Choosing a Book Rule #1: Listen to Your Heart.
As seen in the example above, Ravens have thoroughly captured my imagination and so I did not stop to think, "Man that raven book looks cool, but I really should give Dickens a try, I've been meaning to for so long..." No SHOULDS! Ravens, Ravens, Ravens!!!! This is a perfect example of the ever trite but ever true, Choosing a Book Rule #1: Listen to your heart. This is it. This is the one area of your life to run wild with all the strange raven like things that capture your heart. And don't kid yourself, this isn't easy for most of us. It's a muscle that has to be developed. It's so easy to begin the process by asking, "What SHOULD I read next." Nothing lines the artery wall of your heart like a "should." Try this: go to a half priced book store with the goal of buying one book that you never thought of reading before. Simply stroll through every aisle and flirt with every book that catches your eye. I assure you, once you eliminate every should, once you stop thinking there is one right answer, it is a joyous stroll. A great practice exercise in listening and honoring your heart.
Rule #2: Let your heart be swayed by those who have gone before you.
When I picked up the Mind of a Raven, I saw that it won awards and received glowing reviews from sources that I trust. Had this book been poorly reviewed, I would have probably put it back on the shelf and looked for another raven book. Why shouldn't I take advantage of the millions of readers who have gone before me? I want classics, I want the Los Angeles Times Book of the Year, I want Pulitzer Prizes, I want two straight years atop the New York Times bestseller list. Why would you choose Shawnee Mission Lake when thousands of people are telling you Bora Bora could possibly be the most beautiful place on earth?
Now these voices can come in different forms other than well esteemed awards and book reviewers. If a close friend or family member, who knows my strange intricacies, gives me a strong book recommendation, I want to receive it and allow it to shape my heart's desire. For example, five weeks ago my mother-in-law gave me Laura Hillenbrand's, WWII, Louie Zamperini biography, Unbroken. At the time I was a little worn out on WWII having just read, The Making of the Atomic Bomb. But I decided to give it a try based on the strength of the recommendation. And praise the Lord, it was one of the best recommendations I have ever received. I got to ride shotgun for perhaps the greatest WWII journey you will ever read. I felt like a rock taking a long tumble down a jagged mountain side, landing in a sweet, serene mountain pond. Once I was finished I told my Dad something like, "You must read this book right this instant. No I'm serious. I'm going to stand here and stare at you until you begin." After that, my extensive Louie Zamperini You Tube extravaganza began.
But it seems, at first glance that this goes against rule number one. "So, follow your heart but listen to recommendations? I thought I only had to read what I wanted to?" Ideally, our hearts are not a closed system. There must be a softness of heart that allows those who have gone before us a chance to awaken desires in our heart. And naturally, not everyone deserves book recommendation authority. Which leads me to book choosing rule number 3:
Book Choosing Rule #3: Avoid Random Book Pushers
There are a lot of well-meaning book pushers out there, but you simply cannot allow swine to cast their stinky pearls upon you. Recommendation authority must come from those who know you and those whose taste you explicitly trust. A neighbor or overzealous co-worker can bully you into an awful book if you do not stick to the system. When someone I don't know says, "you should read this book!!" I'm thinking to myself, "No I shouldn't." They are like an annoying third cousin who hears about your freedom to travel anywhere in the world and corners you at Thanksgiving saying, "You MUST (should) go to Paris." No I shouldn't. I have no desire to go to Paris and I'm not going to should myself to Paris.
The next phase of the annoying book pusher is the "generous book giver." This well intentioned soul comes up to you unannounced and hands you their book recommendation with the force of a used car salesman. Many thoughts enter my mind at this point, very few of them I am proud of, but they go something like this: "Are you asking me to stop what I'm reading now (i.e. leave Bora Bora) and read this (i.e. go to Paris)? Would you like me to just start reading right now in front of you? What are you, the book fairy? I stopped believing in you in 2nd grade." This is like the annoying third cousin, buying you a ticket to Paris. Sure it's generous, but not only do I not want to go to Paris, but now, I think I hate Paris. This person has wonderful intentions no doubt, but you have the amazing honor to travel anywhere in the world. Only a select few should have a say in where you might go. And if you can't set those boundaries? If you can't stand up for yourself? Well then, good bye Bora Bora, hello, Lawrence Kansas.
It's not a complicated system. Honor and protect the movements of your heart. Heed those you trust, who know and love you, and have gone before you. Ignore 3rd cousin book fairies. Consider it all practice for life. Who doesn't need a little practice honoring and listening to their heart? Who doesn't need practice humbly allowing the words of those who love us to sway our hearts? Who couldn't stand a little practice in setting boundaries for pushy people?
It's worth it, ladies and gentlemen.
When a raven landed, however, a hush fell over the scientists. The size of the raven (some as large as a red tailed hawk) was a bit jarring, it was like the robin's big brother showed up. The jet black, wet eyes, looked at them completely unimpressed. He sauntered over to the bread devoid of twitchy, nervous bird movements. The raven pecked at the bread. Too hard. The raven tried another piece, nothing. The raven then picked up the bread, and flew to a nearby bird bath. He placed the hard bread in the water of the bird bath, watched it soak for a few minutes, then swallowed the mushy bread whole. Too cool to even waste his time with a scientist mom joke, the raven flew away. Check mate mean scientists.
After watching this scene on National Geographic (and yes the scientists were demonized...slightly) I then spent the next hour watching YouTube videos of ravens doing the craziest things. They solved logic puzzles to get food, played catch with ping pong balls and even completed one of those toy balls with the different shaped pieces that fit into matching slots. It was a great extended Friday lunch break. Turns out a raven's intelligence rivals that of the smartest mammals, chimpanzees, dolphins, elephants etc.
Last week, while strolling through Borders' going out of business sale, I came upon a book titled, Mind of a Raven by bird expert Bernd Heinrich. The book chronicles Heinrich's experience raising ravens in his home and observing them in the wild all over the earth. With a quick scan of the cover I discovered the book was a finalist for the Los Angeles Times Book Prize, a New York Times Noteable Book of theYear and won the John Burroughs Medal for natural history writing. I looked at the price and found the book was 70% percent off. I then held the book up above my head and shouted, "CHECK PLEASE!" My fellow book store scavenger placed the book he was looking at on the shelf, and slowly made his way to next section while trying to avoid eye contact. I remembered I was not in a restaurant and made my way to the checkout counter.
I share this story with you because it is a perfect example of my process of choosing a book. And if choosing a book is indeed like having a blank check to travel anywhere in the world then it is imperative that we have a process. You cannot just open a map, close your eyes and pick a spot. You could end up somewhere awful like Lawrence, Kansas. It's simply too dangerous. Being able to go anywhere in the world is an honor that shouldn't be degraded to blind luck.
Choosing a Book Rule #1: Listen to Your Heart.
As seen in the example above, Ravens have thoroughly captured my imagination and so I did not stop to think, "Man that raven book looks cool, but I really should give Dickens a try, I've been meaning to for so long..." No SHOULDS! Ravens, Ravens, Ravens!!!! This is a perfect example of the ever trite but ever true, Choosing a Book Rule #1: Listen to your heart. This is it. This is the one area of your life to run wild with all the strange raven like things that capture your heart. And don't kid yourself, this isn't easy for most of us. It's a muscle that has to be developed. It's so easy to begin the process by asking, "What SHOULD I read next." Nothing lines the artery wall of your heart like a "should." Try this: go to a half priced book store with the goal of buying one book that you never thought of reading before. Simply stroll through every aisle and flirt with every book that catches your eye. I assure you, once you eliminate every should, once you stop thinking there is one right answer, it is a joyous stroll. A great practice exercise in listening and honoring your heart.
Rule #2: Let your heart be swayed by those who have gone before you.
When I picked up the Mind of a Raven, I saw that it won awards and received glowing reviews from sources that I trust. Had this book been poorly reviewed, I would have probably put it back on the shelf and looked for another raven book. Why shouldn't I take advantage of the millions of readers who have gone before me? I want classics, I want the Los Angeles Times Book of the Year, I want Pulitzer Prizes, I want two straight years atop the New York Times bestseller list. Why would you choose Shawnee Mission Lake when thousands of people are telling you Bora Bora could possibly be the most beautiful place on earth?
Now these voices can come in different forms other than well esteemed awards and book reviewers. If a close friend or family member, who knows my strange intricacies, gives me a strong book recommendation, I want to receive it and allow it to shape my heart's desire. For example, five weeks ago my mother-in-law gave me Laura Hillenbrand's, WWII, Louie Zamperini biography, Unbroken. At the time I was a little worn out on WWII having just read, The Making of the Atomic Bomb. But I decided to give it a try based on the strength of the recommendation. And praise the Lord, it was one of the best recommendations I have ever received. I got to ride shotgun for perhaps the greatest WWII journey you will ever read. I felt like a rock taking a long tumble down a jagged mountain side, landing in a sweet, serene mountain pond. Once I was finished I told my Dad something like, "You must read this book right this instant. No I'm serious. I'm going to stand here and stare at you until you begin." After that, my extensive Louie Zamperini You Tube extravaganza began.
But it seems, at first glance that this goes against rule number one. "So, follow your heart but listen to recommendations? I thought I only had to read what I wanted to?" Ideally, our hearts are not a closed system. There must be a softness of heart that allows those who have gone before us a chance to awaken desires in our heart. And naturally, not everyone deserves book recommendation authority. Which leads me to book choosing rule number 3:
Book Choosing Rule #3: Avoid Random Book Pushers
There are a lot of well-meaning book pushers out there, but you simply cannot allow swine to cast their stinky pearls upon you. Recommendation authority must come from those who know you and those whose taste you explicitly trust. A neighbor or overzealous co-worker can bully you into an awful book if you do not stick to the system. When someone I don't know says, "you should read this book!!" I'm thinking to myself, "No I shouldn't." They are like an annoying third cousin who hears about your freedom to travel anywhere in the world and corners you at Thanksgiving saying, "You MUST (should) go to Paris." No I shouldn't. I have no desire to go to Paris and I'm not going to should myself to Paris.
The next phase of the annoying book pusher is the "generous book giver." This well intentioned soul comes up to you unannounced and hands you their book recommendation with the force of a used car salesman. Many thoughts enter my mind at this point, very few of them I am proud of, but they go something like this: "Are you asking me to stop what I'm reading now (i.e. leave Bora Bora) and read this (i.e. go to Paris)? Would you like me to just start reading right now in front of you? What are you, the book fairy? I stopped believing in you in 2nd grade." This is like the annoying third cousin, buying you a ticket to Paris. Sure it's generous, but not only do I not want to go to Paris, but now, I think I hate Paris. This person has wonderful intentions no doubt, but you have the amazing honor to travel anywhere in the world. Only a select few should have a say in where you might go. And if you can't set those boundaries? If you can't stand up for yourself? Well then, good bye Bora Bora, hello, Lawrence Kansas.
It's not a complicated system. Honor and protect the movements of your heart. Heed those you trust, who know and love you, and have gone before you. Ignore 3rd cousin book fairies. Consider it all practice for life. Who doesn't need a little practice honoring and listening to their heart? Who doesn't need practice humbly allowing the words of those who love us to sway our hearts? Who couldn't stand a little practice in setting boundaries for pushy people?
It's worth it, ladies and gentlemen.
Bora Bora is waiting for us...
Thanks for making it this far.
Happy reading,
-td
Thursday, September 29, 2011
First Dates and Opening Lines
In my last post I took Mr. Steinbeck to task on opening Grapes of Wrath with a three page long scenery description. I consider it the worst opening of any 'classic' book. I even pulled it off the shelf just to make sure I was remembering it correctly. Judge for yourself:
"To the red country and part of the gray country of Oklahoma, the last rains came gently, and they did not cut the scarred earth. The plows crossed and recrossed the rivulet marks. The last rains lifted the corn quickly and scattered weed colonies and grass along the sides of the roads so that the gray country and the dark red country began to disappear under a green cover."
This goes on for three pages. It's stale rice cake, chalky dry limestone, morning cotton mouth, day old campfire ash all rolled into one.
I'm sure he wanted to leave us feeling dry and heat stroked and I'm also sure literary people will tell you something insightful like, "But it's necessary! The weather/country is as much a character as any person in this story!" Maybe. But I'm willing to bet you didn't make it through those three sentences. Admit it, you skimmed that passage!
Anyway, my critique last night reminded me of my favorite opening lines over the years and this of course got me perusing my library and enjoying the first couple pages of my favorite books. It was a great time. I have a passion for opening lines. They are like a first date. Authors have got to woo you a little, throw a little intrigue your way, make you bat your eyes a little bit. You don't have to go sky diving on a first date but at the very least you should be left wanting more.
Hemingway as usual got right to the point in his opening lines. Here are some of my favs:
"Robert Cohn was once middleweight boxing champion of Princeton. Do not think that I am very much impressed by that as a boxing title, but it meant a lot to Cohn."-The Sun Also Rises
"He was an old man who fished alone in a skiff in the Gulf Stream and he had gone eighty-four days now without taking a fish" -The Old Man and the Sea
"The strange thing was, he said, how they screamed every night at midnight." -On the Qui at Smyrna
My all time favorite opening line author is Rick Bass. As a freshman English major I asked my creative writing teacher to name his favorite author. He bristled at the question, "Go ask a kid to name his one favorite ice cream flavor." The next day he gave me xeroxed copies of his favorite Rick Bass short stories. I read and reread that packet of copyright infringement until it had the texture of an old dollar bill. I made more copies and gave them to friends. Ten years later around fifteen of his books line my shelves, many of which I reread regularly. Bass combines my love of geology and nature with bold characters sucking joy from the beauty and wildness of this earth. His stories should, as he says be, "read aloud...by firelight on a snowy evening with a cup of cider within reach, resting on an old wooden table, (Fiber)." To this day he is my favorite, and the master of the opening line.
Here are my favorites, a couple of which I had memorized:
"Galena Jim Ontz has two girlfriends and a key to Canada." -The Watch, Choteau
"As you know, there are no more Coca Colas in Mississippi. There aren't any cokes anywhere. They changed them; they did away with them. Except at my farmhouse. I have approximately two thousand seven hundred and forty-four of them in those little wooden flats they used to ship them around in, faded, red and historic."
"The rules for dating Mormon girls were simple. No coffee; no long hair. No curse words; one kiss. That was about it. It was simple. Anyone could do it." -The Watch, In Ruth's Country
I could post another 10 blogs on my favorite Bass similes but that would be digressing.
And what about you? Any favorite opening lines? Any authors that continually peak your interest after that first date?
Thanks for reading,
-td
"To the red country and part of the gray country of Oklahoma, the last rains came gently, and they did not cut the scarred earth. The plows crossed and recrossed the rivulet marks. The last rains lifted the corn quickly and scattered weed colonies and grass along the sides of the roads so that the gray country and the dark red country began to disappear under a green cover."
This goes on for three pages. It's stale rice cake, chalky dry limestone, morning cotton mouth, day old campfire ash all rolled into one.
I'm sure he wanted to leave us feeling dry and heat stroked and I'm also sure literary people will tell you something insightful like, "But it's necessary! The weather/country is as much a character as any person in this story!" Maybe. But I'm willing to bet you didn't make it through those three sentences. Admit it, you skimmed that passage!
Anyway, my critique last night reminded me of my favorite opening lines over the years and this of course got me perusing my library and enjoying the first couple pages of my favorite books. It was a great time. I have a passion for opening lines. They are like a first date. Authors have got to woo you a little, throw a little intrigue your way, make you bat your eyes a little bit. You don't have to go sky diving on a first date but at the very least you should be left wanting more.
Hemingway as usual got right to the point in his opening lines. Here are some of my favs:
"Robert Cohn was once middleweight boxing champion of Princeton. Do not think that I am very much impressed by that as a boxing title, but it meant a lot to Cohn."-The Sun Also Rises
"He was an old man who fished alone in a skiff in the Gulf Stream and he had gone eighty-four days now without taking a fish" -The Old Man and the Sea
"The strange thing was, he said, how they screamed every night at midnight." -On the Qui at Smyrna
My all time favorite opening line author is Rick Bass. As a freshman English major I asked my creative writing teacher to name his favorite author. He bristled at the question, "Go ask a kid to name his one favorite ice cream flavor." The next day he gave me xeroxed copies of his favorite Rick Bass short stories. I read and reread that packet of copyright infringement until it had the texture of an old dollar bill. I made more copies and gave them to friends. Ten years later around fifteen of his books line my shelves, many of which I reread regularly. Bass combines my love of geology and nature with bold characters sucking joy from the beauty and wildness of this earth. His stories should, as he says be, "read aloud...by firelight on a snowy evening with a cup of cider within reach, resting on an old wooden table, (Fiber)." To this day he is my favorite, and the master of the opening line.
Here are my favorites, a couple of which I had memorized:
"Galena Jim Ontz has two girlfriends and a key to Canada." -The Watch, Choteau
"As you know, there are no more Coca Colas in Mississippi. There aren't any cokes anywhere. They changed them; they did away with them. Except at my farmhouse. I have approximately two thousand seven hundred and forty-four of them in those little wooden flats they used to ship them around in, faded, red and historic."
"The rules for dating Mormon girls were simple. No coffee; no long hair. No curse words; one kiss. That was about it. It was simple. Anyone could do it." -The Watch, In Ruth's Country
I could post another 10 blogs on my favorite Bass similes but that would be digressing.
And what about you? Any favorite opening lines? Any authors that continually peak your interest after that first date?
Thanks for reading,
-td
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
I'm a Bad Reader
I'm a bad reader. I'm not trying to be self deprecating here, it's simply the truth. We tell the kids, "good readers: 1) visualize, 2) make predictions, 3) make inferences, 4) summarize, 5) figure out the meaning of unknown words etc." I'm feeling a little like Joaquin Phoenix's whiny character in the beginning of Gladiator, "As I read the list I knew I had none of them..."
I could probably blog about how I neglect almost everything on that list. But I think my most embarrassing offense, is número uno: visualizing. I just barely picture stories in my mind It's embarrassing to admit it, because if I'm not really visualizing, what in the world is going on inside my head? I'm following what's going on. I understand it. But during a dialogue I'm not picturing characters in a particular setting, nor their facial expressions, body language etc. For me, it's more like putting your ear to a wall and eavesdropping on a conversation taking place in the next room.
And if it's a scenery description, you can forget it. You might as well be Women's Day magazine because I want nothing to do with you. I am one step away from skimming at that point. I abandoned Grapes of Wrath six months ago because Steinbeck spent the first three pages describing the scenery of dust bowl ravaged Oklahoma. I started it twice and both times I wanted to sleep after three pages. There must be better ways to start a book, Steinbeck. Is it the worst opening chapter of any classic book? (And yes, I am aware that my criticizing Steinbeck is a little like my 6 year old nephew giving Pujols batting tips.)
I'm realizing however that I hate scenery descriptions because I'm a bad reader. If I'm not taking time to visualize the setting then of course scenery descriptions are worthless to me. No wonder I'm skimming. I'm like a six year old saying, "Yeah, yeah, what happens next?!" Could be why I love Hemingway so much. He never would have described scenery for three pages to open up a book. There would be some witty dialogue and then everybody would have had a delicious cocktail of some sort.
So if I'm getting into the spirit of this assignment I've got to change, I must dive into scenery descriptions and mentally create fully developed physical attributes of my characters. I gotta tell you though, it's hard. I'd like to say I've made this choice to visualize and suddenly I'm the Einstein of Visualization. But it's like any life-long habit you try to change: in the beginning it is continual effort. Conscious choice after conscious choice. Nearly 30 years of lazy reading isn't going away because I'm a reading teacher, and I don't want to be a hypocrite.
My first conscious choice to visualize was in The Island of Dr. Moreau. The main character was in a cave surrounded by half animal/half human creatures of various types. They began rhythmically chanting their 10 commandments in some sort of religious ceremony. I picked a hell of a time to start visualizing. I started think about the heat coming from the breath of the hog man standing inches from him. It was such a powerful experience that I had to stop reading. I mean imagine going from a black and white TV, to an HD, IMAX, 3D, digital surround sound theater. It was a bit jarring. I wondered, "Is this what I've been missing the whole time? Can what I was watching before even be considered TV? Is everyone else's TV this good?"
I've found, however, that part of me immediately resists this new habit regardless of my pleasure in the experience. For one, it makes reading much slower. I'm not use to simultaneously reading and deeply visualizing. It feels like the old, "rub your belly, pat your head" challenge. I can feel the new brain muscles beginning to develop and it's exhausting. My visualizing stamina is capable of about one lap around the track right now.
The task master voice in my head doesn't help either. He rushes in like a football coach shouting at players taking too long at the water fountain, "Daniel! Lets get back on pace! 25 books in 9 months aren't happening while you are wasting away in Dr. Moreauville! You want to wear your wife's wedding dress to work Daniel1?!"
I'm doing my best to push through the mental exhaustion and the annoying coach. Last night, I read about Teddy Roosevelt as a young boy reading Rob Roy with his family by candle light, in Scotland. It was such a sweet and peaceful image.
A comfortable chair, a perfectly quiet room...and a good book. It can be so sweet, can't it?
And what about you, dear readers? Do you have well-developed pictures of your characters in your mind? Is the scenery just right? How are you at visualizing? Are you a good reader?!
Thanks, as always, for making it this far.
Happy reading,
-td
1. A student suggestion for Mr. Daniel if he did not complete his 6 books this quarter.
I could probably blog about how I neglect almost everything on that list. But I think my most embarrassing offense, is número uno: visualizing. I just barely picture stories in my mind It's embarrassing to admit it, because if I'm not really visualizing, what in the world is going on inside my head? I'm following what's going on. I understand it. But during a dialogue I'm not picturing characters in a particular setting, nor their facial expressions, body language etc. For me, it's more like putting your ear to a wall and eavesdropping on a conversation taking place in the next room.
And if it's a scenery description, you can forget it. You might as well be Women's Day magazine because I want nothing to do with you. I am one step away from skimming at that point. I abandoned Grapes of Wrath six months ago because Steinbeck spent the first three pages describing the scenery of dust bowl ravaged Oklahoma. I started it twice and both times I wanted to sleep after three pages. There must be better ways to start a book, Steinbeck. Is it the worst opening chapter of any classic book? (And yes, I am aware that my criticizing Steinbeck is a little like my 6 year old nephew giving Pujols batting tips.)
I'm realizing however that I hate scenery descriptions because I'm a bad reader. If I'm not taking time to visualize the setting then of course scenery descriptions are worthless to me. No wonder I'm skimming. I'm like a six year old saying, "Yeah, yeah, what happens next?!" Could be why I love Hemingway so much. He never would have described scenery for three pages to open up a book. There would be some witty dialogue and then everybody would have had a delicious cocktail of some sort.
So if I'm getting into the spirit of this assignment I've got to change, I must dive into scenery descriptions and mentally create fully developed physical attributes of my characters. I gotta tell you though, it's hard. I'd like to say I've made this choice to visualize and suddenly I'm the Einstein of Visualization. But it's like any life-long habit you try to change: in the beginning it is continual effort. Conscious choice after conscious choice. Nearly 30 years of lazy reading isn't going away because I'm a reading teacher, and I don't want to be a hypocrite.
My first conscious choice to visualize was in The Island of Dr. Moreau. The main character was in a cave surrounded by half animal/half human creatures of various types. They began rhythmically chanting their 10 commandments in some sort of religious ceremony. I picked a hell of a time to start visualizing. I started think about the heat coming from the breath of the hog man standing inches from him. It was such a powerful experience that I had to stop reading. I mean imagine going from a black and white TV, to an HD, IMAX, 3D, digital surround sound theater. It was a bit jarring. I wondered, "Is this what I've been missing the whole time? Can what I was watching before even be considered TV? Is everyone else's TV this good?"
I've found, however, that part of me immediately resists this new habit regardless of my pleasure in the experience. For one, it makes reading much slower. I'm not use to simultaneously reading and deeply visualizing. It feels like the old, "rub your belly, pat your head" challenge. I can feel the new brain muscles beginning to develop and it's exhausting. My visualizing stamina is capable of about one lap around the track right now.
The task master voice in my head doesn't help either. He rushes in like a football coach shouting at players taking too long at the water fountain, "Daniel! Lets get back on pace! 25 books in 9 months aren't happening while you are wasting away in Dr. Moreauville! You want to wear your wife's wedding dress to work Daniel1?!"
I'm doing my best to push through the mental exhaustion and the annoying coach. Last night, I read about Teddy Roosevelt as a young boy reading Rob Roy with his family by candle light, in Scotland. It was such a sweet and peaceful image.
A comfortable chair, a perfectly quiet room...and a good book. It can be so sweet, can't it?
And what about you, dear readers? Do you have well-developed pictures of your characters in your mind? Is the scenery just right? How are you at visualizing? Are you a good reader?!
Thanks, as always, for making it this far.
Happy reading,
-td
1. A student suggestion for Mr. Daniel if he did not complete his 6 books this quarter.
Saturday, September 24, 2011
Flannery O'Connor Beat Me Up
I wish there was more time for writing. I haven't posted in a while and that has been a little sad for this has been such an enjoyable process. However, dear readers, you can rest assured that in my 2 week absence I have been extremely productive. I present to you a bounty (sorry still in Pirate mode) of completed books. While I've been away, I've plowed through HG Wells', Island of Dr. Moreau (Award Winner) and Flannery O'Connor's, Wise Blood (Realistic Fiction). My first experience with both authors.
A quick run down of my time with Wells and O'Connor.
Wells is like Michael Crichton's wiser, more idealistic older brother with a larger vocabulary. Fast paced, crazy sci-fi creativity with deep insights into the human condition. I'm pretty sure he was trying to show me the absurdity of religious moral laws, (ie 10 commandments) but to be honest, I couldn't slow myself down enough to really sort through everything. I was a little too focused on the pace I needed to maintain to complete the assignment. Essentially, I was just along for the superficial excitement of an island full of half animal, half human creatures. On that level alone the story was worth reading and I find my self excited about the The Invisible Man which I might try later in the year.
Flannery O'Connor was once quoted saying, "I wrote my first book about freaks and the rest of my books about folks." Thank you, Flannery, thank you. This one line conclusion about her Wise Blood characters, is more than you will receive in the entire book. She utterly refused to help the reader come to any conclusions about her characters, the majority of whom are yes, certifiably insane. And it's how it should be, any good creative writing teacher will hammer, "Show me, don't tell me." But O'Connor takes this to a whole new level and should be used as a shinning beacon for this writing axiom. The main character first appeared bold and comically free from annoying social norms such as being nice to old ladies on the train who want to chat. But then you start to piece it together, "Hmm...this character is quirky, err--wait a second...no...this guy is a looney toon."
I love her desire to show the grace of Jesus through her writing. I love that she doesn't feel pressure to write neatly wrapped stories of redemption. But I'll be honest, I really didn't want this window into the soul of Joe Crazy. I was drained by the end of it. I can't help but think she should come with some sort of warning label. Like an experienced O'Connor fan should have pulled me aside and said, "Look, it's worth the ride but here is what you need to prepare yourself for; she's not going to baby you. She's not Max Lucado. She is not afraid to punch you in the face, then the gut, back to the face, stand over you on the ground, point a finger in your face, and say, 'Your God is too small.'"
Absolutely cannot deny the talent. I loved her sweet, simple metaphors/smiles, they resonate for several pages. She's economical with language like Hemingway. I'm excited to give her another try, now that I know what to expect.
For the next book it's time to reap the fruits of my last two weeks of labor. I have extra time to accomplish my quarter goal of 6 books and instead of trying to get ahead, I'm going to read a longer book that I have been eyeing on my shelf for a couple months: David McCullough's, Mornings on Horseback, a Teddy Rosevelt biography. Teddy has peaked my curiosity ever since I first read the "It's not the critic who counts...". My favorite presidental quote with all others being a distant and unimportant second. David McCullough's been like a well-traveled, loving grandfather. He paiteintly tells me great tales of history and seems to know that I bring very little background knowledge to the table. I'm "carry my book around everywhere, read every free second," excited.
Thanks for reading. More to come this week.
peace,
-td
A quick run down of my time with Wells and O'Connor.
Wells is like Michael Crichton's wiser, more idealistic older brother with a larger vocabulary. Fast paced, crazy sci-fi creativity with deep insights into the human condition. I'm pretty sure he was trying to show me the absurdity of religious moral laws, (ie 10 commandments) but to be honest, I couldn't slow myself down enough to really sort through everything. I was a little too focused on the pace I needed to maintain to complete the assignment. Essentially, I was just along for the superficial excitement of an island full of half animal, half human creatures. On that level alone the story was worth reading and I find my self excited about the The Invisible Man which I might try later in the year.
Flannery O'Connor was once quoted saying, "I wrote my first book about freaks and the rest of my books about folks." Thank you, Flannery, thank you. This one line conclusion about her Wise Blood characters, is more than you will receive in the entire book. She utterly refused to help the reader come to any conclusions about her characters, the majority of whom are yes, certifiably insane. And it's how it should be, any good creative writing teacher will hammer, "Show me, don't tell me." But O'Connor takes this to a whole new level and should be used as a shinning beacon for this writing axiom. The main character first appeared bold and comically free from annoying social norms such as being nice to old ladies on the train who want to chat. But then you start to piece it together, "Hmm...this character is quirky, err--wait a second...no...this guy is a looney toon."
I love her desire to show the grace of Jesus through her writing. I love that she doesn't feel pressure to write neatly wrapped stories of redemption. But I'll be honest, I really didn't want this window into the soul of Joe Crazy. I was drained by the end of it. I can't help but think she should come with some sort of warning label. Like an experienced O'Connor fan should have pulled me aside and said, "Look, it's worth the ride but here is what you need to prepare yourself for; she's not going to baby you. She's not Max Lucado. She is not afraid to punch you in the face, then the gut, back to the face, stand over you on the ground, point a finger in your face, and say, 'Your God is too small.'"
Absolutely cannot deny the talent. I loved her sweet, simple metaphors/smiles, they resonate for several pages. She's economical with language like Hemingway. I'm excited to give her another try, now that I know what to expect.
For the next book it's time to reap the fruits of my last two weeks of labor. I have extra time to accomplish my quarter goal of 6 books and instead of trying to get ahead, I'm going to read a longer book that I have been eyeing on my shelf for a couple months: David McCullough's, Mornings on Horseback, a Teddy Rosevelt biography. Teddy has peaked my curiosity ever since I first read the "It's not the critic who counts...". My favorite presidental quote with all others being a distant and unimportant second. David McCullough's been like a well-traveled, loving grandfather. He paiteintly tells me great tales of history and seems to know that I bring very little background knowledge to the table. I'm "carry my book around everywhere, read every free second," excited.
Thanks for reading. More to come this week.
peace,
-td
Thursday, September 15, 2011
My Favorite Part of Reading
I don't like to admit it. It's hard for some reason. My favorite part of reading is choosing a book. Don't get me wrong, a great book is always an amazing time but there is something about the choosing and anticipation of the next book that gets me fidgety. A quarter of the way through any book, I start looking towards the shelf, eyeing my section of unread books. It's not that I'm unhappy with my current book. It's hard to explain.
The only thing that I can compare it to is traveling. Let's say you had a billionaire uncle and he said, "Here, travel absolutely anywhere you want, it's on me." Then he added this caveat: "and since I'm such an amazing billionaire uncle, go crazy, go as many different places as you want." Well, you'd thank your amazing uncle, think about it, and go somewhere amazing like, let's say, I don't know...Bora Bora1. You land in Bora Bora and you are blown away by the 10,000 different shades of turquoise in your face and the basalt mountain towering in the back ground like a proud, ancient warrior. The first two days you are saying strange things to people: "Do you people see these colors? They don't have colors like this in Kansas. Are we appreciating this enough?" You become poetic and spiritual at the same time, "Dear Father, how great is your color wheel, your mercies shine even upon the turquoise starved valleys of my Kansas soul." Then your mind starts darting strange places very fast like you are in sixth grade and haven't yet developed logic or coherency: "Should I just wear my snorkeling gear at all times? I'm sure my wife would think my goggles and flippers during dinner are both cute and practical. I mean we are always eating right on the water and, well, it'd be great to just go for it between dishes. I need to mention this to her."
However, on the third day or so, a thought slowly enters your mind. "Wait a second. I get to go somewhere after this..." Such a slow, subtle, euphoric thought. It's not that you aren't enjoying Bora Bora, there's just an entire world to explore.
In his autobiography, Surprised by Joy, CS Lewis said, "...it is that of an unsatisfied desire which is itself more desirable than any other satisfaction," (italics added). In a letter to a friend he said it more succinctly, "Our best havings are wantings."
Lewis is nothing, if not bold. Essentially what he's saying to me is that my unmet desire for Bora Bora is more joyous than my actual time in Bora Bora. Or, in the reading world, my standing in line at the midnight book release, sporting my best Ronald Weasly outfit, was more enjoyable than actually reading, The Deathly Hallows.
That makes me uncomfortable.
As I first starting typing these thoughts I was going to straddle the fence. My thesis was gong to be, "Lewis might be right in most cases but in the Bora Bora and Deathly Hallows echelon of experiences it just doesn't apply. They are too beautiful, too gripping. They over shadow the joy of unmet desires." Now, as I'm writing, I'm not so sure. I dreamed of Bora Bora for 25 years. I was reduced to random spats of giggling as I sat in the airport waiting for our flight to Bora Bora. If you had measured my physiological responses, moments before the first Deathly Hallows book was sold, you would have found all the signs of a heart attack, I'm sure. The greater the experience, the greater the unmet desire.
I feel like somehow I'm downgrading my BB and DH experience, like they were disappointing in some way. But that's not truth either. The joy in unmet desires never downgrades the joy of experience. It enhances it I think. If you wanted to side step the issue you could say, "Well, it's just different." But I think I disagree with that as well.
From a spiritual context, maybe that's the one difference between the Father/Son/Holy Spirit and every other millimeter of matter in the universe. In Their presence they are the one thing that is truly too beautiful, too gripping to be overshadowed by the joy unmet desires. They are the one glorious present, the ever resounding NOW. Forever eliminating, "Where do I get to go next?"
Lewis closes his autobiography, Surprised by Joy saying, "But what, in conclusion, of Joy? for that, after all, is what the story has mainly been about. To tell you the truth, the subject has lost nearly all interest for me since I became a Christian...."
So who knows, maybe it's not even a conversation worth having. I think I agree with Lewis, begrudgingly at first, but now with a little more peace. Any thoughts dear readers? Any of this coherent? Is an unmet desire a greater joy than the actual experience?
Thanks for reading,
peace,
td
1. I just got back from Bora Bora on my honeymoon and had been dreaming about it since 5th grade
The only thing that I can compare it to is traveling. Let's say you had a billionaire uncle and he said, "Here, travel absolutely anywhere you want, it's on me." Then he added this caveat: "and since I'm such an amazing billionaire uncle, go crazy, go as many different places as you want." Well, you'd thank your amazing uncle, think about it, and go somewhere amazing like, let's say, I don't know...Bora Bora1. You land in Bora Bora and you are blown away by the 10,000 different shades of turquoise in your face and the basalt mountain towering in the back ground like a proud, ancient warrior. The first two days you are saying strange things to people: "Do you people see these colors? They don't have colors like this in Kansas. Are we appreciating this enough?" You become poetic and spiritual at the same time, "Dear Father, how great is your color wheel, your mercies shine even upon the turquoise starved valleys of my Kansas soul." Then your mind starts darting strange places very fast like you are in sixth grade and haven't yet developed logic or coherency: "Should I just wear my snorkeling gear at all times? I'm sure my wife would think my goggles and flippers during dinner are both cute and practical. I mean we are always eating right on the water and, well, it'd be great to just go for it between dishes. I need to mention this to her."
However, on the third day or so, a thought slowly enters your mind. "Wait a second. I get to go somewhere after this..." Such a slow, subtle, euphoric thought. It's not that you aren't enjoying Bora Bora, there's just an entire world to explore.
In his autobiography, Surprised by Joy, CS Lewis said, "...it is that of an unsatisfied desire which is itself more desirable than any other satisfaction," (italics added). In a letter to a friend he said it more succinctly, "Our best havings are wantings."
Lewis is nothing, if not bold. Essentially what he's saying to me is that my unmet desire for Bora Bora is more joyous than my actual time in Bora Bora. Or, in the reading world, my standing in line at the midnight book release, sporting my best Ronald Weasly outfit, was more enjoyable than actually reading, The Deathly Hallows.
That makes me uncomfortable.
As I first starting typing these thoughts I was going to straddle the fence. My thesis was gong to be, "Lewis might be right in most cases but in the Bora Bora and Deathly Hallows echelon of experiences it just doesn't apply. They are too beautiful, too gripping. They over shadow the joy of unmet desires." Now, as I'm writing, I'm not so sure. I dreamed of Bora Bora for 25 years. I was reduced to random spats of giggling as I sat in the airport waiting for our flight to Bora Bora. If you had measured my physiological responses, moments before the first Deathly Hallows book was sold, you would have found all the signs of a heart attack, I'm sure. The greater the experience, the greater the unmet desire.
I feel like somehow I'm downgrading my BB and DH experience, like they were disappointing in some way. But that's not truth either. The joy in unmet desires never downgrades the joy of experience. It enhances it I think. If you wanted to side step the issue you could say, "Well, it's just different." But I think I disagree with that as well.
From a spiritual context, maybe that's the one difference between the Father/Son/Holy Spirit and every other millimeter of matter in the universe. In Their presence they are the one thing that is truly too beautiful, too gripping to be overshadowed by the joy unmet desires. They are the one glorious present, the ever resounding NOW. Forever eliminating, "Where do I get to go next?"
Lewis closes his autobiography, Surprised by Joy saying, "But what, in conclusion, of Joy? for that, after all, is what the story has mainly been about. To tell you the truth, the subject has lost nearly all interest for me since I became a Christian...."
So who knows, maybe it's not even a conversation worth having. I think I agree with Lewis, begrudgingly at first, but now with a little more peace. Any thoughts dear readers? Any of this coherent? Is an unmet desire a greater joy than the actual experience?
Thanks for reading,
peace,
td
1. I just got back from Bora Bora on my honeymoon and had been dreaming about it since 5th grade
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Shiver me Timbers!
I was a runner in high school, and I still dabble today. During most long distance races (never my forte) there is always a moment during the first half of the race when exhaustion first sets in and the initial adrenaline rush is spent. At that moment, I usually start thinking, "My goodness, how much of this race is left?" And that, ladies and gentlemen, is where I find my self tonight as I sit down to write, just finishing my THIRD book. "I have to keep this pace up for 9 months? My goodness, how much time do I have left for my six books this quarter?" The answer is: 3 books remain and a little more than a month to go (Oct. 16th). The initial adrenaline rush of the challenge and blogging has worn off and though I love to read, the pace is starting to feel a little frantic. If I were in a race, this is where I would psyche myself up, "Travis you can do this. Look, you are surrounded by people who are doing this. You CAN do this." And so I pull inspiration from my students, some whom have finished their fourth book. This past week, I read on lunch breaks, during football games and woke up early before church. At 7:15pm on Sunday, I'm done. It also helped that my wonderful students are starting to wonder if Mr. Daniel should have some sort of consequence if he does not complete his 6 books for the quarter. Student suggestions so far include: 1) Mr. Daniel must shave his beard. 2) Mr. Daniel must shave his head. 3) Mr. Daniel must let wonderful students shave both head and beard. and 4) Mr. Daniel should wear his wife's wedding dress to work. We are still in the negotiating phase...
My pirate book was not everything that I had hoped for as I lusted after it in the midst of my Shakespeare rendezvous. I realized I just wanted some swashbuckling, rip roaring good pirate stories. While there were some good tales, the author spent too much time trying to summarize and create generalities of all pirates. So instead of looting, mutiny and rum party stories, there were more chapters like, "in general, here is what a typical pirate attack looked like", or "here is what the trials of most apprehended pirates amounted to." Interesting enough but after recently reading Over the Edge of the World, and The Heart of the Sea I was left wanting a little more. These two books were non-fiction stories that followed the same characters throughout the length of the book and they were absolute page turners. Historical thrillers if you will. It's not fair that Cordingly had to follow these two books nor his fault that his scope was more broad. For better or worse it just fell flat, left me wanting a connection to these pirate characters the same way I did to Magellan and the Essex crew.
There were, however, some interesting tidbits and fun facts.
Fun Fact #1: Did you know that the pirate with the parrot on his shoulder was rooted in historical fact? A good deal of pirates preyed upon the Spanish vessels returning from the New World with gold, silver and yes, parrots (along with other exotic animals). Several ships adopted the animals as a kind of ship mascot. Looks like Stevenson did his homework.
Fun Fact #2: Did you know France, Spain, and England all recruited sea men to loot and steal from each other? These "privateers" thus began a suspect system with an extremely blurry line between pirate and patriot. Periodically, there would be treaties and truces between these countries, but wait, we suddenly have a generation of seamen that have developed a taste for bounty and can't quite bring themselves to stop their pirating ways.
Not So Fun and Disgusting Fact #3: Please don't read any further if you are squeamish. Seriously just move along to the conclusion. Still with me? Okay, can't help but share the most gruesome of all the pirate torture tactics. After capturing a merchant ship captain, Pirate X wants to know exactly where the valuables are located. In order to obtain this information Pirate X slits open the stomach of the poor captain, pulls out his entrails and nails them to a post. Pirate X then takes a shaft of hot metal and proceeds to brand the captain in the rear. The captain avoid any and all rear brandings by running and jumping. All the while, his evasive actions pull his entrails completely out and he kills himself. Shiver me timbers.... moving on...
Overall, I think I had some unfair expectations of the book. It wasn't awful but with so many amazing books out, there who wants to recommend an average book?
Anyway, dear readers, that is all for now. I'm attempting shorter books for my last three of the quarter. I have HG Wells', The Island of Dr. Moreau, up to bat and Jack London's Call of the Wild/White Fang on deck. I'm looking for a short but high quality biography. Any suggestions?
Preferably under 200 pages. ;)
Thanks for reading,
-td
My pirate book was not everything that I had hoped for as I lusted after it in the midst of my Shakespeare rendezvous. I realized I just wanted some swashbuckling, rip roaring good pirate stories. While there were some good tales, the author spent too much time trying to summarize and create generalities of all pirates. So instead of looting, mutiny and rum party stories, there were more chapters like, "in general, here is what a typical pirate attack looked like", or "here is what the trials of most apprehended pirates amounted to." Interesting enough but after recently reading Over the Edge of the World, and The Heart of the Sea I was left wanting a little more. These two books were non-fiction stories that followed the same characters throughout the length of the book and they were absolute page turners. Historical thrillers if you will. It's not fair that Cordingly had to follow these two books nor his fault that his scope was more broad. For better or worse it just fell flat, left me wanting a connection to these pirate characters the same way I did to Magellan and the Essex crew.
There were, however, some interesting tidbits and fun facts.
Fun Fact #1: Did you know that the pirate with the parrot on his shoulder was rooted in historical fact? A good deal of pirates preyed upon the Spanish vessels returning from the New World with gold, silver and yes, parrots (along with other exotic animals). Several ships adopted the animals as a kind of ship mascot. Looks like Stevenson did his homework.
Fun Fact #2: Did you know France, Spain, and England all recruited sea men to loot and steal from each other? These "privateers" thus began a suspect system with an extremely blurry line between pirate and patriot. Periodically, there would be treaties and truces between these countries, but wait, we suddenly have a generation of seamen that have developed a taste for bounty and can't quite bring themselves to stop their pirating ways.
Not So Fun and Disgusting Fact #3: Please don't read any further if you are squeamish. Seriously just move along to the conclusion. Still with me? Okay, can't help but share the most gruesome of all the pirate torture tactics. After capturing a merchant ship captain, Pirate X wants to know exactly where the valuables are located. In order to obtain this information Pirate X slits open the stomach of the poor captain, pulls out his entrails and nails them to a post. Pirate X then takes a shaft of hot metal and proceeds to brand the captain in the rear. The captain avoid any and all rear brandings by running and jumping. All the while, his evasive actions pull his entrails completely out and he kills himself. Shiver me timbers.... moving on...
Overall, I think I had some unfair expectations of the book. It wasn't awful but with so many amazing books out, there who wants to recommend an average book?
Anyway, dear readers, that is all for now. I'm attempting shorter books for my last three of the quarter. I have HG Wells', The Island of Dr. Moreau, up to bat and Jack London's Call of the Wild/White Fang on deck. I'm looking for a short but high quality biography. Any suggestions?
Preferably under 200 pages. ;)
Thanks for reading,
-td
Monday, September 5, 2011
The True Value of Shakespeare
When I was a senior in high school my two best friends and I bought some really expensive cigars for our senior spring break ski trip. I don't remember what brand they were or how much they cost, only that they were exponentially more expensive than our delicious Swisher Sweets. However, once the cigars where lit after our first day of skiing, I noticed that all three of us were smacking our lips in disgust like we had just eaten some foul peanut butter. We looked at our confused at our mammoth man cigars. We hacked through a few more puffs expecting to get to the more expensive and tasteful part. This was expensive, it won some kind of award, we should like this. This should be good. As Seinfeld once said, "This is like smoking a chicken bone." Finally someone broke down and said what we were all thinking, "Screw it, let's go get some Swishers." In the words of my friend and pre-marriage counselor, we finally stopped "shoulding" on ourselves and immediately made a run for the convenience store to salvage the evening.
I finished The Taming of the Shrew this weekend and I had a very similar experience as described above. The following thoughts ran through my mind at various points, "I should like this. It's Shakespeare, it's classic. Smart people who know literature tell me it is genius and wonderful. I should be able to follow the plot better. I shouldn't have to read lines over and over again trying to figure out what the hell he is saying. I shouldn't be looking longingly at my next book about Pirates. Shakespeare should have written about pirates. This would be a lot cooler with one or two pirates..."
I finished hacking my way through the chicken bone of Shakespeare, and now I'm ready for a run to the connivance store for something more fitting to my palate. Along the way, however, I developed a simple little theory that I like to call the "ESPN.com Shakespeare Corollary." The ESC simply states that your enjoyment of Shakespeare is inversely related to the amount of time you spend on ESPN.com. I am convinced that there is something amongst the stats, 1,000 columnist opinions and 5,000 highlight videos that deadens the Shakespeare taste buds of your reading palate. Now my current rate of ESPN.com consumption is not currently the subject of discussion, but my readers can safely assume that if my theory is true, there is little to no hope of my reading palate finding a home for Shakespeare. I've tried to should myself into liking him but then, my ESPN.com palate starts smacking it's lips and looks at the book like it's some sort of grotesque poultry carcass remain.
All of that aside, there were two things in the Taming of the Shrew that improved my relationship with old Willie. 1) Shakespeare was a great comedian. I had never read a Shakespeare comedy before and was pleasantly surprised. While it was a bit less accessible and arduous than my favorite Will Ferrell comedy, I could picture several scenes on stage being absolutely hysterical. And frankly, it was nice to read something that did not culminate in teenage suicide. 2) Shakespeare was put on this earth for many reasons but one of them was so that we could steal a few of his glorious lines and whisper them in the ears of our sweeties. Shakespeare is generous and kind, not proud and snobbish. He looks down from heaven and smiles upon us ESPNers and says, "Here dear friend, steal my lines, stand on my shoulders, heed my guidance to woo the woman of your heart's eternal spring." So gentlemen, I will pass on a few of his passion soaked pearls from The Taming of the Shrew along with a few ideas on how to implement them for maximum woo effect. These are simple things that take hardly anytime and just a little planning. Just trust me and most of all trust Shakespeare, the master of the woo.
Step 1: The Morning Woo
Wake up a little early and with a dry erase marker write this in the mirror:
"Hast man beheld a fresher gentlewoman?
Such war of white and red within her cheeks!
What stars do spangle heaven with such beauty,
as those two eyes become that heavenly face?"
The impact of this will be magnified if you are not there in the morning. This builds what reading teachers like to call 'rising tension.' As you will see we will build on this throughout the day.
Step 2: The Afternoon Woo:
On some sort of red or pink stationary write the following note and place it in something that she might find later in the day.
Fair lovely maid, once more good day to thee:
Sweet (enter the name of your sweetie here) embrace her for her beauty's sake.
The note could go in her lunch, purse, maybe the windshield of her car in the middle of the day. If your wife picks out her clothes the day before (why do they do this by the way?) maybe place it in one of her a pockets. Whatever will reach her in the middle of the day will work just fine.
Step 3: Return Home Woo
"and happily I have arrived at last
Unto the wished haven of my bliss."
This one you will have to memorize, but I think we can swing that. Use this last line when you see her for the first time after you get home from work. Rush up to her before she has time to thank you for your sweet notes throughout the day, and whisper the above line in her ear in your most over dramatic, sweet, raspy whisper. Now of course she'll giggle and laugh at you. But that's the point, she'll giggle and laugh but she'll do it with a shy little smile looking down at the ground maybe even blushing a little bit. From there just make sure you have your chap stick because you'll be heading for a little place I like to call Smoochyville.
And that ladies and gentleman is a little bit of my 12 rounds with Shakespeare. Thanks for reading!
2 books down 23 to go!
peace,
td
I finished The Taming of the Shrew this weekend and I had a very similar experience as described above. The following thoughts ran through my mind at various points, "I should like this. It's Shakespeare, it's classic. Smart people who know literature tell me it is genius and wonderful. I should be able to follow the plot better. I shouldn't have to read lines over and over again trying to figure out what the hell he is saying. I shouldn't be looking longingly at my next book about Pirates. Shakespeare should have written about pirates. This would be a lot cooler with one or two pirates..."
I finished hacking my way through the chicken bone of Shakespeare, and now I'm ready for a run to the connivance store for something more fitting to my palate. Along the way, however, I developed a simple little theory that I like to call the "ESPN.com Shakespeare Corollary." The ESC simply states that your enjoyment of Shakespeare is inversely related to the amount of time you spend on ESPN.com. I am convinced that there is something amongst the stats, 1,000 columnist opinions and 5,000 highlight videos that deadens the Shakespeare taste buds of your reading palate. Now my current rate of ESPN.com consumption is not currently the subject of discussion, but my readers can safely assume that if my theory is true, there is little to no hope of my reading palate finding a home for Shakespeare. I've tried to should myself into liking him but then, my ESPN.com palate starts smacking it's lips and looks at the book like it's some sort of grotesque poultry carcass remain.
All of that aside, there were two things in the Taming of the Shrew that improved my relationship with old Willie. 1) Shakespeare was a great comedian. I had never read a Shakespeare comedy before and was pleasantly surprised. While it was a bit less accessible and arduous than my favorite Will Ferrell comedy, I could picture several scenes on stage being absolutely hysterical. And frankly, it was nice to read something that did not culminate in teenage suicide. 2) Shakespeare was put on this earth for many reasons but one of them was so that we could steal a few of his glorious lines and whisper them in the ears of our sweeties. Shakespeare is generous and kind, not proud and snobbish. He looks down from heaven and smiles upon us ESPNers and says, "Here dear friend, steal my lines, stand on my shoulders, heed my guidance to woo the woman of your heart's eternal spring." So gentlemen, I will pass on a few of his passion soaked pearls from The Taming of the Shrew along with a few ideas on how to implement them for maximum woo effect. These are simple things that take hardly anytime and just a little planning. Just trust me and most of all trust Shakespeare, the master of the woo.
Step 1: The Morning Woo
Wake up a little early and with a dry erase marker write this in the mirror:
"Hast man beheld a fresher gentlewoman?
Such war of white and red within her cheeks!
What stars do spangle heaven with such beauty,
as those two eyes become that heavenly face?"
The impact of this will be magnified if you are not there in the morning. This builds what reading teachers like to call 'rising tension.' As you will see we will build on this throughout the day.
Step 2: The Afternoon Woo:
On some sort of red or pink stationary write the following note and place it in something that she might find later in the day.
Fair lovely maid, once more good day to thee:
Sweet (enter the name of your sweetie here) embrace her for her beauty's sake.
The note could go in her lunch, purse, maybe the windshield of her car in the middle of the day. If your wife picks out her clothes the day before (why do they do this by the way?) maybe place it in one of her a pockets. Whatever will reach her in the middle of the day will work just fine.
Step 3: Return Home Woo
"and happily I have arrived at last
Unto the wished haven of my bliss."
This one you will have to memorize, but I think we can swing that. Use this last line when you see her for the first time after you get home from work. Rush up to her before she has time to thank you for your sweet notes throughout the day, and whisper the above line in her ear in your most over dramatic, sweet, raspy whisper. Now of course she'll giggle and laugh at you. But that's the point, she'll giggle and laugh but she'll do it with a shy little smile looking down at the ground maybe even blushing a little bit. From there just make sure you have your chap stick because you'll be heading for a little place I like to call Smoochyville.
And that ladies and gentleman is a little bit of my 12 rounds with Shakespeare. Thanks for reading!
2 books down 23 to go!
peace,
td
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Book #1, Perelandra, C.S. Lewis
The weekend before last I finished book number one. One down 24 to go. I tell the kids to average 3-4 books a month and they will be ahead of schedule. Since school started on August 16th I'm just about on pace (I'm posting over a week after finishing, I'm half way through Book #2, more on that later).
You will have to bear with me for I fear reading Perelandra stirred up some stuff. As I started writing, my thoughts began to flow as a letter to CS Lewis. So I'll just give you a brief synopsis of the story and let you read my gushing love letter to my old friend and mentor.
If you haven't read the book I'm not sure what to tell you to be honest. I don't give any major plot turns away but I fear that discussing some of the dialogue might lesson the effect for you. So future Perelandra readers beware.
Perelandra in a Nutshell: On Venus there are two human like creatures living in prefall, Adam and Eve paradise. Satan is trying to tempt them into an Adam and Eve like fall. Dr. Ransom, a human from Earth, is sent to Venus to thwart Satan and his evil plans.
Before my letter a confession: I stole from you Half Priced Books! Well not literally, but listen, I had been scouring every HPB for a copy of Perelandra for 6 months. Four weeks ago I walk in, and there it was, glowing like a white swan in a hog barn. A 1986 copy with the first original artwork on the cover. Price: 2 bucks. I stole from you Half Priced Books! I found pure gold on your shelves, took it to the counter and pretended it was sand. 2 dollars! Betty Sue hipster at the counter, with the flowered tattoos on her hands, yeah, she never saw it coming. I'm sorry HPB's, but I stole from you!
Anyway, here is my man crush letter:
Clive Staples Lewis.
I have missed you. I didn't realize how much I missed you. I sat down to read Perelandra and in a lightning quick 200 pages I was reminded of everything your writing has meant to me. How in college you tore me down, exposing my "questioning phase" as the two thirds, emotional immaturity it was. How you then built me up with the philosophical foundation to handle the remaining third of honest questions. I knew that someone much smarter than myself, my friends, my pastors had taken an honest look at Him and followed Him. I rested in your work. I needed all that you gave me then.
Reading Perelandra now 10 years after our first meeting, I was struck by your deep gift of creativity being used in the Spirit. While it's always hard for me to focus on scenery descriptions, I understand it, the book takes place on Venus. That's understandable.
But the dialogue. My goodness Lewis, the dialogue. While Ransom was trying to protect the unfallen Queen through conversation and debate with Satan...I was up till midnight, knuckles white. Meanwhile my heart was delighting in deep spiritual truths. It was like a seminary theology book on acid. No...not acid, too much 60's drug culture. A theology book rewritten by Hendrix? Nah, still at Woodstock. Theological napalm? Theology wrestling with Avatar characters? Something along those lines...
I want people to read this to get a taste of what we lost. What it looks like to experience the Lord in an unfallen world. I want people to see how the "things unseen" are so much deeper than what we see in front of our face. How our reality is simply the crust of something much more true and beautiful.
Can I share my favorite quote with you?
"I have never done it before--stepping out of life into the Alongside and looking at oneself living as if one were not alive. Do they all do that in your world Piebald?"
As a chronic "Alongsider" it was beautiful to read of a creature fully engaged in the present, fully engaged in constant dialogue with the Father. How wonderfully foreign it was for her to consider viewing herself as others might see her. To focus on the future, dwell on the past, or spend time in front of a mirror.
I loved your depiction of Satan. I loved the nuance of his using intellect like one of many weapons that could be picked up or discarded like a sword. I got a good chuckle when he reverted to childlike tactics to annoy Ransom once the Queen slept. And oh how cunning he was. How he masterfully twisted truth. His promise, that if she did what he was suggesting, the Lord Himself would come to Venus just like he did on Earth ("Don't you want Him to come here?"). Satan was as brilliant as he should have been.
Did you know your books are right at my reading level? I tell my kids to pick a "just right book" using the "five finger rule." If you read one page of a book and it has 0-1 words you don't understand it's too easy. 2-3 words; just right. 4-5 words and it's too hard. I'm a little embarrassed to say that there were at least 2-3 words per page that I didn't know. I tell myself that they were just English words that I wasn't familiar with. Truth is my vocab ain't so great.
Can I call you Jack? I hear your friends called you Jack. Jack, I hope some day to meet at your favorite Pub, I'll bring the best gin and pipe I can find and I'll beg to sit with the rest of the Inklings. I can only imagine what you've dreamed up while eternity has been on your side.
Can't wait to ask what you've been reading.
Thanks so much good brother,
-td
You will have to bear with me for I fear reading Perelandra stirred up some stuff. As I started writing, my thoughts began to flow as a letter to CS Lewis. So I'll just give you a brief synopsis of the story and let you read my gushing love letter to my old friend and mentor.
If you haven't read the book I'm not sure what to tell you to be honest. I don't give any major plot turns away but I fear that discussing some of the dialogue might lesson the effect for you. So future Perelandra readers beware.
Perelandra in a Nutshell: On Venus there are two human like creatures living in prefall, Adam and Eve paradise. Satan is trying to tempt them into an Adam and Eve like fall. Dr. Ransom, a human from Earth, is sent to Venus to thwart Satan and his evil plans.
Before my letter a confession: I stole from you Half Priced Books! Well not literally, but listen, I had been scouring every HPB for a copy of Perelandra for 6 months. Four weeks ago I walk in, and there it was, glowing like a white swan in a hog barn. A 1986 copy with the first original artwork on the cover. Price: 2 bucks. I stole from you Half Priced Books! I found pure gold on your shelves, took it to the counter and pretended it was sand. 2 dollars! Betty Sue hipster at the counter, with the flowered tattoos on her hands, yeah, she never saw it coming. I'm sorry HPB's, but I stole from you!
Anyway, here is my man crush letter:
Clive Staples Lewis.
I have missed you. I didn't realize how much I missed you. I sat down to read Perelandra and in a lightning quick 200 pages I was reminded of everything your writing has meant to me. How in college you tore me down, exposing my "questioning phase" as the two thirds, emotional immaturity it was. How you then built me up with the philosophical foundation to handle the remaining third of honest questions. I knew that someone much smarter than myself, my friends, my pastors had taken an honest look at Him and followed Him. I rested in your work. I needed all that you gave me then.
Reading Perelandra now 10 years after our first meeting, I was struck by your deep gift of creativity being used in the Spirit. While it's always hard for me to focus on scenery descriptions, I understand it, the book takes place on Venus. That's understandable.
But the dialogue. My goodness Lewis, the dialogue. While Ransom was trying to protect the unfallen Queen through conversation and debate with Satan...I was up till midnight, knuckles white. Meanwhile my heart was delighting in deep spiritual truths. It was like a seminary theology book on acid. No...not acid, too much 60's drug culture. A theology book rewritten by Hendrix? Nah, still at Woodstock. Theological napalm? Theology wrestling with Avatar characters? Something along those lines...
I want people to read this to get a taste of what we lost. What it looks like to experience the Lord in an unfallen world. I want people to see how the "things unseen" are so much deeper than what we see in front of our face. How our reality is simply the crust of something much more true and beautiful.
Can I share my favorite quote with you?
"I have never done it before--stepping out of life into the Alongside and looking at oneself living as if one were not alive. Do they all do that in your world Piebald?"
As a chronic "Alongsider" it was beautiful to read of a creature fully engaged in the present, fully engaged in constant dialogue with the Father. How wonderfully foreign it was for her to consider viewing herself as others might see her. To focus on the future, dwell on the past, or spend time in front of a mirror.
I loved your depiction of Satan. I loved the nuance of his using intellect like one of many weapons that could be picked up or discarded like a sword. I got a good chuckle when he reverted to childlike tactics to annoy Ransom once the Queen slept. And oh how cunning he was. How he masterfully twisted truth. His promise, that if she did what he was suggesting, the Lord Himself would come to Venus just like he did on Earth ("Don't you want Him to come here?"). Satan was as brilliant as he should have been.
Did you know your books are right at my reading level? I tell my kids to pick a "just right book" using the "five finger rule." If you read one page of a book and it has 0-1 words you don't understand it's too easy. 2-3 words; just right. 4-5 words and it's too hard. I'm a little embarrassed to say that there were at least 2-3 words per page that I didn't know. I tell myself that they were just English words that I wasn't familiar with. Truth is my vocab ain't so great.
Can I call you Jack? I hear your friends called you Jack. Jack, I hope some day to meet at your favorite Pub, I'll bring the best gin and pipe I can find and I'll beg to sit with the rest of the Inklings. I can only imagine what you've dreamed up while eternity has been on your side.
Can't wait to ask what you've been reading.
Thanks so much good brother,
-td
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