• Even So

    The street is steady and the lights are fixedtheir glow projects between the yellow linesthe rain dissolves within a fragile mistAnd I am here pretending to be fine

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  • Again: On suffering, the gain of loss, and doing things again

    Throughout the past week and a half, I’ve been suffering from frequent headaches. Or, more accurately put, I’ve been suffering from one continuous headache, which has shifted its shape, has

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  • Unfinished Things

    Sometimes I have this sense of being perpetually behind. It can be hard to account for – at times, the feeling arises when from external appearance I might seem to

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  • Encounters with the Light

    I wait For what? For something that could comeor notfor inspiration that I’ve soughtin secret places of the souland mind, but recently forgotto look for fleeting things,to see the fragment

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  • Dear Beloved: Other People’s Eyes

    Dear Beloved, You are trying to live from a place of confidence and trust, but habits long-formed continue to get in your way. Some of these are ingrained in your

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Amusing Ourselves to Death

What could possibly be bad about entertainment? How could something which amuses and provides us with pleasure have harmful implications?

These are questions you might very well be asking after seeing the title of the book this review is about: “Amusing Ourselves to Death.” Here, amusement, which is seen as something light and unserious, is connected with the darkest and most serious inevitability ingrained into the experience of life: death.

This polemical book, written by Neil Postman, is a warning against the dangers that come along with the Age of Entertainment. Postman is writing these cautions in 1984, and since then, I would say, we have only slid further down the slippery slope he envisioned. 1984 found our Western culture on the very edge of something new, something which would and does, in many ways, define our social landscape: the computer, and the digital technologies and social media platforms that have sprung from this invention. Although Postman doesn’t give much attention to the computer, focusing instead on the effects of television, his insights are still infinitely relevant in our current age. Indeed, the ramifications of television consumption can be extended quite naturally to the new forms of technology that have gained prominence since Postman’s time.

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Mr. Holmes

As mentioned in my post on BBC’s Sherlock, countless portrayals of Sherlock Holmes and his super sleuthing ways have appeared on our screens since Conan Doyle’s creation of the classic character. Although “Mr. Holmes” could have been just another movie to add to the pile, I think it sees the story and the person of Sherlock Holmes in an entirely new way, and as a result is very deserving of recognition.

The film focuses on an elderly Sherlock, who has removed himself from his former crime-solving career, retiring to an isolated house in the English countryside where he lives with his housekeeper and her adorable (and adorably inquisitive) son, Roger. The cinematography in the movie is breathtaking, with sweeping shots of ocean and cliff that lend an atmosphere of serenity to Sherlock’s chosen abode for his final days. But inside Sherlock’s brilliant (though deteriorating mind), there is neither serenity nor peace, so haunted is he by the unresolved case that prompted him to leave his profession.

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Thoughts: The Wonder of Minutiae

Isn’t there something inherently beautiful in detail? An object may not seem objectively beautiful (it may even be considered ugly), and yet it is invested with a sudden beauty when its intricacy (the unfathomable wonder of minutiae!) is unveiled. I had a strange and wonderful experience of this sort upon seeing a worn and weary rust-rimmed garbage can. After immediately dismissing the object as dirty (worthless even?), I saw deeper inside the little orange circles and the way they spiralled around one another. And in a peculiar and illuminating moment of revelation, even the garbage belonged and was not merely something waiting to be thrown away.

The Runner and the Arbitrary Line

When we think about running, the thought of the finish line is not far behind. This is because the runner often runs as training, in order to prepare for a race. And in such a race, the route is not self-determined, not set to every runner’s individual preference. Rather, there is a specified starting point and finishing line. And to finish the race, you must cross said line; thus you are running towards a particular destination. This notion of running to meet a specific goal has the potential for utilitarian implications, but that is the subject for a future post. What I’m interested in discussing today is how this idea of the finish line can translate to individual running, to a running that is not goal-oriented.

I have only participated in a couple of races over the course of my life, and none of them recent. There are some things that linger in my mind from these occasions: the mounting tension and excitement before the starting horn, the spirit of camaraderie and the cheering supporters. I have been one of these cheering supporters far more frequently than I have been a runner receiving this support. As a spectator at races in which my father and brother were running, I felt some of the same feelings (though with none of the discomfort or energy expenditure involved in actual running). There were nerves as I waited for a familiar face to appear around the last bend, there was a surge of pride as I watched them cross the finish line. But as I run on my own, often without a watch and not training for anything in particular, is the idea of the race in any way applicable?

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What to Read this Week: Thomas Hardy and the Titanic

Let’s play the word association game with Thomas Hardy! If anything comes springing to mind, it is most likely his classic novel, Tess of the D’Urbervilles, his most widely known work. Tess of the D’Urbervilles is certainly an excellent novel- in fact, I adore this novel and will probably write a review of it at some point in the future. Yet, interestingly, Hardy’s primary passion was not for the novelistic form but for poetry. Indeed, Hardy desired to be a poet and saw himself as a poet first and foremost. He set about writing novels to support himself financially, and then focused on poetry when he was better off.

Today Thomas Hardy is mainly remembered for his novels. This recognition is well-deserved, since, as I mentioned above, Hardy is a master craftsman when it comes to the novel. However, he is also a master poet, one of the best of the Victorian era, and it is his poetry that I want to recommend in this post, specifically the poem, “The Convergence of the Twain.” This poem, which you can read here, is about the ill-fated Titanic.

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Ebb and Flow

Life does not occur on a level plane. There are inevitable highs and lows. Yet this is what gives to life value, and preserves the sanctity of wonder, joy and beauty, so they are not reduced to a monotonous existence, an impoverished understanding of life. Life has what I might call a natural and necessary ebb and flow. This is evident in the changing seasons of life. There is a circularity in the yearly repetition of special occasions and holidays. However, there is also a singularity to these events: they happen once in the entire cycle of days, and their value would be denigrated if instead they were constantly recurring.

This is true of both the creative and the spiritual life (since the two are inextricably connected). Creative ascent is so named because it involves a movement above the normalcy of life. The creative individual is given this unique ability to transcend his human capacity and earthly height, in order to see from a higher perspective. To me, this sort of miraculous rise (and by miraculous I mean creative or spiritual insight that seems to go beyond the limits or processes of reason) can be compared to the climber’s trek up the mountain.

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The Fellowship of the Ring

Before this summer, I had never seen the Lord of the Rings. I hope I haven’t shocked you too much with this admission, and that you will keep reading, instead of closing the page with disgust. I don’t know why it has taken me so long to watch them, but perhaps it can be explained by my habitual lack of interest in fantasy and action. However, as time went on, I understood that Tolkien’s work is so much more than this, that it transcends these genre boundaries and certainly any prejudice against them. I understood this and found that I wanted to explore Middle Earth, but as with many things where one is so far “behind” the cultural pace, the opportunity never seemed to arise, or, more likely, I held onto the idea that it was just too late for me to “join the club.”

And yet I finally made the plunge, after reading The Hobbit in a Children’s Literature course, and then with the encouragement of my brother, whom I consider quite an expert in the area of Tolkien. I confess I haven’t yet read the books (and apologize for this blasphemy), but they are now placed firmly on my to-read list for the imminent future. The point of all these ramblings is that I have finally watched The Lord of the Rings, and what follows is my review of the first movie, The Fellowship of the Ring.

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Thoughts: The Coolness of Rain

After I finished my run and just as I began to walk home, it started to rain. The first thought to occur to me was, “Oh no, it’s raining!” as is the usual and seemingly natural response (by now automatic). Then I stopped (my train of thinking; I didn’t stop walking) and asked myself, seeing that I was already drenched with sweat from my run, did it really matter whether my hair and clothes got wet, whether they were “ruined”? I stopped in my overhasty judgement of the rain as a negative occurrence. I stopped and the rain became a gift.

Suddenly every drop of rain was like the tiny pinprick of a diamond and I was dazzling, adorned with their light. Every drop was a pinprick of love, for love does not always (does not often) come in the shape it was intended. Every drop became a concrete manifestation of God’s promise to cleanse me, to wash me clean of fear and shame, to purify and create me anew in His image.

And what’s more? I was sticky and hot after running in the dry dust of summer, and the coolness of rain felt extraordinarily good.

The Lost Art of Walking

I am calling this new series (which begins with this post) “The Lost Arts,” because it is about rediscovering the artistry and beauty of simple acts. These are acts we often take for granted or that are merely ordered to other ends. We may do them automatically, without thinking, or we may not even do them at all. Our culture is one that praises fast over slow and more over less, exalting freedom and choice despite expecting conformity and holding in contempt dependence and contemplation.

Although these trends, I think, often cause us to miss what is most beautiful and valuable in life (forsaking what is most beautiful and valuable in ourselves in the process), I believe that we can reclaim this beauty and value. One way this can be done is by focusing on little things (simple pursuits as I mentioned above) and re-seeing them, transforming them into an “art” rather than a meaningless aspect of existence. They are lost, indeed, but not irrevocably so; something which is lost is also something which can be found. It is lost yet not destroyed. Though forgotten, it is still in wait of remembrance.

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