The "Sea Peoples": American Philistinism

Edgar Degas, "David and Goliath"

"Philistine" is a lovely pejorative that has unfortunately gone out of fashion -- or at least out of the common ken.

According to the Oxford English Dictionary, a "philistine" is "3. ... An uneducated or unenlightened person; one perceived to be indifferent or hostile to art or culture, or whose interests and tastes are commonplace or material; a person who is not a connoisseur."

Perhaps the very reason for the mysterious disappearance of such a germane descriptor is that we are so inundated with Philistia that we cannot see it, like a fish in the sea. Only a Noah will float.

One has only to review the "reviews" of Terrence Malick's To the Wonder to discover the inane blatherings of our very own American philistian moviegoers, who apparently equivocate between animal stimulus and good art. Take, for instance, this particular jewel presented graciously to the Amazon passer-by's innocent perusal. Please try to read this comment in its entirety, considering it a spiritual exercise in order to "know thy enemy":

"I'm educated, I went to college. I can appreciate works of 'art' and I have done. However, to watch this movie is to waste time and money on a kaleidoscope of someone else's brain vomit. If I hadn't read the synopsis, I very seriously doubt I would have had a clue what this movie was about. Scattered images and very little dialogue thrown together in a pathetic attempt to seem 'arty' [sic] when, in fact, it comes off as very contrived and forced. When filmmakers come up with this tripe, I can only imagine that they have simply forgotten the 'point' which is to entertain the viewer. I was not entertained. Only shallow people attempting to exhibit nonexistent depth are even going to pretend they enjoyed this viewing experience. However, if you marvel at seeing wonderful actors spin around in the sun and actually NOT act (or even speak audibly); if you enjoy watching a movie presented very similarly to a dream I had last night; or, if you are out to impress that cute blond in your liberal arts classes by feigning intellectualism -- then by all means, go for it."

Thank you, Kellie from Miami. You were very entertaining. I feel less shallow now. "Are you not entertained?," says Maximus. I was entertained. Are you entertained?

That the idea of the beautiful in a piece of artwork and the idea of entertainment held by many Americans are not synonymous, I think you will agree, but in the interest of culture I will provide some delineations. In doing so, I accept the risk of appearing to be one of those "shallow people attempting to exhibit nonexistent depth." ;)

Entertainment. When we seek entertainment, we are usually relying upon someone else's effort to make us laugh, smile, gaze in wonderment, recoil in mock horror. In so doing, we are asking that person or other entity to satisfy our expectations, to fulfill our pre-conceived notions of what will make us happy or afford us some distraction from the weariness of life. Entertainment never transcends the sphere of the immanent.

Ms. Kellie from Miami seeks the same. She would very much like to have all of her instinctual desires recognized and catered to by the filmmaker. She refuses to be brought out of herself in order to encounter a mode of experience that is superior to her own. No. That would make her uncomfortable, and we cannot have "educated" people being made to feel uncomfortable, especially if they have attended "college" and thus understand how to appreciate "'arty'" things.

Sorry, Kellie. Art is ecstasy.

Culture. When we seek culture (and I am referring to the Arnoldian scheme when I say "culture" -- see the final paragraph of "Violence and Cinema"), we are seeking something beyond ourselves. We are seeking something we have not attained, and in this seeking we accept that we must toil with difficult ideas, with difficult perspectives that will at first confuse us when they seek to liberate us from the animal and the mundane.

To take up the banner of Culture is similar to the Christian ideal of taking up the cross. It is a way of intellectual perfection that always looks for the more potently significant in life, even at the expense of the comfort and pleasure of an easy romance or a gratuitous battle sequence. In truth, the way of Culture is the way of the spiritual, of understanding the world and oneself as realities infused with spiritual magnitude, and of seeking to understand the meaning of that magnitude. The way of Culture, of perfection, is infinite, as humankind is infinite.

Thus, to the "'point.'" To be a philistine is to pin down, to ground, to crush things into a swallowable morsel for one's disposal. Yes, to be a philistine is to be a consumer both of products and of ideas -- to dispense with them, to put them in their place so that whatever small-minded existence one possesses may continue without disturbance.

(The idea of philistinism is thus easily pinned down -- it hardly wriggles -- while the ideas expressed variously in such a film as To the Wonder are not so easily placed, nor should they be.)

I dare say Ms. Kellie from Miami has put Malick in his place. For her, the eminent filmmaker with a long and fascinating career as an artist offers the world nothing but "brain vomit."

The person of Culture disagrees.

He can see for her the waves of the Florida sound begin to rise in tumultuous clamor, washing further and further their dross upon the shore. They will take her up with the zombies that dash toward the sealed ark, and she will float for awhile in a hell of thrashing bodies and silted water until she sinks, unaware like a fish in its sea.

But then again, she is a person ... with the sort of infinite potential displayed by Malick in his exploration of human capacities. She can change, though she be Delilah of the Sea Peoples.

Relativism: The Scourge of the West

Relativism is, surely, a loaded term in the West today. Generally, when spoken, the word carries a negative connotation; even those who believe in some strain of relativism do not like the label. I find this topic interesting largely because of the way the phenomenon of relativism has seized western culture, while relativism as a philosophy has experienced a less than robust life. Up until the last couple of centuries, serious minded thinkers viewed relativistic thought as a nonviable way to understand and describe reality. With modern science and the spreading compartmentalization of knowledge, and modern philosophy and its replacing of God with the self, relativism began its forceful and flattening march on western culture.

One might look around now and easily find at least a couple manifestations of relativism – the one, paralyzing, the other, emboldening. Before continuing, let us have a general definition of relativism from which to build our discussion: the idea that any truth or knowledge is relative to a specified framework (i.e. culture, history, society). Of the two manifestations, the former follows very closely the definition above. The relativist of this manner may be a somewhat thoughtful person. Seeing the irrefutable fact that different peoples in different times and places have formed varying beliefs and behaviors, the relativist concludes that his judgments about other cultures or societies or the good or ill therein are nullified by the fact that all he believes is relative to his own time and place. There may be knowable truths, and judgments that follow, within his specific framework, but he does not believe that “his truth” applies to those outside his framework, thus he is paralyzed and unable to act. As one narrows the appropriate realm of human reason, one widens the chasm between himself and truth.

The second manifestation of relativism magnifies the narrowing effect seen above, for the framework in which one is locked is no longer one’s culture, society, or position in history but one’s self. The threat of this relativism is far more than the frustrating experiences of hearing someone say, “Well, that’s just your opinion.” If we take the proportionality statement above, this second kind of relativism creates even more separation from the truth, and therefore, is more dangerous than the first. With all things relative to the self, the self becomes radically independent, disconnected from others and society.

It should be clear why this phenomenon of relativism continues to spread and take hold: it is easy, convenient, requiring only a weak mind, and a weaker will. This kind of relativism is what Joseph Ratzinger once called “a dictatorship of relativism.”¹ With nothing definite, there is nothing demanded, and so this relativism brings forth an illusion of freedom while in reality, the independent and distorted self turns inward and becomes enslaved to its own desires.

We find ourselves under this “dictatorship of relativism” today – the battle for men’s souls rages. As man narrows his horizon and moves further from the truth, the question of what is to be done becomes more difficult still. One answer, one hope, is beauty. Somehow, the relativist must experience ecstasy, must come out of himself. The artist, then, is charged with the highest of tasks: making men free. Beauty has the power to awaken in man new desires, to turn his gaze upward towards heavenly things, to crack his hardened heart so that the light of truth might begin to shine through. In his unique relationship to the Beautiful, the artist plays a central role in broadening the narrow vision of the relativist. The relativists are correct that we all live, think, and interact within a specified framework – how small have you made yours?

Fiction: "Kronos: A Fable"

Eyvind Earle, "Garden of Eden"

Written by Ross J. McKnight
Edited by Jonathan Torres


1.

2127. And the world is happy – all the world. Having returned to the woods, the fields, away from the deathly cities, and back to the earth, where loving plants grow and animals become less frightful. Back to the farms and to the peace of the country, in which all people find their natural home.

The change in climate over the last century has had the great effect of rendering vesture unnecessary. The days are warm though the wind blows cool at times. And the great labor is to keep fruit-bearing plants to their plots, for they outstretch in gangly fronds their slow-swelling stalks.

There are many such colonies as ours upon moundy green high grounds among the swaths of bog and wetland. The mountains of what was the Blue Ridge untouched except their mysterious fogs and mists now merge with the smoky evaporation steaming from the staid water below, in the mornings leaving bright greeny mounds glistening, an ancient land of reptiles with hot stones and earthy crevasses.

And in all of this the joys of love. My lover himself is in the woods today to harvest honey as I sit here writing the journal of this our new life. Years of utter waste and darkness behind. Who could have said with any hope we would be here in the perfection of bliss? And yet it is so.

Who knows what happiness will befall me next. I keep this record of my joys for recollection. Many days from now I will have flowered – spread colorful wings, known inexplicable ecstasies. I write now as from the heart of one initiate of pleasure, a mere acolyte of happiness, but destined to burst through the very bounds of sense.

2.

No need to count the days in any urgency. As if our lives constantly prepare for demanding events created to justify them. A tyranny. I live, and today is a life of flowers, blooms of this eternal spring. I awaken to the scent of a bright yellow bundle laid upon my lap. My lover is broader than I with dark curls on the chest, dark curls above the brow. He stands and bares healthy teeth. We embrace.

He walks me through the field outside our wall. The dew bites but briefly before sun restores comfort to the little toes. He takes me to the bee hives. Harmless creatures after the quietus, the purest most efficient natural adaptation in history: immortality and harmony.

We walk the natural bridge to watch the Falls. The crashing water steams up from far below, blessing the pores and refreshing the senses beyond possibility. Possibility is overthrown. A lilting call from the eastern bank and we disappear.

With the Perfection we all know instinctively the greatest pleasure available in any circumstance, and we nearly always act accordingly. My lover, for instance, bears the scent of sweet daylily and fresh lavender – his hair is fluid, thick, affirmative of the hand that strokes it. We recount the joys of each day. There is no pleasure mindful we together leave untouched.

I am still chased by dreams.

3.

I dreamed last night that I bathed alone at the Falls. My hair streamed behind as I surfaced and turned to the shore. There a solitary bloom hung over in the midnight darkness. I stretched out my hand to touch the stem and a shock of intoxicating agony transfixed it there. I awoke with tears.

4.

Again at the pool beneath the Falls. The water of such a temperature to quicken the mind, burst the heart. I dove deep into the center but could not reach the bottom. As I swam towards the surface, I thought I saw a wavering form retreat from the water's edge, but slow.

Wind rustled the cold dewy wild blooms, settled weighted resting stalks. The night was still, and memory left me; I knew not myself or why I sat there by a pool on a rock. I withheld the pride of some cause, but could not place it. An owl jeered.

I made the mild climb to the grassy clifftop and morning broke though dawn could not. A soft breeze tousled fern fronds and the fine hairs on my head; the birds called from their early waking as the sky turned the very color of dreams. Still shadow with a rising blue.

The figure reappeared. She lay down oddly shaped amid the river stones. She seemed soft and rounded in all parts. Her eyes half-closed, she released low sighs, musical moans from out the water babble. Brown hair splayed out upon the mottled pebbles as she loosed small cries, drawing legs up around her bulbous middle. She pressed her curved back against a low rounded boulder and in one bright moment a call that reverberated from tree boles on the stream-side to nighted cliffs through the little vale and surging into space – a small noisy creature appeared between her thighs glowing by the weakening moonlight.

She lifted the little one to her breast wiping free the blood and fluids. She gazed awhile at the sleeping form until she shook violently, her head falling back upon the rock.

Days passed. The water coursing livened and spoke. The coiling breezes played in her hair and the babe wailed. It's feeble shape slid fortunately toward her standing nipple, and it sucked forth life.

Weeks. Months. Years. The child grew. He lingered, at times moaned sweetly; he would, at times, sit quite still at her side, clasp her face between his little hands and seem to pray. He wet her cheeks with tears that wet his own, brushed back her flowing hair and was quiet in the loneliness of grief. She lay and breathed.

The sun rose one morning glowing; a vast wine-drenched sky hung over the vale. The water, catching the light, dyed blue rocky banks with a rosy hue. And for the first time the boy upraised his eyes to the cresting mass upon the horizon. He climbed the stone steps of the Falls and gazed out from a body that hung upon forgotten will.

Now I could see his eyes open upon worlds of hope, fear, despair, love. Torn by agony he yet did not turn his face from the wonder in the sky. The earth unrolled its rich tapestry before his feet, and with a cry that struck my heart to stone he sprang forward like a bucking antelope. I watched his flying form until another cry bewildered my ears, wrenched my gaze to the stream-side. There the terrified mother wrestled with stoney limbs to rise and cast about with racing breath and pained look.

Footprints in the wet earth. Pursuit. Without a thought running weeping seeing every trace with a longing that effaced her. Her form – wind blowing the grass unknowing going. The orb over all the earth let forth a new radiance of volatile swallowing fire – blood and wine from the sky.

Black figures recede into the gargantuan sun like crust of dross in a crucible and I wonder what pitiless curse plagues mother and child. The sun grows ever closer, the land vanishing, subsumed into its mass while the wind's searing torrent knocks me flat like streaming beach-grass – abandoned pawn on the sands. The cooked earth coughs up flares upon the wastes and I am wracked with pangs.

* * *

Upon my awakening, the eyes of the youngest Prefect a mile distant burst open. His heart flutters – he searches reasonless.

My lover looks at me. I nod. He smiles, caresses my ears, my hair, but in his eyes there is the sickest dread. He brings me with every effort to where I must forget myself in the extenuation of every sense.