Fiction: "Strannik: A Vision"

Herbert James Draper, "The Lament for Icarus"

Written by Jonathan Torres
Edited by Ross J. McKnight



Mother.

You were the first to point me towards the desert star. I looked up and never turned my face away. To have, to hold, to consume - this is all I ever wanted. In searching I have found who I am. I am your son. As I wander, I hear you calling my name. Strannik. I wander. I hear your call. I will never turn away.

Your love is my staff. I do not wander alone. The further I walk, the further I stumble, the further I crawl, the sand cuts harder, the winds flow faster, but the star burns ever brighter. I do not wander alone.

In my first three years of traveling I have met my brothers and sisters, yet have met none like me. I mentioned the star on the horizon and they smiled. Yes, they saw it, but they did not want it. They did not love it. They claimed the sands were too rough, the winds too wild, and so they turned away just as the star burned brighter. I will never turn away.

My brothers and sisters traveled with me for a short time, pretending to want it, pretending to love it. One by one they fell. One by one they came to me and wept. They told me they were sorry. I forgave them, and let them return to their homes. All of them, they turned away.

The last to turn was my first brother. As we crested the high dune in the West he collapsed. Grabbing sand sweat and blood I pulled him to his feet. He grasped my shoulder and looked at me. Our eyes met and I understood. He whispered my name. Strannik. I wander, and I hear you calling. He was so close, so close, mother. So close. He spoke to me one last time. I did not understand his words.

I let him go. I never looked back. The journey is almost complete.

I use all of my strength to place one foot ahead of the other. The winds scream against you, mother. I curse them, damn them to Hell. The star wages war against me, and I weep. The violent sands begin to stir. One foot ahead of the other. Mother, stay with me! Alone, I drop my staff and continue without it. The sand-star bursts out in rage. My veins are full of fire. I turn my face to the ground, looking at my feet full of blood. One more step and I will touch the star. Mother, stay with me! One movement from my body. I lean forward, I look up. My face burns red. My voice disintegrates. The sand turns to glass. The ground shatters and my body is dismembered. My soul flies to the star, and the star catches what was always its son.

The nova of my life twinkled in the midnight sky. My brothers and sisters looked up and smiled, and they turned away.

I never turned away. I never turned away.

Krzysztof Kieślowski: Polish Filmmaker

Recommended

This post will serve as the introduction to a series on Krzysztof Kieślowski, a Polish filmmaker widely unknown in America, who directed many films of great intuition and artistry from 1989 to 1994. 

A master of the contemplative moments of life, he captured complex emotion with the aid of powerful sound scores by the Polish composer, Zbigniew Preisner, with whom he worked closely on some of his greatest pictures, such as the Trois Couleurs trilogy and La Double Vie de Véronique. 

Noticeable characteristics of his cinematographic style include long shots of characters making their paths through the streets, sequences devoid of dialogue with movement seemingly directed by the almost constant musical accompaniment, and a conscious use of color tones to achieve diverse moods.

Singularly masterful in comparison to most contemporary filmmakers, Kieślowski's ability to convey the human condition as beautiful, mournful, solemn, and sublime dwarfs the standards of Hollywood that attempt to simplify human experience to a few immobile sentiments, reactions, needs. Kieślowski's characters cannot be pinned down. They seem to be the best representations of the fallen human self, free from assumptions and surmise. They have infinite potential, and no trite, quick conclusion is employed to flatten them. They remain real.

We may be blessed with one lonely hermit of the same breed, and of course I mean Terrence Malick, who has also applied the compositions of Preisner -- as well as John Tavener (d. 2013) -- to his work.

Enjoy the trailers. Dive into the human story and the fragrant bath of life. More to come.

The Declining Female Happiness

Satan tempting Eve, by John Martin

There is a social phenomenon sociologists and their kind call “the paradox of declining female happiness.” This phenomenon was first noted by two researchers at the Wharton School studying 35 years of data from the General Social Survey. What they found was that during the time that women had increased access to education, career opportunities, and the contraceptives that made careers possible, there was a steady decline in the level of happiness reported by women. Those researchers tried not to draw any conclusions, but I think it is reasonable to explore the correlations.

Before going any further, I think it appropriate to speak directly to you, female reader. There is no question that you can do many things that men do. You can be doctors, lawyers, teachers, etc. There is, however, question that you can do all those things as men do them. I did not say “better than” or “worse than,” I said “as.” There is further question as to whether you should do those things, even though you can.

One of the possible reasons for the decline in female happiness seems to lie in what G.K. Chesterton describes as “modern torture.” No one denies that women have been wronged before, but as Chesterton says, “I doubt if they were ever tortured so much as they are tortured now by the absurd modern attempt to make them domestic empresses and competitive clerks at the same time.” A woman’s life was never easy, but at least she knew what she was to do with her life. She knew she was to be a wife, a mother, a cook, a teacher, a seamstress, a moral guide, a source of optimism for her pessimistic husband, a dose of realism for his irrational dreaming, and more. To paraphrase Chesterton, a woman was expected to be everything to a few people rather than one thing to many.

Even more, what others expected of her aligned with her natural tendencies. No little girl ever grew up dreaming of being a rich and powerful CEO; she grew up dreaming of her prince, with whom she would start a family. Now, however, little girls are told that they should not “settle” for marriage, a loving husband and father for their children, and a life of love and care for others; rather, they should become wealthy and successful. If she decides that a child might be nice along the way, she can simply go to the sperm store and inject it herself.

Our current situation is much like the story of the original sin. There is a great lie being spoken to insecure women and the timid and weak men stand aside, fearful that they might be hurt, or worse, offend someone. Instead of trying to be like God, in this case, woman is trying to be like man, because men have failed her and hurt her. We have lesbians because men failed to be loving and faithful men; we have gays because the men that were replaced by women decided to fill the void of femininity left by those women. What is to be done?

I greatly admire those women today who have the incredible strength to reject the lie that their work as wives and mothers is less than the work of female accountants, teachers, doctors, or lawyers. The work of the wife and mother is of infinitely more worth than any temporal work she may do. Her work as wife and mother is of divine and eternal importance. For that work to take place, she needs a man that stands for her, fights for her, and protects her from a diseased world. We not only need women to take the stand for themselves and reject the lie, but we need men who will take the stand for the women they love.

The Sincerity of American Self-Loathing

Marcello Pera

The Italian philosopher and senator, Marcello Pera, in his essay "Relativism, Christianity, and the West," has written about the perhaps inappropriate self-loathing of Western Civilization -- its recantation of former beliefs sincerely held, its illness of toleration, its apologies for colonial wrongdoing.

Recognizing the legitimate problems present in the negative side effects of Western colonialism, Pera defends the great good that the West -- that's us -- has brought about in suffering countries. I am reminded, for example, of a statement by George Obama, Barack's brother, to the effect that South Africa is a well-organized state because of Western influence, while Kenya is in a condition of chaos because that influence is no longer present.

George Obama, who lives in an 8x8 shack, appreciates the benefits of Western culture. We know that his brother probably shares this opinion, if only subconsciously.

But this is the European picture of Westernesse that I am talking about, not the American.

The European West is necessarily insincere in its self-loathing. Or at least hypocritical.

On the one hand, it sustains large-scale humanitarian efforts, while on the other, it condemns its own self-righteousness -- particularly in the universities, where cultural contextualism is the new "Marseilles." Europe is embattled with itself, and we can only pray that its Christian roots win out in the end.

America, however, is an entirely different story. America is the dumber younger brother nevertheless attempting to emulate the older in his singular inner turmoil. America is addicted to the attractive aloofness and arrogance of its inattentive idol. It's why we like French things.

America puts on airs. It has pretensions to Europeanism, but it is hopelessly ignorant of the ideological troubles faced on the European continent, and so it is hopelessly doomed to ape them ineffectually. And this unrootedness of America, this disconnection from heritage, is bound up in the very reason for our founding: flee the system.

Unfortunately, when we fled society and culture for the wilderness, we fled society and culture for the wilderness.

Here, capitalism has lifted its dress for the bestialism of the frontier. Moneyed bestialism then decided to try on culture. And when the nouveau riche donned their borrowed spectacles, they found themselves disjointed and uncomfortable, but nevertheless unwilling to lay down that assumed arrogance that sweeps over the abyss with waxen wings.

Moneyed bestialism then aped the great empires of the continent, but instead of civilization left mostly burnt forests and oil interests. And when it had found that this was no longer the trend, it turned on itself -- not knowing why -- and began to slap its own wrists for all the wrong reasons. There was no sincere questioning of morals, only an arbitrary reformulation of morals to more adequately conform to both moneyed bestialism and blind idol-worship.

Idols, of course, are not the real thing. Europe, with its cognizant self, may pull out of its self-loathing with a redemptive re-imagining of the Western spirit and the values of that spirit.

America, alas, may be both solitary and sincere in its self-loathing when the "I-less" want overtakes it.

A Defense of Child-bearing

Frantisek Kupka, "The Beginning of Life"

Who has been blessed with those mysterious moments in which an infant for the first time toddles forward on her feet, unaided by any guiding hand or low object, in deep concentration upon the next step? In these moments especially do we not empathize most readily with the parents of this beautiful creature, and wish ourselves progenitors and recipients of this most wondrous gift that can only be divine? Love surges in our hearts, mysterious love without the need for rationale, mysterious love that gives birth to hope, hope that asserts the goodness of this new and curious life. 

Some say that a pregnant mother is irradiated with the burgeoning life within her, that her eyes are alight with the joy of expectation. We, as witnesses of this joy, must wonder how there may be any question as to the benefit of having children, of raising a healthy and numerous family. The more persons, we would say, the better. The greater number of human beings in society, the greater chance that society may grow to be great, not only in size but in quality. Saying “yes” to the possibility of children is the ultimate social act, the ultimate affirmation of the human community, and the ultimate renunciation of selfish interests. Yes, one should have children, if only because one must have children if history is to continue. We know by the very fact of mortality that the story we live is not our own. We prepare, well or poorly as the case may be, for those who come after.

The object, then, is to prepare well, and to prepare well first of all requires the existence of the reason for which we prepare: children themselves. As Pope John Paul II has said, “The future starts today, not tomorrow.” If we are to “plan for the future,” as we moderns so proudly declaim, we must not postpone or neglect the begetting of the stewards of the future. What use is a future without people? We are always speaking of the “avant-garde” in art or technology or politics as a state to be envied, and yet this obsession becomes insane when we are equally obsessed with maintaining an isolation and a lack of responsibility that contradicts this very attraction for newness by claiming it only for our moribund selves. Indeed, on a very rational level, whether or not we “like” children, humanity is nothing without reproduction. Children are the very proof that only love is eternal and we ourselves are ash.

The French spirit of this age, the spirit of ethnic extinction, is one that upraises the image of the unbound self, free and unfettered by worldly ties or the demands of relationships. The mobility to do as one pleases is prized above all else. “This existence, this here and now,” the modern Frenchman might say, “is the great thing, the only occupation worth intellectual or spiritual involvement.” And yet, by agreeing with the Frenchman, we would most ardently disagree. The idolization of the independent self above all else is the same as the hatred of the self above all else, for the self is nothingness without relationship to others, divine or human. The self asserts nothing if it does not assert the perfection of itself, which lies – unexpectedly to some – in the engendering and nurturing of new life like oneself, an infinite affirmation of self-worth. Imagine the great pain and emptiness felt by Hannah as she wept and prayed in the temple, mourned her childlessness in abject loneliness in the darkened tent, swept her garments about her to cover the shame of being known, facelessness being better than barrenness. How she wept and prayed, a woman beginning to wrinkle with age – but what did the purity of desire gain her, all her attentions devoted in ecstasy toward a possible and improbable new life to give hers meaning: reward. Reward in another heartbeat to join her own in the acclamation, the drumbeat and song of life's praise.

We take the ability to procreate for granted, as if this seemingly ubiquitous biological ability we must necessarily also possess. Would it not be a terrible shame if those who now artificially postpone the possibility of children until they have reached what they deem as the appropriate time find themselves, when that time arrives, to be incapable of the greatest blessing afforded us in our briefness upon this earth? Is this awesome blessing, then, not to be pursued with passion and dear effort? Are we not to bend all our will upon the attainment of this treasure that ratifies the very proposition that life is worth living? Are we not to be exceedingly grateful if we are able in the requirements of circumstance to conceive and bear a child? Indeed, we must be and we must do, for as we believe there is a soul, children are a gift from the Divine, and therefore sacred from their conception, and what is sacred must be sought without ceasing.

The Importance of Death

Woody Allen and Death

Recently, I watched a documentary on Woody Allen. He is quite an interesting character. If you do not know much about his life and work, go look him up. I had seen a film or two written and directed by Woody Allen and I had heard talk of his thoughtfulness and intelligence, but until I took the time to view the documentary, I had not understood the depth in his work. One of the subjects that struck me was Woody Allen’s appreciation for death.

His explanation for why he turned from being a sweet infant and toddler, to a sarcastic and slightly mean boy is that he learned of death; he realized that he was not going to live forever and the happy world around him would become irrelevant. He decided that the way one lives his life is largely determined by how he responds to the reality of death – to what degree is an individual creating an illusory world that allows him to ignore the fact of his own death? Woody Allen responded with irony.

Woody Allen’s ironic stance towards the world allows him to be funny; because he can lampoon those things that most other people take seriously, but know they are silly for doing so. That same ironic stance also allows Woody Allen to be a serious thinker and to understand and express the depths of meaningful human relationships.

The ironic approach towards life that Woody Allen takes on, because of his view of death, gives him a form of detachment. He accomplishes a sort of secular detachment, as opposed to detachment motivated by religious beliefs.  Although Woody Allen is not the ideal role model in many ways, this essential bit of an interesting man offers food for thought.

Anyone familiar with the Benedictine religious order will know that an important piece of guidance offered in St. Benedict’s Rule is to “keep death always before your eyes.” This maxim is appropriate for any Christian attempting to walk the straight and narrow. Woody Allen had it right – we all must face the reality of death, and we all must respond in some way. For a Christian, death is a reminder of the life after death, which in turn encourages detachment from earthly things.

Detachment, however, is not the end, for one still must live out his time on earth. Similar to Woody Allen’s growth from a simply satirical young man to one who is a serious thinker, with interest in the complexities of human life and relationships, Christians must mature from an initial experience of detachment to a posture of detachment that appreciates the good, the true, and the beautiful so marvelously found in human experience on earth.

Death is important. Death keeps things in perspective. Death helps bring new life. In our culture that hates and hides death, yet actively promotes and produces death, we not only must labor to respond well to death as an idea, but also work to strengthen our courage and the courage of others in facing the reality of a culture obsessed with death. 

Flamme, Citron, Fear of Death

Flame and Citron (2008) (or Flammen og Citronen, if you prefer) is a film about 2 Danish Resistance fighters in Nazi-occupied Europe.

In the main, they are sent on assassination missions, eliminating prominent Danish Nazi collaborators -- mostly military figures. When a female Nazi is involved, Flamme must clean up after Citronen's failure of emotional resolve. Hard times.

Viewing the film, few of us would even wince at the death of a Nazi colonel or SS officer. Most of us would sit still, applying a grim sense of justice to the scene, happy that an enemy to humanity had been neutralized.

We do not fault Flammen and Citronen. We do not fault Flammen for his anger, his frightful impetuousness, his coldness of execution, for he sacrifices his more human capacities for the sake of others, for the sake of those who suffer. Even for an uncertain future, he sacrifices sweetness and light for blood and death and danger.

We do not fault Citronen. His wife and child are poor and hungry, but we only reproach him a little. Indeed, his wife takes up with another man because Citronen is never home, always away in hiding or on the warpath. But he is noble enough to say, "Take care of my wife and child."

Why do they fight? Why kill? We all know. We have heard the stories, seen the dream-like horrors. We do not forget. We have hated the Nazis in our turn. We do not forget. We have seen the tortured, corpse-like human bodies shuffling in the cold. We have seen the corpses. We do not forget.

Those who survive hold on to the flame, the torch of indignation, of sorrow, of love, of despair, of newfound hope, of wisdom hard-won. We have heard them. We have listened attentively. We do not forget.


We forget.


There is a deeper horror that even as I write surfaces once more, insidious, in our minds.

And how do we meet this horror? With swift relentless unfailing justice toward a real and present monstrosity? Or with diplomacy and statecraft. Do we treat with hell?

We treat with hell.


We forget.


We have swallowed the lie that words can win the day. I believe they can. But someone must be listening.

Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., was willing to be arrested, abused, killed for the cause of a better life for African Americans -- not for their lives en masse, but for equal rights as citizens. Not for clothing, not for food, not for water, not for shelter, not for life and breath -- for equal rights as citizens.

Our glorious generation has achieved a complacent sidewalk counselorship. Yes, we are those on the sidelines who watch and say a few words, impotently waving our signs, hiding behind a false piety that says "Prayer is all you need!" without proaction. We treat with hell.

We say that "We are the pro-life generation!" with cries and shouts and smiles and free concerts in Washington, D.C.. But we care only -- really -- for our own lives. We are pro-life in that regard. Our rationalizations are petty and false. We say that we act in this way in the name of "compassion" and "charity," that we are the "peaceful" demonstrators amongst the carnage.

When compassion means sloth, when charity equates to a failure of love in a failure to act for the prevention of murder (and thus the salvation of the would-be murderer), there is no peace. When the mills grind day after day as we plod -- we asses, we dumb chattel -- along the sideline begging our betters -- yes! for they are cold, and we are lukewarm -- to please obey natural and divine law, there can be no peace. There is no peace. There is no peace. There is no peace.

And to pretend to Culture in such a world?!

If the wars are not fought -- if we do not at least stand firm in peaceful civil disobedience: blocking entries, closing down buildings with whatever measures necessary -- then there will be nothing left when the self-loathing of the West has wreaked its havoc upon the last child in the womb (or out).

We fear death. We do not see it, and so we avoid its screeching call for justice. We avoid. We wimper.


There is no peace. There is no peace. Awaken.





Addendum: I do not advocate the murder of abortionists.

The Lack of Knowledge in an Information Saturated World

How far we have come since Plato worried that the art of writing would compromise knowledge and men would grow forgetful of what they recorded outside of their own mind. Plato’s Socrates warns, in Phaedrus, through the legend of the Egyptian god/king Theuth,

If men learn this [writing], it will implant forgetfulness in their souls; they will cease to exercise memory because they rely on that which is written. . . . And it is no true wisdom that you offer your disciples, but only its semblance; for by telling them of many things without teaching them you will make them seem to know much, while for the most part they know nothing; and as men filled, not with wisdom, but with the conceit of wisdom, they will be a burden to their fellows.

The ancient Greeks attributed a sacred status to memory; it is an ability unique to man that burns alongside the flame of reason. Even more than a companion to reason, memory provides the essential building blocks of reason, the ability to not only differentiate me from you, cat from dog, idea from idea, but also to relate each of those things in seemingly unrelated ways.

Fast-forward a couple thousand years since Plato worried and find that his concern only scratches the surface of our situation. Today, we have millions of books that sit neatly on shelves containing facts and fragments of information readily accessible whenever one needs. One rarely ever decides that he needs a book, however, since he has the all mighty Google* readily available in just about any location, allowing him access to the vast networks of recorded information that is the Internet. The laboring of the mind is a demand of times past. The saddening fact that follows is that no life comes forth from man without labor.

In our effort to make education a basic human right, we have debased knowledge by confusing it with facts and information. We commonly approach knowledge as just one of many things to be consumed, purchased, traded, sold. We are men who “seem to know much, while for the most part [knowing nothing].” We blindly believe that we have “conquered” knowledge; that we control it; that it sits still at our command and must respond to our beck and call. We are filled “with the conceit of wisdom.” As such, we exist in a prison far worse than any physical malady or abuse.

Knowledge does not exist in a book, in a file, on a computer, or, worse yet, in a database. One does not capture it, copy it, print it, save it for later. Knowledge arises through the interplay of the human and the divine. It is a gift in which we partake. One Thomas has said that truth is the mind conformed to reality. Knowledge, then, is not “out there” somewhere, waiting to be discovered and put to work; rather, it is an active participation in reality. Memory provides the foundation for that participation in reality, allowing us the pleasure of laboring to see the whole.

*What can my mind do that Google can’t? You type the word “rose” into Google and you’ll probably get some search results telling you all about roses, much more, in fact, than I could ever tell you. The moment I typed the word “rose” above, I saw one, I could almost smell it, I remembered times I have given roses and the joy in doing so. I saw them in a hospital, on a bedside table where someone I loved was sick and I felt the pain and sorrow of loss. I remembered my grandmother, her rose garden and the time I spent weeding and pruning. I thought of Poison and their ballad “Every Rose Has Its Thorn,” which led me to think of the crown of thorns placed on Jesus’ head. As you can see, the human mind is far more expansive than any reference system.

Fiction: "Cry to the World"

Jean Paul Lemieux, "Young Man"

I have a found a new pleasure of walking out of doors onto a balcony and peering into the treeline and the skies. 

There's a taste for it, to be sure – standing alone, leaning on a 2x4 rail painted white, identical to those above, right, below, left. But what I see is the world preparing just outside a wall, and in secret and by degrees it seethes in past all boundaries, nearly benign, but really with the sad love of inevitability.

Once I came out upon such a balcony in such a mood and leaned over the rail – my ribcage hooked over uncomfortably, my arms folded – and it happened that I heard the sound – at such an hour on a Saturday – of a door calmly opened and closed, the cheap blinds clacking upon the glass below.

A young man not a year older or younger did as I do, and, unnaturally as I, lit a cigarette held in fingers poised as he might imagine one well-practiced in the art might do. But I knew he was sincere. I know he was sincere at least in trying. He carried on the act in company with himself and at last sat down and sighed.

I thought at once we should sit inside by a lamp burning all night long and talk of things only we should talk of, a special blessing of particularity shared between us. He must have heard me shuffling because he was at his rail again, staring unforgivingly upward. And our eyes met, and because they fixed upon the real and demanding continuity between us, I saw in those eyes vitriol, and I knew he would never pardon me for breaking into a world I thought my own.

I have since awakened from that dream and hope no more for a friend.



Written by Ross J. McKnight
Edited by Christopher Hamilton

Pebble Stars: A Meditation

A Tribute to the Japanese Poet Matsuo Bashō

"Nothing one sees is not a flower, nothing one imagines is not the moon. If what is seen is not a flower, one is like a barbarian; if what is imagined is not a flower, one is like a beast. Depart from the barbarian, break away from the beast, follow the Creative, return to the Creative."
~Knapsack Notebook


Bashō, wanderer, lover of beauty, home everywhere and nowhere, so close and so far, from across civilizations and ages I salute your inscrutable Eastern mind! 

I too have journeyed. By foot, by car, by plane, by boat, by train have I roved the world. But alas, I did not find such satisfaction in my travels as you did! Perhaps I, who often forgets the beginning and is forever looking to the end, could not find happiness in the middle. Perhaps I was dissatisfied because I thought of my odysseys as merely the way to the end. For you, it seems, they were end and beginning together. 

Lamentable is the distance between your thoughts and mine. As far almost as the East is from the West! I struggle to focus on impermanence as you did, and my focus is as impermanent as its object. In addressing you now, I defy impermanence like a stubborn child. Would you reel against the seeming timelessness of your own words? 

But how to comprehend this the primary object of your contemplation? Maybe it is as simple as watching the leaves fall from the trees, or the farmhouses and skyscrapers flash past the train window? Perhaps the clouds racing across the face of a waning moon? The pond frozen in winter? Have I grasped impermanence when I open my eyes after a night’s sleep to find a new day, the old gone forever? Can anything be impermanent? Yes, things change, but once in time are they not forever in time?

Why did I travel? To see places unforgotten as you did. But the things I saw were always more beautiful in the land of my mind, and I left disappointed. Cruel imagination! 

The lands, the buildings, the people, everything I have seen, all dying, all crumbling into dust! Impermanence. Eternal change. Do I contradict myself? Were you and your fathers right?

But I have been unfair. I have seen many beautiful things. And many beautiful things have I not seen. Forever they live. While all things turn to ash, they live forever in my mind. And if not my mind, in the mind of someone. Permanence.

You, Bashō, in the boundless simplicity and ambiguity of your words, have led me into a world of whirling possibility. One thing changes into another, lost then found, alive then dead, then alive. A cascade of images tumbles down, and then rises up, revolving, reckless, and ever-changing. 

Is there a beginning to the spinning cataract? Is there an end? Yes, you seem to say. All is beginning, all is end. And you lived as you wrote. 

Do I comprehend your vision? Can I, a child of the West, pierce the Eastern veil with my gaze? From birth, I have been molded as clay by a potter. And into this earthen vessel has been etched the straight line of life. How can I grasp the circle?

One thing do I uncontestedly share with you. We both are lovers of beauty. From pear blossoms to mountain ranges to slight human gestures, the aesthetic world calls to my heart as it does to yours. 

I walk down to a trickling stream. In the water the golden leaves float, carried to an unknown place. The sunlight reflects itself in white swords and sparkling orbs. I bend down to see a little ant, moving slowly in a circle, round and round. I wonder how long it has been here, I wonder where it came from. Tomorrow maybe, it will be dead. But today it is alive, and it is beautiful. 

At first light, I look to the fields covered with morning mist. In the eye of my mind, the mist forms the shapes of a thousand horses. White horses, like ghosts they move into the West, chased by the sun. In a few minutes, the sun will take them and make them clouds. Tomorrow maybe, they will be back to gallop across the fields again in ethereal beauty.

The notes of the music I hear rise and fall in perfect harmony. With them my thoughts and feelings are carried to places of melancholy and happiness. In their loveliness I dream of worlds enchanting and mysterious. In their beauty my mind rests.

What power within such things moves me? Is it the same power that moves you? 

I wonder where your mind wanders when you daydream. Do you marvel over beauty grand and magnificent or small and unassuming? Perhaps here is again shown that meddlesome division of hemispheres and molded clay. For I cannot imagine that you always dream of the mountaintops and the celestial heights as I do. 


Oh, glorious splendor! I look to the stars and the haloed moon, and I travel to the edges of infinity to gaze at the source of light! From there I turn my eyes to the earth and see you with a pebble in your hand. You hold it up to the brightest star, and smile. 

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.

Dark Quiltwork

Mercedes Benz G-class

          I recently had the terrible misfortune of seeing the above vehicle up close and in person. You, too, may be surprised that Mercedes Benz produces such an eyesore. What is worse, aesthetically challenged individuals are buying and driving the thing, affronting the senses of their fellow men wherever they go. Maybe you want to say, “Craig, it’s a matter of personal preference – some people might think the Mercedes G-class is a beautiful vehicle.” To which I might answer something like, “No, your favorite ice cream flavor is a matter of personal preference.” Similar to the architect, the car designer has the opportunity to design something orderly and pleasing to the senses. As exhibited, some fail.

Beyond offending others, what utility does the G-class have? It may serve the purpose that every other vehicle serves – getting one from A to B – but if that is all, why make it the way it is? After all, modern society generally gives up on beauty in hope of utility. Now, it seems, there are monstrosities about that are neither beautiful nor practical. Take, for example, the EMP Museum in Seattle, WA: surely, such a contortion does not provide practical space. 

One gets the sense from examples like the G-class or the EMP Museum that there is no real purpose to their design. The Mercedes’ engineer designed the vehicle because he could. Frank Gehry designed the EMP Museum the way he did because he could. The museum claims to be "dedicated to the ideas and risk-taking that fuel contemporary popular culture"; I'm sure if you asked, Mr. Gehry would say that his design is supposed to embody those ideas and risk-taking. What ideas are those, what risk is he really taking?  

The building does not offer an opportunity for contemplation but for confusion. If one looks long enough, one might see three mangled hearts with aorta, atrium, and artery amiss, as if snipped and blowing in the wind. What one does not see, no matter how long and hard one looks, is the real in light of an ideal. There is no revelation, no unfolding, no invitation to a sacred space. Ross wrote a short piece, not long ago, where he described “a great “veil,” if not a black curtain” that Marcel Duchamp has helped bring “over reality: the anti-avante-garde in art.” The museum design is not a vanguard, not a forerunner; it does not lead the way to something beyond the chaos of our world. It is one of the many quilting squares that make up the dark curtain that hangs over reality today.  

Salt Pillars

Technology and Virtue

A young man sits at a coffee-shop table. In front of him, his laptop. In his hand, his iPhone. In his ears, headphones. At least three of his senses are simultaneously caught up in a digital whirlwind. As far as the world around him is concerned, he may as well be the cold and dead sculpture of a living and breathing human being; a human being that can only be reached in an in-human world, an artificial dimension, a digital universe.

It is not uncommon to hear the cry "disconnect!" from various corners of the worlds of internet and print, yet more and more, we are connecting, and becoming much more efficient at doing so. If, for just one minute, we disengage our minds from the digital bombardment, we might be shocked at the rapidity with which this has happened to us. The past twenty years have seen a dramatic increase in the electronic communication and entertainment devices available to the average person. The nearly limitless capacity for distraction that these devices have is astonishing. Frenetically moving from one superficial digital thrill to another, our minds are constantly occupied and incessantly searching for novelty and excitement with the security of knowing it is all a pixelated construct, as "harmless" as a dream.

People are beginning to study the effects of such superficial intellectual activity, and the results are not encouraging. The problems we see with internet addiction, the lower standards of education, withdrawal from the "real" world and the simple ignoring of tangible relationships in favor of digital ones pose troubling concerns for humanity.

The definition of progress implies that it is inherently good. If not, then it is not progress. It is not difficult to see the fantastic advantages of current and future technology. But, these machines are tools, devices meant to serve a particular purpose, a purpose that is, in the grand scheme of things, to make man's life better. Thus, with that end in mind, those with sincere moral concerns often ask such questions as: what is the proper use of these devices? How much should they be used? How can we use them for good ends? Perhaps one possibility is being overlooked: that the "goodness" of these machines, their "moral" potential and use, is in their non-use. 

Of course, I am not advocating a mass exodus from the digital world; we are far too invested for that. Most of us must be connected in some way in order to function properly in the world. And our technological advances do represent genuine progress. The reader might then offer the correction that by "non-use" I simply mean "moderate" use. The veritable "golden mean" in all things he will, no doubt, solemnly promulgate. And of course he is right.

By suggesting that virtue lies in the non-use of technological devices, I am merely drawing attention to the fact that it is in the setting aside of such devices that virtue is formed. Next time you want to write to a friend, put away the laptop and write a letter, with paper and ink, and then try to convince yourself that there was no virtue to be found there. A family member is in his room, all the way upstairs, so rather then texting him the latest news, walk to his room and speak to him personally, and then try to argue that lounging in front of the television while texting would have been better for your moral character.

Maybe it seems like I am simply promoting the standard "disconnect" theme. This is not the case. What I am doing is heralding the vast potential for developing virtue that is available to us because of our new machines. There is no need to speak here of the amazing capacity these machines have for helping humanity advance in a purely technological way. They are indeed great gifts, not simply because of the things they can do, but also and perhaps even primarily because of the things they cannot do. Never will a machine replace a real human encounter. Never will the words "I love you" formed by a few keystrokes mean as much as the same words said with the force of breath and life.

We all know how difficult it is to put away the laptop or get off the cellphone (and those are not the only devices demanding our attention). But this only makes what I have said about virtue even more important. What we need, indeed what our world demands, are heroic men and women. We need people who can recognize the things that machines can never do, people who can shrug off the illusory demands of efficiency and time-management in favor of genuine human development. We need people with the will to not use those things that would enslave us. Because of the incredible amount of grace and virtue required to do this, those who do can truly become heroes and saints who are even greater than those of past ages, simply because in our age, we have more to give up. 

A Eulogy for My Son

Yesterday, I buried my unborn child, Charles Dominic.

In these latest days, I have often been Theoden at Theodred's tomb. Simbelmynë I have planted in my imagination, ever minding the loss of his brief and bright life.

This great-souled little one has gone from us almost as soon as his arrival. The fiery joys set and burst at his coming have been swallowed at our grasping like will-o'-the-wisps, leading me on to an empty place forlorn.

More than ever, I am alone in that I know and honor the dignity of his life like a child with a raggedy plush that no one wants. Only the child can see its worth. And who in this world will see his worth?

With the same conviction, I know that he is my son. We felt it, and we named him before we knew the Feast of St. Charles would soon follow his death. My first born too early born.

That he was too early for this world is clear. He wanted only one thing, and only one thing I taught him without knowing -- or myself and my ancestors taught him by striving. To seek God only. He learned too well for my weakness.

He has died after the fathers who made his death seem insignificant, and so he has died alone. Laid to rest alone, he sleeps in an open field beneath the stars and simbelmynë, who, like me, only mind him ever -- only we mind. Because the watchful flowers have covered his grave after and before his fathers. They are gone and cannot see him.



My son. Why?



Like you, purpose has come and gone like so much uncaring wind. It did not stay for a fortnight.

Dreadful purpose fulfilled in weeks, to send you where I am to -- I was to -- and would send you to again and again and call you back wanting you without wishing.

Tiny intercessor. Stronger than soldiers. Having suffered the greatest loss -- the loss of even a worthy and blessed trial, a worthy and blessed love of the earth. How could you have despised what you did not know?

Your brothers and sisters will not forget your name, nor your mystery, wisest of us. Love me, son. Please love me from where you are.

Wish me so much pain that the miracle of my empty hands may teach your siblings what I somehow, unknowing, taught you.

Oh my son.

Charles, do not rest while we waste in this vale of tears. You have gone to the house of my fathers. Let them make your spirit great for the wars. And do not forget your weary father. Be ever mindful -- with the fair bright eyes in the grass! -- and await the opening of the world for me.

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.