The Community of Culture

La Soledad, Carlos Saenz de Tejada

When we speak of "culture", we are often referring to a sort of status quo, the condition of education, technology, science, and the arts that we experience in our daily lives. We often refer to "culture" as if it is something without agency, something "out there", without considering our own participation in its formation. It may be for this very reason that we often fail to challenge our own actions, our own way of life, our stock viewpoints -- we see culture as an accumulation of practices and values that may be verbally dispensed and objectively discussed, but which have little interrelation with the manner in which we order our existence. 

Notwithstanding, the word "culture" carries certain connotations. We make judgements about culture because it may contain positive or negative elements. It may be a "culture of death", which is an oxymoron for, according to the frighteningly powerful Google machine, our usage of "culture" derives from

• Middle English (denoting a cultivated piece of land): the noun from French culture or directly from Latin cultura ‘growing, cultivation’; the verb from obsolete French culturer or medieval Latin culturare, both based on Latin colere ‘tend, cultivate’ (see cultivate). In late Middle English the sense was ‘cultivation of the soil’ and from this (early 16th cent.) arose ‘cultivation (of the mind, faculties, or manners)’; sense 1 of the noun dates from the early 19th cent.

Hence, we comment upon practices that are retrogressive for culture, that facilitate the accession of the inhumane, the violent, the brutish, the ignorant. (Recently, Brett McCracken commented upon the attitude in American culture (another oxymoron? not always) of "fame for fame's sake" and the prostitution of art for recognition of the ego (e.g. Lady Gaga, Jay-Z, etc.).)

If we make assertions of value in reference to culture, then we recognize that humanity is responsible for culture, and thence that we are individually responsible, for our part, for the state of culture. We recognize, too, that "culture" is not merely a label for what is, but a concept defined by continual movement toward excellence in all things human (e.g. education, technology, science, the arts).

Matthew Arnold, the 19th century British critic, describes culture as "the pursuit of light and perfection", and explains that "light and perfection consist, not in resting and being, but in growing and becoming, in a perpetual advance in beauty and wisdom" (Culture and Anarchy).

Immediately great names come to mind: Plato, Homer, Virgil, Dante -- the list goes on. The list goes on indeed ... but why do these cultural monoliths stand so solitary against the dark background of history? Why does not a great host of luminous figures swarm around them, equal or greater to the tide of human depravity and squalor?

The modern world is not devoid of cultured minds: Karol Wojtyla, Walker Percy, Arvo Part, Krzysztof Kieslowski. Yet they stand in almost diametric opposition to the crass flashing of famous names in headlines and on the little black boxes of misinformation that constantly invade our homes. Their names are not heard so loudly nor so very often as those which strive harder and harder not to be forgotten like  the finite novelty of autumnal leaves.

Perhaps because they are taproots, hidden and essential. One must dig to find them, and one must get dirty. And one must not leave the soil disturbed.

Why is the community of culture small? The community of culture is the community of the human. The human calls these facets of himself "culture" in order to distinguish them from the spoiling diction of faddism that pervades postmodern society. The human must constantly distinguish himself from that which fades. The human does not fade.

You often hear older people, when they mention the names of actors, films, musicians that no one else knows remarking upon how this particular knowledge dates them, how it is a sign of aging, a movement toward obscurity, disconnection from youth. But the youth are equally old if they speak of what their parents do not know or do not care to know.

The old betray their youth by not caring about Kardashian or whoever's next on the altar of sensationalism. The youth betray their age by caring. To be human is to learn and cling to excellence. That is a perpetual youth, a perpetual becoming, an ever-widening beauty.

And so our culture may be called a "culture of death" in many ways, one being that it clings not to the excellent, which is universal and enduring, but to the ephemeral, which is just that.

If you find yourself lonely in such a milieu, consider this.

Are you infatuated with the esoteric (pride)? Do you wrap yourself in fantasy to deny reality (e.g. the infamous MMORPG, niched obsessions, etc.)? Do you choose to be? Or are you lonely because the way of enculturation is difficult -- the road obscure, the company often silent, the goal something as seemingly unattainable as sainthood?

It is not merely the place of cultural icons to effect culture. It is the way of culture -- the way of the human -- to come out and speak, to stand one's ground among others and assert whatever merited authority one may possess. To share and to accept, certainly, but to be firm in the right.

At the base of the mountain is the battle against physical endangerment, which allows no possibility for culture. The battle against the enemies of culture (e.g. sloth, sentimentalism, political platforming, etc.) ranges in a thicker wood at a higher tier. It is even more essential to the becoming of humanity. Undoubtedly, it is a gift to be here. But it is a curse if we fail our nature and submit to the mediocre strummings, cooings, and ooings of pop folk or the abstract unartistic assertions of obscurantist "postmodern" writers or directors. They wrap the status quo in mysterious trappings and bring despair in the unveiling. Artist's shit (Cf. Duchamp).

There is always a subculture trying to be avant-garde. It is always subculture.

So let your heart be abused. Seek the shifting sifted community of culture that wants to be as best it can. People of culture see the world in its wholeness. They decry and forgive and bring in lost sheep. They acknowledge their own silly sheepishness. But they never stop striving after every ounce of unounceable eternity. They are sometimes artists, sometimes laymen, sometimes clergy, and often on low salaries. But they always try to get the world to listen with the lovingest things. At the same time, they do not reduce truth, beauty, goodness. They do not put pearls forth to be trampled by swine.

Critics called director Eric Rohmer's La Collectioneuse boring. They could not see it.

I therefore encourage you, my friends, not to forget the unity of all things, and how what is separate must be brought together, how the world fights itself but nevertheless tends to communion. To wait is not so bad as to despair and lose oneself to postmodern animalism. Do not fall to easy emotions. Be vigilant. If it were easy it would not be itself. Increase in the virtue of finding loneliness -- beauty awaits the contemplative and forbearing mind. Find and give the lovingest things. You may die cold, quiet, and alone like God.

II. Trois Couleurs: Rouge

Valentine, played by Irene Jacob, is beautiful, vivacious, passionate, assertive. We want to sympathize with her. Her personality is sweetened by a certain scent of innocence that causes us to desire identification with her, to simultaneously fall in love with her.

Indeed, her supreme beauty is central to this part of Kieslowski's trilogy.

A very important moment arrives, however, in the studio where she is photographed as a model. We see her sitting there, artificial wind blowing her wet hair about her face. And at the word from the photographer -- "triste" -- her beauty is transformed by an unutterable sorrow.

Although Valentine has suffered -- her brother a heroin addict, her mother an unforgiven adulteress -- we are given the sense that she has called forth this emotion from outside -- it is borrowed, learned, used for theatrics, but perhaps without completely genuine content.

And in rushes forcefully another theme of the film: external, supernatural movements that intimately interact with the willed movements of the film's characters. An overarching wellspring of meaning and purpose -- a silent smiling whisper in which Valentine, Auguste, and the old judge participate without creating.

We humans can name sorrow, joy, fear, but we cannot know them in their full intensity at any given moment. We can, however, experience little hints of that memory of humanity, what some call the historical memory or collective memory. In my mind, this refers to God, who after all is one of us in a way none of us can be. He is more human than we are, and he is the origin of every sense. Because of this, I think, we have access to feelings that are not our own, access to at least an awareness of the depth of human feeling, desire -- due to our necessary and constant connection with him: complete dependence, our drawing of life from him. We draw everything from him.

Such a beauty illustrated in this film. The old judge reflects upon his life, his decline in sourness and cynicism grown from an experience of betrayal. And who grants him knowledge of this?

As a voyeur, he seeks knowledge to which he has no right. But none of it grants him any insight into his own condition. It is precisely through knowledge gratis that he is able to understand himself, and to love once more.

The beauty and love of the hint. God is a life-hack. I beseech you to give yourself to these films. God love you.

Irene Jacob on Rouge and Kieslowski:

Freedom in a Culture of Hotdogs and Scapegoats

Self Portrait, Istvan Ilosvai Varga

Rene Girard speaks of a tension that necessarily arises in society with many individuals seeking the same thing. This tension, for Girard, has most evidently in ancient cultures involved a scapegoat. For instance, in Aztec culture, a scapegoat was offered up to the gods in satisfaction. In turn, those who offer the sacrifice require a remediation of their hurts and the bestowal of what they desire.

When we think of this current in American culture, we may encounter some fairly astounding revelations regarding our use of scapegoats and the ends we seek by external sacrifice. The world has its own Lent, its own process by which it seeks to approximate itself to the things it values. America, in brief, values a peculiar definition of freedom. 

This concept of freedom is manifested more or less materially: the trappings of pleasure (e.g. boys and cars, girl and boats, the NFL), laws protecting entitlement (e.g. welfare, separation of church and state, and the incoming so-called “gay marriage” laws), and convenience (e.g. internet, pre-nuptial agreements, contraception).

Freedom involves sacrifices. Egotism threatens freedom; violence threatens freedom; intellectual oppression destroys freedom – these are not welcome in a free society. Quite often, however, we conflate two different concepts, and in doing so place human rights in danger of utter loss. These two concepts are 1) free will and 2) freedom. 

Free will refers to the inherent and obvious capacity of a human being to choose one thing or the other: a sandwich or a smoothie (not green). 

Freedom refers to a state of being in which the human is able to make the best possible choice without hindrance (e.g. “I will better myself and no one can stop me”). The concept of “freedom” thus involves the moral idea of goodness, whereas the concept of “free will” allows for both good and evil. This is simply a matter of defining terms. 

Many Americans use “freedom” in the sense of “free will”, and truly believe that they may do as they please whilst they dwell in this country. Of course, they will enter into argument about how their sense of “freedom” depends upon the cultural context in which they were raised. However, this cultural context is ever-shifting: the argument means nothing if the concept of “freedom” can change at the whim of the masses. How can we define “freedom” if the word becomes unmanageable due to uncertain content? 

And America has multiple cultural contexts! Oh, the rabbit trails we could run.

We could ask the contextualist, “And so ‘freedom’ could refer to a position of complete oppression depending on the context in which it is used? This is simply a matter of language, then. You are using one word which previously had one meaning to refer to another. How can one know what he values, then? How can we discuss this thing called a ‘cultural value’? And if we assert that freedom is changing, how can we decry the dictatorship?” Indeed, we do not decry the dictatorship.

What the American is truly trying to say is that he has the right not to be bothered by any doubt of his correctness in living how he chooses to live, and he will deflect any doubts with whatever means necessary, including casting doubt upon the value of language and its ability to order our world. Language even becomes a scapegoat. When language becomes a scapegoat (it hasn’t worked with us), this is a sign that the self is willing to sacrifice his communion with other human beings in order to have whatever he craves. The autonomous self – the dead self.

In the end, the sense intended is this: “Freedom”, for many Americans, refers to uninhibited will.

However, as we see in effect today, this uninhibited will often clashes with the will of others. What is needed to mollify the escalating anxiety caused by the infringement upon our will by another? A scapegoat. To preserve a semblance of peace, the members of society come together at various points – waves reach over the sandbar and touch. As long as the scapegoat is there, society may go on with its mediocre state of temporary pacification. When the scapegoat disappears, war – the waves clash.

And what preserves our American stasis, our lone wolf syndrome of doing what one likes? What preserves our pleasure, entitlement, convenience?

• We all believe that love can and should die.
• We all believe that children can and should die if they interrupt our particular phase of life.
• We all believe that the enemies of uninhibited will should be scorned and defaced.
• We believe in the dead self, a hatred of self sold as a love of self.

And if these things hold our society together, they are like the abyss that opens in the ground, so that the walls of earth seem to join as they collapse, falling inward upon themselves. We commune only when we wish to break apart, and we shall break apart if we do not commune.

The self is not autonomous. It depends upon its intricate bonds to other members of society for survival, comfort, and even personality. When it begins to sever these bonds for the cry of mere inclination, it ceases, in unsustainable ways, to be human. It distorts nature and bends her to its will like Kim Jong Un, Hussein, Hitler. Imagine the horror and the isolation of an entire nation of “autonomous selves”, each attempting to sacrifice each because of the turmoil caused within, until the scapegoat becomes the self in that final surfeit of guilt that is yet a selfish act. Alone in a bunker with cyanide.

And true guilt? The answer that G.K. Chesterton gave to the question, “What’s wrong with the world?”:

 “I am.”

This is freedom.




"It is a poverty to decide that a child must die so that you may live as you wish"
-- Mother Theresa of Calcutta

Thoughts on Louisiana, Culture, and the Humane

Consider this my "hello", and as much an exposition of my tentative self as I can give on the interwebs.

Ordinary Time

Not totally fictive

In the well-developed town of Bienville, Louisiana, where the plastered cinder block strips bespatter concrete flats beside the highway, where car wrecks have increased in front of Walmart, where the locals could be locals anywhere, where visitors can never find downtown, there is a brand new Roman Catholic church, and in that church amongst the pews stand many people, and amongst those many people sits John Emmanuel Lamarque.

John Emmanuel Lamarque is a young man with a strange name, which would generally mean that he is from New Orleans. He is educated, as is expected with such a name, and very polite. In fact, though newly arrived, he has scattered his politeness all about: a polite smile to the lady at the registration booth, a polite smile to the greeters, a polite smile to the priest when, always well-dressed, he was asked to present the gifts, a polite smile to the usher as he bequeathed, a polite smile to the music minister who asked if he'd like to share his talents, a polite smile to the Knights of Columbus grilling fat beef, a polite smile to each, every, and all.

John Emmanuel Lamarque, single and solitary, inspired many questions: a likely priest? No, too late. A religious? The single life? Not with such style and class. His wife is non-Catholic. He's here alone for work. What a market we have for him. Welcome to the community, John.

The questions soon ceased as interest shifted, and had rarely touched John himself. Lately rather aloof, he became at times a mildly noticeable void in the opening chorus. His neighbors at mass would be sometimes disturbed by a sigh, a sniff, a wild giggle or the twitch of a hand. He sat when it was time to stand. He folded his hands at the Lord's Prayer that they all dared to say.

Nevertheless, John Emmanuel Lamarque could be seen every Sunday walking briskly from his new Volkswagen to church doors, hands pocketed, tie somewhat crooked, eyes straight ahead – “Good morning, John” with a hypersmile – and to his seat, now further and further to rear or side.

This continued for some weeks before a marked change occurred. People wondered: his mother must be ill. His sister's in a coma. Going through a divorce already. Work's tough for a young kid.

Shirt untucked, the white cotton displayed from beneath, hair hardly combed, a few days scruff – John yet seemed uplifted, held his head up, at least glanced at the greeters with some sort of smile, stood during the Eucharistic prayer, and seemed very interested in the choir – peering and swaying toward the left of the altar. He still giggled and sighed during the offertory hymns – “We Are One Body”, “Amazing Love” – but as he seemed easeful, his neighbors were, and heeded him less.

Hard to live alone so long. I wonder if he's seen his family. Let's invite him to the soiree next weekend. I'm sure he can pick a good wine.

Moving nearer and nearer each Sunday to the altar's left, he was thought to enjoy mass more even than the older congregation. He murmured and swayed more and more, but never joined the clapping. Happy, though, he seemed, and seemed confident, secure. For those who noticed, those scattered few, John passed whatever trial it was.

One wet Sabbath with a rose sun gleaming through smoggy clouds, John Lamarque sat upon the step just near the dexter door into the church. He sat there with eyes glazed like an iced fish. And the greeter, busied with him, opened the door at breaks in his unfettered gaze. When sounds of the choir beat upon the door, the greeter stooped to John and asked, “Are you coming in, John? Mass is starting –”. Cut off by a brush of the young man's shoulder knocking him firmly enough into the steel handle to redden his cheeks and make him puff until he bethought himself, “I am God's minister”, clutched his metal cross badge, and wiped his feet on the carpeted lobby.

John Lamarque, it is true, suffered through mass. At the Gloria, he could be seen clutching his face, his jaw clenched and white. A middle-aged man leaned over: “Are you alright, son?” No response. A woman reached for his hand at the Lord's Prayer; he flicked it away and blew like a bull.

He sat down and did not rise, his stare fixed on the choir, an expression of pride and glory unseen since the days of Leonidas. His hands tightened into balled fists, squeezed, left bloody spots on the palms. And then calm. He sat still. He gazed forward as if through to the outside air. He rose and walked toward the massive dais upon which the guitarists swayed to the beat of the drum box. Red-haired empty-nesters crowed and sobbed unwilling harmonies. The pianist rolled his head, and a youth minister in vested broadcloth and jeans squinted closed eyes under prescription Ray-bans.

One by one, the singers noted him standing there arms akimbo. They dropped off and looked to the blank-faced ushers tapping their feet by each of six aisles. The leader, hearing her aides falter, with eyes closed called out, “Sing with me! … and worship leads to com –” at which instigation John Lamarque seized the lovely inlaid Martin, tore it from her shoulders, upsetting the music stand which made dominoes of the others, and with a roar like David shook the very air with its destruction upon the concrete floor.

The piano was next – as papers flew, somehow shredded, the amplifier fizzed as the keyboard shot into the air and with a terrible crash fired plastic keys into a row of extraordinary ministers, who tore their skirt-suits diving for cover.

Silence ensued.

The air was cooled by a soft draft like the settling breeze after a storm.

Tears from red eyes fell upon the ground. A haggard toneless voice cried out, “Adoro te Devote …”

The choir leader, spectacles tortured, rose from her corner screaming “How dare you?! How dare you in the presence –” 

“Panis vivus, vitam præstans –"

“How dare you?!?

“Dare ...”, John fell quiet and echoed. “We dare to say.”

She began to tug and pull at his deadweight, as if trying to drag him away – all eyes glaring and embarrassed – but an old communion servicer of the Sisters of Mercy bustling up the aisle met her grimly, placed a hand on her shoulder: “Let us see what father has to say. Father?” Bill was a fragile old Jesuit and stood aghast at the altar. “Father?!” Finally he wagered, “Ladies, now ladies, let us remember that we are in the presence of God.” “Father, I want –” – accusing his impuissance – “I want you to drive this demon from this church and ban him from the community! Let him suffer outside where there is wailing and gnashing of teeth so that his soul may be purified.”

But before Bill's flubbering lips could utter another sound, there came a cataract of laughter – eerie, as it seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere. And no one could at once discern its origin. Bill, by then frighted into unconsciousness, was slowly lowered to the sanctuary floor by a lady in impeccable black, his tennis shoes twitching.

The laughing grew so sonorous and sweet and so wrong that mothers covered the ears of the smiling children – until at last John lifted his face and the laughing ceased.

He was silent when police ushered him to a waiting patrol car. He strangely caressed the door, stooped, and entered.

It was a peculiar trial. John Emmanuel Lamarque was not deemed insane.

He spent 3 years on charges of assault, battery, destruction of property, and religion-based discrimination.

When released, he became a heroin addict for a time, appearing infrequently on the streets with a great beard and eyes like the sea. His arms became lank and wiry, and he was moderately notorious for his wild and beautiful words amongst the homeless. He often stood beneath the interchanges, gazing to the stars, unwittingly frightening passers-by in Lexus crossovers.

He was last seen in a Russian hostel at the foot of the Urals.

Written by Ross McKnight
Edited by Jonathan Torres

Book Review: "Voyage to Alpha Centauri"

Cinder blocks.

Cinder blocks are analogous to the accidental properties of Michael O’Brien’s novels. Yet his latest, his 10th, “Voyage to Alpha Centauri,” is relatively small compared to his earlier works, clocking in at only 587 pages.

It’s a shame that these books look so daunting, as a majority of our twittering, texting masses will never read something that doesn’t grant them instant gratification. Yet for those who are patient, willing to take the time to embark on his latest adventure, will find themselves traveling through space at 0.5 times the speed of light. Man’s destination? The system of Alpha Centauri, our closest neighboring star.

Many have commented on this novel, some saying that the same story could have been told with 200 pages cut out of it. While this may be the case, I for one did not feel the novel drag. O’Brien is a master artist, not an author of popular fiction. Every word carries meaning. Indeed, if you allow yourself to be immersed, you will feel as though you are a passenger aboard the Kosmos (mankind’s massive city-like ship, over a kilometer in length that embarks on a nineteen year voyage into space).

Written as a journal, the reader enters into the mind of the two-time Nobel-prize recipient, Dr. Neil de Hoyos, whose work in physics have allowed the possibility of such a voyage to occur. He’s a skeptical fellow, allowing his intelligence to act as a wall against the inner longings of his very human heart. He lives with regrets, he’s angry, and he walks with a limp. Yet he and the 600 other passengers hope that in leaving their fallen, totalitarian home planet, they will be free from their dystopia, somehow, some way.

As the story progresses, the milieu becomes very dark, and the terrible truth of man’s inability to escape himself and the shortcomings of his people stare in the face of Dr. Hoyos. The central theme under all the action, discoveries, and conspiracies really got under my skin; try as they might to transcend humanity’s ugliness, the voyagers still carry the faults of their people - our people - within themselves. Evil lies in the hearts of men.

And yet the story ends with incredible hope and joy. When I finished the book, I had to take a day to unwind myself, to float back down to Earth. I was saddened that the journey was over, but I cannot wait to discuss it with my brother, who has just started the book on my recommendation.

You can buy the book here: http://amzn.to/1pUA31S

You can also check out O'Brien's other novels (and his wonderful articles and paintings) at his personal website: http://www.studiobrien.com