While it was certainly not the worst feeling I have had in my life, crawling into bed, turning out the lights and pulling up the covers only to have my nostrils overwhelmed by the stench of dog urine has to be pretty close to the top. To make matters worse, the culprit was a dog that we had been house-sitting for. To make matters that much worse, she chose the brand-new hand-made quilt given to us by our parish as her personal litter box. To make matters much, much worse, the urine stains did not come out after a dry cleaning. Olivia and I are now faced with having to notify the makers of the quilt that their gift is in need of a severe repair job.
Let this post service as notice that we will no longer be house-sitting for dogs that are not crate trained.
In recent months I have become increasingly infatuated with the world of vinyl music. It's sort of a cross-breed between music appreciation and baseball card collecting. When considering the purchase of a used record the quality and condition is most important (to me), but the real fanatics/obsessives also consider the pressing of the record (i.e. the first pressing is the oldest, usually the rarest and thus most valuable). This article does a great job of articulating the perspective of the vinyl music fan and its re-emergence as a medium in the market.
Listening to vinyl has been a revelation to my ears: the warmth and subtlety of sound makes each record an experience to enjoy. Now as I listen to my Cd's -- while they certainly sound crystal clear -- in comparison to my records they sound synthetic and cold. A debate rages among audiophiles as to which medium, the CD or vinyl, is superior. Readthese guys weigh-in on the debate. While I consider myself an audiophile, half the time I'm really not sure what they're talking about.
Now that the man-bag controversy has finally blown over, I can rightfully acknowledge the amazing and profound recent landmark in my life: on September 23rd I was married to the inspiring and beautiful Olivia Bagley. We were married at St. Paul Antiochian Orthodox Church in Brier, Washington with our own parish priest the V. Rev. A. James Bernstein serving. I currently have a number of pictures of the ceremony if you click on the sidebar to the right but I'm still waiting for pictures of the reception and more of the professional shots to trickle in.
In the Orthodox Church, marriage is a sacrament. The centerpiece is the crowning ceremony which symbolizes the divine unity between a man and a woman in Christ. As you might see in the pictures, Olivia and I are crowned in the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit with floral crowns which are signs of both royalty and martyrdom. As humans who have fallen into death and sin, we are restored as kings and queens of creation in Christ. However, this restoration can only take place through the Cross. We are crucified with Christ in this world, which leads to the death of my self-centered pride and its roots that go so deep into my heart that it is hard to see sometimes where my pride ends and my heart begins.
Music plays an indispensable role in each Orthodox liturgy, and the marriage ceremony is no different. The choral music in the marriage liturgy is particularly noteworthy however and several of my musician relatives/friends commented on how stunning the music was, with one noting that the Our Father (the Lord's Prayer) nearly moved him to tears.
It was the hope of Olivia and I that the reception would be a big celebration/party with as many of our relatives and friends as possible and the event itself exceeded my expectations. Great food and drink, lots of laughter, good music, and humbling toasts left me glowing for several days afterward. As I recall that day now I can't help but think we all tasted a little slice of heaven and if I do say so myself, I doubt that's a coincidence.
The other day after work I was waiting for my bus, the 26. It was late which isn't that unsual and when it did arrive I hopped on. As usual, we wove around downtown Seattle before heading to Fremont. About halfway to Fremont I began to read a book that I bring with me to pass the time. The Fremont stop is usually the largest and this day was no different -- about half of the passengers exited the bus in the self-proclaimned center of the universe. My own stop in Wallingford is about 10 minutes after Fremont, so I went back to reading my book. After a few minutes I glanced up to see if we were getting close to my stop and much to my surprise I did not recognize my surroundings. I'm new to this particular bus route and so I'm not too alarmed at this point. It's perfectly feasible that I'm not very familiar with the surroundings on my new route, especially at night, right? Wrong. I definetly was in an area of Seattle that I did not recognize. I was now faced with the unpleasant task of walking to the front of the bus to confess my ineptitude to the bus driver. In the silent bus I made my way forward after everyone who was stopping had cleared out. Amidst the silence on the bus was the tangible anticpation of the expetant passengers waiting for the driver to resume their journey. I cut through the silence with my bold and ignorant question, "This isn't the 26, is it?" The driver had a somewhat perplexed and amused expression on his face when he told me that no, I was on the 28. He told me to exit here and then wait for the 28 headed back to Fremont on the other side of the street. Like a big boy, I looked both ways before crossing but I was a little scared since I didn't have anyone's hand to hold. How could this happen? Most distressing was that I didn't even recognize where I was. Deep down though I think I know the reason that I was in such an unfortunate position. I was distracted reading my book, The Idiot.
I'm glad that beauty does exist in Radiohead's personal world after all. I'm not an apologist for the band; I haven't liked their last three records. However, there is something unique about one of the biggest and most critically respected bands in the world announcing that in ten days they will be offering their latest record as a download for a consumer determined price. And it is beautiful (the music that is). Some advice to any prospective crooner's out there: don't try to sound like Thom York because, you can't.
Long before the phrase "hooker with a heart of gold" had entered into the American lexicon, Dostoevsky wrote Crime and Punishment with Sofya Semyonovna Marmeladov as your proto-hooker. However, her story might be a little less sanitary than your average Hollywood tart; she chooses to become a prostitute by profession since her father is a drunk who can't hold a job down, her mother is suffering from consumption and as a result her younger siblings are going hungry. Certainly no R-rated T and A here but nonetheless her plight is a bit of a downer.
Crime and Punishment is the latest Dostoevsky novel that I'm re-reading and as with The Brothers Karamazov before it, I'm getting a lot more out of the book the second time around. The novel features the story of Raskolnikov (which comes from the Russian word raskoknik and translates to schismatic), a young man who, as a matter of practicality, takes justice into his own hands and commits murder against a woman who by his judgment is deserving of such a fate.
What unfolds is the story of Raskolnikov's tribulation, regeneration and eventual repentance. I won't even attempt to give a recap to the books many events, which includes a crazed dream in which an angry mob beats an old horse to death with a crowbar, as well as a particularly moving scene (portrayed in the picture above) in which the Gospel story of Jesus' raising of Lazarus is read to Raskolnikov by Sofya. Suffice it to say that the themes of human depravity and hope in the midst of suffering are fully explored in the novel (one of Dostoevsky's many achievements is his ability to relate such widely ranging events without seeming to make compromises designed to serve a particular idealogy - each event unwinds naturally in an authentic and unforced manner).
Raskolnikov is a character that I can relate to. I believe that part of the human condition is our struggle to make sense of events that unfold in our lives or the lives of others that offend our own concept of justice. And it is a fine line between authentically expressing our suffering and becoming angry and bitter as a result of it. Raskolnikov responds to the absence of his own concept of justice (and God) by protesting against it in the act of murder. Intrinsically tied up in this protest is Raskolnikov's infatuation with his own ego: he fancies himself to be an elite member of society who transcends human law and is thereby allowed to commit heinous acts such as murder as long as they are in service of the greater good of society. Sound crazy? Yeah, it does to me as well. It also hits a little too close to home.
It is in this context that Raskolnikov's megalomania is drawn in sharp contrast to the humility of Sophia. If anyone should be upset and protesting against their lot in life, Sophia would have some fodder for that proverbial cannon. But she bears no grudges and harbors no resentment. It is ultimately because of her unyielding love that Raskolnikov turns from his sin against God and humanity and begins a life of repentance.
I have often thought of repentance primarily in terms of negation; repentance is a word that conjures up all kinds of images and for me they are mostly negative. I've blogged about the subject of repentance before but it is something that I am returning to again and again - the concept of repentance not primarily in negative language as I had perceived it before, but positive. I can't say it better than Bishop Kallistos Ware:
"Correctly understood, repentance is not negative but positive. It means not self-pity or remorse but conversion, the re-centering of our whole life upon the Trinity. It is not looking backward with regret, but forward with hope - not downwards at our shortcomings but upwards at God's love. It is to see, not what we have failed to be, but by what by divine grace we can become; and it is to act upon what we see. To repent is to open our eyes to the light. In this sense, it is not a single act, an initial step, but a continuing state, an attitude of the heart and will that needs to be ceaselessly renewed up to the end of life (Ware, The Orthodox Way).
In the novel Raskolnikov is not demonized - he is a character who in reality is quite sensitive and very concerned with the injustices committed against his neighbors in the world around him. However, he sins against God in turning to inner despair (negation in the form of murder) as a result of these perceived injustices. I think that this inner despair can often take more subtle forms than murder, perhaps even outwardly looking like Godliness but in reality may simply be a mask for our rampant pride and ego. In the end, what Raskolnikov felt would be an act of practicality to improve the world accomplished no such thing and was destructive to his own soul and person. It is only through a positive act (i.e. repentance - which authentically deals with the negative, our sin) that Raskolnikov begins the process of redemption to his soul and person.
Up until a few years ago, the White Stripes really bugged me. I had never really listened to the band before but Jack White was certainly annoying. He seemed to be an arty-farty freak who was self-conscious and full of himself and I thought the cameo he had in Cold Mountain was ridiculous.
At any rate, when the band released Get Behind Me Satan I decided to buy it since it was on sale at Best Buy. I ended up really liking the record. I subsequently bought their entire back catalog, blew out some speakers at the WorldMarket in Woodbury, MN listening to "The Nurse" before we opened, and even had a dream about the band. Previously, this was an U2-only level of band obsessiveness. I don't remember much of the dream, but an event that sticks out in my mind is when I tried to kiss Meg. I slowly leaned in and right before I gave Meg a smooch, her upper-lip grew hair on it and I realized I was about to kiss Jack instead. This part of the dream could also be classified as a nightmare. I may be running the risk of being too intimately personal on the 'ol blog, but if nothing else it gives you a glimpse into the fragile state of my psyche at the time (it had been a rough couple've years).
A few weeks ago the band released a new album Icky Thump. I won't give a full review of the record, but a few highlights include the title track, "Rag and Bone," and the weird and wild "St. Andrew (This Battle is in the Air)." This track continues the vague spirituality that has always been present in the White Stripes repertoire, from their covers of old blues spirituals to thanking several Saints in the liner notes of Get Behind Me and the Apostles in the notes of Icky Thump.
I have found the live performances of the White Stripes to be a pretty incredible burst of energy and chemistry between the manic over-the-top energy of Jack and Meg's innocent and primal work on the skins. Yee-haw.
Recently here in Seattle an event that has caused quite a stir is the news that Episcopal Priestess Ann Holmes Redding is both a practicing Muslim and a Christian. Hmmmm.
The linked article provides some commentary from scholars who agree and disagree with her position. There is part of me that finds this sort of inter-faith (interpersonal interfaith?) stance appealing. Perhaps it could be seen as an attempt to "solve" or "reconcile" some of the horrifying violence and atrocities comitted by Christians and Muslims against one another the past 1400 years. Mutual forgiveness and dialogue is certainly needed and important.
But if Redding's aim to be a Christian and Muslim is a (sub)conscious attempt at reconciliation (I'm not sure that it is) does it truly acheive that? What does it acheive? What does it say about Christianity?
I have recently been inspired to go to a new world; a place where previously only rock stars, porn stars and middle aged men still living in the 1980s have dared to trod: I have grown a mustache. Undeterred by the threats of my fiance that she would find my physical appearance "absolutely disgusting," I have taken the plunge into the dangerous and uncharted waters of the 'stache. To those of you who may have not yet taken the leap into this realm: jump on in, the water is warm.
I found that a certain freedom accompanies the sporting of the 'stache. It may well appear as foolishness to some or even desperation to others, but with the 'stache I feel a sense of renewed personal identity. Do I look ridiculous? Maybe, even probably. Actually, who am I kidding - of course I do - but that just comes with the territory. It's part of the whole 'renewed personal identity' - it doesn't matter what I look like, right? I'm hip because I've transcended style, 'I don't care anymore' (of course, this sense of freedom could also quite easily be my dishonest attempt to mask my true feelings of insecurity and ridiculousness as I walk around in public with a mustache).
It is no conincidence that at the appearance of my mustache, Olivia happens to be gone for the weekend visiting friends. And it remains to be seen whether I will keep my mustache for her return or even for Church tomorrow morning for that matter. At any rate, my upper lip will rest well this evening in the warmth of the 'stache. While I am embarassed that I am blogging about such a subject on a Saturday night (or any subject for that matter), it was for a good purpose. I think.
I haven't had much time for blogging recently, so I'm going to put up some video of one of my fave bands playing a tune from their new record Sky Blue Sky which . . . I don't like very much as a whole. If nothing else, I'm not a big fan of the latest incarnation of Tweedy's style. I've already blogged about his 'grotesque beard' phase, so I'm not even going to touch this one.
Speaking of new records, the latest hipster trend that I've been following has been to begin playing vinyl. I've collected records for awhile, but more for nostalgia than for the audio benefit that it can offer. Inspired by a good friend who sent me two early U2 45s from the UK, I got a new belt put on my Dad's old record player and away I went. Sky Blue Sky is the first new record that I bought on vinyl. So, there you have it.
At the end of March I was received into the Eastern Orthodox Church along with my fiance Olivia and our friends Jeremy and Kara. It was a moving and profound experience -- one that cannot be adequately described in words. Below are a few pictures of the ceremony, although in the absence of words these pictures are not of the hightest quality either.
The past few years my reading habits have swung on a drastic pendulum between borderline obsessiveness and willing ignorance. While in Seminary I read like a mofo and I liked it. I read for work and in my spare time I read for fun. There was a lot of reading going on! Then . . . I decided I didn't want to read anymore, I wanted to "live." I felt that I had been primarily living cereberally instead of existentially and there was some truth to my critique. So, I stopped for awhile. Eventually I began reading again, but nothing overtly theological as before - instead a gigantic biography of Bob Dylan, the autobiography of Johnny Cash, and The Wilco Book. This past fall I had the desire to read more theological material again for the first time. Perhaps it was no coincidence that many of the books I was now reading on Eastern Orthodox spirituality placed an emphasis on the human person and "incarnational living" (which I admittedly do a poor job of). At any rate, the last few weeks I have been re-reading Dostoevsky's The Brothers Karamazov. I've enjoyed the book a lot more the second time around partially because I'm a little older, have a better translation this time, and now am Orthodox myself, which gives me a better context for many of the characters actions in Orthodox Russia. The author places this quote in the mouth of one of his characters, Elder Zossima:
"There is only one salvation for you: take yourself up, and make yourself responsible for all the sins of men. For indeed it is so, my friend, and the moment you make yourself sincerely responsible for everything and everyone, you will see at once that it is really so, that it is you who are guilty on behalf of all and for all. Whereas by shifting your own laziness and powerlessness onto others, you will end by sharing in Satan's pride and murmuring against God. I think thus of Satan's pride: it is difficult for us on earth to comprehend it, and therefore, how easy it is to fall into error and partake of it, thinking, moreover, that we are doing something great and beautiful."
My int ital reaction to this quote is one of affirmation; I feel edified and encouraged. It doesn't take long though, before I begin to reconsider. How is this possible? It is at the very least a challenge to my own individualistic sense of accomplishment. I don't believe what Dostoevsky is trying to say here is that there isn't any difference between a regular ol' sinful Joe like myself and a mass murderer, because I think there is. I'm pretty sure there's a difference between myself and Mother Theresa as well. However, saying as much is not mutually exclusive with what I believe his main point to be here: that the first step toward God is humbling myself before Him. It is only when I can call myself along with the Apostle Paul -- "the worst of sinners," the sort of sinner who takes some responsibility in all sin, no matter how grievous -- that I receive Love and can properly love my fellow man.
"And yet, from it very beginning Christianity has been the proclamation of joy, of the only possible joy on earth. It rendered impossible all joy we usually think of as possible. But within this impossibility, at the very bottom of this darkness, it announced and conveyed a new all-embracing joy, and with this joy it transformed the End into a Beginning. Without the proclamation of this joy Christianity is incomprehensible. It is only as joy that the Church was victorious in the world, and it lost the world when it lost that joy, and ceased to be a credible witness to it. Of all accusations against Christians, the most terrible one was uttered by Nietzsche when he said that Christians had no joy . . . Christianity was the revelation of the gift of joy, and thus, the gift of genuine feast. Every Saturday night at the Resurrection vigil we sing, 'for, through the Cross, joy came into the whole world.' This joy is pure joy because it does not depend on anything in this world, and is not the reward of anything in us. It is totally and absolutely a gift, the 'charis,' the grace. And being pure gift, this joy has a transforming power, the only really transforming power in this world. It is the 'seal' of the Holy Spirit on the life of the Church -- on its faith, hope and love."
I hope that my intentions are pure in posting a picture of this painting -- that this is not an immature attempt to shock or sensationalize, but to fully point toward the life-giving cross by also acknowledging its tragedy. That in this event death was truly overcome by death.
"Portraits apart, this is perhaps Holbein's most striking image. Since Dostoevsky's observations in the nineteenth century, which dwelt on the forbidding aspects of physical decay and bodily corruption, the painting has been seen as the product of a mind steeped in the apocalyptic horrors that were unleashed by the first phase of the Reformation. But what is known of Holbein's phlegmatic interpretation of the human condition belies this interpretation. Modern authorities suggest that Holbein intended to stress the sheer miracle of Resurrection and its imminence, since the minutely-observed level of decay in the gangrenous wounds suggests that we see Christ's body three days after death."
And a quote from Fr. Alexander Schmemann in For the Life of the World:
"Yes, as we have already said, Christianity was on the one hand, the end of all natural joy. It revealed its impossibility, its futility, its sadness -- because by revealing the perfect man it revealed the abyss of man's alienation from God and the inexhaustible sadness of this alienation. The cross of Christ signified an end of all 'natural' rejoicing; it made it, indeed, impossible. From this point of view the sad 'seriousness' of modern man is certainly of Christian origin, even if this has been forgotten by that man himself. Since the Gospel was preached in this world, all attempts to go back to a pure 'pagan joy,' all 'renaissances,' all 'healthy optimisms' were bound to fail. 'There is but one sadness,' said Leon Bloy, 'that of not being a saint.' And it is this sadness that permeates mysteriously the whole life of the world, it's frantic and pathetic hunger and thirst for perfection, which kills all joy. Christianity made it impossible simply to rejoice in the natural cycles -- in harvests and new moons. Because it relegated the perfection of joy to the inaccessible future -- as the goal and end of all work -- it made all human life an 'effort,' a 'work.'"
A few weeks ago, The Arcade Fire released their highly anticipated second full-length album Neon Bible. Since I make a habit of keeping up with what music critics think is cool, I had purchased their debut albumFuneral, which was widely hailed as the best rock record of 2004. Written in the midst of the deaths of several family members (three of the seven band members are related; front-man Win Butler and his wife Regine Chassagne, along with Win's brother Will), Funeral is notable for its unique instrumentation and is a highly emotive and personal recording that allowed for the catharsis of the band's personal grief and anguish during this period.
Neon Bible is a natural maturation from Funeral. Where Funeral seems oblique or obtuse both musically and lyrically, Neon Bible has a much wider appeal without compromising the unique sound of its predecessor. It is primarily directed not toward the personal themes of Funeral, but addresses the proverbial "big subjects" in life -- God, faith, the Iraq war (of course), Western materialism -- and is served up with a foreboding if not slightly cynical/melancholy undertone. My ears hear the musical influence of Boy-era U2 and Bowie. However, the biggest influence is perhaps the most unlikely considering the vast differences between their respective fan bases: Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band, who have their collective fingerprints all over Neon Bible.
Really though, the comparison between The Boss/E Street Band and the Arcade Fire isn't that much of a stretch; they really have their share of similarities. Both bands have close to double digits in group members, can come across as melodramatic and condescendingly self-important, have ridiculously high energy performances, and to use a cliche, attempt to break down the barrier between performer and audience. In fact, the Arcade Fire often begin their encores acoustically from the back of the venue. In recalling the Arcade Fire show I attended in the fall of 2005 at First Avenue in Minneapolis (where Prince shot Purple Rain), the band, to use a David Letterman term, blew the roof off the dump. After a shaky start, the final medley of "Wake Up"/Rebellion (Lies) was astounding. During one portion of the show, one of the band jumped up onto the balcony of the small theatre armed with a drumstick in hand, wailing away violently at anyone in the audience member who attempted to get close.
Now if you see Little Steven pull similar punches at the next E Street show -- it was no accident.
I spent this past weekend visiting my girlfriend Olivia's family in the east-bay of Northern California. We had a great time and I felt at home with her family right away. It didn't take long for the kidding to begin; both her Step-Dad and brother Shawn located a weakness in the "new guy" immediately: he's a Seattle Mariners fan. Living in the Bay Area, naturally they are fans of the Oakland A's who beat (or more appropriately crushed and slaughtered) my beloved M's 19 out of 21 games last year (or something ridiculous like that). That's alright. Maybe I'm naive, but you know what they say about paybacks . . .
It was also a great visit because Shawn and his wife Misty were bringing their newborn son Christian back home for the first time. As you can see from the picture (not my favorite picture, but it will have to do), he's a pretty cute little guy. And he's got a personality to boot - not fussy and whiny (or doesn't seem to be at this point), but happy and content most of the time. Babies seem to have a disarming presence about them. In the midst of family squabbles and conflict, all the trouble doesn't seem quite as severe or important with a little bundle of joy around.
And of course, it was also sunny and in the upper 70s. I didn't realize how badly I missed the sun until I saw it again for a sustained amount of time. As our return flight descended upon the Seattle gloom-weather, it was hard not to reminisce about back-yard barbeques amongst Orange and Lemon trees with Richie Masadas cupping his hands and yelling (as only Richie can do), "Je-SUS!" to howls of joyful laughter. It was a good weekend.
I'm not sure if 'Orthodox humor' is any funnier than the typical 'Christian humor,' but I stumbled across this recently and found it to be pretty amusing and insightful.
1. Take a Long Time. 2. Catechumens are Expected to Learn. 3. After your Baptism/Chrismation, Add Regular Confession and Communion to Rule #2. 4. The Grass is Never Greener; or, Never Know Too Many Priests. 5. Don’t be a weirdo. 6. Worry About Yourself. 7. You Aren’t a Monk, You Aren’t a Priest, Don’t Plan on Being One. 8. No One has Screwed Your Life up More Than You: Listen to Others First. 9. Don’t Play House. 10. Don’t Look Back; Don’t Look Back in Anger. 11. Don’t Write or Speak About Your Conversion Publicly. 12. Whether Cradle or Convert, We Must All Convert Everyday.
I recently viewed the concert DVD Jeff Tweedy: Sunken Treasure Live from the Pacific Northwest, which chronicles the Wilco front-man's solo tour from Seattle through its various stops on down to San Francisco. The show was notable for me, most obviously because of my love of the folkie-troubadour-Americana vibe a la Dylan, Guthrie and Van Ronk.
The organic elements of acoustic guitar, voice and harmonica give the spotlight to Tweedy's greatest strength: the songs themselves. Not gifted with the strongest voice or the boldest guitar chops, Tweedy crafts songs that are insightful, poignant, and uplifting while simultaneously twinged with a melancholy that borders on despair. Several of the tunes and interviews on the DVD bear spiritual insights worth listening to; unfortunately (for me) they lean towards territory that is at best cynical and at worst blasphemous.
The only other real downside is, throughout the film Tweedy is sporting perhaps the most horrific-looking beard in the history of mankind (its scraggly and spotty appearance actually manages to distract from the music on several occasions).
Most importantly, watching the DVD filled me with a sense of nostalgia and wonder recalling one of the first dates I had with Olivia -- at the Seattle show! And we kissed afterwards! Good times.
This past week I began to work from home. I now get paid to sit at a desk in my bedroom and counsel people over the phone. Initially it was a bit strange, but by the second day I was getting used to it. Hey, I can take a shower on my first break! and other such exciting discoveries have been the theme of recent days.
If there is going to be a problem, it will be in how I choose to spend my free time. By the end of my shift I am more than ready to leave the house, the only problem being that it is the time of the evening when friends/family are already home having wrapped up their day and are getting ready to turn in. I'll have to make some further adjustments, but for now I am basking in the glory of working in my pj's.
Spring training has arrived and with it the promise of a new baseball season. The last few years have not been kind to my beloved Seattle Mariners. Since their 116-win 2001 season they haven't had a winning season and the glory days of ex-Manager Sweet Lou Piniella are a distant memory . In my own estimation the moves the club have made this offseason haven't dramatically improved the team, but that's beside the point. I'm content right now to look forward to the prospect of a 75 degree Sunday afternoon in July with the sun beaming down in the blue sky above and the spacious pastures of Safeco Field's green outfield grass below. There, my girlfriend and I can enjoy some cold beer and peanuts and debate the questionable in-game decision making of manager Mike Hargrove (actually, the debate will probably be comprised of my own frustrated rhetorical questions and Olivia graciously humoring me by listening to my overly detailed descriptions of baseball strategy and what Hargrove natrually should have done).
In many ways I suppose that is my favorite part of baseball (probably not Olivia's though). Sure, the amenities are nice; baseball wouldn't be the same without sounds like the sharp crack of the bat and the pop of the thrown ball into a leather mitt. Or the thrill of rooting for a winning team and watching the entertaining spectacle of grown men trying to hit a small round ball thrown at 95 miles an hour with a round, wooden stick.
All of these are indispensible to my enjoyment of the game. However, what makes baseball most satisfying to me is what doesn't happen during the game combined with the anticipation of what possibly could happen. It is in these tense moments that baseball becomes more than entertainment, it becomes an event in which those who I'm watching the game with -- whether they be loved ones or strangers -- become as important as the game itself. And these sort of moments are plentiful in the game of baseball. It is a game of inaction rather than action; a time to ponder and dialouge rather than be force fed the lastest helping of entertainment value for your dollar.
Don't get me wrong, some games just drag on and on with pitching change after pitching change. If you find the game itself boring, that's because it probably is at times. I for one though, am still looking forward to the spring.
I commute to work daily by bus to downtown Seattle. The other day, as I pulled into the Lynnwood Park and Ride, I noticed a few people huddled around one of the hundreds of vehicles in the lot. I was intrigued by the scene, so after parking I decided to investigate. Once I got closer I noticed that it was a camera crew nosing around the cars, one of which had its back window partially bashed in. A woman (it turns out her name is Tracy Vedder) approached me and asked me if I would mind being asked a few questions on camera for a story about the safety of using the Park and Ride. It was pretty hilarious, as soon as the camera started rolling, she got really intense and posed the questions in a very serious and dramatic tone, "Did you know that police have recently posted signs stating they are going to be using 'bait cars' to help trap thieves? How do you feel about this? Do you feel safe leaving your car at the Park and Ride?" Pretty heavy stuff; I can't imagine that they would actually run the story and as far as I know, it never has. The camera man thought he was pretty funny too, asking me how to spell my name. It was eerily familiar to watching Bill Murray trade barbs with his camera man in Groundhog Day, the main difference being that I remained silent and never did say anything back to the cameraman.
"Truth for us is not a system of thought. Truth is not created. Truth is. Christ is the truth. Truth is a person. Truth is not limited within our apprehension of it. Truth transcends us; we can never come to the full comprehension of Truth.
The search for Truth is the search for the person of Christ . . .
Truth is the Mystery of the person of Christ; and, because it is a person, the Mystery is inseperably linked with the event; the event of the encounter. Mystery and event are one . . .
The Mystery, for the Orthodox mind, is precise and austere reality. It is Christ, and it is to meet Christ" -- Mother Maria of Normandy
What I find particularly profound about this quote is its connection between Mystery and event; Mystery is beyond our comprehension and understanding, but it is also connected to the tangible reality of the person of Christ.
Back in October, my friends Paul and Amanda were planning on traveling to Seattle from the eastside of Washington State to visit Olivia and I. Even though we didn't have tickets, we were going to try to scalp seats for a Sufjan Stevens show on Sunday night. Paul and Amanda got in on Saturday night and decided to stop by the venue to see if by some chance, last-minute seats had been made available for this sold-out show. Lucky for all of us not only were they able to get four tickets together, but the seats that were available were in the orchestra pit!
Paul and I were very excited but guarded. Sufjan was a musical favorite of the both of us. We had seen him once before in the spring of the same year during an all-day music festival, and his performance was underwhelming. Perhaps part of this had been due to our high expectations for the show, but nevertheless, Stevens and his band seemed out of place and underprepared. Paul and I reasoned, "the seats we've bought aren't any more expensive than any of the others put on sale for the show, they couldn't actually be in the orchestra pit, could they? They must be obstructed view at the very least?"
After we got inside the Paramount (a beautifully restored old theatre in downtown Seattle), the usher pointed us down to the front of the venue toward our seats. This was a good sign. We walked down the long aisleway, watching to see when the row numbers would correspond to the ticket stubs in our hands. We kept going and going and going and eventually came to the end of the rows. Only two rows of folding chairs remained at the very front and they were restricted access. Could this be it? Another usher verified that this was indeed where our seats were located. We were in the second row, center stage, 8 ft. from the stage. We couldn't believe it. We had gone from not knowing if we would even be able to successfully scalp tickets to the show 24 hrs earlier to having the the best seats any of us had ever had, for any show, ever. Not bad.
As difficult as it would be for the music to live up to the location of the seats, it actually surpassed it by far. The manner with which Stevens conducted himself was absolutely without pretension. He came out with the rest of the road crew in the "disguise" of a baseball cap and helped set up the gear. He engaged with the audience in such a pure and humble way, it could almost be described as reverse charisma. The music wasn't too shabby either. With a total of 20 band members, he had a full horn and string section along with a regular 5 piece band. The video shot below is from a show two weeks prior to the one we attended, although it is shot from almost the exact same vantage point as our seats. The grainy amateur video doesn't do the music justice, but it is still pretty darn good. As you watch Sufjan tickle the ivories as a sort of indie-rock Liberace, I hope you get to see the ten minute video in its entirety, because it is worth it.
PS - I jumped on stage after the show and grabbed Stevens' setlist. It has ridiculous, over-the-top code names for each of the songs in the show (i.e., 'The Transfiguration' is listed as 'Transfigured Readiness of 20 Yurts').
Over the past few years I've had the opportunity to live a variety of places, from the Midwest to Northern California and my native Pacific NW. Each place that I've lived has its own unique allure: the farming fields of Minnesota - vibrant and green during the summer and bleak and white-cold during the winter. The sun-filled days in California with its sweltering heat. Of course I'm biased as to which I prefer, but for my money, the beauty of the Pacific NW trumps them all. My own photography isn't the best defense of this claim but I think that despite my shortcomings the grandeur of the Olympic Mountains and the Puget Sound speak for themselves. This is the view from my office. The challenge this time of the year (or any for that matter) is to be able to find a clear day without clouds. It's on days such as these that I remember that there's no place like home.
Two weeks ago I bought a Whirly Pop. Since that time I think I've used it every evening except for two for a late night snack. What is a Whirley Pop? I'm glad you asked. The Whirley Pop is a new way (for me) to cook popcorn. You place some vegetable oil and popcorn kernels in the pot that you see to the left and then heat it on your stove top, turning the handle slowly in order to sift the kernels around until they begin popping. After placing the popcorn in a bowl, you can season it any way you wish. The result is a popped corn that is crisp, light and delicious -- not like the popcorn that you pull out of the micorwave. My roomates and I have had fun joking around about my fascination/borderline obsession with the Whirley Pop. I mean, really, it tastes good and all but there's only so much you can do to a popcorn kernel; no matter what way you cook it, it still tastes like popcorn. Not only does it still taste like popcorn, but making popcorn with the Whirley Pop as opposed to the microwave, there exists the potential added inconvenience of time committment; it takes longer to pop and there's some prep time before and some clean up time afterwards, albeit small.
So what if any significance exists for me with the Whirley Pop? Does it have a symbolic meaning in my life? Maybe I'm grasping at straws here, but I believe it does. You see, over the past few years, for various valid reasons, I had begun to order my life, including my own eating habits, primarily around what was convenient for me. Being single, if I needed to eat, I could just throw a DiGiorno frozen pizza in the oven and get a few meals out of it. Or I could even cook an entire family-size Stouffers lasagna and get a week's worth of meals out of it. Now, I wouldn't want to overanalyze this habit of mine (although I can admit that the lasagna thing is a bit lazy), but I have been learning of late that becoming overly preoccupied with ordering my life around what is convenient -- whether it be eating habits, transportation or whatever -- can influence my worldview and how I interact with those around me without my even realizing it. In the Western culture in which we live, it is all too easy to fall under the delusion that we are kings and queens of our own castle and that we exist primarily to statisfy our own needs and desires. I feel as though our culture is built on this presupposition to some degree and we are certainly bombarded with that message in any number of ways daily.
I guess the Whirley Pop, with its popcorn that tastes better but is more inconvenient, represents an acknowledgment on my part about the falsehood of this presupposition. What is convenient is not always better for us and perhaps it may even be worse. Desire (in general) is not always good. Becoming preoccupied with myself can lead to the destruction of what I believe is our created identity -- to love others and God -- and is recovered/attained in part during the struggle toward unification with our Creator.
I realize the weakness of my position in waxing poetic about the dangers of the convenient modern life. I take any number of modern conveniences for granted each day, from the car I drive for transportation, to the grocery store I shop at in order to eat, the toilet I flush my waste away in, and the laptop computer I am using to type this message. As my Parish Priest reminded me in a recent homily in regards to fasting, "we all indulge, no matter what we look like on the outside." Perhaps what I am learning is just part of the natural maturation process. The older we get, the more we realize that life is much more compicated than we had previously realized and the role we play in it is a bit smaller than we had self-consciously hoped. I will close with a quote from St. Varsanuphius that sums up my position in a much more concise fashion than I have just attempted to do. And no, it is not about the Whirley Pop, good as the popcorn it pops may be: "forget yourself and know yourself."
I've been trying the past few days to get my 'blog on.' I've been preoccupied with trying to think of good, witty titles for the blog itself, the links that I can share and so on. What I should primarily concern myself with though is making postings for the blog itself. I guess that's the hard and time consuming part! Really, what is a blog without a blog posting? That's a good question for a future blog or maybe a Zen Buddhist (not really).
I don't know how many people will read this or will find any worth in it. I guess to a large extent it doesn't even matter to me. I would love to dialogue with others and share commonalities and differences during a mutual discussion. I look forward to that with anticipation if it were to happen. I am also excited about being able to articulate and sift through what has been floating around in my head recently. Not to be melodramatic in any way, but my life has changed so much during the past few years that I have been confused as to which side has been up and which has been down at different times.
What has been filling my head and heart of late however, has been the incredible thanksgiving I feel to be able to live. It is a gift. I have a wonderful girlfriend who is everything I could ever ask for in a woman. I have a good job that pays the bills. More importantly than the riches that have been bestowed up me though is the interior knowledge that shows me that I am known and loved in the deepest part of my being - a truth that resounds deeper and more profoundly than anything my imagination could conjure - I am known and loved as one who has been created by the Creator. This identity gives me cause to celebrate, how could it not? Sometimes I feel overwhelmed with how good God has been to me; at times I feel as though my soul has been lit on fire. I wonder how has this happened? What have I done to deserve the abundance of blessings in my life? Not only have I not sought it out, to a large degree I had oriented my life in such a way as to take me away from blessing.
In this sense, this truth also propels me into repentance, for the longer I gaze at Love, the deeper I know myself. The deeper I know myself the more I am aware of the many ways in which I fail to embrace this Love. What comes to mind with the word repentance is mentioned? In the past I have likened it to self-pity and remorse. Bishop Kalllistos Ware, in his book The Orthodox Way, reminds me that repentance is not negative but positive: "It is to look not backward with regret, but forward with hope - not downwards at our shortcomings but upward toward God's love. It is to see not what we have failed to be, but what by divine grace we can become; and it is to act upon what we see. To repent is to open our eyes to the light. In this sense repentance is not just a single act, an intial step, but an attidude of the heart and will that needs to be ceaselessly renewed up to the end of life." I would do well to remember the quote.
In recent months I have become increasingly infatuated with the world of vinyl music. It's sort of a cross-breed between music appreciation and baseball card collecting. When considering the purchase of a used record the quality and condition is most important (to me), but the real fanatics/obsessives also consider the pressing of the record (i.e. the first pressing is the oldest, usually the rarest and thus most valuable). This article does a great job of articulating the perspective of the vinyl music fan and its re-emergence as a medium in the market.
I'm glad that beauty does exist in Radiohead's personal world after all. I'm not an apologist for the band; I haven't liked their last three records. However, there is something unique about one of the biggest and most critically respected bands in the world announcing that in ten days they will be offering their latest record as a download for a consumer determined price. And it is beautiful (the music that is). Some advice to any prospective crooner's out there: don't try to sound like Thom York because, you can't.
