Current mood: sore

The Hope Lutheran church choir is performing Vivaldi’s Antiphonal Gloria a few weeks from now.  It is for double choir but we don’t have enough people, so this little girl Sara is taking the second part with her trumpet.  Sara is in the 6th grade I think, and is very good for her age; I get the impression she plays the work perfectly while practicing.  In front of us, though, she makes mistakes, and they are the sort engendered by performance anxiety - long flawless stretches, followed by a single wrong note then total collapse.  All the little old ladies in the choir are very kind of course; they encourage her, “Oh, Sara, that sounded so nice!”, even when she drops whole sections of the melody.

These ladies are well meaning, but flattery is never good.  I’ve gotten the “How nice!” response after screwing up and it makes me want to run from the stage.  “Yea, you messed up, but thats alright, try it again” means the audience supports me and wants me to do well.  Silence means they may not support me, but there is at least tacit acknoweldgement of the mistake.  “That sounded so nice!”, especially after a really hideous error, means they think either:

1) I’m not just bad, I’m so bad I’m not even capable of recognizing how bad I am,

2) I am not only bad but vain and will be pacified by a lie as long as it is complimentary, or

3) That my playing was fine.  They have no musical sense and aren’t worth playing for.

Kids get this comment more than adults, perhaps because it is patronizing and adults patronize children as a matter of course.  Kids aren’t stupid though.  I can see a look of pain on this girl’s face every time someone yells out how great she is - she looks like she’s trying to melt into the stage and disappear.  As a child I hated playing for my grandmother because it was, “Oh Matthew, how nice!” no matter what I did.  She wasn’t taking my playing seriously and was merely amused because I was cute - I could have banged the keys with my forehead and it would have been “nice”.

My father never let me win at board games, probably for this reason.  It’s ok to let kids win as long as they don’t know it, but once they figure it out it destroys their confidence - it shows you don’t have confidence in them.  I would have figured it out and I think he knew that.

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Music is such a strange thing.  It seems like a metaphor for the whole of life at times, while other times it’s extremely personal and intimate.  Improvising with another musician can be especially intimate:  I remember auditioning for a band in college, playing blues with this girl I hardly knew, and feeling very exposed afterwards.  Just exposed to her though, like she must have known exactly what I thought about her and everyone else after playing with me.

Current mood: listless

//diatribe

Talking with Joe tonight reminded me of my college anthropology classes and of the sorry state of that science (I was dissapointed by most of the social sciences).  A discipline that codifies human behavior without accounting for free will is doomed to fail, but anthropology is particularly bad.  When the spiritual (that which ultimately makes us human) is ruled out a priori, large portions of any culture seem absurd.  These absurd elements must be reckoned with for the sake of a complete theory, however, and the reckoning is performed by tacitly assuming the culture is full of idiots.  Anthropology deals with the surface appearance of spirituality extensively, almost obsessively, but it fails by refusing to consider the inner experience that drives the outward expression.

Examples:

Many cultures bury their dead with food, weapons, or other valuables, ostensibly as provender for the deceased in the life to come.  Anthropology assumes actions must be dictated by a physical logic, even if it is faulty logic (only physical needs are real), and therefore other cultures must think the dead have a physical need for food and weapons.  The truth is people bury the dead with valuables simply because it is a proper way of showing love and respect.  Our own culture inters people with flowers, military uniforms, guns, instruments, and any number of other things, not out of an absurd belief that the objects will be physically transported to the afterlife but as a symbol for what has been lost in this life.  I have no doubt ancient cultures performed their funeral rites for the same reason.

Ancient people described nature as a manifestation of the gods or of spiritual beings.  Thunder is the voice of a god, the mountains are his body, etc.  Anthropology tells us this pacified primitive man; it made the frightening and unknown aspects of nature feel safe and familiar.  Only physical things are really frightening, storms and earthquakes and such, so people used the gods to explain them away (spirits aren’t scary because deep down we know they aren’t real..).  Anyone who walks in the woods at night will see this is patently false.  Thunder and the howling of the wind are merely scary so long as they are only thunder and howling.  Once they are manifestations of a being, of some intelligent Other, they become terrifying.  To see the world as a manifestation of the gods without knowing the christian God of love is to see a world full of not only danger but of the utterly alien as well, it makes things not better but a thousand times worse.

The ancients described nature that way simply because nature is that way.  A Presence does manifest itself in the dark and wild places of the earth, and it is our culture that is deluding itself when it says otherwise.  We have pushed away or destroyed anything that might give us a taste of that Presence, and the anthropologist in his ignorance can thus say the gods are less frightening than a rain-storm without laughing at his own theory.

end diatribe//

No stars tonight.  When it is overcast the cloud layer reflects light from the city and it never gets really dark.

(credit goes to G. K. C. for some of the ideas here)

Current mood: blank

I came to work each Monday of September with a new injury, and people naturally began to wonder what was happening.  This past week someone made a joke about secret cage fighting on the weekends, and the joke somehow turned into half the production staff thinking I really do cage fight.  I don’t see myself as cage fighter, but maybe I’m scary and don’t realize it.  Small children often cry when they see me, after all.

I’ve been going around trying to arrange matches with the IT staff and today I found an opponent (although he seems to be taking the fight rather lightly -  I think he doubts my abilities in the ring..)  The event will be billed as “Mad Matt vs. Charrrrrrlie Oreglia - Wire Mesh of Death!!!”  We’re trying to get pay per view coverage.  I haven’t found a cage yet, but if all else fails we can use the warehouse and do elbow drops off the pallet shelves.

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After bible study last Sunday I started researching gender differences and found some interesting things.  For a long time it was thought that women must be stupider than men since they have smaller heads.  The smaller head theory was extensively studied in the mid 20th century and disproved, however - apparently women have the neurons packed more densely in their brains, which makes up for the size difference (head size does correlate with intelligence within gender).  This discovery was a big deal during the womens lib. movement since it was supposed proof of equality.

Modern science has discovered there is equivalency more than equality.  Men and women do think differently.  We often hear about men being better with math and women with language (I suspect because this is the most P.C. of the findings), but after digging a bit I found a more interesting fact that is never mentioned.  Women and men have the same average intelligence but there is much greater variance between men:  stupid men tend to be stupider and smart men tend to be smarter than their female counterparts (and consistently so, across culture and age groups).  I feel like I’ve been lied to with the same average intelligence statistic - it is technically true but this seems much more controversial (although I’m not quite sure why).

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I went to a concert last night; Marc Broussard and some girl who’s name has left me.  Pop music is perhaps improving but there are still alot of artists out there way better than anything on the radio, and Mr. Broussard is one of them.  See if you can find some of his live tracks; it’s well worth the effort.  The girl was also very good.  A nice alto is about the sexiest thing I can think of.

The night reminded me of why I don’t like living in LA:

1) Traffic limits driving speeds to 5mph.
2) $10 to park 3 blocks from the club.
3) $7 for a gin and tonic, and not a very good one at that.
4) Sunset blvd. by the 405 is like a gauntlet of death, with six inches of clearance between the car and the center divider and big metal spikes in case you mess up.
5) Downtown smells like the bad parts of Rosarita.

Watch this.  Each image stays on screen for a few seconds.  Keep the size of the earth in mind as it progresses.

Current mood: hot Much of my life revolves around art in the broad sense.  I earn money at a packaging plant but the art is my real work, and though I am only of middling ability I put alot of myself into it.

All of the work is for other people.  I think this is the case for any artist and is simply in the nature of art.  When I was young I kept what I made, but I was only working out of obligation.  Now it weighs on me if I can’t give it away - it only becomes valid when it is appreciated because something is communicated, otherwise it is a waste.

Often when I am moved by someone’s art I simply let it go, but that isn’t right.  The work may be freely given but there is still a debt of gratitude, paid through expression.  I was convicted of this yesterday by someone being genuinely appreciative of my music and I should know better, knowing how dark it can be to continually put things out and get nothing back.

I guess the point is to let people know when you appreciate what they have done, be it art or something else.  Some may not care, but for others it is the only reason they are working at all, and you may bring them even greater joy than they brought you.  I think this free exchange of love and gratitude is what God has in mind for everyone, and it makes me sad that I fail so often at it.

Current mood: less depressed I’ve been thinking about how literary tradition uses the night as a metaphor for evil or ignorance.  This is in contrast to Genesis, where the day and night are both created good, set in order by God and govered by His provenance.

The unknown movement in the black corners of the forest is frightening, but part of the glory is in the terror - it brings a kind of fiery delight in the Divine strength that is tonic in our soft, emasculated society.  Walking in the hills tonight I thought of Genesis, “Terrible is this place: it is the house of God, and the gate of heaven; and it shall be called the court of God.”

Yeats understood this, which is part of why I love his work.  I put up one of his on my profile that is about the same kind of glory, but in a person.  I can see it in certain people, but I’m not strong enough to describe it.

Today was difficult - I was feeling both ill and depressed for some reason, and I have a hard time being with alot of people in either state.  Strangely it is harder with people I care about.  When I’m down I want to talk to just one such person, any more and I can’t manage to be coherent, conversation fails, and things are worse.  A bunch of strangers is easier, I guess because they don’t matter as much?  The Lord is merciful though, He refreshed me with the beauty of His creation.  Praise Him.

The modern way of life brings much destruction and suffering, but being able to look out on the lights of the city at night is at least some compensation.

Current mood: injured I have to write for the average factory worker when doing operations manuals - i.e. my prose must be transparent to someone who doesn’t read well.  It is difficult though; I know what easy writting looks like (the cat sat on the hat), but I can’t readily distinguish hard words from that big nebulous cloud of ordinary language.  “Simplify” and “Causative”, for example, seem about level, but my co-workers say they are worlds apart and I have to revise all the time.  I’ve been thinking on what makes words hard (these things are somehow fun),  and I have as possible factors:

1) The listener doesn’t know what the word means (but it’s hard to predict what words people know).

2) The listener doesn’t hear the word very often.  Their mind isn’t used to dealing with it, so it takes more effort to process.

3) The word deals with abstractions.  I think the more levels of abstraction the harder the word gets, so ‘ontology’ would be harder than ‘orange’ for example.

4) The word is dense with meaning.  ‘Cuisine’ would be harder than ‘food’ because ‘cuisine’ includes the concept of ‘food’, as well as information about the food’s quality, etc.

5) The word is maleable as opposed to fixed.  If a word is fixed the listener can just glom on to it’s single definition; if it’s meaning is shaded they must make judgements about context.

Can anyone think of more?

On an unrelated note, I have a request for my fellow citizens.  I understand some of you may have lived in the city your whole life, and you may not think about these things.  As tempting as it might seem, please do not ride your off-road motorcycle down mountain trails.  It makes giant ruts and loosens dirt and debris on the hillside, which slide down and form rifts across the path.  It also kicks up giant rocks and leaves them in different and unexpected locations, where they lie in wait for me and my bicycle.

Current mood: “Oh, a little is alright..”

I was wandering the aisles of Walmart on Sunday when I saw what is maybe the greatest shirt ever made.  I normally don’t buy shirts until the old ones have holes, but I had to get this.

I have often found myself wishing for a shirt that combines all the great symbols of American life.  Sure, there are shirts with the bald eagle and patriotic slogans, shirts with the skulls and snakes of the great American outlaw biker (nothing says “I love America” like a Harley), and shirts with depictions of national heroes, but until now I have been forced to pick and choose in a most un-patriotic fashion.

Fear not, good citizen; Walmart has heard our cries, they have met this challenge to our national identity with the following masterpiece:

The banner is hard to read because of light reflecting off the glitter - it says “Truth, Justice, and the American Way.”  Everything is here: the snake, the skull, the patriotic slogan, the bald eagle, and the greatest American hero of all - Superman!  I can’t think of a single thing that would make this shirt better.  I want to wear it at work but I’m afraid everyone will be jelous.  They’ll just have to buy their own.

Interestingly, the shirt is reminiscent of Aztec religious paintings.  Whether this stems from a totemistic element in the consumer culture or a shirt designer who had too much teonanacatl isn’t clear, but it bears consideration.

John and I went on the Sierra Madre rope swing earlier, around 11:00.  The experience is changed by the dark - vision is gone, the ground is gone, gravity is gone - all points of reference are removed.  While jumping I thought of the song “Space Oddity”, and how the Major floats away into nothing.  During the day the swing is scary; at night it is warm and preverbal and still.  There is a hint of fear, but of a very different kind.

Current mood: calm Doheny is in some ways a pit of immorality and filth, stuffed to overflowing with people bent on it’s wreckage. Hoards of young, indolent Californians gleefully strew the dunes with cigarette butts, bags of pet droppings, beer bottles, and hypodermic needles, while runoff from the city collects in murky rivulets and pools before draining into the ocean.

Fortunately it is difficult to dwell on the vista of refuse because the beach is full of ladies (I use the term loosely) who are essentially naked. Current fashion in women’s swimwear incorporates two key elements: First, only the nipple may be covered, the rest of the breast must remain exposed. Second, the nipple covering must be similar in consistency to a stretched latex glove. When a person so inclined can count the individual bumps on your nipples and you aren’t even wet, your swimsuit isn’t accomplishing anything and you might as well take it off. I believe our Lord was refering to these situations when he recommended eye-gouging, but my faith is weak and I chose to look away instead.

In spite of all this, the essential beauty is still there. The waves still break in great airy masses on the rocks. There is still the rush and hiss, the strange invigourating smell.

I messed around in the shore-break for a while and was knocked over a couple times, but the surf was poor and I only got one really good ride. The waves didn’t have enough shape to catch with a body board, but there is a submerged ridge maybe 300′ out that provides a second break; I got started on that and came all the way in. As soon as I stepped ashore the lifegaurd told me I couldn’t go out again, I had to go down the beach to the “safety zone”. The 4 foot surf has claimed too many lives already and he wasn’t taking chances.

One ride is enough. When you turn and paddle there is first a whistling static behind and the sense of gathering force. The static grows to a lovely, resonant hum that swells until it fills the senses and accelerates the body forward and down. You are moved by the wave, then with the wave, then as the wave; as something hundreds of feet long and a thousand tons, as something that lapped on the shores of India and China before it crossed the Pacific to carry you, as something vast and ancient that will be unchanged long after you are dust.

Life is like an inflated balloon. We live on the inside and all around the balloon is Eternity. It is right here with us, seperated by only a milimeter, but we can’t see it. Sometimes, though, if you press on the balloon, it will stretch until you can see through. It doesn’t always work, and you can only see a part of Eternity - different parts depending on where you press, but all part of the same thing. You can press with literature, with poetry, with music, with a foam board off the California coast, but the important thing is to press. Some people think if you press hard enough, with something sharp enough, you can break through for a while. I don’t know about that, but I do know at the end of all this God will break through for us from the outside.

All kinds of nice things are happening:

1)  I got my first check as an actual WePackItAll employee and it is, indeed, bigger.

2)  I washed my car and vacumed it out / scrubbed the upholstry.  The clean seats are somehow satisfying.

3)  I had the car inspected and the frightening noises are from the trans-axle rubbing on a bent strut, not the transmission.  Even though it sounds bad nothing particularly bad is happening, i.e. it isn’t going to break down.

4)  I was able to go mountain biking without my arm seizing up for the first time in a month.

5)  I’m going to a concert tommorow I think.

6)  Going to the beach on Sunday.

7)  It was a mere 94 today, instead of 114.

8)  John is comming home in a week.

The beach is almost enough to compensate for the unpleasant aspects of SoCal (114 temperature smog lack of culture etc).  It might in fact be enough if I lived next to it, but certain realities prevent that (not being a multi-millionare).

The ocean is beautiful and disturbing at once: the singular flatness that presses on the mind and excludes all merely human concerns; the living terror of the high surf, continually hurled by invisible force onto the rocks of the Malibu coast.  Moving water is able to put away life in an instant, but when respected it will lift you gently and move you through the air as if carried by the hand of God Himself.

I remember waking and looking out after a night on the beach.  The water changes from oil to quicksilver as the sun crests and waves scatter like fire across the horizon.