May 23, 2008

Oh, I'd Like to Be Here

Nathia Gali - Good Morning Daisies


Originally uploaded by Perfect Stranger®.

This type of scenery was not uncommon during the monsoons in Murree where my brothers and I went to school. It is hard to describe how much longing this picture creates. It is one of the explanations of why I like grey days so much.

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September 29, 2007

It's Time For a Little Hoosiers

If you have never watched Hoosiers and never really got this, and understood why it is my favorite poem of mine, well, perhaps this will help, though I really feel compelled to add a "buyer beware" when sending people to Youtube anymore, as the content of some of their videos seem to be getting worse and worse, and increasingly unhelpful in the hard enough battle for purity.

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June 25, 2007

George MacDonald's Scotland

I was looking up a bit of information on George MacDonald today. He is the author/theologian who C.S. Lewis called his spritual master. I have to tell you, though, he does have some strange, and I believe ultimately unorthodox and aberrant theological ideas. In brief, he is more or less a universalist, believing that ultimately everyone will submit to the stern mercy of God. Paradoxically, or perhaps not so paradoxically, the good characters in his books are stringently holy in a seemingly inachievable, though I must say in a very winsome, way.

I want to look into him more, not because I believe universalism is true (though I sure would like it to be), but because I am genuinely interested in what manner of holiness we as Christians are intended to attempt and manifest in our lives. Sometimes I feel that even asking that question in a Reformed, grace-not-works contexts is a non-starter, that peoples' heresy-o-meters are immediately raised, but still I think it an entirely biblical question, one that I have paid entirely too little attention to in recent years.

At any rate, all of this is not the purpose of this post. That was to share with you this vision of George MacDonald's Scotland, provided on the website of Michael Phillips, MacDonald's main champion, editor, and popularizer of our times. Aside from the children's books (The Princess and the Goblin, etc.), it is actually only a few of his versions of MacDonald that I have read, which are more or less like moral romances set in Scotland, and published by Bethany House (which, not coincidently is a publishing house, I believe, associated with the holiness wing of Protestantism). I even have as yet to read Phantastes, the fantasy book that deepy impacted C. S. Lewis. At the current momemt, though, it is these pictures which are deeply impacting me. Oh my, I want to go.

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December 9, 2006

Bolstered Up From Evil

Speaking of a burglar he has just apprehended while he was trying to steal money from him and his friends, Peter Von Holp declares:

"So he is my brother, and yours, too, Carl Schummel, for that matter," answered Peter, looking into Carl's eye. "We cannot say what we might have become under other circumstances. We have been bolstered up from evil since the hour we were born. A happy home and good parents might have made that man a fine fellow instead of what he is. God grant that the law may cure and not crush him."

This is taken from the children's novel Hans Brinker or The Silver Skates (Click here for full text of the novel) by Mary Mapes Dodge, which is evidently entirely spun from research and conversations with an old Dutch couple, as the author never visited Holland. Even if it is rather idealistic and perhaps unrealistic, the novel is sweet and good. Rereading it has made me realize that this book may be responsible a fair bit for my love of winter and ice skating, as there is a great deal of the latter in it, including day long ice skating journeys on the canals.

This novel also created the legend of the boy sticking his finger in the small hole in the dyke until help came to keep the dyke from giving way and flooding the countryside. It really wasn't even a true Dutch legend before then evidently.

At any rate, I loved the quote and thought I would share.

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November 17, 2006

A Very Sufjan Christmas

Well, over the past several years I have been gifting friends with Christmas music that Sufjan Stevens produced for his family and friends and which found its way onto the web. As it looked like it was being made available on web sites with no objection from Sufjan, I felt free to copy it and distribute it. It was a magical and a joy to share.

I expected and hoped that he would package it and make it an honest to goodness Christmas album, and now he has, a 5 CD set no less. And what packaging, with a song book, stickers, and family portrait. And the best is that you can stream and preview each of the albums for free online. Go to the Asthmatic Kitty site and click on the album you want to hear at the bottom. The older ones are brilliant, including some new takes on old favorites (including some songs that we don't hear as often on this side of the Atlantic) and some original Christmas songs ala Sufjan, folksy and quirky, some depressive yet hope-filled, some simply joy-filled. I am still listening to the new stuff. The album can be puchased from Sufjan's label or Amazon and is out on the 21st.

My favorites thus far? "Once in Royal David's City" on Hark!: Songs for Christmas, Vol. II

Here is the Amazon blurb:

In December 2001, Sufjan set out to create a Christmas gift for his friends and family. The result was a seven-song recording that he called "Noel Vol. 1". Over the next several years, he created new EPs to add to the collection. This 5-CD box set includes all five volumes, plus a 42-page booklet with an original Christmas essay by acclaimed American novelist Ricky Moody, two essays, a short story by Stevens, a holiday sticker, chord charts, lyrics, comic strip, family portrait poster, photos, and an animated video.

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August 18, 2006

Preview

___________________________________________________

To Autumn
-by John Keats

I

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.

II

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

III

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, -
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

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January 30, 2006

Forest Park Soundtrack

Photo courtesty of explorestlouis.com

One of the many brilliant, free things about St. Louis is its crown jewel, Forest Park. Take a gander at these Google images pages. And even though I like my winters to be cold and snowy, yesterday was just too lovely and flirtatious a day to ignore its wooing.

So after church I decided to take a hike there, and with the goal of going off the paths. The only flaw in the plan was to not go home and change my shoes. Instead, I chose to go with the thrift store Doc Martens that I bought the day before which I had nowhere near broken in. My heels are still sore. But the pain did not begin until I was about 2/3 of the way through, so there was not much to do about it.

I imagine that there is probably not one inch of the park that is virginal, no line of its contours which has not been artificially shaped, but such shaping has been very well done for the most part, and that, combined with some magnificent buildings, often create the effect of being on location for a Jane Austen movie. Or for fleeting moments, one can imagine oneself on the shoulder of a mountain.

The most evocative moment of the afternoon, though, came from another, quirkier, blend of nature and human endeavor. It came as I was walking up a somewhat thickly wooded hillside. There was contant, high-pitched breathy drone from Highway 40 about half mile away. Immediately I was reminded of being at the top of a Himalayan peak in Pakistan, either amidst the pines (Mushkpuri) or just above the treeline (Miranjani). It was very like the sound of a strong wind rushing through their needles.

And for a fleeting moment I felt the lonely, joyous-sad, make-you-breath-deeply, feeling I felt then.

___________________________________________

Mushkpuri (9243 ft) and Miranjani (9763 ft) are mountains right next to one another. Miranjani has the more spectacular views, being higher. See picture with unknown tourist below. Mushkpuri is the snowy, lower peak in the background. It has more pine trees. I like peeking out from their cosyness toward the lonely, spaces and far-off peaks. Its top too, though, is tree-less, where once we used plastic groundsheets for improvised sleds. Brilliant.

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January 27, 2006

Slanting Light...

...is one of the lovely things of the world. I cannot decide, though, if it is more the light itself or how it illuminates things differently that I like.

This morning it was both. Driving into work, crossing the state line into Illinois, listening to Sufjan's Steven's album of the same name, a bright, yellow sun was rising up and streaming on to the city of Alton. There seem to be a cliched set of words we use to describe sunlight, some of which I used in the previous sentence, but cliches are cliches exactly because they often express the sentiment best.

Alton, a city on a river bluff was perfectly situated to catch the light. It was awash in a light. The buildings were clean and fresh, like a baby just out of a bath. Further up the bluff, the eastern side of branches of trees were as white as birch bark. If not for the lack of sparkles, I would have sworn there had been an ice storm the night before.

Dramatically adding to the effect, indeed perhaps the only reason I paid attention to these pageants of beauty at all, was a dark, grey bank of clouds in the west behind them.

Ouch.

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December 6, 2005

"This is the land of Narnia...

In honor of the release of the new Narnia movie this coming Friday, I thought I would post this water color that my brother Adrian painted several years ago and gave me for Christmas. It really captures for me the cozy yet intense beauty of a Narnian snowfall. Despite the quote, I think this painting must have been done of an early snowfall after King Peter, Queen Susan, King Edmund, and Queen Lucy had begun to reign, as the trees are unladen with snow.

P.S. I have seen the new movie and will post my "review" on Friday, if you are into reading reviews that is.

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November 17, 2005

In Delight of Winter or Master Lloyd Sleeps on the Deck

Winter has returned to the St. Louis area, and this time with a bit more earnestness. Its first appearance about a month or so ago was merely a flirtation, a day and a half of promises of sweater and hat weather and then it was off again. In truth, even though I like the progression of seasons and the arrival of the cold, some of the days since the cold went away for a wee vacation have been glorious, with the temperature in the seventies, the sky a keen blue, and the trees ablaze. Last Wednesday, blustery winds blew most of the leaves down, and that day was a wonder too, with leaves dancing wild reels--playing frenetic, final games of chase before they lay down together in bunches, silent and still, to return to brownness and the earth.

One of the many things that I like about my roomie Lloyd is that we share many aesthetic sensibilities and excitements. On that day a month ago, Lloyd was so excited about the cold that he pulled out his sleeping bag and pad and other accoutrements and headed for the deck for a winter campout. This is how I found him the following morning, well rested and happy.

   

To know Lloyd better, come visit on Interdrive and have a chat over tea (my perference) or whisky (Lloyd's preference). Until then, visit with Lloyd at his new blog, already thoughtful and engaging with content, soon to be wonderous and engaing with his photography. What is his blog about? The subtitle says it all.

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October 14, 2005

"...and just the tiniest bit burnt"

I am beginning to suspect that the greater part of my aesthetic framework is constructed from images and scenes in the Chronicles of Narnia, which were read to me when I was a wee lad away off in Pakistan. My brother Adrian says that because of The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, he longed for snow long before he had ever seen it. Lewis, I think, would be pleased, as he often articulated that there is as much joy, and perhaps more, in the anticipation of the arrival of a thing as in the having of it. Moreover, I think such longings and his ability to convey them so viscerally is one reason why his writings on heaven are so effective.

My ideals of food and fellowship come from the Chronicles. In fact, there are things, such as sardines, that I have more or less willed myself to like because they are delightly presented in a book. Sardines are on the menu when Tumnus invites Lucy to tea. As an adolescent, I provided repeated amusement for my family when I would order some manner of seafood on our, relative to now, few trips to restaurants, almost always finding that I did not like it.

But now, when the weather is dreary and blustery and cold, I stop by the store on the way home and pick up sardines and clam chowder (which is even more fantastic with a pad of butter and a bit or garlic and pepper) and go home to tea, which really just serves as the British word for supper. But tea is generally involved too, which for me comes in the form of a lovely large mug and consists of strong tea, evaporated milk, and sugar. If am feeling swanky, I substitute kippers for the sardines, which I wanted to like from reading the Scottish comics Oor Wullie and The Broons.

No, but Narnia is the source for my elemental longings. When Jill and Eustace and Puddleglum and Rilian come out of their long sojourn in darkness, they come out into the delightful winter night's festival of the Great Snow Dance of Narnia, with Fauns and Dryads dancing in a circle, which Dwarfs carefully punctuate with snowballs. When the weary travellers are noticed, they are taken to a dry cave and...

"She had vague impression of Dwarfs crowding round the fire with frying-pans rather bigger than themselves, and the hissing, and delicious smell of sausages, and more, and more sausages. And not the wretched sausages half full of bread and soya bean either, but real meaty, spicy ones, fat and piping hot and burst and just the tiniest bit burnt. And great mugs of frothy chocolate, and roast potatoes and roast chestnuts, and baked apples with raisins stuck in where the cores had been, and then ices just to freshen you up after all the hot things."

And that description is just how I like my Bratwurst.

And when Shasta is guided into Narnia by the Unwelcome Fellow Traveller, the greatest drink he gets is the cool Water from the paw print of the great lion Aslan, but then he eventually falls in with some Dwarfs and his body is also fed:

"Hey brothers! A visitor for breakfast."
And immediately, mixed with a sizzling sound, there came to Shasta a simply delightful smell. It was one he had never smelled in his life before, but I hope you have. It was, in fact, the smell of bacon and eggs and mushrooms all frying in a pan."

These they eat with butter and toast and coffee. As a tip on the mushrooms, by the way, use the white button ones, slice them long ways and not too thin, use lots of butter, a bit of garlic and take your time to cook them, adding a little water and covering them, then more butter as necessary (and it is), and then finally uncovering them and sauting them till they are just ever so slightly crisp. Mm, mm. A good recipe for mushrooms even if you don't fancy them much, but then I am persuaded that even shoe-leather would be good with butter and garlic.

It is not simply the food that is so delightful about these experiences, though. It is the sharing of food together. One can have marshmallows and chocolate and graham crackers and apples and cocoa at home rather more conveniently, but these are never so lovely as in the deep dark after a cold, autumn hay ride complete with tomfoolery and singing and, if one is so blessed, perhaps a bit of a cuddle.

I eat the type of breakest food mentioned above a fair bit, but it isn't so good as when roommate Lloyd whips up a mess of eggs and sausages and toast and coffee and invites the rest of us to partake in a late Satrurday morning breakfast. It isn't as lovely as it is when you eat similar fare in a smoky Denny's after a college Bible study or as Tanya and Heidi and I did after a movie a few weeks ago, reliving our college years, which one of us had to work a lot harder at to remember what those were like than the other two did.

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April 19, 2005

Amidst whose vastness I first yearnedÉ

If you have read this blog long, you will know that I often post material, specifically poems, that may go back many years, some almost all the way back to the time in high school when we Òhad toÓ write a sonnet, and I found I liked it.

Some of my older writings use words such as Òache,Ó Òlong,Ó Òyearn.Ó They seem so poetically cheesy. And, indeed, there may well be a whiff of Òle fromageÓ in my use of them. Yet, I think there is more than that. I think I use them appropriately, if rather too readily, to describe some of my memories. Today, going to my high schoolÕs web site, I found this image.

The images on the right are brilliant, of course, and show the heavy snowfall amounts I would always wish for as we made our way back to school after a three month break in the winter. I would eagerly watch, bend after bend, as we ascended up the mountain ranges, looking for signs of snow on the hillside whizzing past our windows, on higher mountains across the valley, even on cars coming down the mountain.

If there were no promising signs further down, I had one dramatic bend remaining upon which I would pin my hopes. Going around it took one from the sunny side of a mountain to the shady side. Sometimes, dismally, there would be nothing even there, save the cold and dark of a winter night and slush and mud, adding weight to a heart already carrying the ache of missing parents.

But sometimes, it would be like going with Lucy through the wardrobe. Even the sound of the roaring bus engine seemed to be absorbed in the dark, stillness of the mountain. Heavy spackles of snow covered the gaps between stands of pine trees. Beneath the trees themselves, the snow was less deep. In especially dense groves, one might find the brownness of pine needles and dry earth.

And then, ÒCold? What cold?Ó Of course it was there, and along with the dark would bide its time. There would be time to sadden hearts. But now, ÒSnow! ThereÕs snow!Ó That was all that mattered.

No, what really excited me when I saw this montage was the picture on the left. This is the view the Jr. and Sr. High boys would look at every day when we walked the mile or so to and from school, when we had the good sense to look, that is. In my era, it was rare to see this much snow, but the tops of these mountains often had snow. Even snowless, though, they were lovely. And to the right of these mountains, across an even more breathtaking expanse of space, were the beginnings of the true Himalayas, which themselves were mere babies to the legends even further North.

It is these enormous gaps of spaceÉpine needlesÉsticky sapÉrich dark earthÉsnowÉthat shaped my sensibilities, my ideas of beauty. For many years, driving in flat Illinois, the occasional cloud formation that seemed, at first glance, to be a towering mountain, would quite literally make my heart skip. The mountains of Eastern Colorado provided a bit of a fix, but not the same expansive, gasping glory.

This is some of what I was getting at in the following lines from a poem I wrote for a poetry class about a return journey to Murree, which I hope to post after I have revised it.

these years
that have gathered thick like a winter's snows
melt from me
these years
stream down and bless the hills
that gave me love of beauty
amidst whose vastness i first yearned
for unknown things
for windswept hills
and distant lonely valleys

More laterÉ.

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