the more we objectify others the more objectionable we become.
The Church
Other Places
September 2008
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Photo Albums
catch a falling god
We are afraid only as much or as little as confidence in our god(s) rises and falls.
Trace a person's fear and you'll see the outline of their god.
off with my head!
expectations are axe wielding executioners roaming our lives. they cut off, up, and down. they cut us and they cut others. the more you have the more you bleed. the more you have the more bloodletting you'll do.
A Trip to the Center of the World
During the holidays our family observed a ritual that's developed over the last several years; we get together with another family and explore "the city." This year it was Philadelphia. The first day we hit the normal tourist places, the Liberty bell, etc. On the second day my daughter took us on a walk off the beaten path and over to South Street. She told us about a place called the Magic Garden, which is such a hokey name I would usually avoid anything that sounds like it. But she was insistent and has a lower tolerance for hokey than I do, so we went. None of the pictures I'll post below will do it justice, you just have to go. The short story is one of an old man, an artisan, a creator of mosaics, who squatted on an abandoned lot on South Street. It was full of rubbish and junk. He created a garden out of the junk, a garden of terraces and alcoves and stairs. Once he got going he just kept on adding. Although the owners of the lot tried to take it back and complained that it was an eyesore, he would leave. Somehow he found enough money to buy it away from them. Once people on South Street saw the Garden others wanted the artist to come and mosaic their places. Churches and houses and garages and businesses are now adorned with his works. It looks like South Street itself is gradually turning into a work of art. There is a saying which occurs over and over in the work. It is this:
(Art Is The Center Of The Real World - click to enlarge)
I puzzled over this. It sounded true, but it sounded like an echo, not the first note. Later in the morning we wandered through the Magic Garden itself touching the pieces laughing, smiling, enjoying each other and the art. Turning a corner into one of the lower parts of the Garden we came upon an old man. He had kind, mischievous eyes and was sweeping up pine straw from a tree over hanging the wall. Dumping a dustpan into an old five gallon bucket he used for a trash can he looked up and greeted us with the most welcoming smile. It was the artist himself. He was amazing to talk to, remembered our names after one repetition, posed for a photo with us, invited us into his workshop and showed us new things he was just beginning to create, and you could just tell that our enjoyment of his art was his enjoyment of his art too. It wasn't just his, he made it ours.
We met the artisan in the art. He was tending to it, he was creating still more of it. He was the center of the reality of that world. The art was the echo, the artisan the center.
The choice of adventure
In Philadelphia last week I said these words out loud to my friend and traveling companion: "Lets have an adventure." They were forced words, meant to blunt the fact we were in an uncomfortable spot, trying to find our way and lacking enough information to make good decisions. It was a self pep talk, intended to give me a higher purpose. An adventure, after all, is transcendent. Then we got on a subway packed tighter than Daisy Duke's shorts, rode approximately four blocks, got off to make a change to a trolley which we were guessing would take us the right direction (said trolley taking off so fast once we were on that I somehow managed to smack my front teeth on the handrail - how I did this I'll never know), and came out of the city's underworld into its upper-underworld in the red light district in front of three adult bookstores complete with blinking, posing, flashing neon burlesque figures. It was then we discovered we were not closer to our destination, and had to get our bearings again before moving on. Confused, aggravated, my mouth hurting, I thought I no longer wanted an adventure. Just at the moment I needed transcendence most I fell into the immediate. After regrouping and heading on toward our destination it dawned on me that you can't really choose an adventure as much as you can choose to accept what happens as an adventure. We have the choice of transcendence or immediacy, not the choice of pain or not pain. There is no such thing as a pain -free, convenient, clearly delineated life, there is only the choice of finding something behind the pain, the mistakes, the fog and the confusion. Something higher, something worthy. It took three city blocks to find it again, but I did. Then I could breath again. Then I could laugh. Then I could see what it was about.
