an elaboration of the previous post

George Herbert's "Easter Wings" was the subject of a term paper last semester, and personally the ideas behind it have kept me from crashing to the ground in the last month or so. It's oriented to appear as two sets of wings that depict divine ascension, but in order to easily read it, the poem must be placed on its side and then it paradoxically resembles two finite and earthly hourglasses. The combination of visual and textual symbols somehow still manage to make me shiver. The following is the conclusion to my term paper:
In summation, through means of contradictory imagery and shape, the reader is led on a sequential journey similar to the Christian’s experience. Upon first approaching the poem with the lines oriented vertically the reader sees wings, and, as they begin to read, the lines draw the eye from top to bottom in a descending manner that detracts from the divine graphic. Eventually the reader must turn the page to orient the lines horizontally and the fall is complete, the wings are destroyed, and the timed trial begins. Through contraction and expansion the speaker is made “poore” and “thinne”, but fortunately as all worldly “wealth and store” is taken away by “sickness and shame,” his fall will amount to flight as his life is impossibly imped on to the only thing that remains – the wing of Christ. As the reader concludes the read and restores the orientation to its vertical layout, the wings reappear, and two divine figures (one for the reader and one for Christ) ascend for heaven. What was once a tragic fall grace has paradoxically become divinely-facilitated flight.

affliction shall advance the flight in me

shake the dust

this week i finally learned that poetry is supposed to be read aloud. i've been told this many times, but i didn't figure it out until wednesday. i was reading a little john donne and george herbert for my brit lit class when i started to nod off. it was warm where i was studying and i was on my 10th consecutive hour of school that day. nothing was sticking, and the poems resisted the offensives of my weary brain. feeling a little frustrated i grabbed my book and my jacket and headed out to this courtyard:



to finish my reading. i paced in circles as the sun and the crisp air colored my cheeks, and the impact of my feet encouraged the dust to fall from my frame. my mind quickened as i read the words out loud. the fresh air taken in to my lungs and then issued out again warmed the words on the page. they stirred and spoke back to me - my breath had given them breath. finally able to hear their voice, the message was no longer minutia, but staggering. as i finished with herbert's "love (3)" i found that i had stopped dead in my tracks and that the words on the page had blurred a little. the feeling was like when the dishwasher finishes its cycle and you didn't know how quiet the kitchen could be, or when you stand in a forest and realize what it's like without the din of the city in the background. the release of the pressure causes you to open your jaw and try to pop your ears. even though the city was mumbling behind me and the chatter of students bounced around the courtyard, i didn't hear them. all i could hear was that mild communication that happens in complete silence.



here's another poem that i like to hear aloud.

we all live in a yellow submarine

i found this to be a captivating short documentary. it seems so feasible. anyone could do it. i might start asking people questions of the soul even when, at any moment, our conversation could be ended by a sliding metal door. you never know what you could find. you could discover that the little old grumpy lady who looks like a character from the beatles' yellow submarine film is actually just lonely and looking to dance with someone. you might help someone realize how important religion is in their life. i'm not so different from the other person in the elevator. i guess we're all just trying to get to a higher level.

seeing isn't tasting

i've never liked cookbooks that don't have pictures. it seems to me that if you want people to crave your book's recipes, you would include as many flattering, mouthwatering images as possible. so whenever i see a recipe that doesn't have a photo with it, i usually just assume that the final product isn't worth photographing and therefore is not worth my time and sweat spent in the kitchen making it. sometimes i read over a recipe's text that sounds wonderfully delicious, but the lack of a photo instills enough doubt to keep me searching for one where the final flavor is neatly and clearly depicted with a sharp, colorful photograph.
this week may have changed all that.
while looking through a cookbook that my mother gave me, trying to decide what to make for dinner group, i settled on a dish with a nice image and simple ingredients. as i was checking out the cupboards to see what we had, the previously bent and stressed cookbook would relieve it's discomfort by turning itself to another page. each time i came back to refer to the recipe i had to stop and find it again. finally, after about the third time of sifting through the pages to find the recipe that looked so pretty, i stopped to read what page the book kept settling on. "chicken with pesto-mushroom cream sauce, and broiled asparagus with balsamic glaze," the title read. i quickly realized that it was combining four of my favorite flavors - pesto, mushrooms, cream, and balsamic vinegar. wanting to see what it looked like, i scanned the page, the previous page, and the back of the book for a photo of the final dish. to my discouragement, i couldn't find one. could i trust the title? the ingredients and execution seemed simple enough, but would it turn out nice? what if it just looked like green, slimey sludge? how could i go ahead without seeing the end first?
in the end i decided just to go for it. i felt blind as i followed the steps but just kept moving anyway - hoping that it would all work out. it was a little nerve-racking, and by the end the heat from the stove was trying to convince our oven-sized kitchen to bake me, but it was soon over and the meal was ready. the final result did not look exactly as i imagined it, but it matched, if not surpassed, the ideal i had in mind. when i first tasted the sauce i knew i had made the right choice. it was rich, savory, and smooth, while the balsamic glaze was sweet and acidic. i washed the dishes with a full stomach and a completely satisfied palate. if i had only known how pleasant the final flavor was, i would not have deliberated so long in making my choice. it was worth enduring every doubt.

the age at odds

i've found myself incessantly whistling one tune in the last couple of weeks. whenever i turn on my ipod, it's usually the last track i listened to, and the one that urged me to put my headphones in in the first place.
the opening ekg beeps give me a glimpse of single individual's heartbeat as he realizes his circumstances are worse than he thought. in an instant the storm is upon him, and the heaving synthesized sounds swell like waves of pixels crashing over the gunnels of his tormented ship. in the darkness that is only broken by fluorescent flashes of lighting he calculates the odds. they are against him. he considers giving up, yielding his vessel and soul to the ocean below him, but in a moment of clarity he finds resolve. "when i die, when i die, i'll rot. but when i live, when i live, i'll give it all i've got." he returns to the helm, sets his course against the waves, and then reefs and trims every sail to utilize the gusts that once threatened his life to, instead, bring him to safety. through the whole of it he sends up a prayer of promise to be better if he makes it out alive.
perhaps i feel an affinity for this song because i daily feel as if i'm tossed on a sea of advertisements, sensationalism, and stimulation. some say the world will end with fire and some in ice, but to me it seems that it will drown in an ocean of pixels, flashing banner ads, and self-perpetuating algorithms - a neon apocalypse. at this point i feel as if i'm calculating the adz, and they are against me. there are so many decisions to make that will affect so much in the future, and there are so many sources competing for my attention. the waves are incessant and never let me dry out and think. am i the lost of lost? i could just give up and let myself be carried overboard. or i could grip the helm, trim my passions, and direct my course against the opposition. "when i live, when i live, i'll give it all i've got."

crispy resolution

lesson in consistency:
less on inconsistency