I confess it, like most of cynical American-ized rubberneckers I slowly eased past the car wreck of humanity this last weekend known as Mel Gibson. Like those who infuriate me while I drive in my car on I-75, slowing down in rush hour traffic to see the twisted remains of a previously pristine car, causing massive backups for an ever so brief peak at what amounts to no more than that which can be seen any other day of the week and at a speed greater than 30 mph, I inched past this story relishing in the horrific details of a life skid out of control and totalled in a matter of moments. One action, the looking down at the radio for instance, and a driver finds himself slammed into the back seat of the car stopped ahead of him, and Gibson similarly on account of one action found himself richoteting into the oncoming traffic of tabloids and police blotters, flashing patrol car and paparrazi bulbs, and ultimately left to sit on the side of the road, onlookers gawking as if they have never seen such a thing. I laughed, heartily and wholly, rejoicing over the fall of one so outwardly pious, someone who had placed himself in the spotlight of Christianity, a beacon of light by which other lesser sinners might be judged. Served him right as far as I was concerned; I ate up the juicy details of his downward spiral like it was my last meal. What a wretch.
I nearly wept, not immediately, but as I retold the dirt to my wife, leaving out no inflammatory detail; it was as if I was staring into a mirror, peering into my own soul of filth and bile. One attempting to live a Christian life ravaged by the ever present grapple with his inner darkness. He lost this battle, a very public loss, but a simple defeat all the same. He had not the luxury of hiding behind closed doors or dark rooms, there was no room for deceiving himself or those around him, his was acted out upon the stage of humanity with the spotlight of fame exposing his every shadow.
I have the luxury of anonymity in my falls. When I lie, only a select group are ever privy to the revelation of the truth, nor would/do most care one way or the other. When I over-indulge in the vices of my choosing, there are few if any pointing fingers of condemnation; rather, most of the time there are others no less entrenched than myself.
Sadly, it has become far too easy for those of us mired in our state to view mirrors we are confronted with on a frequent basis, mirrors of our inner selves reflected in the all too public displays of others, to find comfort in the fact that we are not truly the reflection of what we are seeing, as if these reflections are entirely separate beings.
I breathe deeply and exhale cooly, knowing that I am not the adulterous pastor, the child molestor, the thief, the drunk, the slanderer, the ugly. No, I am something less than these because I am hidden and they are not. But, what if I am the adulterer? What if he is no more than the manifestation of what is germinating beneath the surface of my easily excused lesser offenses? Should the fact that the plant of my sin has not surfaced cause me to believe that it never will, thereby freeing me to scoff at the Gibson's of the world, or should it compel me to shudder and weep at the foreshadowing of the potentiality within me?
I choose this night the latter.
The American Classic: Redefined
0 Comments Published by Michael on Tuesday, July 25, 2006 at 8:23 AM.
This summer has afforded me the opportunity to read a handful of what are argued to be America's greatest novels, written by those who are esteemed to be America's greatest novelists. I have been allowed a glimpse into the lives that I might never otherwise experience, and I have lived and died by the choices these characters have made as if I were with them. I have been the affluent youth, seemingly unaffected by war and economic depression, unconcerned with the life not enclosed within the ivy walls that I have surrounded myself with. I have been, too, the paternal figure, knowing that I cannot do more to feed my family, and forced from my home to the hostile "road", a place that wants us no more than we want it. I have been destitute, and I have been rich beyond comprehension. I have been the adulterer, justifying my actions against the backdrop of necessity or anonymity, and I have been the faithful wife, no less tempted, but grounded in ideals that cannot be shaken by circumstance. I have been murderer, thief, priest, soldier, son, daughter, pervert, old, young, dead, but this weekend I was something else; I was an observer of reality.
After witnessing the wedding of our friends, Dustin and Jamie, we spent the night with the Gerlts and Erin's parents in Comanche, TX. Sitting under the stars, cool breeze cooling us from the 100 degree heat from earlier in the day, a heat that seems to normally linger like a slow lifting morning fog, green grass fitting between our toes, and mosquitos feasting upon us, we talked and we listened. I could have listened till dawn and still not have grown weary, because, sitting beside the near-dry lake, we were given a taste of history from the lips of two people who had lived it. It was tangible, real. Steinbeck and Fitzgerald, West and Mailer, these can give thrilling stories of survival and love, loss and fortune, but there is an element of the fantastic that causes them to sell books. Would "The Grapes of Wrath" have been the classic that it is had it not tore into the hearts of its readers, culminating in a grotesquely beautiful image of life and death? What makes them great novels also makes them detached from the everyday life of the reader.
What the Allen's shared with us by the light of the moon was not fancy. There were no cliffhangers or exagerrations, amplified in an effort to grab the attention of the consumer, there was simply stories of a past that my generation has not and perhaps cannot know. The purity of a history free from artistic license was refreshing, and am grateful that I was given a glimpse behind the curtain of their rich lives. Thank you, Joe and Doniece.
After witnessing the wedding of our friends, Dustin and Jamie, we spent the night with the Gerlts and Erin's parents in Comanche, TX. Sitting under the stars, cool breeze cooling us from the 100 degree heat from earlier in the day, a heat that seems to normally linger like a slow lifting morning fog, green grass fitting between our toes, and mosquitos feasting upon us, we talked and we listened. I could have listened till dawn and still not have grown weary, because, sitting beside the near-dry lake, we were given a taste of history from the lips of two people who had lived it. It was tangible, real. Steinbeck and Fitzgerald, West and Mailer, these can give thrilling stories of survival and love, loss and fortune, but there is an element of the fantastic that causes them to sell books. Would "The Grapes of Wrath" have been the classic that it is had it not tore into the hearts of its readers, culminating in a grotesquely beautiful image of life and death? What makes them great novels also makes them detached from the everyday life of the reader.
What the Allen's shared with us by the light of the moon was not fancy. There were no cliffhangers or exagerrations, amplified in an effort to grab the attention of the consumer, there was simply stories of a past that my generation has not and perhaps cannot know. The purity of a history free from artistic license was refreshing, and am grateful that I was given a glimpse behind the curtain of their rich lives. Thank you, Joe and Doniece.
Utter Rebellion and the Human Ashtray
2 Comments Published by Michael on Thursday, July 20, 2006 at 7:43 AM.
Since I have been home I have gone into a 'hiding-mode', both literally and figuratively. In a more literal sense, there have been more than a couple of days that have seen me go no further from the house than 4 steps outside to sit on our one-time church pew and read under the blue-tinted sunlight shining through our makeshift sunblock; aka. a tarp, and even that for only long enough for me to begin sweating profusely and decide that air-conditioned reading is more to my suiting. I suppose the figurative hiding is more pronounced. I have sworn off the blog and email world for the most part, not out of spite or conviction to do so, but out of shear disinterest and the inability to become truly engaged in sitting before this same computer screen that now harshly shines against my sleep swollen face.
I admit it, I am in utter rebellion against the normalcy of my pre-German life. Perhaps in Europe I overindulged, partaking of just too much: too much cool weather, too much rain, too much Andechs, too much exercise, or maybe just too much time alone with my books absent television and cell phones, but I cannot comfortably become reacclamated to the hectic, every-minute-filled days that I had become so accustomed to. So, I, of sound mind and body, choose willingly to rebel.
My days have been nothing short of wonderful since my return. I have played basketball for hours on end, frequented Starbucks as often as when I still worked there, read novel upon novel of my own choosing, and have embraced a newfound love of cigars (as if I needed another vice) making what appear to be strides towards becoming a regular at the local cigar-den. I have visited friends and family, watched several films, read and talked with my wife, and done very few productive things, as previously I might have defined the word. This said, I am not revelling in laziness, far from it, for I believe myself....actually, I do not think I shall offer a defense for my actions; rather, you can judge me as you wish.
I am neither idealistic enough nor sufficiently foolish to believe that I can continue in this lifestyle for much longer than another 2-3 weeks, upon which time I will be thrust back into the dreaded working world, but for now it has been invigorating and nothing short of wonderful.
I have been reminded of Plato's Theatetus, and particularly of his characterization of the philosophic life versus the practical life, lawyers being indicative of those who slave feverishly over their work.
But for now, if only for a few more days, I choose to live as close to the Platonic model as I might be able to pull off in modern Metroplex America:
I admit it, I am in utter rebellion against the normalcy of my pre-German life. Perhaps in Europe I overindulged, partaking of just too much: too much cool weather, too much rain, too much Andechs, too much exercise, or maybe just too much time alone with my books absent television and cell phones, but I cannot comfortably become reacclamated to the hectic, every-minute-filled days that I had become so accustomed to. So, I, of sound mind and body, choose willingly to rebel.
My days have been nothing short of wonderful since my return. I have played basketball for hours on end, frequented Starbucks as often as when I still worked there, read novel upon novel of my own choosing, and have embraced a newfound love of cigars (as if I needed another vice) making what appear to be strides towards becoming a regular at the local cigar-den. I have visited friends and family, watched several films, read and talked with my wife, and done very few productive things, as previously I might have defined the word. This said, I am not revelling in laziness, far from it, for I believe myself....actually, I do not think I shall offer a defense for my actions; rather, you can judge me as you wish.
I am neither idealistic enough nor sufficiently foolish to believe that I can continue in this lifestyle for much longer than another 2-3 weeks, upon which time I will be thrust back into the dreaded working world, but for now it has been invigorating and nothing short of wonderful.
I have been reminded of Plato's Theatetus, and particularly of his characterization of the philosophic life versus the practical life, lawyers being indicative of those who slave feverishly over their work.
Socrates: Well, look at the man who has been knocking about in law courts and such places ever since he was a boy; and compare him with the man brought up in philosophy, in the life of the student. It is surely like comparing a slave with that of a free man.Several weeks from now I will once again become the "man of the law-court", interacting with other slaves who are concerned with Jimmie's excessive tardies, or Patty's failure to turn in homework on time, and undoubtedly I will be reintroduced to the ever-so-understanding parents of my students, parents who will subconsciously make it their mission to insure I experience nothing resembling my leisurely, philosophic summer life.
Theodorus: How is that, now?
Socrates: Because the one man always has what you mentioned just now - plenty of time. When he talks, he talks in peace and quiet, and his time is his own. It is so with us now: here we are beginning on our third new discussion; and he can do the same, if he is like us, and prefers the newcomer to the question in hand. It does not matter to such men whether they talk for a day or a year, if only they many hit upon that which is. But the other - the man of the law courts - is always in a hurry when he is talking; he has to speak with one eye on the clock. Besides, he can't make his speaches on any subject he likes; he has his adversary standing over him, armed with compulsory powers and with the sworn statement, which is read out point by point as he proceeds, and must be kept to by the speaker. The talk is always about a fellow- slave, and is addressed to a master, who sits there holding some suit or other in his hand. And the struggle is never a matter of indefference; it always directly concerns the speaker, an sometimes life itself is at stake.
But for now, if only for a few more days, I choose to live as close to the Platonic model as I might be able to pull off in modern Metroplex America:
Socrates: The philospher grows up without knowing the way to the market-place, or the whereabouts of the law courts or the council chambers or any other place of public assembly....brought up in true freedom and leisure....a man to whom it is no disgrace to appear simple and good-for-nothing when he confronted with menial tasks, when, for instance, he doesnt't know how to make a bed, or how to sweeten a sauce or a flattering speech.
Julie and I have decided that renting one room is simply not enough, and so we are wanting to have another person live with us this fall. Mindy will already be occupying one of the rooms (her choice), but we also have my "office" (aka: Jamie's wedding storage) that is free. Last year I really enjoyed having an office, but in the months since it has been converted into an all-purpose storage room I have not used it nearly as often. There are plenty of places to study and prepare lessons, so we would love to make good use of the space and help somebody out. It is a smaller room than the other, and so we can work out some kind of arrangement if someone is interested.
I realize that most of you who read this are married and/or live in permanent dwellings, but I am hoping that you know someone who is neither married nor living somewhere this fall. It is a fairly quiet environment, perfect for a student, so keep your ears open and send anyone interested my direction.
Thanks Blogworld!
I realize that most of you who read this are married and/or live in permanent dwellings, but I am hoping that you know someone who is neither married nor living somewhere this fall. It is a fairly quiet environment, perfect for a student, so keep your ears open and send anyone interested my direction.
Thanks Blogworld!
I found out last night that my sister is engaged. So, stop by her site and wish Abbey and Jose good luck. Julie and I are very excited for them!
I would officially like to announce my cadidacy for "Husband of the Year" honors. I know, you are thinking, "You just left your wife alone for more than a month", which is true, but hear me out. In all seriousness, I was able to pull off my greatest husbandish feat to date, and it all worked out perfectly. If you have a minute, here is the story: 
Friday evening I walked to this train station, the same as I had done several times a day for 5 weeks; the difference was that this time I was loaded down with two packs that easily weighed more than my Mini back home. Perhaps I should start earlier that week, let us say Monday.
I discovered that for a minimal fee I could change my flight and head home early, and so I began a lengthy conversation with the good people at Virgin Atlantic to do just that. After 2 days, several hours, and 12 or so customer service representatives later I was able to line up a flight from London to Miami to Dallas on Sunday, June 2.
The events of last Thursday have led me to my second nomination: my sister Abbey for the "My Favorite Sister" award. She works for the Gaylord Hotel, and she and her boss arranged for Julie and I to stay in a Luxury Suite on the Sunday night of my return. Now came the hard work. I concocted a reason for Julie to accompany Abbey for a "girl's weekend" at the Gaylord, and after literally begging her to take the day off and do it, she finally agreed to spend the weekend at the hotel.
Everything was set, Julie seemed sufficiently in the dark, and so on Friday evening I began my 52 hour journey back to Dallas. 3 trains through the beautiful heart of Germany led me to Brussels, not as pretty a place, and from there I took a train to London.
I spent the day taking in the sites of London, and by 1:00 a.m. I found myself on the concrete floor outside the Heathrow Terminal where I tried my hardest to sleep, which is not as easy as one might think; I spent the majority of the wee hours of the morning dodging Zamboni-like cleaning machines, protecting my possessions from drunks who seemed to be eyeing my bags, and overcoming my own stench from having been walking in the London heatwave for the last 12 hours.
Apparantly things get going in airports sometime around 5:00 a.m., so I did not sleep long. I took my airport "shower" (sink, paper-towels...you get the picture), brushed my teeth and settled in for the longest 5 hours of my life. This gave my plenty of time to worry about my flight, knowing that I only had 2 hours in Miami to get through Passport Control, recover and take my bags through Customs, recheck them, get back through security, and find the correct gate. It should be no problem, right?
Once on board the plane in London things got a bit hairy, though. My flight was delayed exactly two hours due to bad weather, but the pilot promised to leave earlier than that and then make up time in the air. Either way, it was going to be close. He kept his word, and 9 hours later I unboarded in Miami with just under two hours to do those things previously mentioned. Apparantly Miami International Airport is the slowest place on the planet. It took about 1 hour and 45 minutes to get to my gate, and I was the last person to step on the plane. They literally shut the door behind me as I entered.
I made it to the Gaylord just after 9:00, minutes after Julie arrived, and as I walked into the room Julie could not have looked more surprised. My mom had sent up a bottle of champagne, we had a late dinner, and then breakfast on the balcony in the morning. It could not have been more perfect.
So, I'm home. Hope to hear from you all soon.
Friday evening I walked to this train station, the same as I had done several times a day for 5 weeks; the difference was that this time I was loaded down with two packs that easily weighed more than my Mini back home. Perhaps I should start earlier that week, let us say Monday.I discovered that for a minimal fee I could change my flight and head home early, and so I began a lengthy conversation with the good people at Virgin Atlantic to do just that. After 2 days, several hours, and 12 or so customer service representatives later I was able to line up a flight from London to Miami to Dallas on Sunday, June 2.
The events of last Thursday have led me to my second nomination: my sister Abbey for the "My Favorite Sister" award. She works for the Gaylord Hotel, and she and her boss arranged for Julie and I to stay in a Luxury Suite on the Sunday night of my return. Now came the hard work. I concocted a reason for Julie to accompany Abbey for a "girl's weekend" at the Gaylord, and after literally begging her to take the day off and do it, she finally agreed to spend the weekend at the hotel.
Everything was set, Julie seemed sufficiently in the dark, and so on Friday evening I began my 52 hour journey back to Dallas. 3 trains through the beautiful heart of Germany led me to Brussels, not as pretty a place, and from there I took a train to London.
I spent the day taking in the sites of London, and by 1:00 a.m. I found myself on the concrete floor outside the Heathrow Terminal where I tried my hardest to sleep, which is not as easy as one might think; I spent the majority of the wee hours of the morning dodging Zamboni-like cleaning machines, protecting my possessions from drunks who seemed to be eyeing my bags, and overcoming my own stench from having been walking in the London heatwave for the last 12 hours.
Apparantly things get going in airports sometime around 5:00 a.m., so I did not sleep long. I took my airport "shower" (sink, paper-towels...you get the picture), brushed my teeth and settled in for the longest 5 hours of my life. This gave my plenty of time to worry about my flight, knowing that I only had 2 hours in Miami to get through Passport Control, recover and take my bags through Customs, recheck them, get back through security, and find the correct gate. It should be no problem, right?
Once on board the plane in London things got a bit hairy, though. My flight was delayed exactly two hours due to bad weather, but the pilot promised to leave earlier than that and then make up time in the air. Either way, it was going to be close. He kept his word, and 9 hours later I unboarded in Miami with just under two hours to do those things previously mentioned. Apparantly Miami International Airport is the slowest place on the planet. It took about 1 hour and 45 minutes to get to my gate, and I was the last person to step on the plane. They literally shut the door behind me as I entered.
I made it to the Gaylord just after 9:00, minutes after Julie arrived, and as I walked into the room Julie could not have looked more surprised. My mom had sent up a bottle of champagne, we had a late dinner, and then breakfast on the balcony in the morning. It could not have been more perfect.
So, I'm home. Hope to hear from you all soon.
