BetterMost Community Blogs > Daniel's Strange Connections

Strange Connections

<< < (8/24) > >>

Daniel:
The poetry of Max Jacob (1876-1944):

Christ at the Movies

"When you're eating fruit, child, spit the seeds out,
Or in your little belly a whole tree will sprout,"
They said in my house when I was a boy:
That set me on the wrong track for sure:
Branches in the navel mean fruit all the more.
A tree all my own which no one takes away,
Whose fruit, no sooner eaten, grows back every day!

I have my tree today: my tree is the Cross;
Faith is its gift to my greediness.
Dryad of the gallows, when I summon you, come:
Rescue my life from its cruel humdrum.
Dryad of the gallows, descend like yesterday
Evening at the movies when you sat by me
So close. Your hand! Put your hand upon mine
And your so-human warmth and your breath divine.
Oh! I was sick and tired from thinking too much.
Let my body fold on yours at the touch.
And you! You deigned, as your shoulder hid my eyes,
To describe the movie and sort out the lines.
We had the cheapest seats, at ninety-five centimes;
You spoke of charity before those murky crimes
The Parisian wants every night for dessert.
Today, I'm alone. Lord, groping at my side
My eager fingers feel only the void.
Without you, my God, the world is blank, inert.
The eyes of my spirit sketch your body still,
But its mere imagination, an act of the will.
- When I go lug my spleen through Montparnasse
Do you want me to save a place in the cafes
For this body you give so generously
To the humblest, most useless of servants: to me?
That idiot movie!
Now I find it blessed.
Since you deigned, so my faith would be redressed,
To sit at my side amongst your people there.
A movie seat held you. It is a holy chair!

They call me crazy! Yes, I hear the reader now-
Or blasphemous, you scold with furrowed brow.
Madmen yourselves, if truth can make you laugh.
The Lord is everywhere, and with the worst riffraff.
To feel God in oneself, to hear Him, to reply,
Whether at the movies, in the street, at a cafe,
This common miracle shouldn't start a fuss;
Outside of church, God's everywhere, and speaks with us.
My madness, if I'm mad, is of a different brand.
Listen: I've seen Him! Twice, close at hand:
It was October seven, Rue Ravignan, in my room --
No! I wasn't drunk, nor in delirium --
In the year nineteen-oh-nine, October seven;
I take you as witness, Lord, who put new leaven
Into me sinning lump of filthiness;
You know what sins had seized me in their fists,
What hell I lived in, what a squalid mess,
What resolutions you raised up like yeast
In this Christian whom, thanks to you and the good priests.
I've become, endowed with sense and reason.
So, the first time, you appeared in my room.
And the second time, it was at a film.
"You go to the movies, then?" with dumbfounded air
Demanded my confessor. -- "Yes, Father,
What if I did? Didn't Our Lord go there?"

"The Gang in the Black Suits," thriller by Paul Feval;
The plot's in my heart and not on the screen.
The cops and mounties close round and corral
A thief in dire straits: a sudden sheen
Spreads over the crowd, my eyes fill with tears!
The sheen is a halo, in its light, God appears.
To me, this gift! Why did you choose to meet
Me here? In this movie on a little side street
The drapes of a taper-white mantle enfold
My concierge's four urchins you once told
Me to care for. Can the human soul
Hide no scrap from your eyes, must it be seen whole?
Is there for your vision no mystery in our heart?
Do you penetrate all beings in every part?
Then why? Why this grace
If you know my life in all its ugliness?
If you know my faults and my weaknesses too?
What in me, oh Lord, could interest you?

Daniel:
     How does one begin a journey of a thousand tales? Perhaps, as in all things, it is best to begin at the beginning, or at least at the first moment when everything was different, or started to lead in a much different direction. The Superb Event, the moment in which everything became clear would not be for some time. In fact for most of the year 2005, I had never even heard of the film event known as Brokeback Mountain.
     Instead, much of my spiritual energies were devoted to comprehending the magical majesty of the Unicorn. This infinitely powerful symbol of spiritual manifestation in the physical plane was first and foremost in my mind: the innocent creature of beauty that seeks out life's meanings.
     To this end, I devoted myself hand and foot to reading every fantastic or romantic tale that I could find and even turned to the writings of C.S. Lewis and the Chronicles of Narnia for whatever spiritual wisdom was present in the Guise of the Unicorn. That helped me little though I could appreciate the simplistic beauty of the Christian Ideal expressed in those stories. It was not what I was looking for.
     It should be noted that the years before, I had devoted myself to the philosophical beauty of the Lord of the Rings trilogy film event, whose archetypes and moments of intricate, detailed beauty flowed together into a fantastic merging of wisdom in the inner mind - the spiritual quest to discover the meaning of self by sacrificing our bondage to the physical world, however difficult that event may be.
     So in the latter months of the year 2,005, I devoted spiritual devotion to The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe - promoting and adhering to a vision that this world would be as detailed and as beautiful as that of the Lord of the Rings trilogy, and that an acknowledgement of the archetypes presented in a flawlessly performed film event would lead to moments of philosophical elation and discovery of the inner mind, much as The Lord of the Rings had. I visited the website numerous times, looked at trailers, clips, and making of videos, ordered posters and other promotional materials, dreamed of seeing the detailed work of the WETA workshops - the magnificent costumes and creatures which might bear some resemblance to those which cavorted with and fought against the noble and divinely infused Unicorns.
     So much of my spiritual life was spent waiting for that film and expecting its majesty to sweep over me, much as had The Lord of the Rings trilogy, that I remember those months as a blur... waiting, waiting, waiting for some event which might deserve or warrant spiritual devotion.
     When the moment to see the film finally arrived, I was excited, hyped, and eager to discover the magical wonders that no doubt awaited me.....
I left the film disappointed..... The truest acting I could discern was that of the White Witch, a character I fell in love with almost immediately. Aslan's voice did not even seem to be coming from the lion, and there were times when the music drowned out the voices of the actors.
     It is strange to think that I might have been secretly cheering for the White Witch army, knowing that it represented dark and villainous ideals and the stagnation of the human spirit, both in a world of ice and in the transformation to stone by the Witch's magic wand. But that may have been because the "good" army seemed just as stagnant or repressed as an army frozen in time or spirit. That may have been a flawed performance, but as such, the experience of the film (and any hope for archetypal wisdom) was ruined for me.
     One cannot go through life hoping that Villains will win and restore malicious governments, the cruelty of the mind can elicit unfavorable transitions in physical and spiritual beings, causing more harm to the psyche than might be thought possible. I was even more appalled by the religious activists who used the film to spread the Christianity-based intolerance. This above all made me seek out more secular wisdoms. I turned away from religion altogether, hoping to find some understanding of God or Man which would not require indoctrination or the sacrifice of one's soul upon an Altar of Piety.
     But perhaps, more importantly than that, I was searching for something that was beautiful and undeniably so, Something that could offer meaning and direction to a life which has thus far been a calvalcade of the winds of Fate. I continued to search for the spiritual significance of the Unicorn - this innocent and perfect being that kept appearing in my dreams. To date, I have found little to help me on that quest - only a single book addresses it directly and it has long been out of print: The Mission and Meaning of Unicorns. Dragons, demons, wizards, fairies, abound in mythological literature but I can find little reference to what makes a Unicorn so significant or what it has to do with the purpose of my existence.

From: The Mission and Meaning of Unicorns:

Unicorns! It is hard to explain the feelings that these beautiful symbols of truth, purity, innocence, trust, strength and courage arouse in some of us. It's not just that we love them like we love teddy bears, it is almost as though we were them, we identify with them very strongly. Perhaps that is the great secret, we are unicorns. They symbolize a better self that we have almost forgotten, so lost are we in this world, the world of humans. I believe that unicorns really do exist and that you might be one. How do you know if you are a unicorn? First of course you probably love unicorns without really understanding why, but the most important way to tell is how you feel deep down inside.  It is almost as though unicorns were a separate race of humans, for they are so different in how they think and feel. They do not look different on the outside, and come in all races, shapes and sizes, and can be male or female. But one unicorn can sometimes spot another very quickly. There is a gentleness, a sensitivity, a love of truth and beauty that shines through to the outside....
    [...] They often feel alone, because they have a hard time understanding or relating to non-unicorns. Some truths are so obvious to them (such as the love and respect for all life) that they cannot understand why everyone does not feel the same as they do. They sometimes feel out of place as if they do not really belong to this world (a stranger in a strange land). It is only in relating to other unicorns that they feel the rush of soul to soul, heart to heart communication and feel like they really belong.
    They love the truth, and although they might lie occasionally, they are very bad at it and feel terrible about it. They are very hurt when someone lies to them or tries to decieve them in any way. They are very honest about their feelings, and expect others to be the same. If they say they love you, you can know that they really mean it. [...]
     Unicorns love beauty, and want to be surrounded by it. They are constantly doing little things to make their homes more beautiful. They are not out to impress others, but love beauty for its own sake. They have a strong sense of sacredness, and hate anything that is crude or demeaning. They do not consider crude or racial or ethnic jokes funny. They hate quarreling and sometimes hide their true feelings to avoid conflict. They are peacemakers and will try very hard to help others get along. They yearn for an ideal world where everybody loves everybody.

Daniel:
I suppose I should stop here and relate to the readers of this thread (indeed, if there are any) how significant this text was to me at the time that I discovered it. Every statement of description for the Unicorn matched my own beliefs and feelings. The love of Truth and Beauty above all else, perhaps the most significant. But also the feeling of being separate and alone when facing the world; the feeling of being truly unique and different from everyone else in a fundamental way.

Perhaps, though, this is an illusion and I have no special destiny or purpose for existence on this planet. But everything within me repels that compulsion as though it were the acidic bile of the deadliest of serpents.

But I do admit to having a lonely childhood. When at the age of 3 I rapidly developed literary and writing skills, and had by the age of 4 mastered an eighth-grade vocabulary, there are few children of the same age willing to play with you. And being an only child until the age of 6, with two working parents, I had to find ways to entertain myself, without the benefits of the electronic age that we have now. Thinking back on those days, I do not believe even my parents understood the extent of my intelligence, or the immense boredom that resulted from it, though thankfully I was enrolled in a private school that could pinpoint those needs immediately. I was placed in higher and higher Reading Comprehension courses until the instructors discovered something that was slightly challenging for me. So by the time I had achieved the equivalency of fourth grade in my education, I could read and write with a collegiate vocabulary.  While this does indeed stimulate the intellect, it wreaks havoc with the young social experience. I believe I can recall my mother's confusion when the neighbors did not want their children playing with me anymore. I had become, and I suppose this is a dated term, a freak.  It had not been said aloud, for these are not the types of things that are said aloud, but it is easy to smell fear.

So I was a quiet child, and happily so, for in the personal solitude of my youth I had discovered the joy of the written word. I can remember staying up til well past 3 AM (even on school nights) to read, read, read. And when I had read and reread the books my parents and grandparents had given me, until I was overcome by boredom again, even with those precious stories, poems, and treasures, I explored the other books of the house: my mother's romance novels, my father's technical manuals, old musty science fiction novels... anything that was written that I could get my hands on, I absorbed with fascination.

About the time that I would have gone into the sixth year of the private school I was going to. (age 10 or 11, I think), I can remember being in a few classes with much older students. Some of them even seemed to respect my opinions when I offered them in various courses, and that was a different experience for me; instead of feeling weird or freakish I actually felt proud and accomplished. Of course, as has always been my lot in life, as soon as I start to fit in, something happens.

My father was laid off and had to find a lower-paying job, and no longer having the funds to afford the private school, my parents sent me to public school. Fifth grade. And I'm not fitting in again. Of course, I bring home perfect report cards, with the highest average in the class.  But there is only one thing that I looked forward to that year..... although I did learn to say the alphabet backwards my first day of public school, since there weren't any classes and I couldn't stay home because my parents were working..... the Scholastic book club catalog which came every month. At last, mental sustenance!

Daniel:
     Late one evening in January, I returned home from a boring day of work, my back stiff, my feet afire, my eyes burned open and wide awake after hours of forced activity.  Working in a retail environment is not often pleasant, and I think it is only my continual optimism that enables me to survive such experiences: that and the knowledge that my time away from work is exclusively devoted to myself and to the quest which I have previously explained: the search for something beautiful and meaningful in a world that seems cold and uncaring - a world driven mad by capitalist greed - by constant wars and rumors of wars - a world which ignores spiritual meaning for the human race or the direction that it is heading in. A world which findes the ignoble noble, the perverse acceptable, the ugly beautiful.... without rhyme or reason.
     Exhausted from physical strain of mind-numbing labor, and from the spiritual strain of remaining optimistic in the face of despair and intolerance, I fell into the heavy cushions of a loveseat placed near the television and closed my eyes. Commercials played on the screen that I paid no attention to: suddenly though, I heard a string orchestra playing a haunting melody that kept turning in an upward drift, as though to say, "Yes, the world is a miserable place.... BUT..." And to this was added the silver sounds of brass heralding into my being some majestic feeling, I opened my eyes to give full attention to whatever this commercial was, just as I overheard the voiceover: "an instant classic, an epic american love story... [something - something - something] Ang Lee's Brokeback Mountain - Rated R"

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z2FKu8zFdqE

I could not hear many of the words that were spoken because my attention was riveted to the sunlit plains, the brilliant blue sky with its fluffy white clouds, all in combination with this beautiful, mournful but ecstatic music that lifted my spirits immediately.
     For the first time, in a very long time, I began to remember what I had been searching for: a moment of beauty and meaning in an otherwise dreary world and something which continued to be beautiful even after everything had passed. I was not sure what types of experience this moment would have, but I did know that human inspiration was likely to be one of them, and as I lay there in that moment of human inspiration, I realized I had tasted the wine of truth and beauty. I was not sure where it had come from, and I knew I needed to know the source.
     I stayed up late that night in hopes that the TV-spot would come on again, revealing more about this miraculous event, but just as much dying to hear that spirit-lifting mysic once again: the lifting strings, the ennobling trumpets, the beautiful minor key which filled it with a gentle pang of sorrow but a rich depth of meaning.
     The second time I saw the same commercial, I was able to tell more about it: I listened carefully to the actors, the voice over as it read the critiques the film had received. Wait a minute! This is a love story? Between two gorgeous cowboys..... and they're happy ?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!
     I had never heard of such a thing but I could not wait for the weekend when I could go out and see it for what I later realized would be the first time of many.

Daniel:
     As I departed my private life and drove through the streets of my small town to the huge 30-theatre cineplex, a sense of adventure, hope, and wonder began to come over me, and I also felt like I was doing something which the rigid societ of Southern Baptist idealists (who basically run the South) would not want me to do. This feeling alone spurred me onward even faster and when I pulled into the parking lot of the cineplex and stepped out of the car, my body was alread beginning to shake. I told myself it was because of the cold, those chilly 75 degree blasts of air.
      The brief moments of walking toward the entrance felt to me like a journey of wonder and my attention was riveted to the leafy trees, the green grass, the movie posters for films seen and unheard of. A poster for Brokeback Mountain caught my eye and I stopped for a moment to look at it. It completely fascinated me; I found it remarkably beautiful with its trees, and clouds, and water, where were as inviting as an oasis in the desert.
     The two figures before that scene mext drew my attention, and there in those expressions was captured such exquisite, resounding, joy-pain that I was enthralled. I would have looked at the poster more but I was drawn towards my destiny - a film event so compelling to me that I think some supernatural force was pushing me through it - as though the Universe had heard my plea for beauty and meaning and sent some miracle to open my eyes, my mind, my heart, and my spirit.
     I went into the theater and purchased my tickets at the automated terminal. Theater 16 - not the largest one, but not too shabby.
     The scent of salt and butter assailed my nostrils and immediately my tongue revolted. Our state of consciousness can affect our hunger for nonessentials. The pull of the story that awaited me was far stronger than any physical hunger or desire; once again I wondered if Providence was guiding me toward some destiny, the sense of which pervaded my spirit. It is a unique and wonderful feeling to know beyond a shadow of a doubt (even if you do not know how you know) that you are where you are supposed to be.
     I eased into the mostly empty theater and found a seat with a good view of the screen.
     PREVIEWS:
     Tristan and Isolde; On a Clear Day; the movie about the interracial relationship whose title I have forgotten --- and while I watched them I can remember facing the screen with a psychological (psychic?) experience I call the Perfect Vision of Understanding.

Navigation

[0] Message Index

[#] Next page

[*] Previous page