New blog

Thought I'd direct the attention of my scanty readership towards a new-founded blog that I look forward to reading. I hang out sometimes on Derek Webb's discussion boards, especially the Theology section (Derek, incidentally, used to be part of Caedmon's Call). I mostly lurk; the other people on the board are generally wiser and more opinionated than myself. One of my favorite participants on the board is a cat who goes by realboy; I think his real name is Matthew. He's a fascinating blend of orthodoxy and provocation, and his posts are always a pleasure to read. Anyway, he just started a blog for theological musings, called (for the moment) Theoloblog. Go check it out. I certainly will be.

# posted by Daniel at 7:11 PM.

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Saber, conocer

You don't have to spend much time in any American evangelical church before you start hearing people talk about "knowing" things. We "know" we're going to heaven. We "know" that Jesus's blood washed away our sins. We know lots of things like that, you know.

I've learned to smile, bite my tongue and nod my head.

Knowledge is a funny thing. It means different things to different people, and in different contexts. People've been arguing about the nature of knowledge for millenia; it's one of those perennial philosophical topics, up there with the freedom(?) of the will and the characteristics of the good life. Epistemology is the name of this particular collection of philosophical card tricks. Plato said that knowledge consists of justified true belief; that is, your belief or opinion constitutes knowledge if (1) the content of your belief corresponds to the way things are, and (2) you hold that true belief for logical reasons. It's an interesting (and pretty compelling) way of approaching the subject, but if true it would seem to seriously limit the number of things we "know."

For those of you who are just now joining the exercise in virtual voyeurism which is this blog, I'm taking a Spanish class this semester. Nothing fancy, just the second of the four foreign languages courses I'm required to take. In Spanish, there are two words for "know." Saber means to know a piece of information. Sabo mi numero de telefono. Sabo que hiciste el verano pasado. Sabo donde econtrar la zapataria. It refers to things, facts, etc. Conocer, on the other hand, means to know a person. Conozco mis amigos Miguel, y Jonathan, y Sean. It's the knowledge you have of someone you know, someone you love. And it doesn't necessarily have anything to do with factual knowledge.

I wonder if old-school Greek is like that. If there're two words to denote two different kinds of knowlege, and if our experience as English speaking Christians has been terribly impoverished by the limitations of the language in which we read the scriptures. I want to know Spanish if for no other reason than to find where in the New Testement "know" means saber and where it means conocer.

A lot of times I hear my fellow evangelicals talk about knowledge of salvation, knowlege of eternal real-estate, as though it's a physical datum, something you can see and taste and touch. As though Jesus has actually shown them the passenger manifest of that Ocean Liner Bound For Glory, and they've seen--physically seen--their name there on the list, with a gold star beside. I've heard Gospel presentations end with the sentence, "You can know tonight that if you die you'll go to heaven." I wince every time.

It isn't that I disagree with the theology underlying the statement. It's that knowledge here is spoken of in such factual terms. In as much as "know" is used in English to denote cognizance of facts, we can't know that we're going to heaven. We can't know that God loves us. Sorry. At least I can't.

But I do know Jesus. Conozco Christo. And more importantly, I'm known by him. That's the foundation of everything. Because I know him, I trust him. I trust what he did for me. I trust that because of him God is no longer an enemy. I honestly don't have any idea what's going to happen to me after I die, other than that I'll keep on going in some form, but I trust that he'll take care of me. It's probably acceptable, in the most frequently used sense of the word, to say that I know these things. But it can also be dangerous. It's easy to forget that our faith is centered not in aquiring the knowledge of certain facts, of jumping through doctrinal hoops. Our faith--trust is a better word--is centered on Christ.

On that note, I'll close this post with an older poem. A meditation/devotional thing. Enjoy.


MEDITATION, PSALM 139

If I forget thee, Jerusalem,
let my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth,
the guitar strings not bend,
nor the voice of the drum number even the simplest of dances.

If I forget thee, Jerusalem, if that name should escape me,
that photograph disappear from my wallet,
let my voice not be raised, not to sing,
not even to order a sandwich.

Jerusalem, if I forget the words to the song
let every song remind me
of the one my blood used to chant,
the one I waved like a flag,
the one that made me think of birds.

O Jerusalem, if I fail to remember
let the locusts descend, let the dry bed drink the river.

When you kissed me I wept
like a miracle stone, leapt like a pink fish;
I probably even smelled nicer.

So let the clowns swallow razors
if I fail to claim Jerusalem--
you my coin, my credit.

# posted by Daniel at 7:01 PM.

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Kill your darlings

A post over at Real Live Preacher got me thinking about all those little bits of unrealized writing. Ideas that just don't take shape. Most of mine take the form of poems; some are just one or two lines, others can be all-but-complete. Here's something I wrote awhile back about the phenomenon.


THE OTHER POEMS

These are the poems I don't write,
the single phrases and clusters of lines
that vanish like sparks in the wind on a cold night,
or the planned poems that never find the words
over which to drape themselves.

These I think of most, the wheels
of a car catching the sun, a flutter of wings,
the sound of a stone dropped into water.

Some simply do not fit anywhere,
like pieces to puzzles I've never owned,
as though they were packaged in the wrong box
or left on my table after a party,

while others are the leftover bits of other poems,
the splinters of stone chipped away from the statue
inside, the odd photographs that never find
their way into a book of pictures, the posters
that don't look right on any wall.

Still others are the intended destinations
of poems that ended up miles away,
living other lives, thinking other thoughts, married
to meanings they had never even met
when they turned the key in the ignition
and backed slowly out the driveway,

because in poetry, as in life, a destination is only a guess,
a sidewalk prophecy written in chalk, a promise
made with your fingers crossed.

And some of the poems I never write are empty
houses waiting for the lights to come on.
These I have built in my head, throwing up a frame
to carry the weight of the theme and nailing down floors
for my thoughts to walk on,

but I have never moved in, never wrestled the
furniture of Language through the halls or stacked brown
boxes of adjectives in the corners of empty rooms, never
dangled nouns from hooks in the kitchen or pronged
the cords of verbs into the staring faces of wall sockets.

And there are those as close to me as memory,
that cling to my pants and hang from my shirt and whisper
across my ear, that swarm
at the edges of every poem I do write,
looking for a way in, so that sometimes

when you speak to me you are only one
of the many voices pulling at my ear,

and--you may have noticed--sometimes
when I answer I'm looking past,
speaking, not really, to you:
eyes on an unknown horizon,
hearing waves break a distant beach.

(2002)

# posted by Daniel at 8:28 PM.

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Bias statement

Had to write a bias statement for my poetry seminar. This is in essence a brief statement of what you like and don't like in poetry. Today we'll pass them out to everyone in class, so that everyone knows where everyone else is coming from. For example, if somebody in class includes on his bias statement that he thinks e.e. cummings is the greatest poet of all time, and that anyone who uses standard punctuation is a chump, then I'll know to disregard his opinion when he tells me my poetry sucks. And it works the other way, too. We make critical judgements based on our values. I don't need to apologize for what I consider good and bad, whether in poetry, morality, religion, etc., but good faith discussion requires that I be honest and up front about my biases (presuppositions would be another word to use). I could write more about this--a lot more, actually--but for the moment I'll simply leave you with my bias statement for the class:

Any statement that details what I like and don't like in poems should be taken as provisional at best. What follows is just that--a provisional guide to my taste in poetry; I offer it in the expectation that any number of outstanding poems during the coming semester will force me to reevaluate the boundaries of what I like and don't like. Generally speaking, however, I'm drawn both in my reading and writing to poetry characterized by clarity, a well-developed and uncluttered tension, and a willingness to let the reader/hearer interpret the poem for themselves. The job of the poem, in other words, is to frame a scene or question as precisely as possible while leaving the resolution to the reader. I like humor in my poems, but don't generally care for "funny" poetry. I like poems to deal with the Big Questions (God, death, love/isolation), but only if they can come at these issues obliquely, from a not-so-obvious angle. I like poetry that is easily comprehended--if I've read a piece two or three times but still don't "get it" the fault lies with the author, not with me. In my own poetry I try to write towards an audience of slightly-above-average-intelligence high school graduates. As I said before, this is only a general characterization; I can easily think of any number of poems I like that violate these rules. So, for whatever they're worth, these are the guidelines I tend to use in evaluating poetry.

# posted by Daniel at 9:08 AM.

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Back on the chain gang

Classes began yesterday at Texas State, and it looks like this will be one of those semesters that chews you up like a Rottweiller chews up a piece of beef jerky. Or like a Bengal tiger chews up Jonathan. I'm taking nineteen hours. They all look to be interesting classes...and by interesting I mean they'll have lots of reading. Not as though the blogosphere cares, but for the sake of thoroughness I'll list them. They are:

The Later Shakespeare - As You Like It, Measure for Measure, Troilus and Cressida, Macbeth, King Lear, Antony and Cleopatra, The Winter's Tale, and Pericles. I'm looking forward to the class; I had Dr. Ronan for my Ancient World Lit survey class a couple of years ago, and he's a pretty funny guy.

Eastern Philosophy - Looks like we're going to cover pretty much everything--Upanishads, Bhagavad-Gita, Tao te Ching, bunch of Confucian stuff, and (interestingly enough) some of Mao Tesung's writings. My professor, one Dr. Yuan, is actually from Beijing and so grew up in a society governed by Maoist principles. Should be interesting. Her first assignment for Friday is to read Tolstoy's "Death of Ivan Ilyich," which bodes well for the course.

Spanish - Keep on moving, folks. Nothing to see here. This is just the second of the four Spanish classes I have to have to graduate.

History of Modern Philosophy - Pretty much covers the biggest of the philosophical cigars since the Rennaissance. Bacon, Hobbes, Descartes, Spinoza, Leibniz, Hume, Kant, and so on. Another one that should be good, although the professor did tell us today, "You may have heard that I'm a hard professor. You probably heard right," which is never a fun thing to learn.

Senior Poetry Seminar - The last of the classes for my Creative Writing specialization on my English major. It pretty much goes without saying that I'll enjoy this.

Modern English Syntax - i.e. advanced grammar. I might be less than sane, but I really get into grammar. I haven't had it systematically taught to me since middle school, though, so this'll be quite the experience. This professor was the second to confirm rumors of the difficulty of his class.

So there you have it. My life for the next few months. In addition, I'm still teaching the Bible study on Sunday nights. I've also started singing in the Three Rivers choir, which practices on Monday nights (props to fellow baritone Sean, without whom my voice would wander the bass clef, looking in vain for the proper pitch). Oh yeah. To top it all off, today I let a former professor talk me into being co-editor of Persona, the Texas State literary journal. Because I didn't already have enough to do.

It's probably a good thing I'm not driving my bus anymore.

# posted by Daniel at 9:46 PM.

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Housekeeping

I've added a site counter, to keep track of how many people don't visit this site, and permalinks, because a friend asked it of me a long time ago. Enjoy.

# posted by Daniel at 7:38 PM.

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Correspondence

I'm quite excited. I received the following letter in the mail today (of course, my financial aid check came in the mail today as well, so that may have something to do with my mood).

Dear Contributor:

Thank you for submitting your work to Borderlands. We enjoyed reading your poems; unfortunately, we were unable to find a place for them in the upcoming issue. Know that our decision was difficult due to the high quality of submissions we received.

We appreciate your continued support of Borderlands and encourage you to visit our website at www.borderlands.org where you can find current information about the journal, upcoming events, and ongoing community projects.

We always welcome your questions and suggestions and wish you good luck with your writing.

Best regards,

The Editors

My first rejection notice. I'm officially a writer, a poet, and possibly a man.

# posted by Daniel at 12:24 PM.

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Deer in the headlights, and other miscellanea

I drove home from Abilene tonight. I was going to wait until this morning, but felt the need for some driving and smoking, and figured I might as well be gettin my ass back home in the process. Left at around two in the morning, arrived thirty minutes ago. It's six thirty right now, which makes for a trip of right at four hours. If everything else in my life is on schedule, the sun should be coming up shortly.

It's a pretty long drive, as drives go, and all state highways and farm-to-market roads. But not too bad. I had my thoughts to keep me company. We're pretty good friends, my thoughts and I. We've had a lot of time alone together.

Oh yeah. Bob Dylan rode along for comfort and company as well. I listened to Time Out of Mind all the way to Fredricksburg. Skipping over a few tracks every time they came around, I made it through the album five or so times. Then at Fredricksburg I popped in Shot of Love, and that carried me into San Marcos. The last harmonica solo on "Every Grain of Sand," the final track on the album, was winding down as I pulled into my driveway. It's nice how things work out that way.

I saw fifty times as many deer as I did other cars on the way. This might be an exaggeration, but if it is it isn't much of one. I could've been some kind of Deer Pope for the crowds lining the road. I don't understand deer. I see them running around during the day, but they're out at all hours of the night as well. Maybe they're so stupid they don't need sleep. They run towards headlights, you know. A couple of months ago, coming home from my Bible study, one of them ran out into the road. I swerved to miss it, but it jumped back in the way and I clipped it with my left headlight. And then last week one of them ran into the side of my car. A couple of my friends were right behind me, and they told me later it bounced off the car with its head, then trotted off into the woods. Damn deer.

If God never said "no," you'd never know you didn't mean it when you asked for His will to be done.

I came up with this poem on the way back home. Came up with some others, too, but they aren't quite as succinct, and will take more time (and sleep) before they're presentable. Enjoy.

HEAVEN'S ROPE

We like to think we climb it one bloody
hand over the other, worn raw as sacrificial meats,
that we purify ourselves by the difficulty of the ascent,
the holy pain in our shaking shoulders,
that the dross falls away, like coins
shaken out of our pockets from a great height.
We like to think we turn
our wide doe eyes to heaven, searchlights.

But those of us that make it are made
against our will, the rope knotted
under our arms, around the chest,
shaking out our breath, penduluming
in the vacant air. We feel ourselves
pulled upward, inches at a time--
even the angels have to strain at the rope,
they heave us up like caskets.
The noose has to be tight, too. We look down,
we want to fall. We struggle.

(1/11/04)

# posted by Daniel at 4:56 AM.

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Now taking requests

A friend of mine asked me to post this.


SPEED

Missing the bus by seconds, I wave a hand.
It disappears around a traffic light,
snorts diesel smoke. I begin to run.

Books bounce on my back,
under my feet sidewalk flies, breath deep,
sweat beginning to leak
from the hollows under my arms
and the small of my back. I turn the corner,
gain the bus as it grinds upwards
through interminable gears--
my feet must trail feathers.

I flash past the windows like a thought,
like a pointed bird and drop my books.
They fall with the bus into the past, and I break
into new speed, legs whipping, piano wire,
past downtown storefronts where I'm only a noise,
a rattle of windows, coffee spilled in laps,
too fast to see, too quick to remember.

I take off all my clothes and throw them over my head
where they catch the air and disappear
while I run harder, naked, unencumbered,
still too fast to see. Like I said, I'm only a noise,
and my long legs lap the ground
miles at a time, fast as something.
Not even metaphor can catch me now,
the future real, the present uncertain,
blurred, the past unseen--
I would trip to look back, but I run faster,
my slow flesh falters,

so I scramble up and out as it falls,
through an open mouth and spring
from my own wagging tongue,
leave my body behind blowing in the road,
a sack, a scrap of paper.

Now I'm really moving, not even touching the road,
ignored by the wind, approaching light-s even paces.
But not fast enough: I fumble
in some anachronistic pocket of my incorporeal self,
pull out my name printed on a card,
read it one last time, and toss it to the landscape:
a forgettable leaf,
the weightiest pebble.

(3/03)

# posted by Daniel at 4:44 PM.

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