“I am the Lord your God, who brought you out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of bondage. You shall have no other gods before Me."
Exodus 20:2
I am an Idolater.
Used to be that I would go to a place where'd we'd come together, dim the lights, allow our minds and our moods to converge and music would be our guide. I'd sing, I'd raise my hands, I'd kneel. I'd embrace the people I was there with to remind them, physically that I was here with them, and they with me. We'd call it worship, we'd call it church. We'd sing songs of praises, also called Psalms. I'd be there singing with my friends, feeling God among us, coveting a life that went on endlessly from the moment we created.
"Me and my friends are like the drums on 'Lust for Life', we pound it out on floor toms, our Psalms are sing a long songs."
-Craig Finn of The Hold Steady
I went to two back-to-back Hold Steady shows last weekend. Friday night me and my friends drove three plus hours to Oklahoma City, pilgrims on a journey, to a tiny venue in the middle of nowhere. The lights went down. We put our hands in the air. We put our arms around each other's necks. We sang along. We pounded the air. We worshipped.
The Christians will tell me that the Hold Steady are a secular band. That if I committed my body and spirit to worship last weekend, then I am a Heretic, an Idolater.
I will tell you a secret about secular music. There is no such thing. It's all praise. It's all sacred. The difference between the sacred and the secular is the intended target. I can think of no greater target of my praise than the spirit of something larger than me, moving through a crowd, unified in song.
I don't throw my hands in the air at work. I don't close my eyes and feel grateful for my small life when I'm shopping. But when I can no longer distinguish my voice from that of those around me and I feel bigger for their presence and smaller by contrast, yeah, I'm worshipping.
"As you go, preach this message: 'The kingdom of heaven is near.'"
-Matthew 10:7
"Heaven is whenever we can get together."
-Craig Finn
The shows I go to are frequently crowded. It gets pretty hot. By the end of the show, we have sacrificed our voices to join in the choir, we've been baptized in sweat. The impact of the live show is undeniable. You sing along and realize that everyone else is singing too. We've converged. We've unified.
Maybe not everyone. Maybe it's just entertainment. But if you think that there are folks in the pews on Sunday who are there for anything but the show, you should try opening your eyes when you pray. Music as entertainment doesn't dimish its capacity to be so much more. In fact, it only serves to prove that we live without dogma, that rock shows are the only unitarian churches with a bar.
It's okay to go to a show and just be entertained. Have a beer and a laugh. What's not okay - what I protest - is the notion that a crossless room where the Bibles and sacrements have been left in the closets is no place to find a savior. That the spirit of God can't move in the chorus of "Do You Realize?" by the Flaming Lips is the worst heresy. The Psalm writers don't own God and I'm pretty sure he'll move wherever he damn well pleases.
Our sacrements are what we say they are. It ain't incense, but it's smoke. Are beer and bottled water so different from wine and cheap grape juice?
I know the script of church and I'm not so naive that I don't see the manipulations of a good rock show. The lights, the use of dynamics, creating dissonance and resolving it give the crowd relief and joy. But I won't begrudge the artist their art when the goal is simply to attain joy.
My confession: I weep, I raise my hands, I embrace my friends at live shows because I am moved to do so. I don't force it and it isn't scripted. I am moved by something other than someone saying the name of the lord and asking me to praise Him. I praise the moment and the undeniable, anonymous spirit that doesn't exist with the house lights on and cold amps.
My celebration? Same thing.
The difference between sacred and secular is the target. The difference between a confession and a celebration is the measure of sin. What is the heresy of joy?
God gave us Hallelujah. Leonard Cohen heard it and Jeff Buckley passed it on.
When Crain Finn sings "We'd like to pray for you," I believe him and I pray too.
When Adam Duritz invites me to "Come Down, Leave your damage behind and gone
So come now, Let's go down to the dance floor," I hear a call to worship.
When Chris Robinson sings, "If your rhythm ever falls out of time, you can bring it to me and I will make it all right," I hear a healer looking to bless the body.
I'm not building false idols. I'm placing no gods before the God of Egypt and Abraham. I'm listening to the joyful voices of the people, raised in unison. I'm looking at the yuppies and the hood rats, the hippies and wallflowers and me and my friends. We're together body and spirit.
I am an Idolater.
I confess to feeling the spirit move among us in houses not built for any Lord.
I celebrate the same.
Hold Fast,
Caulfield
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Pull Push
This is how I learned to swim:
My dad stood in the shallow end of the pool and I clung to the side. He said to swim towards him. He held his arms out. He was only a few feet away. I pushed off and flailed towards him, using more energy than the distance covered required. When I finally reached him I looked back at where I'd started. The distance was greater.
"Dad you moved."
"Yep. I knew you could do it and I was right in front of you the whole time."
This is how I learned to ride a bike:
My dad said to keep pedaling. He said that speed helped you stay up. I told him not to let go of my seat. I pedaled and he ran along side, encouraging me forward.
There was a moment, I felt it in my stomach, when the balance took over. He'd let go and I was on my own. Then I crashed.
"Dad you let go."
"Yep. I knew you had it and I was back here the whole time."
The lessons my dad has taught me since fall into those two categories. Pulling me towards him and pushing me on have been his methods for as long I as I've needed teaching.
When he yelled at me at 18 to get up and go to work when I wanted to blow it off, that was a swim lesson.
When my parents let me run off to Honduras for a couple of weeks to help others, they were supporting the bike until I could pedal. They stood back and watched me go, confident in my balance, sure of my return.
Both of my parents stayed up late several nights helping me learn the devil's algebra so I could finish school. Swim lessons.
Always being willing to help out with college costs when they could was no different than their hand on the seat, helping me gain my own momentum.
I've made some bad choices with women and my mom was always so willing to treat them well and make them feel welcome. Those were bike lessons. She was supportive without needing to steer.
In the pool, my dad moved away as I approached. He knew what I didn't. That the distance from where I was to where I needed to be was shorter than I thought. He knew that in my blind, head down, flailing I needed direction. I had the strength, but not the confidence.
On the street in front of my house, my parents encouraged me to take flight. To find my balance, to learn how to navigate, turn and even stop on my own.
The first lesson is motion towards becoming more like them. The second is to launch and hopefully do better.
My parents' voices guide me daily toward making good decisions and swimming toward the deep end of adulthood.
Their strength has allowed me to push myself in my own direction, crash and get back up again. Returning to them for repair and rest.
Every wise choice I've made, I've done so while trying to swim out to where they were. My successes have been largely because they steadied me while I figured out the gears.
The healthiest departure from my childhood was somewhere between my dad letting go of the seat and the realization that I was in control.
So far, adulthood has not been a fixed point. There is no other side of the pool. It's your dad moving backwards, calling out to you until you can stand, head above water, and breathe.
Hold Fast,
Caulfield
My dad stood in the shallow end of the pool and I clung to the side. He said to swim towards him. He held his arms out. He was only a few feet away. I pushed off and flailed towards him, using more energy than the distance covered required. When I finally reached him I looked back at where I'd started. The distance was greater.
"Dad you moved."
"Yep. I knew you could do it and I was right in front of you the whole time."
This is how I learned to ride a bike:
My dad said to keep pedaling. He said that speed helped you stay up. I told him not to let go of my seat. I pedaled and he ran along side, encouraging me forward.
There was a moment, I felt it in my stomach, when the balance took over. He'd let go and I was on my own. Then I crashed.
"Dad you let go."
"Yep. I knew you had it and I was back here the whole time."
The lessons my dad has taught me since fall into those two categories. Pulling me towards him and pushing me on have been his methods for as long I as I've needed teaching.
When he yelled at me at 18 to get up and go to work when I wanted to blow it off, that was a swim lesson.
When my parents let me run off to Honduras for a couple of weeks to help others, they were supporting the bike until I could pedal. They stood back and watched me go, confident in my balance, sure of my return.
Both of my parents stayed up late several nights helping me learn the devil's algebra so I could finish school. Swim lessons.
Always being willing to help out with college costs when they could was no different than their hand on the seat, helping me gain my own momentum.
I've made some bad choices with women and my mom was always so willing to treat them well and make them feel welcome. Those were bike lessons. She was supportive without needing to steer.
In the pool, my dad moved away as I approached. He knew what I didn't. That the distance from where I was to where I needed to be was shorter than I thought. He knew that in my blind, head down, flailing I needed direction. I had the strength, but not the confidence.
On the street in front of my house, my parents encouraged me to take flight. To find my balance, to learn how to navigate, turn and even stop on my own.
The first lesson is motion towards becoming more like them. The second is to launch and hopefully do better.
My parents' voices guide me daily toward making good decisions and swimming toward the deep end of adulthood.
Their strength has allowed me to push myself in my own direction, crash and get back up again. Returning to them for repair and rest.
Every wise choice I've made, I've done so while trying to swim out to where they were. My successes have been largely because they steadied me while I figured out the gears.
The healthiest departure from my childhood was somewhere between my dad letting go of the seat and the realization that I was in control.
So far, adulthood has not been a fixed point. There is no other side of the pool. It's your dad moving backwards, calling out to you until you can stand, head above water, and breathe.
Hold Fast,
Caulfield
Monday, March 9, 2009
The Music to the Story in Your Eyes (part 1)
So my sister is a Facebooker. As Army Brats, we broke a lot of good connections over the years. She's rekindling some of those connections. I feel less compelled, for reasons that I suppose could be explored in another blog.
A little while ago she and her facebookies were involved in a pretty cool discussion about which music still stands out as important to them from their childhood. I think this is a great discussion and want to join in. My childhood friend Tim did a great job of pin-pointing why a song or album was important, not just because of the When, but also the Where. So open iTunes in another window and get ready for some downloading.
The first three albums that hold equal status as music that I remember really wanting to hear over and over again are:
Goodbye Yellow Brick Road - Elton John
Abbey Road - The Beatles
and
Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band Movie Soundtrack - Peter Frampton with The Bee Gees and Various Artists
I remember sitting next to our stereo console, wearing big puffy headphones with the coiled cord, listening to these albums over and over. I loved Goodbye Yellow Brick Road because it was a double-album. As such, the album sleeve opened like a book. Inside were the lyrics AND small pieces of artwork to illustrate a theme of some of the songs. Plus, on the long commute from the island we lived on to my downtown school, my dad and I could get all the way through the Funeral for a Friend/Love Lies Bleeding opus without interruption. It shouldn't surprise anyone if some of that album artwork ends up as a tattoo one day. Probably Grey Seal.
The Sgt Pepper's Soundtrack was important because I loved the movie. Still do. This was pre-Mtv and if you wanted sound and sight to go together, you had to watch a musical. But we were years away from The Pirate Movie and Xanadu, so outside of Grease, I didn't like musicals. But, with Sgt. Pepper's, the music came first. They just pieced together a crazy-ass story line and a bunch of weird characters to fit in with the songs. Steve Martin was born to play Maxwell Edison.
I did love the Xanadu soundtrack. ELO is a fine band and I will always love Olivia Newton-John. My favorite songs were Don't Walk Away and the one where the Tubes battled the Glen Milleresque big band for club supremecy, only to find a happy blend of the old and the new. Awesome.
After that, it seems like there were a handful of 45s (Singles for you millenials) that struck a deep chord here and there. Like Tim, I loved some silly stuff, Pac-Man Fever, Eat It, Don't Mess with My Toot Toot, et al.
There were songs that I associate very lovingly with my parents - Lonesome Loser by Little River Band, Oh Sherry by Steve Perry (mom), and anything by CSN&Y.
But as far as my music goes, somewhere around 1983 something new popped up on my horizon. Something my parents could not have introduced me to. Something they hoped was a fad:
Rap.
Run-DMC's eponymous first album gave me something that few other albums ever had. As a tone deaf kid, I couldn't sing to save my life. But I could flow like the Savannah River by the time I was 11. Run-DMC made me want to unlock my awkward suburban white body parts and move them to beats that came not from drums but from machines.
More importantly, Rap connected me to a nebulous sub-culture. It would be years before anyone would tell me that I was white and therefore couldn't listen to Rap. No one owned Rap in 1983. Now I'm not sure who owns rap, but I don't think it's the rappers. Maybe Oprah.
My dad took my sister and I to Fresh Fest II (I don't know how we missed the first one). It was headlined by Run DMC, but supported by The Fat Boys, Whodini, and Afrika Bambata. Plus some of the dancers from Breakin' were there. I wore fingerless gloves, zip-down-the-sides-parachute pants and a shirt with mesh sleeves. Oh and a bandana like Daniel Larusso's.
I loved early hip-hop. I loved its clever delivery. I loved its fierceness. I loved getting in to Rap Battles. Tim and I formed a Rap group - scratch that, a Christian rap group called The Supreme Rappers. I think my Rap name was MC Soundwave. Yes, like the Transformer.
Soon enough, Raising Hell by Run DMC was all I could listen to. I know every lyric to every song on that album and tattle on new rappers when they sample anything from it. Dum-diddy-dum indeed.
In 1987, I saw scary images with loud music being played by sinister people on Mtv. Welcome to the Jungle frightened me like fire before a caveman. I wanted more. Then I heard the opening riff of Sweet Child O'Mine and I my love of metal was solidified. I mean I liked AC/DC a lot. We used to play Hells Bells before soccer games to get us amped. I bought and wore out the Appetite for Destruction cassette three times between 1988 and 1990. Finally, I found the funds to buy the CD when I was 15.
That's it for part 1. In part 2 we discuss the Metal Years, Make-out albums, what to play at a funeral and how to make a good Mix-tape.
Before I go, here's a recap, with selected track recommendations:
Abbey Road - Something, Here Comes the Sun
Sgt. Pepper's Soundtrack - Come Together (Aerosmith) Got To Get You Into My Life (Earth, Wind, & Fire)
Goodbye Yellow Brick Road - Grey Seal, Social Disease, Harmony
Xanadu Soundtrack - Don't Walk Away
Run-DMC - Rock Box, Jam Master Jay
Raisin' Hell - Peter Piper, Hit It Run, Is It Live
Appetite For Destruction - (besides the obvious) My Michelle and Rocket Queen
That's it, get to downloading.
Hold Fast,
Caulfield
A little while ago she and her facebookies were involved in a pretty cool discussion about which music still stands out as important to them from their childhood. I think this is a great discussion and want to join in. My childhood friend Tim did a great job of pin-pointing why a song or album was important, not just because of the When, but also the Where. So open iTunes in another window and get ready for some downloading.
The first three albums that hold equal status as music that I remember really wanting to hear over and over again are:
Goodbye Yellow Brick Road - Elton John
Abbey Road - The Beatles
and
Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band Movie Soundtrack - Peter Frampton with The Bee Gees and Various Artists
I remember sitting next to our stereo console, wearing big puffy headphones with the coiled cord, listening to these albums over and over. I loved Goodbye Yellow Brick Road because it was a double-album. As such, the album sleeve opened like a book. Inside were the lyrics AND small pieces of artwork to illustrate a theme of some of the songs. Plus, on the long commute from the island we lived on to my downtown school, my dad and I could get all the way through the Funeral for a Friend/Love Lies Bleeding opus without interruption. It shouldn't surprise anyone if some of that album artwork ends up as a tattoo one day. Probably Grey Seal.
The Sgt Pepper's Soundtrack was important because I loved the movie. Still do. This was pre-Mtv and if you wanted sound and sight to go together, you had to watch a musical. But we were years away from The Pirate Movie and Xanadu, so outside of Grease, I didn't like musicals. But, with Sgt. Pepper's, the music came first. They just pieced together a crazy-ass story line and a bunch of weird characters to fit in with the songs. Steve Martin was born to play Maxwell Edison.
I did love the Xanadu soundtrack. ELO is a fine band and I will always love Olivia Newton-John. My favorite songs were Don't Walk Away and the one where the Tubes battled the Glen Milleresque big band for club supremecy, only to find a happy blend of the old and the new. Awesome.
After that, it seems like there were a handful of 45s (Singles for you millenials) that struck a deep chord here and there. Like Tim, I loved some silly stuff, Pac-Man Fever, Eat It, Don't Mess with My Toot Toot, et al.
There were songs that I associate very lovingly with my parents - Lonesome Loser by Little River Band, Oh Sherry by Steve Perry (mom), and anything by CSN&Y.
But as far as my music goes, somewhere around 1983 something new popped up on my horizon. Something my parents could not have introduced me to. Something they hoped was a fad:
Rap.
Run-DMC's eponymous first album gave me something that few other albums ever had. As a tone deaf kid, I couldn't sing to save my life. But I could flow like the Savannah River by the time I was 11. Run-DMC made me want to unlock my awkward suburban white body parts and move them to beats that came not from drums but from machines.
More importantly, Rap connected me to a nebulous sub-culture. It would be years before anyone would tell me that I was white and therefore couldn't listen to Rap. No one owned Rap in 1983. Now I'm not sure who owns rap, but I don't think it's the rappers. Maybe Oprah.
My dad took my sister and I to Fresh Fest II (I don't know how we missed the first one). It was headlined by Run DMC, but supported by The Fat Boys, Whodini, and Afrika Bambata. Plus some of the dancers from Breakin' were there. I wore fingerless gloves, zip-down-the-sides-parachute pants and a shirt with mesh sleeves. Oh and a bandana like Daniel Larusso's.
I loved early hip-hop. I loved its clever delivery. I loved its fierceness. I loved getting in to Rap Battles. Tim and I formed a Rap group - scratch that, a Christian rap group called The Supreme Rappers. I think my Rap name was MC Soundwave. Yes, like the Transformer.
Soon enough, Raising Hell by Run DMC was all I could listen to. I know every lyric to every song on that album and tattle on new rappers when they sample anything from it. Dum-diddy-dum indeed.
In 1987, I saw scary images with loud music being played by sinister people on Mtv. Welcome to the Jungle frightened me like fire before a caveman. I wanted more. Then I heard the opening riff of Sweet Child O'Mine and I my love of metal was solidified. I mean I liked AC/DC a lot. We used to play Hells Bells before soccer games to get us amped. I bought and wore out the Appetite for Destruction cassette three times between 1988 and 1990. Finally, I found the funds to buy the CD when I was 15.
That's it for part 1. In part 2 we discuss the Metal Years, Make-out albums, what to play at a funeral and how to make a good Mix-tape.
Before I go, here's a recap, with selected track recommendations:
Abbey Road - Something, Here Comes the Sun
Sgt. Pepper's Soundtrack - Come Together (Aerosmith) Got To Get You Into My Life (Earth, Wind, & Fire)
Goodbye Yellow Brick Road - Grey Seal, Social Disease, Harmony
Xanadu Soundtrack - Don't Walk Away
Run-DMC - Rock Box, Jam Master Jay
Raisin' Hell - Peter Piper, Hit It Run, Is It Live
Appetite For Destruction - (besides the obvious) My Michelle and Rocket Queen
That's it, get to downloading.
Hold Fast,
Caulfield
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Telling the tale.
http://www.legacy.com/dfw/Obituaries.asp?Page=SearchResults
I knew Bill Maben a while before I ever met him. Such is the power of good story telling. You only have to be around his son or his daughters for the duration of a meal before one of the family catch-phrases gets used. (I blowed it; I couldn't be better, want less or have more.) Each catch phrase is simply the fruit born of a branch on a tree with strong roots. Roots that run deep into Fort Worth and Tarrant County. You can tell the story of the last 70 years of Fort Worth's history by telling the story of Bill Maben.
It's funny that the stories came before the man in my experience. By the time I met this sweet, good Texan I felt like more like a fan than just a friend of the family. He skipped past "friend of the family" and chose instead to treat me like family. I always feel welcome at a Maben gathering. Partially because of the legacy of kindness that Bill and his sweet wife have passed on to their daughters and son. But also because of the stories.
I've learned to live with the idea that someday, all that there will be of my life is what can be said about it. If that's true, the Maben family need never fear being forgotten. They bring a new meaning to the phrase "sharing a story." Once you've heard the story of Bill telling his wife that their daughter had gone to see some band called "22 Top" or Uncle Joe's (I can't do it all!) frustration at being the only one doing ALL the work at a family catering event, you get to join in the fun. You're given permission to use the catch phrases, you are in on the joke. You, given enough time, are family.
I can only think that this current of inclusiveness runs so strong in the Maben family veins because Bill so regularly demonstrated it his whole life. I can't imagine Bill Maben not liking someone. But if he doesn't, it's their fault.
When I look at how Bill's son, Trey, and his wife, Caren, are raising their own boys, and the good men that Bill's daughters, Kathy and Lori, chose to start their family's with, I believe that I can see a recipe of constants. A buffet of standards, demonstrated by the father, sought after by the children. If you've spent time among the Mabens, you've been well-fed, you've laughed really hard, you've argued about something stupid and laughed again, you've listened to good music, and best of all, you've heard some great stories.
The incredible aspect that is the graceful legacy of Bill Maben's life, is that all are included. There always seems to be room for one more at the table. You are welcome to hear the old stories, and start your investment in the new ones. For my part, which is small and recent, I'm grateful to be invited, to be included, not just in the mourning of the loss of a great man, but more importantly, the opportunity to ensure the telling and retelling of the great old stories of this family, and to witness and participate as tomorrow's stories are formed.
The story of his final few hours, surrounded by family, is not mine to tell. But the impression that I've been left with is one of peace and dignity and grace. I can only surmise that the generosity that is the sub-text of Bill Maben's life story, caught up to him and escorted him to the end of this chapter.
May we all pray that our lives be nearly as a great a story and half as well told as only a Maben can.
Thank you Bill.
Hold Fast,
Caulfield
I knew Bill Maben a while before I ever met him. Such is the power of good story telling. You only have to be around his son or his daughters for the duration of a meal before one of the family catch-phrases gets used. (I blowed it; I couldn't be better, want less or have more.) Each catch phrase is simply the fruit born of a branch on a tree with strong roots. Roots that run deep into Fort Worth and Tarrant County. You can tell the story of the last 70 years of Fort Worth's history by telling the story of Bill Maben.
It's funny that the stories came before the man in my experience. By the time I met this sweet, good Texan I felt like more like a fan than just a friend of the family. He skipped past "friend of the family" and chose instead to treat me like family. I always feel welcome at a Maben gathering. Partially because of the legacy of kindness that Bill and his sweet wife have passed on to their daughters and son. But also because of the stories.
I've learned to live with the idea that someday, all that there will be of my life is what can be said about it. If that's true, the Maben family need never fear being forgotten. They bring a new meaning to the phrase "sharing a story." Once you've heard the story of Bill telling his wife that their daughter had gone to see some band called "22 Top" or Uncle Joe's (I can't do it all!) frustration at being the only one doing ALL the work at a family catering event, you get to join in the fun. You're given permission to use the catch phrases, you are in on the joke. You, given enough time, are family.
I can only think that this current of inclusiveness runs so strong in the Maben family veins because Bill so regularly demonstrated it his whole life. I can't imagine Bill Maben not liking someone. But if he doesn't, it's their fault.
When I look at how Bill's son, Trey, and his wife, Caren, are raising their own boys, and the good men that Bill's daughters, Kathy and Lori, chose to start their family's with, I believe that I can see a recipe of constants. A buffet of standards, demonstrated by the father, sought after by the children. If you've spent time among the Mabens, you've been well-fed, you've laughed really hard, you've argued about something stupid and laughed again, you've listened to good music, and best of all, you've heard some great stories.
The incredible aspect that is the graceful legacy of Bill Maben's life, is that all are included. There always seems to be room for one more at the table. You are welcome to hear the old stories, and start your investment in the new ones. For my part, which is small and recent, I'm grateful to be invited, to be included, not just in the mourning of the loss of a great man, but more importantly, the opportunity to ensure the telling and retelling of the great old stories of this family, and to witness and participate as tomorrow's stories are formed.
The story of his final few hours, surrounded by family, is not mine to tell. But the impression that I've been left with is one of peace and dignity and grace. I can only surmise that the generosity that is the sub-text of Bill Maben's life story, caught up to him and escorted him to the end of this chapter.
May we all pray that our lives be nearly as a great a story and half as well told as only a Maben can.
Thank you Bill.
Hold Fast,
Caulfield
Sunday, August 24, 2008
With Regards to Aimee Mann
"Now that I've met you, would you object to never seeing each other again? Cuz I can't afford to climb aboard you, no one's got that much ego to spend."
I'm always amazing at first. There's passive flirting, I single you out for attention without making you uncomfortable. I never commit so obviously to the flirt that I can't retract at the first sign of danger. I ask you questions about yourself. I'll remember everything you say, I'll be on your side.
We'll go on a date. It'll seem like it was your idea, but I led you to it. It won't be like any first date you've been on. We'll stay out/up much later than you usually do. We'll tell stories. We'll connect. I know enough about anything to hold up my end of the conversation. We'll kiss too soon, we'll talk about why it's okay, because we've known each other for a while. It's not like we're strangers.
I'll make you a CD. One of those songs will become Our Song. I'll kid you about your musical tastes. You'll watch movies you've never heard of. You'll feel like you've discovered a whole new culture. You'll credit me.
We'll become a couple. I'll stay over. A lot. You'll stay over at my place some.
But I won't ever clean it up. My messy car will seem less charming every time you get in it. Eventually, we'll stop taking my car at all.
I'll sleep in when we could be out and about enjoying time together.
My funny rants about everything will get old. I'll start to seem less like an observer and more like a critic. You'll tell me I'm a little judgemental. You're not the first to say it. I'll defend my position.
You'll wake up one day and see that I've invaded your life. We watch my movies, listen to my iPod. You quit watching your favorite shows because I'm such a dick about them. I'll make you feel stupid for liking what you like, how you spend your time. You'll feel small because you don't read enough, or contribute the way I think you should. You'll put too much stock into my opinion and wish you hadn't.
You'll love me but feel trapped. You'll remember the early times, when I was amazing. I seem to have quit trying to charm you. I've stopped wooing you. I've got you and you want it to be like it was. You hate how it is.
I'll be oblivious. When you try to talk about it, I'll down play it. I'll be defensive. I'll blame you. You'll try to regain the high ground in your life and I'll accuse you of changing. You'll feel guilty and frustrated. We'll stop sleeping with each other. I'll ignore your calls and take too long to call you back. I'll stop calling. We'll punish each other with silence. We could solve it, but one of us has to make the first move; you'll be too hurt, I'll be too proud.
"It's not going to stop, until you wise up."
I'll realize how close to losing you I am and I'll scramble. I'll address it before you do. I'll say I'm sorry. I'll work to save us, but it'll be too late. When my efforts fail, I'll blame you for not trying to save us.
We'll break up.
I'll do it again with someone else. You'll date the polar opposite of me. Someone more normal, more grown-up. He won't care what you listen to, his house will be clean. He won't seem as exciting, but he'll be stable.
I'll be sweet to you when we run in to each other. We'll be fond of each other and a little sad about how it turned out. As if we couldn't control the outcome, as if it were fate. We'll act like I didn't sabotage us with neglect, with pride.
You'll move on. I'll start my pattern over again.
I'm sorry.
Or... maybe not. Maybe I'll wise up. Maybe I will try every day to charm you. You'll feel wooed and wanted. Not with sweet romantic gestures alone, but also with practical mature decisions. You'll see that I can stablize. I can still love the Lost Boys even if I'm not Pan any more. I'll strike a deal with adulthood. I'll meet it halfway. I'll take you seriously by taking good care of myself. I'll try to match your goodness. I'll shut-up sometimes. I won't need to win every battle. I'll choose fewer battles to even fight.
Instead of "I love you," I'll say, "Thank you." Because you deserve a little more gratitude.
And even though I've got you, even though you've committed to me, I'll still be amazing. I'll flirt with you. I'll charm you. You will be treasured every day. We will have fun. We will be fun. I will go from Has Been to Could Be.
I hope.
Hold Fast,
Caulfield
I'm always amazing at first. There's passive flirting, I single you out for attention without making you uncomfortable. I never commit so obviously to the flirt that I can't retract at the first sign of danger. I ask you questions about yourself. I'll remember everything you say, I'll be on your side.
We'll go on a date. It'll seem like it was your idea, but I led you to it. It won't be like any first date you've been on. We'll stay out/up much later than you usually do. We'll tell stories. We'll connect. I know enough about anything to hold up my end of the conversation. We'll kiss too soon, we'll talk about why it's okay, because we've known each other for a while. It's not like we're strangers.
I'll make you a CD. One of those songs will become Our Song. I'll kid you about your musical tastes. You'll watch movies you've never heard of. You'll feel like you've discovered a whole new culture. You'll credit me.
We'll become a couple. I'll stay over. A lot. You'll stay over at my place some.
But I won't ever clean it up. My messy car will seem less charming every time you get in it. Eventually, we'll stop taking my car at all.
I'll sleep in when we could be out and about enjoying time together.
My funny rants about everything will get old. I'll start to seem less like an observer and more like a critic. You'll tell me I'm a little judgemental. You're not the first to say it. I'll defend my position.
You'll wake up one day and see that I've invaded your life. We watch my movies, listen to my iPod. You quit watching your favorite shows because I'm such a dick about them. I'll make you feel stupid for liking what you like, how you spend your time. You'll feel small because you don't read enough, or contribute the way I think you should. You'll put too much stock into my opinion and wish you hadn't.
You'll love me but feel trapped. You'll remember the early times, when I was amazing. I seem to have quit trying to charm you. I've stopped wooing you. I've got you and you want it to be like it was. You hate how it is.
I'll be oblivious. When you try to talk about it, I'll down play it. I'll be defensive. I'll blame you. You'll try to regain the high ground in your life and I'll accuse you of changing. You'll feel guilty and frustrated. We'll stop sleeping with each other. I'll ignore your calls and take too long to call you back. I'll stop calling. We'll punish each other with silence. We could solve it, but one of us has to make the first move; you'll be too hurt, I'll be too proud.
"It's not going to stop, until you wise up."
I'll realize how close to losing you I am and I'll scramble. I'll address it before you do. I'll say I'm sorry. I'll work to save us, but it'll be too late. When my efforts fail, I'll blame you for not trying to save us.
We'll break up.
I'll do it again with someone else. You'll date the polar opposite of me. Someone more normal, more grown-up. He won't care what you listen to, his house will be clean. He won't seem as exciting, but he'll be stable.
I'll be sweet to you when we run in to each other. We'll be fond of each other and a little sad about how it turned out. As if we couldn't control the outcome, as if it were fate. We'll act like I didn't sabotage us with neglect, with pride.
You'll move on. I'll start my pattern over again.
I'm sorry.
Or... maybe not. Maybe I'll wise up. Maybe I will try every day to charm you. You'll feel wooed and wanted. Not with sweet romantic gestures alone, but also with practical mature decisions. You'll see that I can stablize. I can still love the Lost Boys even if I'm not Pan any more. I'll strike a deal with adulthood. I'll meet it halfway. I'll take you seriously by taking good care of myself. I'll try to match your goodness. I'll shut-up sometimes. I won't need to win every battle. I'll choose fewer battles to even fight.
Instead of "I love you," I'll say, "Thank you." Because you deserve a little more gratitude.
And even though I've got you, even though you've committed to me, I'll still be amazing. I'll flirt with you. I'll charm you. You will be treasured every day. We will have fun. We will be fun. I will go from Has Been to Could Be.
I hope.
Hold Fast,
Caulfield
Friday, May 9, 2008
Social Cartography
First, Watch This:
http://www.ted.com/talks/view/id/61
I love disaster flicks. I like the scene when all the important people are gathered, the President, the general, the Cabinet, the chest of drawers (I kid!), and the meek yet not-unattractive scientist explains the catastrophe - the meteor is coming, or the virus is spreading - and then they go to the projected damage screen. It always shows the point of impact or origin and then a scary red circle grows in size as the meek scientist says "Here's the affected area after a day, two days, a week, etc..." And then the sad music plays.
Based on the TED video I linked (I don't know how to embed. I tried and there was html everywhere), it looks like they really do something like that to deal with diseases and outbreaks and whatnot. Which is pretty cool. I think they call them Ghost Maps.
I'd like to see a Life Map of an entity with a positive influence on its community. I'd like to be in the room of important guys as the meek Pastor, or Community Volunteer, points to a screen and says, "This is the neighborhood three years ago before we established our church/school/rec center and after 6 months, 9 months, a year 18 months, and two years, we've reduced crime by 5% and increased the property value by 1% and all the babies born in the area can read as soon as they're born." I'd like to see that.
There are more churches in the within the city limits of Dallas TX than in any other city on the planet. What does Dallas's Life Map look like? What are the Hot Zones of well-being, charity, good-will and even tempered dispute resolution? How many inmates in the Dallas County Correctional Facility and Day Spa have been visited?
In the video, a single water pump near a Cess pool killed thousands. Shouldn't a fountain of the water of life have opposite effect?
I've been to Dallas. It's no Shining City on a Hill. It's a mean place with bad drivers, and sports teams that can't hack it in the post-season. It's a bunker of concrete, thirtythousandaire condos, and is in no real way distinguishable as a city full of churches. Maybe the guy who told me that was talking about the fried chicken joint. Which would make Dallas one of the most delicious cities in the world.
Churches used to run hospitals. Ever hear of Presby? Methodist? Churches used to have the sort of impact that could be charted on a Life Map. Churches used to plant themselves inside of cities instead of fleeing to highway off-ramps.
I'm moving into a new neighborhood soon. Maybe I'll make a good impact there. Maybe in a few years I'll meekly chart my relationship with my neighbors and see what kind of impact I've made. Maybe I can get James Spader in a lab coat to do the presentation. I hope Rip Torn will wear a General's Uniform if he attends. My life is a disaster flick, and it's probably boring if you're not in it. Michael Bay must be directing.
Hold Fast,
Caulfield
http://www.ted.com/talks/view/id/61
I love disaster flicks. I like the scene when all the important people are gathered, the President, the general, the Cabinet, the chest of drawers (I kid!), and the meek yet not-unattractive scientist explains the catastrophe - the meteor is coming, or the virus is spreading - and then they go to the projected damage screen. It always shows the point of impact or origin and then a scary red circle grows in size as the meek scientist says "Here's the affected area after a day, two days, a week, etc..." And then the sad music plays.
Based on the TED video I linked (I don't know how to embed. I tried and there was html everywhere), it looks like they really do something like that to deal with diseases and outbreaks and whatnot. Which is pretty cool. I think they call them Ghost Maps.
I'd like to see a Life Map of an entity with a positive influence on its community. I'd like to be in the room of important guys as the meek Pastor, or Community Volunteer, points to a screen and says, "This is the neighborhood three years ago before we established our church/school/rec center and after 6 months, 9 months, a year 18 months, and two years, we've reduced crime by 5% and increased the property value by 1% and all the babies born in the area can read as soon as they're born." I'd like to see that.
There are more churches in the within the city limits of Dallas TX than in any other city on the planet. What does Dallas's Life Map look like? What are the Hot Zones of well-being, charity, good-will and even tempered dispute resolution? How many inmates in the Dallas County Correctional Facility and Day Spa have been visited?
In the video, a single water pump near a Cess pool killed thousands. Shouldn't a fountain of the water of life have opposite effect?
I've been to Dallas. It's no Shining City on a Hill. It's a mean place with bad drivers, and sports teams that can't hack it in the post-season. It's a bunker of concrete, thirtythousandaire condos, and is in no real way distinguishable as a city full of churches. Maybe the guy who told me that was talking about the fried chicken joint. Which would make Dallas one of the most delicious cities in the world.
Churches used to run hospitals. Ever hear of Presby? Methodist? Churches used to have the sort of impact that could be charted on a Life Map. Churches used to plant themselves inside of cities instead of fleeing to highway off-ramps.
I'm moving into a new neighborhood soon. Maybe I'll make a good impact there. Maybe in a few years I'll meekly chart my relationship with my neighbors and see what kind of impact I've made. Maybe I can get James Spader in a lab coat to do the presentation. I hope Rip Torn will wear a General's Uniform if he attends. My life is a disaster flick, and it's probably boring if you're not in it. Michael Bay must be directing.
Hold Fast,
Caulfield
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
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