I once met a man who'd lost his leg below the knee. He was seeking treatment for phantom pains. The part of his leg that was missing still bothered him. He ached below the knee, not at the sight of the wound, but where he'd once been whole. He had an itch that could not be scratched.
When I left the church, an amputation was required. Friends suggested I try Unitarianism or that I just go on sabbatical. What they didn't understand is that I'd rather have a limp than a crutch.
Given time to rant, I can tell you to the point of making you sorry you'd asked all the things that I can no longer love about the church. Read some of my earlier posts and you'll see that I've already railed against the religious theater of Sunday morning. I've already been outspoken about the Christian's natural instinct towards intellectual property rights of truth. To continue the list, I grew so tired and weary of the Christian doppelganger, the "in this world but not of it" culture that looks like a sinner and talks like a sinner but walks a different path. The band Petra put out an album called "Sheep in Wolves Clothing." Living in a culture surrounded by churches, I can tell you that I'd rather run with the wolves. Perhaps it's just the comfort of the devil you know.
I was dedicated to that culture. I've lead worship, broken bread, and laid hands on the sick. I've worn ashes on Wednesday and fasted til Sunday. I recruited, encouraged, admonished, rebuked and literally shouted from the mountain tops. I was immersed and emergent. I walked prayer labyrinths. I saw you at the pole. I went to Cornerstone Music Festival. I did everything right.
I got called a heretic once. A baptist church sent a group of people to visit our emergent church. We spoke about denying Absolute Truth and the falsehood of certainty. They said Jesus was the Absolute Truth. I said maybe, but I'm fallible so there's no way of knowing for sure. They called me a heretic. I was pretty proud of that.
But for all the stupidity, the useless arguments, the clever t-shirts and meaningful coffee table books, it's not really the Church that I'd amputated. I've remained friends with a lot of those folks. I still listen to some of the music, though not as much. No, I didn't cut off the Church.
I cut off God. I re-dug my god shaped hole and I did it with a spoon.
It started with the earliest heresies. I realized that I didn't need Mary to have been a virgin when Jesus was born. Nor did I care if the miracles were allegorical or historical. Soon, substitutionary atonement went out the window and with it the divinity of Christ. I found that what was most compelling was this: I was created just like everyone else and we should love each other. I'd stopped believing in a metaphysical heaven, instead I loved to quote Jesus telling his disciples that the kingdom is among us. When two or more are gathered, whether Jesus shows up or not, we're still gathered, so let's make something of our time.
Once after a particularly moving worship service, I asked my friend Peyton, "How do we discern the difference between the spirit moving among the body and the power of suggestion mingled with mob-mentality?" He said, "That's a dangerous question to be asking here. Let's go get a beer."
Tonight, my fiance and I started reminiscing about all the Christian music we'd listened to. I don't know how it started, but soon enough we were on grooveshark.com with a playlist consisting of Five Iron Frenzy, Caedmon's Call, and the Newsboys. Yes, the Newsboys. It was like seeing an old friend, but not one I'm interested in reconnecting with. I don't know that I'd Friend christian-me on Facebook. Then again, I don't know that I'd Friend me on Facebook at all.
Here's the thing, faith unlike flesh, regenerates. It has seasons. I don't see a second season coming around. A rebirth isn't inevitable. But I'd be okay with something a little more intriguing.
I do miss something though. I've got a phantom pain where all of this used to be. I'm almost afraid to type this. An uncertain atheist is like blood in the water to the attentive evangelist. The trick is that certainty is what got the spoon of my amputation started in the first place. I want to be clear that I'm not looking for healing. I'm whole. What I amputated wasn't a necessary part of me. Being unnecessary doesn't make it any less important. I used to say, "I am not ashamed of the gospel of jesus christ." Now I say, "I am not ashamed that I used to be not ashamed of the gospel of jesus christ."
I don't like calling myself an atheist. I use it for lack of a better word. I won't call myself a christian. I left it for lack of a better god.
In truth, I really can't stand the Evangelical Atheists. The kids who worship Dawkins and Hitchens are just as annoying as any Pentecostal.
I've jokingly called rock n' roll the only true religion, but inside I kind of mean it. I love the music and the gatherings and the uncertainty and the pageantry.
What's got my phantom limb twitching tonight must be somewhere in that part of my faith. Once at a worship service I lead, I didn't light any of the candles that I placed at the alter. Instead I left several matchbooks and lighters laying around and asked the people to light a candle when they knelt and prayed. I asked them to spark hope against the darkness so that we could join them in prayer. The image of the sea of candles flickering at the end of communion still tugs at my heart.
I'm frustrated because there is no secular version of that moment. I don't have the liturgy any more and I really miss it sometimes. One of the earliest Christian Rock songs was called "Why should the devil have all the good music?" I never thought I'd be asking why christians should have all the beautiful moments.
How do I create a worshipful moment in tribute to all the things I love? I'd love to start a church where instead of god we drew our hearts to one another. I want to kneel and be grateful for my small stupid life and my amazing fiance. I want to say thank you for my parents and my sister and her family. I want to let someone know that I'm hurting without having to let someone know that I'm hurting. I want to dim the lights and play music and weep and laugh. I'm not a heretic, I'm a believer without a belief. I'm an ist without an ism.
The man I met who'd lost his leg had to get a nerve-block to ease his pain. They blocked the lines of communication between his leg and his brain so he'd quit getting the false messages. I have no interest in that. He'd had his leg blown off in a war, he deserves his comfort. I don't want comfort. I want to stay close to these signals.
I'm going to play with this mystery a while. It's made me restless. I've found comfort in the phantom pain because it means part of me is receptive to an undiscovered element. I'm not really limping, it's more a stagger and it only hurts when I hold still.
Hold Fast,
Caulfield
Wednesday, November 27, 2013
Tuesday, June 4, 2013
Down In Front
What's the first thing you remember? Someone said recently that most of the time, when you're remembering something, you're just remembering the last time you remembered it. I follow the logic. I don't want it to be true, but I'm sure it is.
So how far back can you go and still touch the source memory? Asking this question I'm suddenly bombarded with the strangest glimpses - a rapid slide show of moments fires past my mental screen without context or any real trigger.
You want to reach back and remember the first joy. You want to tap into a catalog of well preserved moments of fun and kindness and tenderness. Instead you get window frames without walls. Context is loose at best, unavailable at worst. You long to recall Christmas at 2 years old, instead you get driveways with bicycles. Photos from the era tell you had fun on your 1st birthday and that you looked adorable on the first day of kindergarten. What you remember is the leather of your grandparents chair or how the tile in your bathroom looked like crosses and 8-bit spaceships.
I love the new Nostalgiatech that seems to be popping up. My new favorite app is called 8mm. It's a video app that throws a filter to match some fuzzy memory. You can even mute the sound and add the noise of a projector.
We had an 8mm camera when I was a kid. I think it was 8mm, it might have been fancier than that. It used real film that had to be processed. We had a cool little projector that required the know-how to feed the film into the thingy that looped around the little doo dad. It was all very technical.
We'd create a theater. A sheet would be hung, lights would be extinguished or faded. Then there was the moment of fascination as suddenly your very own image was on the screen. Moments ago, you'd watched a silent Donald Duck film, or a clip from 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. You could get movies like that from the library. We'd watch these produced films and my dad would narrate, doing the voices of the sailors in some silly fashion.
But the family films were the main event. Cookouts and reunions and Christmas trees and birthday candles. These movies weren't narrated, they had a live commentary track from my mom and dad. For me these moments were imbued with special value. My birthday was important enough to film. Donald Duck on a camping trip, Kirk Douglas battling a giant squid, and my birthday party were on equal standing. The proof was on the wall in front of me.
37 years before we took pictures of Penne Pasta, filtered them to look old, and posted them online for all to see, we had to be choosy with what we deemed important enough to capture.
Soon enough the 8mm gave way to the video camera. The lights could stay on and there was no need for voice overs and commentary because the sound worked just find. You could see yourself on the television. That felt special too, but now I see that there was something missing. Some of the senses were being denied.
Watching the old 8mm movies, the room got warm from the bulb and you could smell the film heating up. You could see the dust in the light of the projector. You could hear the reels ticking along. The movies were silent but the moment was not. The family talked when it was time and hushed when a now dead family member waved at the camera.
The whole house was under control of the 8mm projector. Light from another room was intrusive, stray sounds weren't welcome, not even music. You didn't just pop-in a tape while world operated indifferently around you. You dedicated the space and time to remembering to remember.
A projector is special because in order to get the best view, you put it behind you. You split the room so no one blocks the light. In order to perfectly view the past, you had to leave it behind you and look the other direction. Then be still and let the images flood to the front. Televisions and cell phones and laptops don't demand this attention from us. They do what we tell them. You can pause live TV now. If you paused a film for too long, you'd burn the frame. The images of the past need to keep running or you could risk losing them.
I don't know what my first memory is. But some of the earliest are those nights, warmed by the bulb, fascinated by the image. We'd filmed the moment knowing that when we looked upon it we'd be seeing the past. It's not a sheet, it's a screen. It's not a screen, it's a window. It's a window without walls. The only context is that we were there.
My earliest memories may be of the act of remembering. There are no films of us watching the movies. When I remember sitting in my rocking chair, watching me race my cousins on my Granny's property, I'm tapping right into the source. I don't remember the race, but I remember the remembering.
Perhaps that's better.
Hold Fast,
Caulfield
So how far back can you go and still touch the source memory? Asking this question I'm suddenly bombarded with the strangest glimpses - a rapid slide show of moments fires past my mental screen without context or any real trigger.
You want to reach back and remember the first joy. You want to tap into a catalog of well preserved moments of fun and kindness and tenderness. Instead you get window frames without walls. Context is loose at best, unavailable at worst. You long to recall Christmas at 2 years old, instead you get driveways with bicycles. Photos from the era tell you had fun on your 1st birthday and that you looked adorable on the first day of kindergarten. What you remember is the leather of your grandparents chair or how the tile in your bathroom looked like crosses and 8-bit spaceships.
I love the new Nostalgiatech that seems to be popping up. My new favorite app is called 8mm. It's a video app that throws a filter to match some fuzzy memory. You can even mute the sound and add the noise of a projector.
We had an 8mm camera when I was a kid. I think it was 8mm, it might have been fancier than that. It used real film that had to be processed. We had a cool little projector that required the know-how to feed the film into the thingy that looped around the little doo dad. It was all very technical.
We'd create a theater. A sheet would be hung, lights would be extinguished or faded. Then there was the moment of fascination as suddenly your very own image was on the screen. Moments ago, you'd watched a silent Donald Duck film, or a clip from 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. You could get movies like that from the library. We'd watch these produced films and my dad would narrate, doing the voices of the sailors in some silly fashion.
But the family films were the main event. Cookouts and reunions and Christmas trees and birthday candles. These movies weren't narrated, they had a live commentary track from my mom and dad. For me these moments were imbued with special value. My birthday was important enough to film. Donald Duck on a camping trip, Kirk Douglas battling a giant squid, and my birthday party were on equal standing. The proof was on the wall in front of me.
37 years before we took pictures of Penne Pasta, filtered them to look old, and posted them online for all to see, we had to be choosy with what we deemed important enough to capture.
Soon enough the 8mm gave way to the video camera. The lights could stay on and there was no need for voice overs and commentary because the sound worked just find. You could see yourself on the television. That felt special too, but now I see that there was something missing. Some of the senses were being denied.
Watching the old 8mm movies, the room got warm from the bulb and you could smell the film heating up. You could see the dust in the light of the projector. You could hear the reels ticking along. The movies were silent but the moment was not. The family talked when it was time and hushed when a now dead family member waved at the camera.
The whole house was under control of the 8mm projector. Light from another room was intrusive, stray sounds weren't welcome, not even music. You didn't just pop-in a tape while world operated indifferently around you. You dedicated the space and time to remembering to remember.
A projector is special because in order to get the best view, you put it behind you. You split the room so no one blocks the light. In order to perfectly view the past, you had to leave it behind you and look the other direction. Then be still and let the images flood to the front. Televisions and cell phones and laptops don't demand this attention from us. They do what we tell them. You can pause live TV now. If you paused a film for too long, you'd burn the frame. The images of the past need to keep running or you could risk losing them.
I don't know what my first memory is. But some of the earliest are those nights, warmed by the bulb, fascinated by the image. We'd filmed the moment knowing that when we looked upon it we'd be seeing the past. It's not a sheet, it's a screen. It's not a screen, it's a window. It's a window without walls. The only context is that we were there.
My earliest memories may be of the act of remembering. There are no films of us watching the movies. When I remember sitting in my rocking chair, watching me race my cousins on my Granny's property, I'm tapping right into the source. I don't remember the race, but I remember the remembering.
Perhaps that's better.
Hold Fast,
Caulfield
Monday, May 21, 2012
Open Letter to the Newest Person I Know
Dear Lennon,
Thanks for joining us. Along with your brothers Ezra and Miles, you're one of the best reasons I've got for being a better person. I'm so glad you're here because now instead of evaluating the world, in terms of the two boys in my life, I now have a little girl in my world. This world, from where I stand, isn't always keen on caring for girls of any age. More on that later.
You've been alive for a few hours. I've had Dexter Marathons that have lasted longer than your whole life so far. More on that much later. In these few hours, actually in the first few seconds that you and I shared air in the same room, I came to love you. Profound, inexplicable love overwhelmed me and your uncle with the tattoos cried like a...well a you. I love you because my sister and my brother in law made you. I love you because you don't know anything and have very little opinion about anything outside of nipples, and I respect that. You're pink and weird and have tiny parts that are doing what they do for the first time. Scientists tell me that it will be a long time before you recognize me. That's okay, take your time. I think Ez and Miles will vouch for me. One day I hope to come into your house and hear you yell out "Uncle Adam!" Until then, just know, I love you.
Having nephews is easy. We pee in front of each other. There's farting. There's loud music and talk of girls with Ezra and cars and ninjas with Miles. I'm better with the ninjas. With boys my uncle duties are about exposure to cool and fun elements of the world: guitars and Woody Allen and jeeps and The Talking Heads and sandwiches and antique stores and video games and advice that doesn't make sense and being your fan and helping your conquer. But you're my niece. You'll need privacy when you pee and you'll have these feminine moments that I know about but can't experience. My instinct with you is protection and nurture. You may not want to conquer, you may want to improve what you find here. Having this new thing, this girl, in my life is cause to take stock.
All of a sudden all this internet that's full of porn (more on that never), restaurants that have shitty food served by women in young girls' clothing, and thongs for tweens... all of it... it's shifted from silly to dangerous.
So here's the deal. I'm going to get your back in a big way. You're not going to need me and your dad and your older brothers to protect you from douchey guys. We're going to spend our time together validating you for valid reasons. I'm sure you'll be beautiful, my people breed pretty. What's better is that you'll be shockingly equipped. You're going to grow up with men in your life who tell you you're kind and smart and generous and funny. Sadly, by the time you're old enough to really read this, I doubt the world will have gotten past body issues. If you're a little bigger than the girls in your class and decide that ballet is for you, dance little one, dance. If you're tall and skinny as hell and seem to be made of elbows and knees and decide to get into wrestling, go hard, be careful, but go hard. I hope you love something weird, like math or geology. I don't know anything about those things so we'll watch Discovery channel and then have some adventures. If you're into fashion, I will wear whatever you make me. I will eat what you cook me, I will mend what you bring to me broken, I will play music you can dance to and ask you to sing even if you're only as good as me. Even if you're worse, which you won't be. I will do these things not only because you'll be impossible to resist, but because I value you. You. Your little 5 hour old self.
You should get into golf, there's a ton of scholarship money in Women's Golf.
You will not have daddy issues. I know your dad and your grandads. We will give you so much real love and validation that you'll simply request to be treasured properly or properly left alone.
I know your mom, your Aunt Candice, and both of your grandmothers. Pretty sure there are no pictures of them making a duck face, wearing only cheer shorts and tank top on the internet. Well, maybe one of your grandmothers has done that, but I don't judge.
You've been born into a family of liberal, music loving, festival attending, homeless people at Thanksgiving hosting, sports fanatical, religiously skeptical, drug experimenting, animal loving, equal rights demanding, quasi-vegetarian, good-hearted, world traveling, green, Americans.
Feel free to be none of those things. Feel free to be all or some, feel free to lead the way for us sometimes too.
I hope you'll love our music and your music (more Wilco than Gaga, please). I hope you vote with your conscience. I hope you serve with your heart. I hope you cheer for The Mavericks.
One day you'll know complex terms like: gender and equality and marriage and divorce and body mass index and GOP Primaries and you'll worry about cellulite and boobs and body hair and god knows what.
Before that day, before the worry of tornadoes and where we go when we die creep into your little mind, know that for all its chaos, the world put a guy like me, in a room with a girl like you when you were minutes old, just so I could fall in love with you and come to to the end of this letter and realize, that you're changing my life. I've got more years on me than you've got hours, and already you're bossing me around, telling me to shape up and straighten up the place.
I listened to a song today on the way to meet you by The Grateful Dead. You'll know them pretty well here soon. There's a line that I heard, and it's just for you, I'm sure of it.
"Wake up to find out that you are the eyes of the world. The heart has its beaches, its homeland and thoughts of its own. Wake now, discover that you are the song that the morning brings. The heart has evenings, its seasons, and songs of its own."
Wake now, Lennon. See the world for us, for me. Grab my finger and say, "Look Uncle Adam!" And I will, Lennon. I can't wait.
Love,
Uncle Adam
Thanks for joining us. Along with your brothers Ezra and Miles, you're one of the best reasons I've got for being a better person. I'm so glad you're here because now instead of evaluating the world, in terms of the two boys in my life, I now have a little girl in my world. This world, from where I stand, isn't always keen on caring for girls of any age. More on that later.
You've been alive for a few hours. I've had Dexter Marathons that have lasted longer than your whole life so far. More on that much later. In these few hours, actually in the first few seconds that you and I shared air in the same room, I came to love you. Profound, inexplicable love overwhelmed me and your uncle with the tattoos cried like a...well a you. I love you because my sister and my brother in law made you. I love you because you don't know anything and have very little opinion about anything outside of nipples, and I respect that. You're pink and weird and have tiny parts that are doing what they do for the first time. Scientists tell me that it will be a long time before you recognize me. That's okay, take your time. I think Ez and Miles will vouch for me. One day I hope to come into your house and hear you yell out "Uncle Adam!" Until then, just know, I love you.
Having nephews is easy. We pee in front of each other. There's farting. There's loud music and talk of girls with Ezra and cars and ninjas with Miles. I'm better with the ninjas. With boys my uncle duties are about exposure to cool and fun elements of the world: guitars and Woody Allen and jeeps and The Talking Heads and sandwiches and antique stores and video games and advice that doesn't make sense and being your fan and helping your conquer. But you're my niece. You'll need privacy when you pee and you'll have these feminine moments that I know about but can't experience. My instinct with you is protection and nurture. You may not want to conquer, you may want to improve what you find here. Having this new thing, this girl, in my life is cause to take stock.
All of a sudden all this internet that's full of porn (more on that never), restaurants that have shitty food served by women in young girls' clothing, and thongs for tweens... all of it... it's shifted from silly to dangerous.
So here's the deal. I'm going to get your back in a big way. You're not going to need me and your dad and your older brothers to protect you from douchey guys. We're going to spend our time together validating you for valid reasons. I'm sure you'll be beautiful, my people breed pretty. What's better is that you'll be shockingly equipped. You're going to grow up with men in your life who tell you you're kind and smart and generous and funny. Sadly, by the time you're old enough to really read this, I doubt the world will have gotten past body issues. If you're a little bigger than the girls in your class and decide that ballet is for you, dance little one, dance. If you're tall and skinny as hell and seem to be made of elbows and knees and decide to get into wrestling, go hard, be careful, but go hard. I hope you love something weird, like math or geology. I don't know anything about those things so we'll watch Discovery channel and then have some adventures. If you're into fashion, I will wear whatever you make me. I will eat what you cook me, I will mend what you bring to me broken, I will play music you can dance to and ask you to sing even if you're only as good as me. Even if you're worse, which you won't be. I will do these things not only because you'll be impossible to resist, but because I value you. You. Your little 5 hour old self.
You should get into golf, there's a ton of scholarship money in Women's Golf.
You will not have daddy issues. I know your dad and your grandads. We will give you so much real love and validation that you'll simply request to be treasured properly or properly left alone.
I know your mom, your Aunt Candice, and both of your grandmothers. Pretty sure there are no pictures of them making a duck face, wearing only cheer shorts and tank top on the internet. Well, maybe one of your grandmothers has done that, but I don't judge.
You've been born into a family of liberal, music loving, festival attending, homeless people at Thanksgiving hosting, sports fanatical, religiously skeptical, drug experimenting, animal loving, equal rights demanding, quasi-vegetarian, good-hearted, world traveling, green, Americans.
Feel free to be none of those things. Feel free to be all or some, feel free to lead the way for us sometimes too.
I hope you'll love our music and your music (more Wilco than Gaga, please). I hope you vote with your conscience. I hope you serve with your heart. I hope you cheer for The Mavericks.
One day you'll know complex terms like: gender and equality and marriage and divorce and body mass index and GOP Primaries and you'll worry about cellulite and boobs and body hair and god knows what.
Before that day, before the worry of tornadoes and where we go when we die creep into your little mind, know that for all its chaos, the world put a guy like me, in a room with a girl like you when you were minutes old, just so I could fall in love with you and come to to the end of this letter and realize, that you're changing my life. I've got more years on me than you've got hours, and already you're bossing me around, telling me to shape up and straighten up the place.
I listened to a song today on the way to meet you by The Grateful Dead. You'll know them pretty well here soon. There's a line that I heard, and it's just for you, I'm sure of it.
"Wake up to find out that you are the eyes of the world. The heart has its beaches, its homeland and thoughts of its own. Wake now, discover that you are the song that the morning brings. The heart has evenings, its seasons, and songs of its own."
Wake now, Lennon. See the world for us, for me. Grab my finger and say, "Look Uncle Adam!" And I will, Lennon. I can't wait.
Love,
Uncle Adam
Monday, May 2, 2011
Respects
The eldest member of my tribe has passed into glory, gone to the clearing at the end of the path. So now, a journey must be made. It is time for a tribute and perhaps a reconcilliation. It is time join the mourning, to replace my grudge with my grandfather's hymnal and sing for him hallelujah. His daughters, each a tribute, each a resemblance, will gather their families, their talents and their stories. We will wake him but not awaken him. If atonement must be made, if debts are due upon his arrival in Eternity, let those debts be paid by us, the family he built. It is his characteristic generosity, sense of duty and justice that compels his daughters to be themselves dutiful and just. If debts are due, let them be paid through us or buried with him and forgotten by all. Let his legacy be an atonement for whatever atonement must be made.
I hope to divide my dissonance with him evenly by the miles I will travel to pay my respects to him. I will leave with unrest and return with peace. I will tell the good tales of his life.
But first, a journey. Then rest.
Depart husband, father, brother, soldier, teacher, servant. Depart Grandfather and Great Grandfather.
Goodbye Granddad.
Hold Fast,
Caulfield
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Confession
“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
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
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
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Saturday Nights & Sunday Mornings
The New Counting Crows album came out today. My girlfriend and I drove around doing errands and listened to it straight through twice.
I hope the digital medium doesn't destroy the album. I don't think it will. I think Wilco and The Black Crowes, and Ryan Adams, and The Counting Crows, I think they will defend the honor and the glory of the album.
Anyway, the new album is really good. It's the continuation of a story that Adam Duritz began telling us 15 years ago with August and Everything After. This is the everything after. He still battles insomnia, he still loves Maria, hates himself, wants fame without isolation, intimacy without commitment, and to believe in something beautiful.
If you're not already a fan, this album is a good place to start.
Hold Fast, (especially you Mr. Duritz)
Caulfield
I hope the digital medium doesn't destroy the album. I don't think it will. I think Wilco and The Black Crowes, and Ryan Adams, and The Counting Crows, I think they will defend the honor and the glory of the album.
Anyway, the new album is really good. It's the continuation of a story that Adam Duritz began telling us 15 years ago with August and Everything After. This is the everything after. He still battles insomnia, he still loves Maria, hates himself, wants fame without isolation, intimacy without commitment, and to believe in something beautiful.
If you're not already a fan, this album is a good place to start.
Hold Fast, (especially you Mr. Duritz)
Caulfield
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Sweet Little Lies
No banana flavored candy tastes like bananas, but all banana flavored candy tastes the same.
This smacks of conspiracy. I first noticed it once after a trip to the pool in my neighborhood. The pool had a little snack stand. I decided to switch from SweetTarts (chewy, of course) to Now & Laters. They should just call those "Nows", cause that's when I eat them. Or each pack should offer two flavors, one for NOW - cherry, apple, lime, banana, and one for LATER - pickle, ash, sofa.
Back to the bananas. It bothered me that neither my favored SweetTarts nor the N&Ls had captured the essence of the banana. Even Spree and Runts don't have it right. So what's the deal?
Conspiracy. Like the world bank, the moon landing, and Shopping Mall Santas, someone is pulling strings.
As a kid, I pictured the heads of the major candy brands getting together in Canada for a secret summit.
Willy Wonka, Charles Nestle, Barbara Hershey, Sugar Daddy, and Bazooka Joe all got together. Wonka is probably the chairperson for the Pentfectionary.
"Listen folks, I think we're all sinking too much money into extracting the real banana flavor for our candies. If we use real banana juice, the candy turns brown in the sun and gives everyone the runs. It's time to make a decision."
Then they settled on the flavor that has become the ubiquitous character of any banana flavored candy. If you were to give a child a banana flavored SweetTart, a Runt, a Now & Later, and then give them their first banana, they'll think the banana has it wrong.
So is truth simply all of us agreeing to tell the same lies?
Hold Fast,
Caulfield
This smacks of conspiracy. I first noticed it once after a trip to the pool in my neighborhood. The pool had a little snack stand. I decided to switch from SweetTarts (chewy, of course) to Now & Laters. They should just call those "Nows", cause that's when I eat them. Or each pack should offer two flavors, one for NOW - cherry, apple, lime, banana, and one for LATER - pickle, ash, sofa.
Back to the bananas. It bothered me that neither my favored SweetTarts nor the N&Ls had captured the essence of the banana. Even Spree and Runts don't have it right. So what's the deal?
Conspiracy. Like the world bank, the moon landing, and Shopping Mall Santas, someone is pulling strings.
As a kid, I pictured the heads of the major candy brands getting together in Canada for a secret summit.
Willy Wonka, Charles Nestle, Barbara Hershey, Sugar Daddy, and Bazooka Joe all got together. Wonka is probably the chairperson for the Pentfectionary.
"Listen folks, I think we're all sinking too much money into extracting the real banana flavor for our candies. If we use real banana juice, the candy turns brown in the sun and gives everyone the runs. It's time to make a decision."
Then they settled on the flavor that has become the ubiquitous character of any banana flavored candy. If you were to give a child a banana flavored SweetTart, a Runt, a Now & Later, and then give them their first banana, they'll think the banana has it wrong.
So is truth simply all of us agreeing to tell the same lies?
Hold Fast,
Caulfield
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
War on war
I went to a concert with some friends a few weeks ago. There were two opening acts before the headliners came out. (The openers destroyed the headliners, by the way.)
During the first song of the headliner a guy and his girlfriend moved from the back to front where my group had been since before the first act. He wedged himself in so tightly that I couldn't lift my arm to bring my drink to my mouth.
Assuming he simply wasn't aware of the space he was usurping I politely tapped him on the shoulder.
The exchange went something like this:
Me: Hey brother you're stepping all over me here.
Jerk Face: So?
Me: Well maybe this isn't the best place for you to camp out.
Jerk Face: So, move back.
Me: I can't move back, there are people behind me. I don't want to be the rude guy who crushes everyone.
Jerk Face: Are you saying I'm rude.
Me: No, I'm saying there may not be room for you up here.
Jerk Face: Is that a problem?
Me: I guess not man.
Now, this guy was ready to fight. He was willing to battle for his 2'x2' space near the stage. I backed off and I know that backing off was the right thing.
I hate, though, that there was any doubt. I hate all the pressure I felt to be the cool movie guy and either embarrass or physically dominate this little punk.
Now, I don't believe in Karma. But I do believe that if you pee in the pool enough, eventually you're gonna swim in piss.
A few seconds after my encounter, I looked up to see the same Jerk mixing it up with a security guard. I don't know what the issue was, but it resulted in the jerk being thrown out of the venue.
Here were my wants:
During the first song of the headliner a guy and his girlfriend moved from the back to front where my group had been since before the first act. He wedged himself in so tightly that I couldn't lift my arm to bring my drink to my mouth.
Assuming he simply wasn't aware of the space he was usurping I politely tapped him on the shoulder.
The exchange went something like this:
Me: Hey brother you're stepping all over me here.
Jerk Face: So?
Me: Well maybe this isn't the best place for you to camp out.
Jerk Face: So, move back.
Me: I can't move back, there are people behind me. I don't want to be the rude guy who crushes everyone.
Jerk Face: Are you saying I'm rude.
Me: No, I'm saying there may not be room for you up here.
Jerk Face: Is that a problem?
Me: I guess not man.
Now, this guy was ready to fight. He was willing to battle for his 2'x2' space near the stage. I backed off and I know that backing off was the right thing.
I hate, though, that there was any doubt. I hate all the pressure I felt to be the cool movie guy and either embarrass or physically dominate this little punk.
Now, I don't believe in Karma. But I do believe that if you pee in the pool enough, eventually you're gonna swim in piss.
A few seconds after my encounter, I looked up to see the same Jerk mixing it up with a security guard. I don't know what the issue was, but it resulted in the jerk being thrown out of the venue.
Here were my wants:
- To see clearly what the right thing to do is and do it.
- To kick that guy's ass.
- To rise above violence and use reason.
- To teach that punk a lesson.
- To not feel threatened or bullied by other people's poor choices.
- To make that guy think twice before acting the fool in public.
- To forgive the foolish who choose the lower path.
- To be forgiven for wanting so badly to act like I didn't know better.
- To be calm in the face of adversity.
- To be scary to my adversaries.
- To forgive my enemies.
- To frighten my enemies.
- To be the better man.
- Self-control.
- To be the bigger man.
- Self-control.
I wish I were more like Jesus, Mr. Miyagi, my dad, my mom, Chuck D, most of my friends, and none of my enemies.
Hold Fast,
Caulfield
Thursday, March 6, 2008
Friday, February 8, 2008
Heard from the Stage
"Hey alright! Man wow, thank you, thanks so much. What a good crowd. Wow. You guys having fun tonight?! Alright alright, well we're gonna kick your collective ass so GET READY! Man, it's good to be home. They say the home crowd is the best one and man THEY WERE RIGHT! Yeah! It's crazy, I used to come see shows here all the time back in the day, I never thought I'd be up here in front of you guys. Wow.
Hey is anyone here from Davis High? Hell yes! Go gophers! Right?! Seems like yesterday I was playing the talent contest back there. We lost by the way. Oh well, I don't see any baton-twirlers up here tonight, so we should be okay.
I do want to thank Aqua Mauza for opening up for us, y'all give it up for Aqua Mauza! Hell yes!
It took us a long time to get here, so we're going to make the best of it tonight. Who knows when we'll get another chance, right?
So, this next song is about a girl I knew back in my Davis High days. I guess you could say she was The girl. You know? That girl? Everybody's got a That girl. Well this one really screwed everything up for me. No seriously, I think I peaked too soon. I mean, what 17 year old stoner boy with a guitar deserves a Goddess? And yet... and yet there she was.
She was that girl that you'd see and want to be with, and then it's like...Holy Shit, I AM with her.... I had no idea how to treasure someone like that. I mean she could see right through me and was never impressed by the band stuff. I mean, she came to the shows, but she liked me for me. She could care less weather or not I ever got famous...
I mean she took care of herself, you know, but she also took care of everyone around her. And she was beautiful, like for real. It's crazy. This band has gotten me more action than I could ever have guessed... but it's never good like it was with her. Stop, stop, I'm not talking about that stuff, I mean everything.
So, yeah, she really fucked everything up for me. After a girl like that... after a That Girl, where do you go? I'll tell you. You go down. You go away. You get famous and get all this gravity and suddenly instead of intimacy you have satellites and cheap thrills. Man I'd give up anything to lose it all. ...
... Jesus, you guys got quiet on me, something I said? Hey we're still gonna rock, right? RIGHT?
... right?
Anyway, I hope she came to the show tonight. I know she knows who I'm talking about. If you're out there, this song's for you. And anyone else who let That Girl ruin 'em the way mine ruined me...
So here we go...1..2..1.2.3.4....................................... "
Hey is anyone here from Davis High? Hell yes! Go gophers! Right?! Seems like yesterday I was playing the talent contest back there. We lost by the way. Oh well, I don't see any baton-twirlers up here tonight, so we should be okay.
I do want to thank Aqua Mauza for opening up for us, y'all give it up for Aqua Mauza! Hell yes!
It took us a long time to get here, so we're going to make the best of it tonight. Who knows when we'll get another chance, right?
So, this next song is about a girl I knew back in my Davis High days. I guess you could say she was The girl. You know? That girl? Everybody's got a That girl. Well this one really screwed everything up for me. No seriously, I think I peaked too soon. I mean, what 17 year old stoner boy with a guitar deserves a Goddess? And yet... and yet there she was.
She was that girl that you'd see and want to be with, and then it's like...Holy Shit, I AM with her.... I had no idea how to treasure someone like that. I mean she could see right through me and was never impressed by the band stuff. I mean, she came to the shows, but she liked me for me. She could care less weather or not I ever got famous...
I mean she took care of herself, you know, but she also took care of everyone around her. And she was beautiful, like for real. It's crazy. This band has gotten me more action than I could ever have guessed... but it's never good like it was with her. Stop, stop, I'm not talking about that stuff, I mean everything.
So, yeah, she really fucked everything up for me. After a girl like that... after a That Girl, where do you go? I'll tell you. You go down. You go away. You get famous and get all this gravity and suddenly instead of intimacy you have satellites and cheap thrills. Man I'd give up anything to lose it all. ...
... Jesus, you guys got quiet on me, something I said? Hey we're still gonna rock, right? RIGHT?
... right?
Anyway, I hope she came to the show tonight. I know she knows who I'm talking about. If you're out there, this song's for you. And anyone else who let That Girl ruin 'em the way mine ruined me...
So here we go...1..2..1.2.3.4....................................... "
Thursday, December 6, 2007
Arctic Entryway
In Alaska we lived off post in a military neighborhood. My non-army friends called it the projects because all of the duplexes looked just alike. Aluminum siding, beige paint, they were not interesting enough to be ugly.
The one feature that was interesting to me when we first moved there were the front doors. You'd walk in from the cold and instead of a living area you were in a room roughly the size of a walk-in closet. Then you passed through another door to get into the living area of the house. It's called an Arctic Entryway. They're pretty useful. It gives you a place to kick the snow off of your boots so you don't track a mess into the house. It also provides a buffer between the frosty air outside and the warmth of the house. The idea is you don't have both doors open at the same time. Think of a pressure lock on a spaceship. The idea is you don't bring the cold in from the outside.
I've written before on how hard this season is for me. Christmas Blues, SAD (seasonal affective disorder) whatever. If we could just skip ahead to January 3rd or so, that'd be okay with me.
The problem is that my sadness pours over onto people close to me. I try to keep it from driving my personality. I don't ever have unhealthy thoughts, I don't go on drinking binges or swallow pills. Nothing like that. Usually what happens is I go out to a mall or a bookstore and some Christmas song comes on and WHAM, I feel like crying. Or I get angry. It doesn't happen every day. It doesn't drive me to behave poorly. But I smile less. I don't participate, spiritually, in the season. I pray for it to pass and then celebrate survival of another Christmas season.
Maybe what I need is an arctic entryway. Perhaps this season calls for a buffer zone, a vacuum lock that allows me to knock off the chill before I encounter someone else's warmth. I'm perfectly willing to come in out of the cold, I really am. I try not to sulk (or pout or cry thus putting my name on Santa's naughty list) - I try not to wear my winter coat inside.
So let's try that. If you see me isolating myself. If I'm not getting into the spirit. Call me in from the cold. Let me know you've lit a fire and that there's room for me near you. And then, give me a minute. I need to knock the snow off of my boots. I need to close one door before I can open the other. It helps knowing that my family, my girlfriend, my friends, are on the other side of the inner door. It's good to know that when I close off the outside chill, my fingers may still be a bit numb from the cold, but when the next door opens, there's something good waiting for me and nothing has to follow me in unless I let it.
I hope that in midst of spending money, and driving around trying to give due time to our friends and family that we all have a good Christmas in spite of the season. I hope those of you with a little bit of extra warmth in your homes will let the rest of us in from the cold.
Peace,
Caulfield
The one feature that was interesting to me when we first moved there were the front doors. You'd walk in from the cold and instead of a living area you were in a room roughly the size of a walk-in closet. Then you passed through another door to get into the living area of the house. It's called an Arctic Entryway. They're pretty useful. It gives you a place to kick the snow off of your boots so you don't track a mess into the house. It also provides a buffer between the frosty air outside and the warmth of the house. The idea is you don't have both doors open at the same time. Think of a pressure lock on a spaceship. The idea is you don't bring the cold in from the outside.
I've written before on how hard this season is for me. Christmas Blues, SAD (seasonal affective disorder) whatever. If we could just skip ahead to January 3rd or so, that'd be okay with me.
The problem is that my sadness pours over onto people close to me. I try to keep it from driving my personality. I don't ever have unhealthy thoughts, I don't go on drinking binges or swallow pills. Nothing like that. Usually what happens is I go out to a mall or a bookstore and some Christmas song comes on and WHAM, I feel like crying. Or I get angry. It doesn't happen every day. It doesn't drive me to behave poorly. But I smile less. I don't participate, spiritually, in the season. I pray for it to pass and then celebrate survival of another Christmas season.
Maybe what I need is an arctic entryway. Perhaps this season calls for a buffer zone, a vacuum lock that allows me to knock off the chill before I encounter someone else's warmth. I'm perfectly willing to come in out of the cold, I really am. I try not to sulk (or pout or cry thus putting my name on Santa's naughty list) - I try not to wear my winter coat inside.
So let's try that. If you see me isolating myself. If I'm not getting into the spirit. Call me in from the cold. Let me know you've lit a fire and that there's room for me near you. And then, give me a minute. I need to knock the snow off of my boots. I need to close one door before I can open the other. It helps knowing that my family, my girlfriend, my friends, are on the other side of the inner door. It's good to know that when I close off the outside chill, my fingers may still be a bit numb from the cold, but when the next door opens, there's something good waiting for me and nothing has to follow me in unless I let it.
I hope that in midst of spending money, and driving around trying to give due time to our friends and family that we all have a good Christmas in spite of the season. I hope those of you with a little bit of extra warmth in your homes will let the rest of us in from the cold.
Peace,
Caulfield
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Thanks, Mr. President
"Status quo, you know, that is Latin for "the mess we're in." - Ronald Reagan
It's one of my favorite quotes.
I've been maintaining status quo for as long as I can remember. I've learned to call the mess of my life home. For all the energy I spend maintaining - treading water, that is - I'd be nice to get on top of things. It's as if I need one strong push to reset the counter to zero. Accomplishing that, I can maintain zero. That's the theory any way. Maintaining zero sounds so simple, in theory.
The reality is that messes are a by-product of work. Any amount of energy used will create some waste.
My apartment is a wreck. I've gained way too much weight. I barely graduated from high school. When I did, I didn't celebrate, I relaxed. I breathed the sigh of relief normally reserved for survivors.
That has become my M.O. - doing enough to get by. As a result I've learned to celebrate mediocrity and mourn success. Success is scary and foreign.
My guru says that I operate in the system I've developed for myself. The disorganized desk, the messy apartment, the neglected car, these are safe places because they cannot go wrong.
Of course the problem with status quo is that I never really get anywhere. The reprecussions range from embarrassing to threatening.
Watch this - When I moved in to my new apartment, for some reason, I didn't get a chest of drawers. I've just been stacking clothes here and there. The stacks didn't last long. Clothes are everywhere. I'll do just enough laundry to have clothes for work, but I never get ahead. The mess gets worse. I know I need to buy a dresser or chest or something. Buying furniture will require me to clean for two reasons: 1) There's nowhere to put a chest because I've got too much stuff in the way and 2) I'd need help moving the furniture and I don't want anyone seeing my apartment. My girlfriend of 6 months has never seen inside my place. That's not good. I recognize that.
How's that for a Catch-22?
I recently helped some friends paint the inside of their house. That's really cool of them. I'm nowhere near the maintenence level of painting. I've got to start with vacuuming.
I took care of the inside of my car recently. I've done a good job of maintaining a clean interior. But man if it isn't one thing, it's another. I got hit in a parking lot a month ago and have yet to take it in for repair. Why? Can't seem to organize my time. (But Caulfield, couldn't you do it now, instead of blogging about it? Shut up, voice.)
The good news is that I'm discovering why the mess is so cozy, what motivates me or de-motivates me.
The status quo is changing. I'm looking forward to the new, next mess. To be able to go from catching up to getting ahead is the goal. It is of course slow going. You take the small steps and celebrate the small victories. The status quo changes and I change, hopefully, along with it.
Peace
Caulfield
It's one of my favorite quotes.
I've been maintaining status quo for as long as I can remember. I've learned to call the mess of my life home. For all the energy I spend maintaining - treading water, that is - I'd be nice to get on top of things. It's as if I need one strong push to reset the counter to zero. Accomplishing that, I can maintain zero. That's the theory any way. Maintaining zero sounds so simple, in theory.
The reality is that messes are a by-product of work. Any amount of energy used will create some waste.
My apartment is a wreck. I've gained way too much weight. I barely graduated from high school. When I did, I didn't celebrate, I relaxed. I breathed the sigh of relief normally reserved for survivors.
That has become my M.O. - doing enough to get by. As a result I've learned to celebrate mediocrity and mourn success. Success is scary and foreign.
My guru says that I operate in the system I've developed for myself. The disorganized desk, the messy apartment, the neglected car, these are safe places because they cannot go wrong.
Of course the problem with status quo is that I never really get anywhere. The reprecussions range from embarrassing to threatening.
Watch this - When I moved in to my new apartment, for some reason, I didn't get a chest of drawers. I've just been stacking clothes here and there. The stacks didn't last long. Clothes are everywhere. I'll do just enough laundry to have clothes for work, but I never get ahead. The mess gets worse. I know I need to buy a dresser or chest or something. Buying furniture will require me to clean for two reasons: 1) There's nowhere to put a chest because I've got too much stuff in the way and 2) I'd need help moving the furniture and I don't want anyone seeing my apartment. My girlfriend of 6 months has never seen inside my place. That's not good. I recognize that.
How's that for a Catch-22?
I recently helped some friends paint the inside of their house. That's really cool of them. I'm nowhere near the maintenence level of painting. I've got to start with vacuuming.
I took care of the inside of my car recently. I've done a good job of maintaining a clean interior. But man if it isn't one thing, it's another. I got hit in a parking lot a month ago and have yet to take it in for repair. Why? Can't seem to organize my time. (But Caulfield, couldn't you do it now, instead of blogging about it? Shut up, voice.)
The good news is that I'm discovering why the mess is so cozy, what motivates me or de-motivates me.
The status quo is changing. I'm looking forward to the new, next mess. To be able to go from catching up to getting ahead is the goal. It is of course slow going. You take the small steps and celebrate the small victories. The status quo changes and I change, hopefully, along with it.
Peace
Caulfield
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Dwellers
I was asleep until I felt a little pressure on the side of my bed. My mom had come home from her night shift in the ER. She either worked the 11 to 7 shift or the dreaded 7pm to 7am shift. Either way, it was early and she was tired. She usually didn't wake any of us. This morning something was wrong and she needed to wake me. She didn't say my name or ask me to roll over, she simply pulled my little 10 year old body closer to her and held me for a little while. Then she kissed my head and told me she loved me. She went to bed and I fell back asleep.
That's how I remember it.
I later found out that a little boy my age had been in a car accident, no seatbelt, he was blonde like me and was alive like me when my mother first met him. He'd died of his injuries by the time her shift ended.
I once dated a girl who worked in the emergency room. She would sometimes stay with and even cradle babies that had died until the coroner could come and claim the body. I asked her why and her answer was simply that she wouldn't want her baby left alone and couldn't bear the thought of someone else's baby going unheld. At first that seems a bit dark, but grace has a strangeness that is only familiar to those who deal it out the most.
I just watched the new movie Gone, Baby, Gone. It's about child abduction. It got me thinking that there are good people who must dwell in dark places in order for us to function as a culture.
My dad performed CPR on a two-year old who'd been run over accidentally by her own father. The girl died and my dad continued to push and to breathe and beg with his efforts just so her watching parents never had to question that nothing else could have been done. I don't know how I'd handle seeing a dead child. I can't imagine telling a mother her that her baby is gone.
There are good people who must follow bad people to the dark places they dwell in order to save the rest of us.
My mother watched a boy like me die, probably more than one. Her empathy allowed her to understand the pain that an event like that must cause a parent. Her sense of gratitude made her come home and hold the boy she'd been given to love.
I have a friend who lost her son to suicide and is now a part of a grief counseling network. She dwells in the lives of those who've lost, she's equipped because of something that was taken from her. In her loss, she gives. She revisits her loss so that newcomers to dispair don't walk alone.
I think those that dwell in these dark places, these heroes of the sorrowfields, I think they must have a light in them. But I don't know where that light comes from. I know that most medical professionals have a warped sense of humor. It's a coping mechanism. But I think that there's a presence of character, something greater than even bravery that allowed my mother to return to work knowing that another car crash could bring another little blonde boy to die in her presence. My father puts on his uniform knowing that he will go out and encounter bad people doing bad things in bad places - places he hopes his grandchildren never have to see.
I hope, working in child care, that I can bear the site of atrocity, should it ever come to me. I've seen very little evidence of abuse - and have dealt with it professionally and with compassion that I've learned from my parents' examples. But that's about as dark as it gets for me.
I don't know how anyone dwells in a dark place without letting some of the darkness in. I think Nietzsche said that you can only stare into the abyss for so long before the abyss stares back into you. Well the people I'm thinking of don't stare into the abyss, they run to it, calling out for the attention of whomever may be lost there.
I hope for two things and in this order:
That's how I remember it.
I later found out that a little boy my age had been in a car accident, no seatbelt, he was blonde like me and was alive like me when my mother first met him. He'd died of his injuries by the time her shift ended.
I once dated a girl who worked in the emergency room. She would sometimes stay with and even cradle babies that had died until the coroner could come and claim the body. I asked her why and her answer was simply that she wouldn't want her baby left alone and couldn't bear the thought of someone else's baby going unheld. At first that seems a bit dark, but grace has a strangeness that is only familiar to those who deal it out the most.
I just watched the new movie Gone, Baby, Gone. It's about child abduction. It got me thinking that there are good people who must dwell in dark places in order for us to function as a culture.
My dad performed CPR on a two-year old who'd been run over accidentally by her own father. The girl died and my dad continued to push and to breathe and beg with his efforts just so her watching parents never had to question that nothing else could have been done. I don't know how I'd handle seeing a dead child. I can't imagine telling a mother her that her baby is gone.
There are good people who must follow bad people to the dark places they dwell in order to save the rest of us.
My mother watched a boy like me die, probably more than one. Her empathy allowed her to understand the pain that an event like that must cause a parent. Her sense of gratitude made her come home and hold the boy she'd been given to love.
I have a friend who lost her son to suicide and is now a part of a grief counseling network. She dwells in the lives of those who've lost, she's equipped because of something that was taken from her. In her loss, she gives. She revisits her loss so that newcomers to dispair don't walk alone.
I think those that dwell in these dark places, these heroes of the sorrowfields, I think they must have a light in them. But I don't know where that light comes from. I know that most medical professionals have a warped sense of humor. It's a coping mechanism. But I think that there's a presence of character, something greater than even bravery that allowed my mother to return to work knowing that another car crash could bring another little blonde boy to die in her presence. My father puts on his uniform knowing that he will go out and encounter bad people doing bad things in bad places - places he hopes his grandchildren never have to see.
I hope, working in child care, that I can bear the site of atrocity, should it ever come to me. I've seen very little evidence of abuse - and have dealt with it professionally and with compassion that I've learned from my parents' examples. But that's about as dark as it gets for me.
I don't know how anyone dwells in a dark place without letting some of the darkness in. I think Nietzsche said that you can only stare into the abyss for so long before the abyss stares back into you. Well the people I'm thinking of don't stare into the abyss, they run to it, calling out for the attention of whomever may be lost there.
I hope for two things and in this order:
I hope when asked to dwell, for another's sake, in a dark place, I do so with grace and strength and return intact and able to serve again.
I hope I never have to dwell in a dark place.
I pray for two things and in this order:
I pray that those lost in the darkness are found.
I pray that those who dwell in darkness in order to find the lost can always find their way out again.
This post is a little sad.
I'll do better next time.
Peace,
Caulfield
Thursday, October 4, 2007
Let us Pray (Applause)
My problem feels like a bad relationship. I broke up with Church a little while ago because she wasn't putting out.
That's terrible.
I broke up with Church because what once was sweet became sour. Heartfelt worship and times of repentence became times of prescribed motion.
What felt organic has become what I can only describe as religious theatre. Sunday morning church became a play in 3 acts. David Mamet has tought me how to dissect drama in our lives. If you havn't read "3 Uses of the Knife" you should. Mamet demonstrates how we create drama where there may not be any and why we do it.
I'm going to take a stab (terrible terrible pun) at using the Knife on the Church.
That's terrible.
I broke up with Church because what once was sweet became sour. Heartfelt worship and times of repentence became times of prescribed motion.
What felt organic has become what I can only describe as religious theatre. Sunday morning church became a play in 3 acts. David Mamet has tought me how to dissect drama in our lives. If you havn't read "3 Uses of the Knife" you should. Mamet demonstrates how we create drama where there may not be any and why we do it.
I'm going to take a stab (terrible terrible pun) at using the Knife on the Church.
Act I
We praise God. We make noise, we put ourselves in a place where we act boldly. We are the hero protagonists of our own faith drama. Either collectively (this is happening to us) or individually (I come before God) we begin by singing not true praises to God, but about ourselves in context to God. We exalt God. We are the champions.
Act II
But wait, there may be a problem. The music changes to a minor key, slows down in tempo, and a soloist sings about her short comings and inability to be worthy to praise God. She is singing to God, but she is singing for us. We sing along, she is our vehicle and stirs up shame and remorse about our weaknesses in light of the greatness we've spent Act I proclaiming.
Act II continues seemlessly into the sermon. The sermon itself is a play in 3 acts. It tells of a common man (act I) who faces difficulty (act II) and is saved by faith (act III). If the pastor is really good he'll tell a story. He will put us in the story. We will see ourselves in the tale of the man who fell and was lifted up again. If he's really slick, he won't tell us the third act of the story.
Act III
He'll suspend the story - a spiritual cliffhanger - and we will have to Do Something to resolve the third act. He will shine a light on our shortcomings, we will identify and weep and long for a last minute dramatic solution to come from an unseen source. We want the second string quarterback to throw us a hail mary. The pastor has told us that we have forced God into the position of underdog (undergod?). We've benched our only salvation in favor of winning the game on our own, which we can't do. So now, in the last quarter, the darkest moment of the third act, the pastor invites us to send in the underdog. And what does the underdog do? Something that was cleverly hinted at in the first act. He behaves in a way that is worthy of the praises we sang about him earlier on. He delivers. The music swells, we rise from our knees to our feet (or go from our seats to our knees) and celebrate victory. Act III concludes and we're better than we were when arrived because we encountered drama and emerged, Hero Protagonist Victorious, ready to face another week in light of what took place Sunday morning.
It works. Man it works.
I can't do it anymore. I cannot contribute, in the face of real fears and dissonance, to the Theatre of Suburban MegaChurch.
It's okay in art. It's not okay in my life. I can't have my heart broken vicariously through the pastor's 3 act play.
But, I do miss communion. Holy Communion and communing with others in the drama are part of something bigger than me. I long to be part of something bigger than me.
But the church is that ex-girlfriend that with some distance, you only remember the good times. Go see her and it'll be nice again, for a little while. But eventually, she's gonna start up the same old crap again.
If I go out and try a new church, they'll sell the drama, and now that I know, I can't unsee the machine. I can't buy in. Tyler Durden couldn't cry with another faker in the room. I can't invest in religious theatre and call it worship.
This post has no Third Act. I remain unresolved, but hopeful of a third act hail mary pass.
I'm open. I'm wide open.
Peace,
Caulfield
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