Pre-school Stars, Steve Ditko, and Ladybugs

My four year old is The Clasroom Star this upcoming week. Which means that her class will be decorated by a poster all about our daughter and that all the other snot-nosers will finally worship her, or something I suppose. I was never filled in on all the details, but then I never asked for them. After all, she is a growing young woman and I gotta trust some of her choices.

Some...

One of the spaces she was supposed to fill out in this poster asks what she wants to be when she grows up. Independently, and with no prompting from either parent, she told both my wife and I of her plans to be a piggy when she reaches full maturity.

My wife thinks she talked her down to a the possibility of being a farmer. Which is kinda cool because it goes along nicely with my whole localism/agrarian-based society of the future thing-y. But Joss' dreams were not dashed. She still insisted she'd make a wonderful - if not tasty - piggy.

After it became obvious that her uncle and I were not going to let this one go, she found an alternative suggestion while getting ready for bed.

"Ooh, how 'bout I be a ladybug?"

"Well, you're going to be one for Halloween."

She's well-rounded. She believes in fairy tales AND comic book heroes.

"And as a grown-up?"

"No, sweetie. Only for pretend. You can't turn into one. It's physiologically impossible. You won't *grow-up* to be a tiny little ladybug."

Thinking I could turn this into some kind of awesome parent lesson about the interconnectedness of all of creation or whatever, I continue.

"But you know who made the ladybugs?"

"Jee-- Jeeb--?"

"That's right, 'Jesus'."

"Wow... (Sparks flying) All the ladybugs?"

"Yes, honey. All of them. Do you know who else Jesus made?"

"Spider-Man!"

"Well, Jesus made all the spiders. Though I personally am no big fan of that action."

"But not Spider-Man?" She actually sounds a little bit disappointed here. As if let down by this glaring omission of Jesus'. Was Spidey merely a freak of nature as J. Jonah Jameson has suggested for all these years?

"No, Spider-Man is pretend. He's not real. But Jesus did make the brilliant minds of Steve Ditko and Stan Lee, who invented Spider-Man..."

"Oh."

And that, kids, is how nerds are born.

Sometimes-Friend, Always-Daddy (II)

Part 1 available here.

Fortunately for me, "I'm not your friend anymore," is too easy. I saw and anticipated this photo © 2010 Newsbie Pix | more info (via: Wylio)
maneuver from miles away. And believing as I do that friendship with your child is fleeting, believing in the discipline of healthy boundaries of love and respect, I firmly and exuberantly shot down any hopes she had of marionetting me. In the future, she would be a teenager, but, today, she would not make me cry!

I did not miss a beat*. "That's okay, Jocelyn. I don't need to be your friend. But you know what? I'll always be your daddy. And you'll always be my daughter. And nothing, ever could ever change that. No matter what, I'm your daddy, and you're my daughter."

And it worked!

It worked so well, in fact, she repeats this refrain to me every time she is bothered by my inability to acquiesce to her every diva whim:

"(Nodding. Stern. Index finger blazing and blond eyebrows scrunched.) I'm not your friend. (And then open, warm, thoughtful, almost repentant.) But I'm your daughter."

In hindsight, I probably could've warned my wife. But her shock at this statement amused me, and I don't like wasting amusing opportunities.

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*It's a rare moment of genuine pride in myself. Can you tell?

pt. 1

Sometimes-Friend, Always-Daddy (I)

part 1 of 2 (concluded on Sunday)

Image courtesy of our friend Ysenia. Model: Joss. Clothes: not sure.

"I'm not your friend! I'm your daughter!"

The first part of that statement came from school - from the subtle, controlling interactions that kids have with each other.

"Oh, you're not going to let me get my way?," the three-year olds threaten each other on an hourly basis, huddling next to the toys like war chiefs over weapons and suitcases full of money. "Well then, you'll just have to get by without my friendship. See what I did there? I played you like a puppet, child!"

It is manipulative, of course. Children themselves are easily duped because they don't have their guards up (yet). Because they are the victims of manipulation so frequently, it is only a matter of time before they learn easy ways of pulling each others' strings.

They're like political parties in that sense.

In about five-to-ten years, she will develop much more subtle, crafty, nuanced, and yet sharper-edged tools to move her parents like pawns on a chess board. It will be hard during this period to keep up. But afterwards she will become a full-fledged, emerging adult.

And then we can finally give up trying.

Stay tuned for Part 2

and find out how this puppet gets played!

The Destruction of Potted Plants (pt. III)

pt. 1, pt.2

But anyone should be aware that growing, maturing people need fresh air, sunlight, water, nutrients. A little bit of fertilizer, perhaps. Maybe some worms to aerate the soil. Maybe occasionally we can throw some coffee beans and dirt in their direction. Whether or not they receive it at home, they should receive it in the classroom.

Or somewhere.

There are those that argue that teachers have too much responsibility, wear too many hats. That it is the teacher's job to merely instruct. That it is the parent's job to parent. That it is the community's job to safeguard. And I agree, for the most part. But our society is deeply broken: parents often work two to three jobs just to keep from being kicked out of their apartments; gangs often run streets and predators the alleys; houses are run-down; rats are frequent; neighborhoods are red-lined based on economic and racial factors, which means that the poorer, more disenfranchised have less and less access to essential resources; true communities are often a hard-fought rarity when families are shuttled in and out on a regular basis; the poor are often criminalized when they cannot find decent-paying jobs and feel a need to resort to other means of money-making; and when the wealthy do come to the 'hood, it is often with the sad attachment of displacing current residents. Reality in America is different now then it used to be. For starters, we are more self-serving and self-interested (and improbably shorter-sighted) than we used to be. While we have made tremendous progress in human rights, those of us with a progressive bent realize that we have to constantly remind ourselves and our neighbors that we have yet to arrive, that there is immense disparity and inequality between the haves and the have-nots, that basic human rights like life and shelter and sustenance - let alone qualitative education - are viewed as privileges for the elect few who can afford them. Children of the poor specifically suffer as a result of our collective selfishness.

photo © 2009 George Eastman House | more info (via: Wylio)I realize that I cannot be all things to all people. No person can. Most of those mythological teachers, the superheroes who get books and movies glorifying and simplifying their beautiful careers, grow tired soon and do not last long in this treacherous game. And who can blame them? They are overworked and undernourished, pushed on all sides even when given full support from staff, administrators, community leaders and parents*. No real success happens as the result of one person against all other odds. I know it makes for good Hollywood, but teaching isn't friggin' Indiana Jones. It's more like gardening.

A true horticulturist weens, shelters, feeds, develops, supports, prunes, staves off predators and disease, and gives proper and timely amounts of light, heat, and water to an immense amount of plants at any given time. And although he may recognize patterns and adapt better to them, he cannot account for every species of fawn in the same manner.

I advocate for a broader base to support the under-served urban and rural students. I advocate, necessitate that each child and student should be raised with plenty of sunshine and nourishment. The teachers often are left to grow kids on their own. This is a sad state, even for a broken neighborhood. Any organization that has a place in the neighborhood needs to function as a support system for the schools around it. This includes the synagogues, mosques, store-front churches, food and liquor stores, the companies that sell products in those stores, certainly the lottery companies that do so much business in impoverished neighborhoods, local and chain restaurants, office buildings, police officers, fire fighters, postal carriers, aldermen. It behooves us all to act in the best interests of the present as well as the future health of our economy and humanity.

It not only behooves us, it will also beheeve us. We have been behoven.

--------------------------------------------

*Of course these elements are overlooked in the Hollywood remakes. It is always presented as Super-Teacher Vs The World. And you wouldn't want some pesky involved parent getting in the way of a good narrative device.

pt. 1, pt. 2

The Destruction of Potted Plants (II)

pt. 1 here, pt. 3 coming

There were some fights in that classroom. One fight occurred in the passing period, between two hot-headed students who each would be involved in several other verbal and physical fights the next two years. It started in a flash (although I suppose the warning signs were there if I had known how to search for them) and effectively ended when I was able to wrangle the struggle to the other side of the room to waiting security. I don't remember much else about that confrontation. I don't recall if there was further action directly related to that fight - though I should, by any rights, know. And I don't remember if other students were trying to get involved with the fight (though I doubt it), were trying to stop it or were merely passively awe-struck by it.

But I do remember the toll that the wildly swinging appendages took on the nearby plants. Because that was all I could bring myself to focus on. I remember looking at the floor and being angry at the destruction of my potted plants. And yet I missed the big, easy picture - the metaphorical writing on the wall, if you may: the destruction of the idea of the classroom as a safe place. The two students (as volatile as they proved to be) exploded primarily not over property rights or religious views. I don't think they were arguing over who makes the best frozen yogurt.

They were both at the precipice of fear and danger and one nasty or innocuous interaction led to another, escalating to the boiling point. At this point their own sharp-edged, protective words and body language were not enough to make them feel guarded from the dangers that they represented to each other. They would reconcile their apprehension at each other with many moving fists and pointy appendages.

photo © 2009 Adrian Gonzales | more info (via: Wylio)


The students' social interactions were not cultivated properly. And for this, I sit here, at the center of the blame. I am responsible.

I cannot release myself. I cannot excuse nor recuse. The fact is, as much as it is needed in my environment, I do not know how to greenhouse my students.

I was not taught that in Rhetoric 401 or Pedagogy 315.

pt. 1, pt. 3 coming

The Destruction of Potted Plants (I)

Pt. 2, Pt. 3

My primary plant is ivy. Partially because ivy reminds me of my old home on the north side of Chicago. It covered the brownstone like an exoskeleton in the winter, an old, leafy friend in the summer. And the ivy also represents, in Chicago at least, Wrigley Field. Wrigley Field itself (not to be confused with the home team that happens to occupy Wrigley) is the last bastion of hope for baseball as it was meant to be played - as the ultimate beer garden; a deliberately rural-esque past-time in the midst of an urban and rushed setting. Which is how I envision my plants to function and exist.

photo © 2005 stephen jones | more info (via: Wylio)


Not as an image of beer gardens, so much – but as a pastoral icon – a reminder to slow down and enjoy your days while you can. The ivy (at home and in the classroom) reminds me that life and growth happen all around us, even in inept and regrettable situations. Like the Cubs organization and the overgrown frat boys who infest the spot like so much used hygienic products. No disrespect mean to used hygienic products...

My first classroom came pre-fitted with potted plants. To this day, I don't know what type they were, only that they - like cockroaches - could theoretically outlast a nuclear Armageddon. They were nearly indestructible, which they needed to be at the time because they were under my care. I think they were a variant of purple cacti, with leaves that dry up under the hot summer sun. I soon realized that these thingymabobs are so hard-to-kill that all I needed to do was water them on a regular basis and they were fine. And when I say, "regular basis", I mean, "once or twice a month if I remembered." Or course, they never lived up to their full potential. Which reminds me of too many report-card conferences.

Second grade Teacher: Jason is a very smart and capable young man.
Mom: Why, thank you. (Pregnant pause) But, what else can you say about his progress?
Teacher: He doesn't live up to his potential.
Father: That's what we figured.
Jason: (Scratching the back of his pants.) This doesn't sound good.
Father: You're right. And it won't sound good on your behind either.
Jason: Oh, drats! (Pulling up underwear from the back.)

This scene repeated twice a year for most of the rest of my formative education.with slightly altered language as I was further removed from my "Leave It to Beaver" years.College was different primarily because I was not in a mood to squander perfectly good money that I either earned or borrowed and would pay back through several years of incremental payments. These loans would, I knew even then, come back to haunt me like Kathy Lee Gifford haunts Regis. Cryptic envelopes, monthly payoffs, promises of eternity, ill-timed phone calls.

The odd purple plants managed to survive through the year. But not intact. And, like any group of war combatants, they lost some brothers (or is it sisters - or rather, brosters, being that plants don't really have a gender, only gender-parts. "Sothers"?).

-----------------------------------

*You know, wearing the knickers, and the little bow-tie. I was a cute little kid. Unfortunately, I was still scratching my nellies to the very end

Pt. 2, Pt. 3

Just Like Death, But Conscious (III)

Part 1, part 2

One high school I frequented graduated several of the founding members of The Harlem Globetrotters. Their theme song whistled over the loudspeakers during every passing period. For the entire four minutes. Every day. Every forty minutes. I would imagine "Curly" Neal or "Twiggy" Sanders dribble passing to himself down the halls with his note- and text-books towing, rising, nodding, falling, and rising again behind him in the curious time-delayed force known as gravity. As he passes the dean's office, he smacks the door just below the window. The dean steps out, yet once again furiously shaking his fist and yelling, "You kids!"

With one exception, every class I *ahem* taught at this school took place in the gym. All the guys would dress up for basketball and the gym teacher would have them play ball all day. I desperately wanted to play as well, and often threatened the gym teacher that I was going to come the next day in my Larry Bird-era shorts and Chucky T's, ready to learn them young whipper-snappers a thing or two about passing the rock and other such fundymentals of the game of the basket ball as teamwork and disciplined lay-ups and twenty-five foot jump shots. But we both knew that threat that was never going to materializing due to insurance reasons.
photo © 2009 J Rosenfeld | more info (via: Wylio)

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The rest of this essay will be available in a ebook and, as such, I can only give snippets in other forms. Don't worry, the book will be cheap. And as my own agent, I must add, good.

pt 1, pt. 2

Just Like Death, But Conscious (II)

Part 1, part 3

Substitute teaching is widely known - mostly by me - as glorified babysitting. Except with less glory. Also, technically speaking, it doesn’t have anything to do with babies. Substitute teaching high school is more like watching paint dry with teenagers. And the truth is I would feel worse for the students than myself. Since few teachers who are frequently absent leave lesson plans, activities, or a sense of daily accomplishment for their temporarily abandoned students, my job basically deteriorated to keeping the noise level down, making sure that only students that were supposed to be there were there, and ushering everybody else out.

photo © 2008 Steven Depolo | more info (via: Wylio)
And watching the clock pass.

With teenagers.

The payment for subbing was upwards of $100 per day. Considering that I'm paid that rate for only five hours of nominal "work" and, that at the time, I was single, childless and living in a shared bachelor's apartment,* it was nice "work" when I could find it. But on average I would only "work" one day a week. Which meant that my mornings were often painfully sad and very slowly disturbing. Like watching Snuffalopolus rummage through the trash in your alley.

The eventual and rare call would come from the central office. The sub-center tells its "workers" to expect a call between 5:30-8:00 am. Most of my calls came at the 6-7 window. Being that my alarm would shake, rattle and/or roll at 4:30, I would be extra sleepy-tired by the time my "work" day would start. Sleepy-tired, as any medical professional would tell you, is a state of sub-cognition wherein one dreams of Winnie the Pooh daintily cascading through the backyard. Extra-sleepy-tired is him being eaten alive by Snuffalopolus in the backyard.

And here's where I make my caveat: I know people hold down two-to-three jobs all the time and usually for a lot less money. On those occasions that I had foolishly risen in the wee hours and foolishly tried to establish an early-morning walking routine, the only other people I had passed on the sidewalk at 4:30 were migrant workers trying to get first-dibs at the Day Laborer's (which are temps of a different sort). There are mothers of my students that don't make it home from work until the middle of the night after a two-hour commute. And, then, of course, there is also the Two-Third's World and the fact that half of the world's population gets by on less than $2 a day. But, please, this is my story, so let me do my whining.

I spent many a morning during this period reading my Bible or a magazine or watching a foreign film. I like saying this because it makes me sound all sophisticated and stuff. And that I am. But, in general, I was trying what I could to not fall asleep while tugging the neck of the phone like a teddy bear, duly and patiently waiting for that one expectant ring to pull me into action like a call from Commissioner Gordon.

------------------------------

*Yes, that sounds sexy. Just like a Three’s Company of just guys. But it wasn’t necessarily so… For instance, we had our very own built-up DIY nerdy loft beds to save room on valuable space. And our Under-Roos wearing was not a sight to behold.

Part 1, part 3

Just Like Death, But Conscious (I)

pt. 2, pt. 3

Welcome to the first of my continuing series of essays! No more adieu:

I have spent an inordinate amount of my waking time waiting. For me, waiting is immaterial, quite literally; it's a state of not-being, a temporary limbo. The location is irrelevant. Waiting at home is only slightly less tedious, and often more infuriating, than waiting at an impersonal office. Waiting in a personal office may not be that infuriating, because I could look at certificates and posters and photos and pretend that that was me, say, in front of that wonderfully back lit and Jamaican sunrise and next to that middle-aged and homely woman. But then, on second thought, I didn't want his life. I wanted my own. I would like very much to have my own vacation destination and family beside me, just with his pay, office and benefits. Well, maybe slightly better.

Waiting in an industrial office or waiting room is wretched. It is purgatory spent with a grandfather's clock that always ticks, but never tocks.

photo © 2010 Simon Pielow | more info (via: Wylio)

... In an effort to finally make some scratch off my writing, I've had to pull most of this series off the blog. Please stay tuned for book details. It'll be out soon. It'll be cheap.

And it'll be glorious.

pt. 2, pt. 3

Used to be...

When she was younger and would be able to fall asleep on my shoulder rather than almost exclusively in her crib, other fathers with more fatherly experience would advise me to treasure these moments. These moments of your little child clutching your shoulder, fixing her face into the shape of your neck, resting. They are precious. They are fleeting. They will not last. She will soon be a holy terror, without the holiness.

Listening to her breath bob up and down like forced waves or a sleepy Miss Piggy (she used to have a breathing problem that we still aren't too sure about, but it seems to have resolved itself finally; so, God is good), watching her back expand and retreat slowly, noting her deep icy blue eyes lost to the world as they are covered by a heavy drape, and looking at her little mouth curve in lazy smiles and frowns - it was all so and too wonderful for me.

It was a good thing. And like all other good things, its days are numbered.

She learned to crawl on my birthday, one month ago. Let's call that day Day 1. Of Armaggedon.


Before, my wife and I used to be able to do activities while she was awake. All we needed to do was spend some time with her, make her feel loved and appreciated, read to her, change her diaper. And feed her. Comfort her when her gums were splitting open with new aspiring teeth. That sort of thing. But generally, she was pretty self-sufficient. If she was feeling particularly angst-y, we could plop a Baby Einstein video in. Baby Einstein - either to its credit or our detriment - worked in a magical way that no other drug or affection has been able to replicate.

It used to be so easy.

It used to be that she would eventually go to sleep if we let her alone enough, because she had no other options. She had nowhere else to go, unless she decided to keep turning (and every once in a while, get a limb stuck between two posts and in need of rescue). Eventually, if all is taken care of, her boredom would get the best of her and she would enter the dream world of infants, possibly facilitated by one of the plush elephants from the Baby Einstein world. You see, it used to be easy.


Nowadays, however, she gets into every thing. Every. Possible. Thing. She stands up in the crib; so putting her down for a nap usually entails taking her out in her stroller until she conks out from all that exposure to the sun and vehicle exhaust. It used to be easy.

Resultingly (beat that, OE), she is constantly tired and cranky. Her high-maintenance is at a peak generally by the time I get home, although I am assured that she has never, for one moment while I was gone, let up or allowed her mother to find a moment's rest. I only have the baby for her first waking hour and her last three hours (some of which may be in that pseudo-sleep stage where she merely pretends to sleep but is really playing Godzilla in her crib, practicing terrorizing all of the other pre-K kids by taking their lunch money and organic granola and yogurt), so I cannot complain too much. But, c'mon! It used to be easy.

I'm not so sure of what I'm doing all the time with her. So, sometimes, she screams in my ear. And I run out of tricks to calm her down. It used to be easy.

She also walks. But it is highly assisted walking. The sort of walking that she does merely by putting it in her mind that her legs are going to goose-step in a rapid succession to a particular place, but her core doesn't yet know how to respond. So we give her a little moral and physical booster by holding her little hands aloft, so that she remains vertical, or at least at a bit of a slant (she walks like an over-joyed version of a cartoon character with purpose). My back hurts.

It used to be easy.

She's entirely social and aware. She laughs an excitable and contagious laugh whenever she encounters another pre-adolescent. But sometimes she seems like she wants nothing to do with members of her own family. She screamed bloody murder when my brother came to pick her up one time. If we hadn't learned our lesson then, she may have done the same with Jen's family (she certainly gave the cringing 'I'm ready to scream' look).

There was a time, it used to be easy.
When she was younger and would be able to fall asleep on my shoulder rather than almost exclusively in her crib, other fathers with more fatherly experience would advise me to treasure these moments. These moments of your little child clutching your shoulder, fixing her face into the shape of your neck, resting. They are precious. They are fleeting. They will not last. She will soon be a holy terror, without the holiness.

Listening to her breath bob up and down like forced waves or a sleepy Miss Piggy (she used to have a breathing problem that we still aren't too sure about, but it seems to have resolved itself finally; so, God is good), watching her back expand and retreat slowly, noting her deep icy blue eyes lost to the world as they are covered by a heavy drape, and looking at her little mouth curve in lazy smiles and frowns - it was all so and too wonderful for me.

It was a good thing. And like all other good things, its days are numbered.

She learned to crawl on my birthday, one month ago. Let's call that day Day 1. Of Armaggedon.


Before, my wife and I used to be able to do activities while she was awake. All we needed to do was spend some time with her, make her feel loved and appreciated, read to her, change her diaper. And feed her. Comfort her when her gums were splitting open with new aspiring teeth. That sort of thing. But generally, she was pretty self-sufficient. If she was feeling particularly angst-y, we could plop a Baby Einstein video in. Baby Einstein - either to its credit or our detriment - worked in a magical way that no other drug or affection has been able to replicate.

It used to be so easy.

It used to be that she would eventually go to sleep if we let her alone enough, because she had no other options. She had nowhere else to go, unless she decided to keep turning (and every once in a while, get a limb stuck between two posts and in need of rescue). Eventually, if all is taken care of, her boredom would get the best of her and she would enter the dream world of infants, possibly facilitated by one of the plush elephants from the Baby Einstein world. You see, it used to be easy.


Nowadays, however, she gets into every thing. Every. Possible. Thing. She stands up in the crib; so putting her down for a nap usually entails taking her out in her stroller until she conks out from all that exposure to the sun and vehicle exhaust. It used to be easy.

Resultingly (beat that, OE), she is constantly tired and cranky. Her high-maintenance is at a peak generally by the time I get home, although I am assured that she has never, for one moment while I was gone, let up or allowed her mother to find a moment's rest. I only have the baby for her first waking hour and her last three hours (some of which may be in that pseudo-sleep stage where she merely pretends to sleep but is really playing Godzilla in her crib, practicing terrorizing all of the other pre-K kids by taking their lunch money and organic granola and yogurt), so I cannot complain too much. But, c'mon! It used to be easy.

I'm not so sure of what I'm doing all the time with her. So, sometimes, she screams in my ear. And I run out of tricks to calm her down. It used to be easy.

She also walks. But it is highly assisted walking. The sort of walking that she does merely by putting it in her mind that her legs are going to goose-step in a rapid succession to a particular place, but her core doesn't yet know how to respond. So we give her a little moral and physical booster by holding her little hands aloft, so that she remains vertical, or at least at a bit of a slant (she walks like an over-joyed version of a cartoon character with purpose). My back hurts.

It used to be easy.

She's entirely social and aware. She laughs an excitable and contagious laugh whenever she encounters another pre-adolescent. But sometimes she seems like she wants nothing to do with members of her own family. She screamed bloody murder when my brother came to pick her up one time. If we hadn't learned our lesson then, she may have done the same with Jen's family (she certainly gave the cringing 'I'm ready to scream' look).

There was a time, it used to be easy.

The apartment is anything but childproof. And we don't have enough vertical space to move everything three and a half feet off the ground. Which means that we have to watch her. All. The. Time.

She's in an in-between stage right now. In between a dependent aloofness and an independent aloofness. In between needing to be carried and needing to walk on her own. In between an almost permanent smile to a shifting curiosity.

It's a foreshadowing. This is what her teenager years will be like.

Life used to be easy.
The apartment is anything but childproof. And we don't have enough vertical space to move everything three and a half feet off the ground. Which means that we have to watch her. All. The. Time.

She's in an in-between stage right now. In between a dependent aloofness and an independent aloofness. In between needing to be carried and needing to walk on her own. In between an almost permanent smile to a shifting curiosity.

It's a foreshadowing. This is what her teenager years will be like.

Life used to be easy.

How soon we pass

My cracked fingers are dirty and splochy with all sorts of marks on them from various types of markers. As I'm writing this on the bus, I can only find a red chisel-tip Sharpie and a handful of orange notecards.

At an intersection, a man walks adjacent to the bus wearing an aqua-green plastic robe. It looks a bit like a garbage bag. Or a cheap Halloween costume. On his head lies the pastel foam crown of Lady Liberty. He is advertising criminally high-rate fast loans to the poor from a walking billboard that promises freedom.

We pass the Faith in God Nails and Hair Salon. I doubt at this moment that I'll get home in time to hold my daughter. She did not nap this afternoon. Which means that she was screaming all afternoon. Which means that she is going down early. Which means that she'll be home before my half-hour ride gets me within vicinity of her squeamishly happy hug.

On Friday I picked her up from my wife's job. My wife's boss was sad to see her leave so soon.

My wife's boss is great. Jen and the baby get to come into a downtown women's empowerment firm's office three times a week for several hours. And the baby is adored there.

Jen needed some extra time to finish some projects. I was the delivery man, bringing baby on a sling, only in style.

She wore a faux-fur coat like she was born to wear it. Her deep blue eyes and edible cheeks would only guarantee that she had to be something out of a television commercial for baby angels who don't murder furry animals for clothing.

We bounded through the State of Illinois Center. The little one is drawn to windows like a moth to the flames (the difference being that she is not burned to a crisp by windows) and stretched her little neck back. And arched her little head back all the way until she was dizzy. I waited for her to get a grasp on what she was viewing. She is amazed. I am amazed at her amazement.

She is looking at the passengers as they pass by our perch on the bench in the subway. Busy people leaving their busy offices. Still buzzing from the joy-kill that was a week spent in an office, haggling with people every work-day for five days straight about things that they do not care about, and neither do the people they are doing business with.

And they notice the little girl with the big blue eyes gazing at them. And just as they pass, for an instant and just for an instant, they smile back. A warm, inviting smile. A smile that seems to transport them to another time, another place, another season, another mood. They are in the woods. They are walking their child. They are kissing their lovers. They are breathing deep. Their hair is being run through by the wind, or by a loved one's fingers. Their steps are lighter. They have the ability to say anything. They have the power to say nothing. They are gorgeous and bright and the world is happy.

And as Joss arches her back and her neck and lifts up her legs to continue her glancing at them while they pass, they move on. They correct themselves. They are grown-ups, living in a grown-up world.

Jena 6 and Rutgers

I've not written about this before because I did not want to add to the noise. But I believe that this nation is not being very reflective of its identity and problematic racial relations.

Let's get one thing straight. The US has - for hundreds of years, much longer than it's been an independent nation - profited extensively from racist (as well as classist, no doubt, but we'll focus on race in particular here) strategies, deployments, ways of life and economies. The classically Anglo supra-culture of the US has been towering and lording over the Others in order to be towers and lords, whether that Others may be defined in ethnic terms (as in non-Anglo Europeans) or strictly racial terms (the dark-skinned people of Asia, Africa and the Americas). Slavery and subjugation for advantages is not, of course, relegated to the White man. It's a part of human nature, and not just limited to the English or Western European culture.

Alas, but, Western European culture (and in no small part thanks to the writings of Machiavelli) is best at subjugation for profit and has had the ownership of much of the suffering in the world for these last several hundred years. Although one may look at the present carnage of, say, a Rwanda or a Liberia or an Afghanistan or a Darfur and exclaim that that situation is Black-on-Black violence, the troubling account for us White people is that we have 1) exasperated any ethnic or tribal battles by raping the country for valuable 'goods' and leaving the natives in more desperate need than before we arrived, 2) expanded any tribal warfare by lending, buying, selling war machines to totalitarian warmongers (Lords of War) and 3) created ethnic and tribal warfare that was never there in the first place in order to create an environment suitable for the colonists raping, pillaging and subjugating of the country.

So, this series that I hope to do is written partly out of frustration with how Whites are now backlashing against the so-called "Politically Correct climate" of our nation that won't - seemingly - allow them to speak about race in any meaningful or engaging way (because most of us have not walked a mile in a non-White's person's shoes) or to even ask the questions that tug at their hearts, that may be considered rude, arrogant or ignorant but indeed need to be brought to the light in order that this country can begin to heal itself.

There won't be enough time to deal with anything more than an iceberg, but here are some stories that I'd love to at least touch on:

A professor who questions the academic and racial merits of athletic scholarships at top NCAA schools, such as his own Rutgers (and remember the Imus flap? Are they related? Only tenuously, methinks.) He is later called a racist by his own athletic director.

The painfully slow increase in minority (and female) headship in pro sports, an arena dominated by multi-millionaire Blacks and Latinos, yet almost exclusively run by multi-billionaire white males, with fewer people-of-color the higher you go. And what is more damaging (hey, I'm not crying over millionaires here) is how this affects the mindset of lower-class African American males.

And yes, the Jena 6.

Gooood Friday, World!*

From The Gospel According to Matthew, Chapter 27, beginning in verse 27:

Some of the governor's soldiers took Jesus into their headquaters and called out the entire regiment. They stripped him and put a scarlet robe on him. They wove thorn branches into a crown and put it on his head, and they placed a reed stick in his right hand as a scepter. Then they knelt before him in mockery and taunted, "Hail! King of the Jews!" And they spit on him and grabbed the stick and struck him on the head with it. When they were finally tired of mocking him, they took off the robe and put his own clothes on him again. Then they led him away to be crucified.**

The type of new covenant that Jesus was sharing in stories and proclamations with his people - first century Jews - was expressed as the coming of a kingdom. The Kingdom of Heaven/God. It's upon you, he would say; it's like a returning, like a coming back from exile, like a homecoming for a wayward son; it starts out small and will grow like a huge tree where all the birds can nest; it's a party for the poor, diseased, crippled, vagrants, prostitutes and anyone else that wants in; it will be like the end of this world, and the beginning of a new one; it'll be cosmic, on the scale 0f stars falling from the sky and the sun turning red; every knee will bow to the King - including, by inference, Caesars, governors and provincial rulers like Herod and Pontius Pilate.

Many Jews loved this part of the story, including - maybe especially - the Pharisees. They were anticipating it even, trying to purify themselves and their country of infidelity (sound familiar?) to prepare the way of the Lord. They were looking forward to the fulfillment of Isaiah's prophecy, to the perfection of the Word. What the leaders found so unnerving is that this utterly powerless, homeless, seemingly passive (turn the other cheek, the violent try to take it by force, etc.) was declaring that the Kingdom would happen through him. He referenced himself as the Son of God and the Temple. It was obvious he was taking away from their base of power by his miracles and food and stories and wisdom.

So, the leaders (the usually feuding Pharisees and Sadducees - who weren't so happy about upsetting the Roman power structure as the Pharisees - as well as priests, scribes, etc.) came up with a plan. They captured Jesus and brought him to the Roman government. They then charged him with a half-truth: This man is an insurrectionist by claiming that he is the King of the Jews. According to the account given in the Gospel According to John, when Pilate tried to release the popular man, the leaders countered that Jesus' claims to be the King of the Jews was a threat to the power of Caesar. In this, they were correct.

In fact, though, today as I looked over the passage in Matthew 27, I was struck by how little that threat meant to the occupying forces. They weren't just mocking Jesus by calling him and enacting scenes with him, on the cross and in his torture, the "King of the Jews." They were mocking the Jews and their supposedly backward nation, as well as all that they held dear (to my ears, though, I hear traces of Abu Ghraib). Over the next several generations, the Romans would tear apart the land of the Jews and scatter them. But now those who watched over the land (as occupying forces are wont to do) felt little more than contempt for such a puny, little, insignificant, backwards nation that truly believed they were better than anyone else.

The Jews knew this claim to be a massive threat, however, because they believed the promise given to Abraham at the beginning of the old covenant: I will bless you and make you famous, and you will be a blessing to others... All the families on earth will be blessed through you (Genesis 12:2,3). This promise would be repeated and expounded upon in the prophets.

And the saga continues...

*My caveat is that I do not wish for anti-Semitism (or anti-any other people group) or any other such misunderstanding or misinterpretation. Such things are immoral and against the spirit of the whole of the Bible and of the God I worship. With that being said, I'm not trying to offend anyone or make anyone feel threatened or even exclude anyone, but I believe that more illumination is needed, not just hollow political correctness.

**New Living Translation, thank you very much.

The state of grace, pt. 1

There's a lady at my church that doesn't act much like a lady. At least, in regards to me and - therefore - in my estimation. In a few instances, she has very openly assaulted my character, once to me a few years ago, once to a close friend about a year ago and then again to my face less than a year ago (after we got back from a church retreat, wherein, she confessed, her opinion of me hadn't changed) and then again last week, indirectly, to my wife.

My opinions of her opinions (and, of course, extending to her) were pain-stricken and grievous. Each attack of hers (save the last one to me) brought great defense from great and well-meaning people who gave great testimonials on behalf of my character (which, I must admit, isn't always so great, but certainly not worthy of trashing). Each attack also hurt and infuriated me, to various degrees.

My conundrum raises in this topic, this key turning point of human relationships, this sphere where Jesus meets geopolitics meets the common man meets the hard heart meets the Middle East meets Northern Ireland meets Auschwitz meets the cross: forgiveness.

As little as my church puts into liturgy (sometimes much to my chagrin), in our practice of the Lord's Supper we find one important and oft-repeated rule spotted and highlighted by our pastor. If you have bitterness or unforgiveness or hatred in your heart directed at a fellow worshiper (and by this he explicitly means someone in our small church), before you take this cup, go to them and make it right.

On one of these ocassions, she eyes me, slowly makes her way up some five steps and leans to me. She confides that she never much cared for me or trusts in me (but she doesn't know why), that she had actually prayed against me (!!) and that during a recent church leaders' retreat, she didn't gain any new confidence in me.

I didn't know I was on trial.

And I didn't know (and really still don't know - nearly a year later) how to handle that. She didn't ask for forgiveness. She didn't offer it. If anything, it was opportunity for a fresh wound, a tearing of the flesh on an old knee-scraper I hadn't really considered since I originally hit the ground. So, I leaned to my friend, a big burly dude, and just flooded his shoulder with my tears. He still doesn't know what it was all about. Then again, neither do I.

This memory was violently returned a little while ago, when the same opaque charges were made against me to my wife.

I have a student at my school who does not act much like a student. From every appreciable view, he does not come into the scholastic setting to learn, to better himself, his options or his surroundings. He also does not come into the classroom to even pass time (which, unfortunately, is what many of our students do do).
He comes - from everything that I can sum up - to disrupt. Actually, to be the center of attention.

And since I am his teacher (and understandably have a desire to be that center myself) we are often at odds, often butting heads and comments. It's a grand and vulgar chess game that we play.

And I want to believe in him as much as I want to believe that every student can and should learn. I just believe he doesn't want to - he's not convinced that it is right for him, not at this stage in his life. And in the meantime, anyone who dares get in his way is his exasperated victim.

Being one of his teachers, I see him five days a week for an hour and a half a piece. His classmates, on the other hand, are surrounded by his anxious (and usually destructive and self-serving) energy for approaching five hours five days a week.

But I'm the one in power, if tenuously. And, I'm white (although he knows that I'm partially Latino). So, I'm a racist to him. Never mind that that label goes against every fiber of my being. Never mind that I've spent countless hours examining my heart and my nation's fiber in dealings with race relations. I know I should ignore it. I know that he's merely trying to goat my herd. But it hurts at a level deeper than nearly any other label can hurt. And he consistently does it.

What do I do with people that constantly hurt and then act as if they've been victimized? I know that I'm not perfect in my actions or reactions to them, but should I allow such things to be as if it's the natural and right way to interact? Should I forgive those who don't lament or acknowlege their evils? Should I continually and blindly turn my cheeks, to the extreme that my flesh may be worn and torn from my puffy face?

Christmas means giving and getting - again and again and again, again

From the second Charlie Brown Christmas tv special (the one nobody watches):

Charile Brown: Would you like to buy a nice Christmas wreath?
Potential Customer: Oh, I see that you're adding to the commercialization of Christmas, Charlie Brown.
Charlie Brown: Not yet! I'm trying to.

I've always thought that the buying and giving and receiving and all that was merely a backdrop to the family gatherings, which I always found more fun and longer-lasting than the cheap RC race-tracks I used to get. I guess it's nice to think you're doing something for the ones you love, to show that maybe you know a little something about them, that maybe you're on to their tastes and sizes.

But that's hard, and we spend a lot of time in a post-Christmas blue period at the return register. So, yeah, gift cards are a necessary evil. Kind of like voting. But at least we know what stores to buy from.

P.S.
The new Over the Rhine Christmas CD, Snow Angels, is in the running for top of my year-end lists. It emphasizes best what I like about Christmas better than I can. Although every song on there is, as far as I can tell, a new composition, the songs are heavily borrowed - as in the remake of "O Little Town of Bethlehem" that becomes simply "Little Town", the Guaraldi-themed shuffle "Goodbye Charles" and several themes from earlier OtR records (such as the downward bass slides found in abundance on their masterpieces Ohio and Drunkard's Prayer and here on "All I Ever Get for Christmas Is Blue" and the rollicking uptempo numbers from DP). This mix of familiar and novel leads to a fresh nostalgia, a living memory. And really, isn't that what Christmas is all about? Isn't there something wonderful about the words "incarnation", "hark" and "glad tidings of good news"? Isn't there something wonderful in retelling old stories and making them new a hundred times?

Or is it just me?

Merry Christmas from us.

Some more meditations on Good Friday and Easter:

EASTER is not the celebration of a past event. The alleluia is not for what was; Easter proclaims a beginning which has already decided the remotest future. The Resurrection means that the beginning of glory has already started.

Karl Rahner, Everyday Faith
courtesty Christianity Today.

-------

Jesus's death was not only physical, as noted earlier, but also spiritual. I'm not a theologian, I don't have a clue as to whether or not he went to hell for a day. Or how else Jesus would've preached to the souls in prison, as testified in one of the latter epistles (I think Jude's). But I was able to glean a bit into the suffering of Jesus, why he would agonize so much over the cup he was to drink (more on that later), asking that that should pass from him.

A few years ago, my associate pastor decided he wanted to dramatize the Life and Death of Jesus as a one-act wordless play. He and I worked on much of the dramatization together. One thing that struck us, that we tried to dramatize, as silently as possible (with the sole exception being one of the last words of Christ) was his connection and then rejection by God the Father, and how utterly cold and alone he must have felt on that "Dark Night of the Soul."

Jesus was a human being, as we mentioned earlier, but he was intimately connected with his Holy Father, the first person of the Trinity, whom he did everything according to. I'm not sure that Jesus would ever sing a song about "Everyday is sweeter than the day before" about his relationship with the Father, but it's evident, from his miracles, his teachings, his lifestyle, his prayers, that they were intimately connected, that God the Father was his lifeblood. Jesus' act of being led to the slaughter was an act of obedience to the Father, in fact. And, there could be no breaking of the connection between the obedience and love of Jesus. They were intertwined at the hip, in soul and embodiment.

Yet, for all of the relationship, for all of the kinship, for all of the blood between them, why does Jesus feel abandoned in his primo time of need? One of Jesus's famous last words is a desperate cry, "Father, Father, why have you forsaken me?" (Which was the aforementioned spoken part of our dramatization.) As much as we like to point out the obvious, that Jesus died a horrible physical and bloody (though probably not as bloody as suggested by Gibson's The Passion of the Christ) death by means of the crucifixion, a cruel, long-lasting mixture of asphyxiation and (internal and external) blood-letting, what happened spiritually was of equal importance. (As per the worth of the physical death of Jesus, "Without the shedding of blood, there is no forgiveness of sins.")

If, again, death is a separation from life, than Jesus' death was both physical (organs stopped working, as attested to by the Roman soldiers, experts on excruciating and painful dying and death) and spiritual. For God, the epitome of life itself, had separated himself from Jesus. What Jesus suffered was the cup of God's wrath, his anger and punishment against all humanity in all of our sinfulness was upon Jesus (the Suffering Servant of Isaiah) and it was God's good will to have him suffer - on our behalf.

Reality V. Truth

In its annual pilgrimage the sun passes the vernal equinox - an imaginary line, a border of sorts set solely for that celestial body. Most ancient civilizations timed the start of their year in apprehension of the approximate period of the passing - all seasons and cycles were adjusted accordingly, as if nothing short of life itself depended on that passing.

This occurrence survives in our present-day collective as a cue. Always towards the end of March, we in the northern regions - certainly those of us north of the Mason-Dixon - look forward to the gradual thawing and greening, towards a Romantic and slow, slumbering Summer before the colors of Autumn befall us and we wrestle again with the hibernation that is Winter.

As the sun makes headway to its northern-most destination, warmth lags behind like a distracted child on a leash. The sun passing our imaginary line is a welcoming, like the ice cream man beckoning all children outside to his luxurious treats. We, in turn, answer that call. The clothes stay indoors. The feet, however, migrate towards the east in Chicago, toward the lake and our two massive public fountains.

Buckingham Fountain

Millennium Park Crown Fountain

But this year in Chicago, at least, that's not occurring. The green has made her appearances, but she shivers like a leaf in the cold. As a consequence of a very mild Winter, Mother Nature is calling in for her Faustian wages. It is Spring. Mid-Spring. And nary a hint of t-storms and BBQ's.

There is a substantial difference between truth and reality. Truth can simply be summed up as, what is. What is underneath it all, above it all, in it all, beyond it all. Truth is transcendent. It, simply, is what it is. Reality, on the other hand, is perception of what is. It is our grasp on the tenable.

Truth is, Spring has been upon us for nearly two months. Reality speaks that it's 10-20 degrees (Celsius) below what it normally is this time of year, that frost still lingers at dawn, that April was dry.

Reality says that there are people who are ugly as well as people who are pleasant. I do not refer to merely physical attraction, but of the grab-bag of personality, or social interaction, of the soul. Abuela calls it "the heart." There are those with whom conversation is nice, it is pleasant, it flows well, it grabs your attention, it produces joy. Then there's the others, wherein conversation employs the greatest skill, the utmost timidity, or inhumane self-control in order to redeem a time that doesn't seem redemptive. Through the lens of reality, they are nasty people with few good qualities. In truth, they are created in God's image and deeply loved by God.

Truth is also that the earth revolves around at least two axes (I'm not a geo- or astro-physicist, as you may have summized) - one being the Sun and the other being a line between its own North and South poles. But it never appears that way from the view down here. The sun - comparatively still relative to the planets rotating around it, but yet constantly moving in space away fro the center of the universe, away from its creation point - does not rise in the East as a new bride awakening her groom, nor is it comparable in size to any athletic equipment ever designed or dream-able. Nor does it actually cross any sort of border. Nor does it hide, betray emotions or betray anything resembling anthropomorphic sensibilities. It does not get hot one day and cold the next. It is a supremely massive ball of radioactive fire. Yet our sense of reality tells us otherwise. I am glad for the truth. The sun, unlike myself, can not take a sick-day, it cannot be late to work. It will not grow cold (well, not in the next few hundred million years or so). Millennia pass and yet it is faithful to its purpose, to its character. It remains. It burns. That's all it needs to do. The rotations of the earth are likewise true to science and faithful to their character.

In this instance, reality is more poetic, yet truth stands the test of time. Truth is the assurance. Faith, in essence, is being rooted and surrounded by reality, yet being able to look beyond the simple earth, above the mountains of reality and look past them to see a deeper glimpse of truth. Reality is truth, but it is not the whole part. And in many circumstances, it is not adequate.

This essay was triggered in part by a discussion I had with a friend the other night. He was mentioning how much stuff goes on in his life I may not look favorably towards - and he's right, for they are unhealthy and destructive - but that I need to accept them, because it's reality. No one needs to tell me of reality. No, scratch that. Even in my diverse, expanding and oftentimes humiliating circumstances I still have no idea what 2/3's of the world are feeling. But I know that what we experience and see at this present moment are only parts and parcel of the whole of truth. Babies having babies and children shooting each other and living apart from their captive fathers is not the way we were designed. It's not the way it's supposed to be. It may be real, but it doesn't have the essence of truth. It will not last. Unlike faith, hope and love.

Spring is here. In time, we will feel its presence, its sweet, reassuring presence.

Dig Adam Again

"The earth is hard,
The treasure fine."

10 Songs by Adam Again



First, they were Lost in a World of Time (ref), trying to find their voice. Then 10 Songs by Adam Again were released as a triumph in dance-rock of the mid-to-late 80's. The first time I had heard of this band, a mentor had retrieved me this tape from the bottom of the bargain bin and figured that I might enjoy it. Thus began my slow-burn love for this obscure, underground funk-rock band from SoCal. I was probably 14 or 15 at the time and had grave misgivings about anything related to disco. I incorrectly tossed it aside, returning to listen a couple times for the next few years before the music started to grow on me like George Costanza. It was all over the map, stylistically. But drum machines and a lyricon were de riguerin this foray, as well as the gospel group adding backing vocals and some moody confessionals. The theme of the album - but not necessarily the tone of the album - was moralistic, advising against divorce on behalf of the children - the purported main victims. It also dealt with the relational subterfuge that is "The Trouble With Lies" on, I believe, two songs. It was the "10th Song," however, that would catch \the world off-guard if it was paying attention. Regardless, Mac Powell of Third Day (probably last time I'll refer to them in my Hall of Fame) was and brought along Gene Eugene (principal songwriter, lead vox, guitar and the most wonderful keys - more on that later) to re-cut it as "I Remember You" on the worship-centered - and masterful community experiment - City on A Hill. The lyric for that song was a sparse meditation that probably should be replayed in post-modern churches everywhere during the Lord's Supper. It is enveloped in a angelic chorus provided by dancing diva and AA harmonist Riki Michele and some post-apocalyptic helicopter blades. It was all very ethereal, eerie, and mesmerizing.

I remember you,
I remember that your body was broken
and I remember that your blood was spilled
And I remember that you
Didn't have to do it.

Homeboys



It was on Homeboys that Adam Again would emerge as a great jam band with tight songs added to their funk and R&B influences when they included Johnny Knox as their live drummer. It messed me up to learn that most jam bands don't know how to rock. I call Adam Again a jam band in the sense that they wrote and performed their music as a band. They would start from a chord progression or a musical idea, a riff or a melody, jammed on the spot and members would add parts and converse musically as it fit. But the song structure was tight and the albums did not serve as mere fodder to tide the fans over to their next performance. The concerts - as well as the albums - were few and far between so each one served as a stand-alone. Each record and show had to guarantee the biggest bang for the fewest bucks. Of course, it helped that Gene ran a much-utilized studio out of his basement, was fast-becoming a much-in-demand engineer, producer and keyboard specialist. Not to mention that he co-ran a studio that produced the biggest and best names in the early days of Christian alternative rock in Brainstorm (The truly good ones weren't gonna get any mainstream attention. Daniel Amos, the 77's, Undercover, not to mention the first-fruits of gospel rap, Soldiers For Christ, Freedom of Soul [Who guested Brainwash Projects on their second album. That's right, Pigeon John.], and Dynamic Twins as well as the country-influenced, Americana pioneering "super-group" Lost Dogs).

If my jam-band diss didn't upset you, maybe this will: Funk-rock bands tend to be a let-down (There were a few good tracks on Soulfood 76's debut, and Red Hot Chili Peppers will always be the exception to the rule - the funk-rock to end all funk-rock.) in that their funk doesn't seem to be legitimate, but rather a way to pass for some sort of White street cred. But this band has the goods without trying to exploit or flaunt them, without using funk as a novelty act would. The 70's influences were in the background, in the interplay between the rock elements of John Knox and Paul Valadez on the bass. But the spirit of '76 lived on in the clavs, Fenders, and Moogs Gene played like nobody's (Nobody's) business. "This Band Is Our House" is the best example of my inadequate description of a good jam band. Adam Again refers to itself as a house where - at the least - Gene Eugene feels at home. It all comes tumbling down (musically, that is) when Gene calls for a break-down and John mistakes that for a stop. Everything crashes before Gene laughs and explains himself. They pick up right where they left off (this is the released version, by the way) as if nothing happens. And the song is just fun rock&roll, not heavy, not necessarily sloppy, just the picture of some four guys and a girl having fun doing what they know God created them for.

"Homeboys" opens up the record as a sort of memoir of growing up in his early 70's mixed-race neighborhood, the sense of belonging ("He taught me how to write on the wall and I taught him how to play chess / Some kind of strange urban link."), and the trouble that entered and shattered their world in the form of a drive-by that killed Gene's best friend. The theme picks up half-way through with their cover of "Inner-City Blues." Not as good as the original, but really, who comes close? (And if you don't know...) On "Bad News on the Radio" they continue in that vein with a sort of gritty, urban take on an "A Day in the Life" concept with some modern jazz elements to boost. It's almost "Homeboys, Pt. 2 - What Could've Happened." Consider: "Homeboy tried to burn me / Had to give him what he had asked for... / I don't know the reason / the reason for my troubles... / I know you tried to warn me." The titular bad news concerns a helicopter chase on the expressway (I guess it's called a "freeway" out there. The interstate.) Gene would later say that after bringing in Doug Webb, who played with Miles back in the day, he asked what it was like to play with the legend. After pausing for a bit, he answered, "A lot like this." Gene must have taken that to his grave.

"Hide Away," written by the Choir's drummer and resident poet, continues in the band's confessional nature in addressing and questioning the reclusive nature of the partners within the marital relationship as well as the songwriter's own clumsy hands. The focus is on the melancholy and utter loneliness that results in her absence.

Summer is Winter
Flowers wither
Stars fade away
When you turn away
When you hide your eyes, love
Skies above become grey
When you turn away
When you hide away

Dig



Whereas "Homeboys" focused on the street level, Dig dug "Deep" into the recesses of the soul to produce a treasure worth treasuring. Although ostensibly about the divorce that Gene and Riki were heading towards, the music was about the emotional toll taken in the wake of the separation and the search for meaning in those dark times, not le divorce itself. The disc is filled with such archetypical images - digging, card playing (fate and relationships interplayed in fate and loss), water - as would make Carl Jung proud. It also helps to make the album universal. It's a work of pure art, taking specific, personal experiences and expressing them in an accessible language so that many can take claim these opuses as their own.

The disc starts with a barn-stormer. "Deep" begins the theme of this album with stream-of-conscience poetry and a funky start/stop second guitar, mediating the Author into the mystery of the story. "Girl ghost is in the stairway / She likes it when I rub my eyes... I don't want to / you don't want to / we don't want to know / And dying on the cross / for the sick and the loss / is the Lover that I long to know." "It Is What It Is (What It Is)" presaged the most common answer by NBA stars, maybe in an attempt to avoid questions a la Dylan (Probably about their indie rock within the bloated and convellent Contemporary Christian Music scene and the Christian bookstores they sold through.). "Ask a stupid question / you get a sideways glance." "Dig" begins with a pulsing Fender and slowly burns. Riki adds her sweetly melancholy melody on the second verse, Gene adds another vocal harmony slightly later and towards the end they fill in with guitars, drums, and bass.

Consult the cards to measure time
the earth is hard,
the treasure fine...
Will the eagle fly
if the sky's untrue
do the faithful sigh
because they are so few

Gene Eugene has a nasal voice often compared to REM's Michael Stipe. On this album, however, he wraps his vocals around the lyrics like a down blanket on a cold night and the additional harmonics of the Rhodes and Riki put him in a warm atmosphere, certainly in songs like "Dig." On "Hopeless, Etc." Gene stretches his vocals - some would say unconvincingly - to add dimension to the lyrics. "Hopeless, Etc." is ego-focused. Each verse begins with and expands on an elongated "I'm," holding at times for several bars and filling-out with 'hopeless,' 'useless,' and 'worthless' with a coda on the '-less.' It's a worship song for the Me Generation. And it's a rocker, albeit one that also carries thos song-building effects, this time starting fresh with every verse. "Songwork" is about the difficulty of writing that perfect song, or sometimes any song.

"Worldwide" &"Walk Between the Raindrops," apparently, is about the social ills that face us as a world. The murder of Headman Shabalala (of Ladysmith Black Mozambo) and the plight of the homeless are raised to question our incapacity to compassionately act, suggesting that if we can merely explain the situation without grieving alongside the Holy Spirit on this, we are as likely to walk between raindrops. And the jump-kick on "Worldwide" kicks butt. "Keep your holy hair in place / the wind is gonna blow / the humble and the poor keep breathing."

Rumored to be a big influence on Over the Rhine (who's brilliant new Drunkard's Prayer is a beautiful counter-point to the themes on this album and who played the screeching and haunting guitar coda from this song that was in itself stolen from Hendrix) "River on Fire" is the only song that seems to speak of the ensuing separation between husband and wife indirectly or not. The burning of the over-pollutted Cuyahoga River in Cleveland serves as the self-referential metaphor. The cello plays its part to leave the song druding slowly along, methodically pulling us to gaze at the inevitable crash and slow burn of a feral mass of water. After the guitar chord drops a chill in the spine, we are treated with a rollicking "That Hill." Lyrically, it's again about failure, but musically it's a blast with an engaging melody and riffs galore.

Perfecta



Honestly, I'm going to complete this review in a couple weeks. Perhaps longer if I can secure another copy of this record via eBay. I'll periodically come back to this. I probably shouldn't have started undertaking these essays by beginning with my ultimate favorite. Peace,
j.