Of a Piece

I've been thinking a lot about Andy Goldsworthy, one of my very favorite artists, and how his work is intentionally transient; he uses rocks, or twigs, or sheep's wool, to make a shape, and the tide or the wind will wisp it away hours or weeks after he finishes. There was a saint, wasn't there, who weaved baskets and then burned them in a symbol of devaluing this world and his work in it. And I'm in an art show next week, which means someone might buy something I made. If they buy it, they might break it. They might let it get dusty. If something comes loose, they might not glue it back. I feel (on a much smaller scale) what parents must feel when they're about to let their kids leave the house: I've done all I can to take care of you, little shadow box and painting and collages. No one can guarantee your well-being now, but I have to let you go and trust the universe to take care of you. It's not exactly the same as letting fire or water destroy my work, but it's of a piece. And if no one buys my work, well, I can't say I'll be crushed, because I'll get to keep it. Win-win.

The semester has, with breathtaking alacrity, reached that point where I must begin to see work not as standing between me and freedom or leisure but as a gateway to freedom and leisure, a facilitator of those things and a link to them.

Comics and Movies: A Beautiful Friendship

I saw 300 last night (I just realized it wasn't called The 300, which I think makes it cooler), and today I read the book. The visual fidelity is commendable and makes me excited that we have the technology to do that. I felt the same way about the movie and book Sin City (same author and artist, Frank Miller, the ultimate man's man). Then there's American Splendor, which fills me with delight every time I think of it because the movie uses actors and the real folks, along with old footage of Pekar's appearances on David Letterman. Ever since I saw it, I scoff at movies like Good Night and Good Luck and Walk the Line that could use "real" footage but don't. Maybe scoff isn't the right word; I just don't see why they wouldn't. (The rights are probably expensive, but don't they have millions of dollars?) I really like those two movies, and I'd like to emphasize that they're great, but I'm sad they missed the chance to be even better. John Sullivan said in class yesterday, "Editing is much less looking for mistakes than it is looking for lost opportunities." Speaking of editing, I do it so much now that it spreads, inexorably and unapologetically, to my leisure reading. Today I read, "Your right hand sustains me," in Psalm 18 and wrote next to it, "Too vague."

My point is, comic books make great movies. If not great movies, then good, risky, hard-to-classify, innovative movies. Movies with eggs. (Eggs are the new balls, by the way. You can also say "eggsy." Spread the word.) As if I needed another reason to love comics. Oh, and the Persepolis movie is coming to Thalian at the end of the month! Quelle joie!

Woman in the Moon:Or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Write a Really Saccharine Post

Near the end of A Midsummer Night's Dream, in the play-within-a-play, one of the day-laborer types plays Moonshine. After being interrupted twice, he breaks character and addresses his audience: "All that I have to say, is to tell you, that the lanthorn is the Moon; I, the man i' th' Moon; this thorn-bush, my thorn-bush; and this dog, my dog."

Today, during a brief stroll around the ol' alma mater, my world resounded with, "This grass is my grass; these bricks, my bricks; this building, my building." That's where I visited Dr. Sachs's hidden little office for the first time. We had class in that circle of benches once with Dr. Ingram, during those contagious first days of spring. I learned to write in that building, and to read in that one. I went up on the porch of Phi hall and cried a few happy tears for the beauty of growth and change. If ever a place was skirted in stars and soaked in magic, if ever a place was a crucible for refinement, if ever a place was a character in a story, it is Davidson. What a resounding, loaded, momentous word. Davidson.

I was there for a wedding, and to comment on that I'd like to quote myself circa 1990, from a stack of childhood papers I recently exhumed: "Love is the Best thing in the Whole Wide World. it makes weddings and things likethat. it's the very Best thing of all." Still true! I used to think I'd be bitter or jealous when my friends started marrying, but it turns out I like it a great deal. Since I'm in no hurry to get married, I just get to be happy for my friends, and I always see other people whose singular beauty I'd forgotten.

Aren't friends wonderful? I could go on and on about how great my friends are. It would sound remarkably like a greeting card, though, so I'll spare you. (At least temporarily--bwah ha ha.)

In short, everything is illuminated. Life is beautiful. It's a wonderful life. I think everything is a miracle, and I don't care if you hate on me a little for being so upbeat. That's how it is, sucker. You're just going to have to learn to deal with it.