Imitation, or Something Like It

To take a phrase completely and shamelessly out of context, “there is nothing new under the sun.” This lunchmeat of a phrase, even without its textual bread to rein in its meaning, is certainly food for thought. (I know a terrible pun when I see it, but am not preoccupied in the least about its poor reflection on my sense of humor, or lack thereof, and therefore, with reckless abandon, pull the pin and throw it in, along with a ridiculous parenthetical run-on sentence, for good measure.) But seriously, that there is nothing new under the sun may not be wholeheartedly true, but it’s awfully close. Disgustingly close.

Right now I work in the Portland School district, the first moderately urban environment in which I’ve worked. I mention my job’s urbanity because I believe it’s directly tied to the thoughts I’ve recently been harboring. The school I am at is now a K-8 school, not counting the preschool which also operates within its walls. So I get the opportunity to observe an eleven-year age span, and the contrasts (or similarities) within. One other factor relates to a major change that has recently taken place in the school. In an effort to consolidate neighboring buildings, the Portland school district combined my previous school with a neighboring middle school, a move which has been in process for the last couple years. Eventually the school will be home to students all the way from Kindergarten through eighth grade, meaning no schools will feed into the middle school like most other middle schools. However, as this is the first year the schools have been combined, there is a disproportionately large eighth grade class which is bussed in from a much larger area than its eventual goal area. The area which will eventually be served by this school will consists of a large group of upper-middleclass kids, and a smaller group of lower-class students, kids in a much harsher home environment. This year, however, as we move the last large class of eighth graders out, the amount of lower-class students remains quite high. There is also a classroom in our school which is specifically for kids with behavioral problems, which also adds to the aura of the school.

Part of my job involves going outside to recess during the eighth-grade lunch and recess. At other schools in which I’ve worked, recess has been one of my favorite parts of the day. Kids tend to be more relaxed, and I sometimes get the chance to play with them, which is not only a good way to bond with them, but can be a treat for me in the middle of the day. This is not the case for me this school year. I don’t really enjoy recess in this chaotic, seething mass of prepubesence. The overwhelming majority of students I am in contact with have serious attitude issues, even more so than I usually think of with middle school aged kids. Last week as I broke up an F-bomb-laden fight between a guy and a girl, the guy decided to have the last shove, resulting in a confrontation with me. He thought I was challenging him, and began readying himself for a fist-fight with me, something I was neither excited about, nor sure I could properly defend myself. Fortunately his friends began trying to calm him down, and as it blew over I pretended not to hear him and his F-ing language directed toward me. There weren’t any more problems with that crowd for the rest of that recess, thank the maker, but I kept an eye on them for the rest of the time they were out there. I was a little worried about how I would handle this sort of confrontation in the future, but was also a bit fascinated that a kid would ever think that was an acceptable way to behave. Call me old fashioned, call me stingy, call me Daynty, but I don’t really see where that sort of behavior has a place in society. However, it did give rise to much thought about behavior as it relates to environment, and as it relates to imitation.

We all learn by imitation, though some of us think we’re some sort of original creative genius, an intellectual being of great proportions. (Or maybe it’s just me that quietly, secretly, modestly wishes people would see my incredible intellect and wit.) As babies, we experience life in its purest form, untainted, if only for a fraction of a second. Soon thereafter we begin to lose our originality, imitating behaviors, expressions, tones, language. Soon we are the sum of the parts around us, though not always greater than the parts themselves. Early in life we are already posers, differences in behaviors greatly influenced by our environment. Now, I do think there are certain parts of our personalities which we have carried since our introduction to this world, but the way that personality takes its form can be adjusted or altered by the things around us we unintentionally imitate. So to me, it’s not imitation that bothers me, it’s what is being imitated that gnaws at the back of my brain, occasionally breaking down the dam which holds back my reserve of intense sadness. I look at a lot of the kids at school and am just so sad to see the things they imitate, and how mindlessly they do it.

One of the worst things I see imitated relates directly to racial stereotypes, which may be one of the saddest things I see on a daily basis. So much has been done in this country to try to make people equal, from desegregation to the feminist movement. The historical figures who have spent so much of their lives fighting inequality, fighting bigotry, fighting for freedom, have fought such incredible battles, not only against their persecutors, but also against their own people, the ones who fall so neatly within racial stereotypes. Granted, without knowing people’s personalities, I have no right to judge their insides based on their outsides. But, (and it’s certainly a big but) based on observations at my own school, certain groups of kids just seem so perfectly stereotypical. From the elitist white kids, to the gangsters and hiphop-posers (I’m a little skittish about mentioning any other races than white for fear of sounding judgmental, so I’ll let the reader fill in their own blanks), it’s intensely sad for me to see that all the hard work public figures have done in an effort to promote equality, quickly undone daily by the up and coming generation. The propitiation of stereotype is especially evident when I observe the kids I directly work with.

Because I work with kids who are a bit slower mentally, it can often be very similar to working with very small children. In both groups, imitation is a necessary way to learn. In an educational environment, it is absolutely paramount to not only teach things like behavior, but everything must also be modeled. At school this seems to work to our advantage, at home this can often work to their detriment. In a non-structured environment, so often the only choice for a lot of these lower-class kids, they learn to imitate SO many things I’d call negative. Especially since so many of these kids hav unrestricted access to television and the internet. Those of you who know me know that when it comes to film and music, I’m a total snob. I love intellectually stimulating art. I’m constantly reminded that the majority of people don’t share that love, or maybe it just takes a different shape for other people. Now, my artistic prejudices often extend to genres of music like rap and hip-hop, not because I don’t think there’s any artistic integrity, but because there’s just very little creativity. It is often very basic, rhythmic, and often maintains very primal subject matter: sex and violence. Granted, sex and violence are commonplace in our world, but there’s something very disturbing about its animalistic nature. (Actually, for anyone really interested in an interesting perspective on music as it relates to the human soul, real the first chapter of Tolkien’s “The Silmarillion,” the section about Eru’s creation of the world and the accompanying songs of angels and demons. A fascinating take on creation. And yes, it’s uber-nerdy.)

I recently bought a new TV, allowing me to now watch all sorts of high-definition programming, which I find quite enjoyable as I simultaneously scratch my protruding Neanderthal brow and my backside, and gaze in stupor at the shiny thing I now own. Oregon Public Broadcasting, as a part of their eternal fund-raisers, played a half-dozen episodes of a show called “Travels to the Edge with Art Wolfe” wherein photographer Art Wolfe goes to remote or exotic places around the globe to photograph the people or animals of that region. It really is an incredible show, as fascinating as it is beautiful. One of the shows that was stuck in my mind was about a trip to South Georgia Island, deep in the South Atlantic. On this island live many types of animals, including a ferocious type of seal which came very close to attacking the photographer for getting within thirty feet of it. Without warning, they would attack each other in a way that tells you there is no way these things will ever be domesticated. As I watched the seals posture and jockey for position, I was saddened to realize the similarities between these wild animals and a handful of the kids at my school. It proved to be a very powerful example of animal nature, and stuck in my brain as I watched the kids at my school interact. Animal nature is in part due to the need for survival being greater than a need for almost anything else. So it’s only fitting that sex, keeping the species alive, and violence, protecting oneself from death, are extremely basic parts of the animal kingdom. Which is why I get so miffed at hip-hop and rap artists whose content is restricted to simple animal nature, showing very little evidence of higher thought or intellect. And, being the posers they are, kids DO INDEED imitate the stuff.

Most of the kids in my class love this kind of music, and whether they mean to or not, they imitate these people. They cop attitudes whether they fully understand what they’re doing. They dress like these people. They act like these people. They know little beyond basic animal nature, survival, and as unintentional imitators, they are a product of their environment. Like little puppets on a dilapidated stage. But what they don’t realize is that the guys they’re imitating are themselves imitators. Within genres, there is very little innovation. It’s all imitation, and often it’s shoddy imitation. We live in a ridiculous vacuum of imitation. Honestly I can’t see anything different between Soulja Boy, T-Pain, and all those other ridiculously misspelled or abbreviated names. (Good grief, it’s no wonder kids these days can’t spell.) The only way we see creativity is when someone’s scope of imitation of so broad, they actually appear to be an original. But ideas have to start somewhere, I suppose.

Imitation. We all do it. It’s necessary, but to what extent? Is there anything new under the sun, or is everything out there simply imitation? Is there hope for those in a restricted scope of imitation? Can stereotypes be defeated with a larger scope of imitation? Or am I simply a self-righteous SOB. It’s hard to say, I suppose. Food for thought, though. Sandwich anyone?

Parallels to Tony

There is some sort of restlessness upon me. The sort of restlessness I get when I see a commercial airliner high overhead, traveling seemingly-straight-up in grand slow-motion, chased by clingy contrails, acting as veritable Hansel and Gretel cookie-crumbs of the sky. The sort of restlessness I feel accompanies by either complete complete unfamiliarity or totally lethargic complacency. I have no idea whether it is because I'm sitting outside a Portland coffee shop in the sun of an eighty-five degree mid-September afternoon, a total fantasy to my Alaska-bred sensibilities. It could be that I'm suffering in the slight blue haze of the cigarette behind me, whose master is not so much enjoying it as he is needing it. Cigarette smoke often gives me strange sensations: possibly mild discomfort, possibly pure curiosity about smoking's origins. Perhaps my restlessness is simply internal, a constant pillow-fight in my head as I continue gently beating myself, in the hopes of figuring out who I am. A soft but constant presence in an already crowded cranium. Perhaps it's due to the discovery that not only am I a creature of habit and in desperate need of structure, but that there is nothing inherently weak or wrong about either of those things. Maybe I'm restless because I want things I'm not ready for, or maybe it's due to a constant and ever-changing search for meaning. Maybe I'm restless because where I live doesn't feel like home, but neither does my old home. Some sort of quasi-permanent vagabondage. Maybe I'm too concerned with other people's agendas, and not enough with myself. Maybe it's because this life of second-guesstimation has finally caught up with me and fried my nerves. Again. Maybe it's my constant comparisons between who I was and who I am now. Maybe I live in the past and the future, but never in the present.

Or maybe I've just had too much coffee.

But the fact remains that I'm restless. And, surprisingly enough, I'm a little excited about it. Restlessness is an agent of change, an indicator of energy, even if it's potential energy and not kinetic. Something big is on the horizon. Any day now. Any day.

Or as Stephen Sondheim put it in West Side Story...

Could be!
Who knows?
There's something due any day;
I will know right away,
Soon as it shows.
It may come cannonballing down through the sky,
Gleam in its eye,
Bright as a rose!

Who knows?
It's only just out of reach,
Down the block, on a beach,
Under a tree.
I got a feeling there's a miracle due,
Gonna come true,
Coming to me!

Could it be? Yes, it could.
Something's coming, something good,
If I can wait!
Something's coming, I don't know what it is,
But it is
Gonna be great!

With a click, with a shock,
Phone'll jingle, door'll knock,
Open the latch!
Something's coming, don't know when, but it's soon;
Catch the moon,
One-handed catch!

Around the corner,
Or whistling down the river,
Come on, deliver
To me!
Will it be? Yes, it will.
Maybe just by holding still,
It'll be there!

Come on, something, come on in, don't be shy,
Meet a guy,
Pull up a chair!
The air is humming,
And something great is coming!
Who knows?
It's only just out of reach,
Down the block, on a beach,
Maybe tonight . . .

Steinbeck and Copland

It's not often that I'm terribly excited to be American. Not that I don't love the freedoms afforded people of this nation, but we've been given a reputation as a bunch of loud-mouthed idiots who give the bird to the rest of the world as we do whatever the heck we want. I don't know about anyone else, but I'm not a big fan of that label. Going overseas at the end of last year, I didn't know how things were going to pan out for me as an American because we're just not popular to anyone other than ourselves. And actually, I've never even cared for American history, never cared all that much about America's industrial revolution, the incredible changes we've made in the last hundred years.

A year ago I bought a copy of The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck, right around the time I had freshly relocated to Oregon. Sometimes I get in this mood where I feel like my education is leaving me, and that I need to immerse myself in something, anything stimulating. So I decided to tackle a piece of classic American literature. It was AMAZING! Never have I read something that was so subtle in its characterization and so enjoyably American. The plight of the common man. Wow. The Grapes of Wrath made me better appreciate being American. Before I left for Alaska in June I went to Powell's Bookstore with Daylan and she told me if I wanted another Steinbeck novel, I should go for East of Eden. The beauty of these books is that I've heard the titles many many times but had no idea what they were about. I finished that one by early August, and again I appreciated not only the characters in this masterpiece, but the distinctly American setting. America didn't seem so stuck up and high and mighty for five or six-hundred pages of literature.

Many of you know I'm a bit of a technology freak, especially when it comes to film and audio quality. Several years ago I bought a DVD player that would play special super-high-quality CDs. Actually one of the formats is called Super Audio Compact Disc. Basically these recordings sound much closer to the way they were played. Maybe it's the kind of thing only a guy like me can appreciate, and if that's the case, I'm okay with that. I LOVE these recordings. They're harder to find, and mostly jazz and classical recordings, but when listened to on nice speakers or good headphones, it's just incredible. Anyway, last night I found my SACDs and popped in one I hadn't heard in a while, a recording of some of Aaron Copland's classical works. It was pretty amazing that as soon as I heard this music, so distinctly American, I instantly thought of the two Steinbeck novels I've read. American in its truest and best sense. So all this to say, I want all of you to go out and buy two things: a recording of the works of Aaron Copland (look for Fanfare for the Common Man or Lincoln Portrait or An American in Paris or Appalachian Spring or Rodeo - they tend to come with several pieces altogether) and a copy of Steinbeck's The Grapes of Wrath. And if you don't rekindle your love for America, or at least breathe a breath of fresh air on the dying embers of your American patriotism, then perhaps you should consider living somewhere else. Steinbeck and Copland, and, to add another artist to the mix, put up a bunch of posters of Norman Rockwell paintings. It just might work. Let me know if it does.

School, school, school, school, school!!!!!

I think there are few things in life less efficient than elementary school training sessions. Not that I expect too many of my friends to be able to empathize with having to sit through seven hours of school staff-meetings, though I imagine there are quite a few equivalents in this world of commerce in which we live. So here's how a meeting goes. First, the topic is announced, which may or may not be followed by a variety of disclaimers, last-minute additions to the previous topic, and/or ironically child-like chatter as we all give our under-the-breath opinion on the impending topic. Then the topic, playground safety for example, is presented by a staff member, who mistakenly says the list of rules is still a draft and subject to change. There's nothing wrong with people knowing a list is subject to change, but when announced to a group of "I'm looking out for number 1" (or any other grade from 1-8 at our school) kind of people, announcing it's subject to change means it is immediately subject to change. So rather than first having the list read aloud in its entirety, or even having people read it to themselves and then submit suggestions/caveats in writing, a five minute subject is now a sixty minute subject. Everyone, and somewhat rightly so, feels entitled to let everyone else know how each and every rule and decision will affect their grade or class differently than every other grade. One group of kids should be allowed to play in a clump of trees, while another group is forbidden. Should we allow dodgeball if it is contained to a specific area of the field? How are transitions between different grades' lunches going to be done, and why can't we do it a different way? Should older kids be allowed to use the playground equipment? Should each class have their own bin of balls and jumpropes, or should we have one large community bin, and why? Can God create an object that is to heavy for him to lift, and if he fell while picking up such an object and nobody was around, would he make a noise? If He did make a noise, what would it sound like, and how could we ever know for sure? What is our exit strategy for Iraq? If a woodchuck were able, hypothetically speaking, to chuck wood, how much wood could he chuck? Etcetera, etcetera, ad nauseam. Good grief. If I were running these meetings, man we would get SO much done! Well, I'd like to think so. Some of you know that I really enjoy efficiency of all sorts (yes, I realize that this is not entirely applicable to everything I do, and I'm in partial hypocrisy already, but better partial hypocrisy than total, I sometimes say) Energy efficiency, fuel efficiency, efficiency of speech (though I do enjoy using lots of words to say very little, hence the blogs I write, but in everyday application out in the world I'd rather get through interactions with a lot of people than dwell in them. Coldhearted? Yes. Realistic? Also yes.), efficiency of movement. So these meetings can be absolute torture. But I guess we don't have that many of them, so I'll only be a little irritated now and again, rather than all the time, unless you're one of the above-mentioned not-dwelling-in-the-interaction kind of people.

Since I am talking about jobs, I should explain how I got my current one. So at the end of last school year, I told everyone I wouldn't be coming back, and that I'd moving forward to things I'd rather do. And I still want to, but to live one needs a job. One thing I forgot to do, however, was submit a resignation form. So in spirit I had resigned, but in reality I had not. So a couple weeks ago I got a call from Portland Public Schools offering me a position at the school I was at last year. I wasn't interested, so I told the person on the phone that I had no intention of working for the district, whereupon the person on the phone told me I needed to submit the proper paperwork. So I looked all over the website and called people in human resources, but got no answers. All the while I had been looking for work and not having much luck. It really takes either connections, or experience, and I pretty much only have either of those with both the Anchorage and Portland school districts. I had submitted an application for a new REI going in four or five miles from my house, which sounded great, but I didn't hear back from them. Anyway, after a couple weeks of stressing about work (the twitching I get from heavy stress was just beginning to kick in) I had a revelation. I had been offered a job, and yet I was stressing out over getting a job. "What is my deal?" I began to think. So I decided that since I already have a job, I should probably take it, especially one that pays decently, the benefits are already active, and I sort of know what I'm doing. So today I went to the school I was told to show up at, thinking maybe the job I had been offered was still mine for the taking. I don't think it actually was still mine, mostly because nobody had any idea I was coming, and nobody could figure out where I was supposed to be. So while I was sitting through the aforementioned meetings, one of the school secretaries was on the phone helping figure out what I was to do. A couple days ago, one of the Para Educators (that's what they call people who do my job) had to step down, and a replacement had been arranged, though the school hadn't been informed as to who the replacement was. So, they had been assuming it was me, since they didn't have any idea who the replacement was. I knew deep down that it couldn't have been me because I had been called weeks before. Anyway, by the time school was out, I was officially the new Para in a life-skills class at the school, and the other person who should've had my job was reassigned. Or at least I hope they were. Anyway, all this to say, God was pretty danged faithful to me, allowing me to have a job that probably wasn't mine in the first place. And, as icing on the proverbial cake, the class sounds like a lot of fun, and the teacher is young and has a reputation as a great teacher. I didn't think I'd be happy to be working at a school yet again, but I was. You know when the Psalmist pleads all those times for God not to forsake him? I've been trying so hard in recent days to not be like that, but there has always been a tiny seed of doubt, a little seed that says I will be forsaken. And the funny thing is, much of the time I don't know what I need. Maybe working at the school was exactly what I needed. I'm actually looking forward to working in this position, and that's an exciting thing. (Oh, and REI DID call back after I'd decided to take the school position. I could've been hired there... for $8.50/hr, part-time, and would have had to wait for my benefits to kick in if I ever went full-time. So what I thought would be a much better job wound up not being good at all. God's awful good to me.)

Be Still My Soul

And now for an unprecedented second blog in one day.

At the end of the century, Finland was enjoying the works of its greatest composer, Jean Sibelius (1865-1957). It was also trying to survive its Russian occupation, its people in great oppression. In this time of turmoil, Sibelius composed what was to become his most recognizable work: Finlandia. This was a poem to the country he loved. On July 2, 1900 it debuted, and became the voice of the people desperately loving their beloved Finland and wanting to be free from the oppression of the Russian Czar. In times of political unrest, the people were forbidden to perform Finlandia, a testament to its power among the people.

The piece itself begins in great turmoil, begins to move, quiets down to one of the most beautiful melodies I've ever heard, and concludes with the same melody in great triumph. It became well known around the world, eventually prompting lyricists to take the gorgeous melody and add words. Finland has its own lyrics for the song, but the lyrics I always think of are those of the hymn Be Still My Soul. Right now I think it is my favorite hymn of all time because of its beauty of melody AND lyrics. Get a hold of Finlandia to hear it in its original glory. Here are the lyrics for Be Still My Soul.


Be still, my soul: the Lord is on thy side.
Bear patiently the cross of grief or pain.
Leave to thy God to order and provide;
In every change, He faithful will remain.
Be still, my soul: thy best, thy heavenly Friend
Through thorny ways leads to a joyful end.

Be still, my soul: thy God doth undertake
To guide the future, as He has the past.
Thy hope, thy confidence let nothing shake;
All now mysterious shall be bright at last.
Be still, my soul: the waves and winds still know
His voice Who ruled them while He dwelt below.

Be still, my soul: when dearest friends depart,
And all is darkened in the vale of tears,
Then shalt thou better know His love, His heart,
Who comes to soothe thy sorrow and thy fears.
Be still, my soul: thy Jesus can repay
From His own fullness all He takes away.

Be still, my soul: the hour is hastening on
When we shall be forever with the Lord.
When disappointment, grief and fear are gone,
Sorrow forgot, love’s purest joys restored.
Be still, my soul: when change and tears are past
All safe and blessed we shall meet at last.

Be still, my soul: begin the song of praise
On earth, believing, to Thy Lord on high;
Acknowledge Him in all thy words and ways,
So shall He view thee with a well pleased eye.
Be still, my soul: the Sun of life divine
Through passing clouds shall but more brightly shine.

Parenthetical journeys through Sufjan

Free Counter

So I think I'm obsessed with Sufjan Stevens. Maybe it's the fact that when I open up iTunes, it's the only word that starts with "sufj," and therefore very easy to search for, eliminating SO many extra keystrokes. And as we all know, every single keystroke puts us all that much closer to carpal tunnel syndrome, forcing us all to buy those ugly tan or black wrist braces, a herd of Americans with the inability to give the world a proper wave of the hand. A sad sight, for sure. And now for a hop, skip, and a jump back off the rabbit trail, onto the unsteady ground of the path I've chosen for this particular piece of literary mastery. ONWARD TO SUFJAN!

I'll admit that the first I herad of Sufjan was a bit narrow, a cloistered collection of chords and choruses crammed into cramped quarters (be sure not to pronounce quarters like "kwarters" like so many old people love to do, so as to keep the alliterative nature of the last phrase alive and well. This time around be sure it's said "korters" like any uneducated American would say... "Ouch, two mild digs on Americans in one Blog," he said as he dreamed of Canada and their silly Mounties, a possible epithet for the Canadian people. Forget calling them Canadians, lets call them all Mounties. Man, now a dig on Canada. Is there no safe North American country? And SO many parenthetical statements...) Okay, so the first person who showed me Mr. Stevens, to get back to the path yet again, was Rachel Lautaret, who showed me the songs that she loved the most on his Michigan album. The funny thing was, because she showed me only a few songs, I had no idea what else he wrote, and had a very myopic view of his lyricism and musicality. And, to be honest, the times I had been shown the music were very low times for me, depressed times, and therefore that music instantly became associated with a depressed state. (A lot of my friends are probably thinking, "WHICH time you were depressed, you sorry sack of, uh, something?" and to that I say touche.) I've found that when I'm depressed, I'd rather not listen to things that encourage such a state. For instance, the soundtrack for Schindler's List has found very little play time for me, despite its haunting beauty and beautiful solos by Itzhak Perlman. Some people I know play themselves sad music when they're sad, which seems to make sense, except most times I'd rather not wallow in my sadness, and would rather crawl out of the dark cave into which I so willing and headlongly dove. SO, he said emphatically trying to get back on track, I didn't listen to much Sufjan after my first exposure to it, until one day in June I had a random craving for it.

So, before I left for a month in Alaska, I bought "Michigan" off of iTunes. Since I really hadn't heard much of his music, aside from a few select tracks, it was really like listening to an entirely new album. From what I understand, most people (most people I know, that is) tend to look for lyrical goodness in the groups they listen to, which is why Cash and Dylan enjoyed such amazing success. However, I grew up playing band and orchestral music, growing a deep appreciation for, and a deep obsession with musical greatness. In fact, I think the only music group I listened to that even had lyrics was Dave Matthews Band. (Not until later did I realize that a large proportion of his music is a selection of veiled hormonal lyrics. He's kind of a dirty man, but he makes it sound so cool... dang it.) It wasn't until three or four years after I graduated from high school that I began to appreciate great lyrics. Anyway, all that to say that my main focus in all music is the music itself. How do they use meter, keys, rhythm, creative chording, layering, dynamics, and a whole slough of other things. I've also found that many many people hate complexity or creativity in their music, which drives me mad. I suppose that's why pop music enjoys so much success. I understand that there's a pretty big following of Sufjan, and listening to the lyrics, I know why. They're positively dripping with color and shadows of meaning, well thought out, and filled to the brim with gooey depth. But the music is good too! "Can it be?!" I may have thought to myself. "Is it possible?" He plays all his own instruments, from what I understand, which I both greatly appreciate, and moderately dislike. The only dislike, really, comes with his trumpet playing. Most people won't notice anything wrong with his trumpeting, but being a trumpet player, it has, on occasion, mildly irritated me in its roughness and inaccuracy. However, with each album he's gotten better, so that's good. So I was thrilled with "Michigan," and upon returning from Alaska I bought his "Illinois" and "The Avalanche" albums, both of which are truly works of art.

That's another thing I've had a problem with in modern music. The album as a whole has potential to be greater than the sum of its parts. Some groups have tried operatic approaches, giving a true storyline, characters, and theatrical elements to their albums, which is an admirable idea, but comes across as too obvious. The truly great albums, to my mind, are the ones that play like one great work, are tied together, but in a much more subtle way. In music, it's subtlety that's so much harder to approach, which is why it's so hard to find. I imagine it's a cross-media artistic challenge, how to communicate depth of ideas without the kick to the groin approach which is so much easier. Life in general is much more subtle than a series of punctuated events. I know in an EKG chart of my life, the spikes certainly stand out, but they don't effect everyday life much at all. It's the more level ground that shows motion and change, undoubtedly affected by the spiked important events, but not radically changed right away. Anyway, I see Sufjan's music as a bit of a replica of that life EKG chart. Always moving forward, always changing, punctuated with real brilliance, but not afraid to come off the high and tie it all together with something mellow. To my mind, it's one of the more popular artists where I've said to myself, "I like this, so why do other people like this? What is it that makes this type of creativity so much less offensive to people's ears than what I normally listen to?"

So I hope I will soon come off my Sufjan high, not because it's not worthy of so many listenings, but because I so many other great artists to listen to. So check him out if you haven't already. And don't be scared that I like him. He's good to other people too.

1500

1500.

Just now I sat down and worked out a rough (give or take a hundred hours) estimate on the amount of time I've spent in the last year working on "Bible Camp," the documentary I'd been assembling since June of last year. 1500 hours. That number means a lot of things to me. First and foremost (I hate that phrase... overused [kind of like "..."]) it means that it took me way way way longer than it should have to finish. I guess a freshman effort should ultimately not be terribly efficient, but seriously, 1500 hours is a long time. I suppose most people who make documentaries have a crew that they work with instead of the few people I had help for small portions (thanks especially to Jessica Clark who has worked so hard on the DVD cover, and to Tony for helping me record the Bible Camp theme.) Perhaps this says something about the body of Christ. Were I to have worked in a body of filmmakers, or a body of people who work in specialized fields, the whole thing would have worked more smoothly, to my mind. I was trying to be the entire body, though to my credit, it was somewhat of a necessity because my budget only allowed for me to work on it (though I'm sure the right people would have worked for free and still loved it. I know I did.) But 1500 hours, wow, that's a bunch. Much more than I would have thought possible. When I was still just theorizing how the project would work out, I was thinking it would all be done by the end of the summer of 2006, but that was certainly naive and unrealistic. Could it have been done quicker, absolutely. Hindsight being a golden 20-20, I could've easily taken weeks, even months off the thing. Next time, eh?

Speaking of next time, I had a funny dream last night. Last night, before I dreamed, I saw an interview with Simon Cowell, the mean-spirited judge from American idol. On the show they said he makes something like $36million for a season of Idol, about the same for a season of the British version of the show, and just signed a contract with Sony/BMG records as a consultant kind of guy for $100million. Those were extraordinary figures to me, and I think it carried on into my dream because I dreamed about Mr. Cowell a couple hours later. So in my dream, I think Simon lived in the same house as me, or at least nearby, and for some reason he was talking about ways to invest his money. I suggested that I wanted to make another film, and I can't remember how it came up, but I wanted to make a film about blind people who do visual art, not that I know anything about that. So I asked Simon if he'd be willing to invest in the film. He said, "Sure," like it wasn't a big deal, and then later made a deal with him that if I could get things arranged, he would give me a million dollars to make this film. The rest of the dream was a little less cohesive, something about chasing around a mentally-challenged friend of mine around this sort of classy food-court (contradiction in terms? Perhaps.) He needed tape to hang something up. Actually, maybe I was the mentally-challenged one. I can't remember. It was a little stressful. So when people say "In your dreams" to thoughts of million-dollar filmmaking budgets, it happens. Also, it's incredible I remembered a dream at all. Maybe happens once a month. Mostly because I am a soul-less monster.

My apologies for the somewhat scattered nature of this blog. I wrote it at two different times, months apart, and now I must move on. Hope it all finds you well. Well and good. Wood.

Oh, and check out the new Bible Camp trailer.