On Gravity

For the past week or so my friends and follows and various other social media connections have been telling me and everyone they know that they should go seen the new flick Gravity. and to see it in 3D. IMAX if possible. They say it's incredible. That the attention to detail is remarkable. That it captures the sound of space (silence) perfectly. That it's a visual spectacle. That it has 97% on Rotten Tomatoes, for crying out loud. And so on, rhapsodizing till the cows come home.

...

quick sidebar relating to cows, and then I'll get back to Gravity. The other day I went for a drive in the country and drove past a field full of cattle. They were a group of fine, normal-looking kine, except for one. The one was weirdly fat. Like, it wasn't a cow that you would look at and say, "Whoa that's a big cow. He'll be some good eats some day," but rather a cow that you would look at and say, "Wait, that's not a cow shape. Why is it so wide? and squatty?" I'm probably exaggerating the weird of this cow because it wasn't one of those things where you stop the car and take a picture because THERE'S THIS WEIRD LOOKING COW!, but it was just weird enough that as I drove past I thought to myself, "Huh, something isn't quite right there. That cow is a weird shape," and I've been thinking about it off and on ever since.

Well, that was a propos of nothing. Back to Gravity.

Like I said, apparently it's the film to see if you want to be hip to the jive when it comes to movies these days. I won't be seeing it.

When I was a little kid I loved space. It fascinated me. It filled my little soul with wonder. I would go outside at night, lie in the grass, look up into the sky and soak it all in. It was just so enormous. So beautifully mysterious. I would look at the moon and struggle to fathom how incredible it was that man had walked on it. I mean the moon! To this day there is little that soothes my soul quite as much as looking up in perfect silence at the stars. That said, my relationship with space was complicated. There was a sinister dark side to my fascination with space, and it came in the form of a recurring nightmare.

In the nightmare I'm in space. That's it. The details of how I got there or what I'm doing there are never clear, except for an overwhelming anxiety connected with being there. I'm usually floating motionless in space without a suit of any kind. Naturally, such a condition should mean that I'm dead, except I'm not. I'm alive. Alive, but with one condition. I can't move. At all. If I move, I die. I can't breathe. I can't twitch in the slightest. Even feeling my heart beat is cause for alarm because the tremor of my chest might be too much movement. Which only makes my heart beat all the harder. I am just the slightest movement away from having the breath sucked out of my lungs and ceasing to exist entirely. The fear and panic rise until I can't take it. But I can't do anything about it so I just stay still while waves of hysteria wash over me. And in the throes of that horror, I wake up. But the horror would be so real that even awake I couldn't move. My heart would pound, but I'd lie on the bed as motionless as I possibly could. I couldn't cry out for consolation, or get out of bed and go tell my parents I'd had a bad dream, because if I move, I die. All the muscles in my body would be clenched to keep them from moving involuntarily. And I would just lie in bed basking in the panic of my nightmare until my pinky twitched, or until I blinked. And when the air wasn't ripped violently from my chest and I didn't die when I breathed, I would start to relax and usually tremble slightly as I fell back asleep.

It's been a long time since I've had that nightmare, but to this day when I think about it, my heart quickens a little and I feel very uneasy. To tell you the truth, I hadn't even thought about that nightmare for years, until earlier this summer when I was at the movies, and one of the previews was for Gravity. That preview brought back all my old fears from my nightmare. In fact, watching the preview was like watching the prequel I'd never seen, or at least remembered, to my nightmare. It was awful. I'm not going to post the trailer here or link to it, because I really don't want to see it again. And if that's the reaction I had to just the trailer, how much worse would it be to actually see the movie? I don't know. And I don't wanna.

I think at some level we probably all have that primal fear of space, which is why this movie was made in the first place. Without such a fear, the whole premise would fall flat. But that's not a fear that I want to indulge in for fear of rekindling it in any of its old glory, if you can call it that. No, I'd rather just sit back at home and watch Danny Kaye's antics in The Secret Life of Walter Mitty again. No nightmares there.

The Art Institute of Chicago

For as long as I can remember I've always wanted to go to Chicago. It was the one big city that was always alluring to me. More than New York or London or anywhere else, first on my list was Chicago. I don't really know why, honestly. Maybe it's because I've always been a Cubs fan. Then again I've always been a Yankees fan too, so that can't be it. Anyway, along with my dream of going to Chicago has been a desire to visit the Art Institute of Chicago. I think that desire was largely born of the 3 years I spent working as a museum security guard. Anyway, a week and a half ago, that dream was realized. Along with Priya and Amelia (two friends in my cohort here at Purdue), I finally visited the Art Institute.

The only problem was I had a cold.

Let's take a step back here for a minute and talk about rhetoric. Specifically, I want to talk about Kenneth Burke. More specifically, I want to talk about motion versus action. (Stay with me here, it won't take long.)

Now I don't necessarily want to get into the nitty gritty theoretical details here, but I think a brief discussion of motion and action will be helpful. According to Burke, the big difference between motion and action is that motion exists outside the realm of symbolicity, where action is symbolic. Let me explain. For Burke, motion is what happens in the world whether or not anyone is around to witness or define it. But, as self-conscious beings (us) step into the world of motion and make sense of it – as we attach symbolic meaning to motion through language and other symbol systems – and as we begin to work with various motions to consciously choose to do things, we operate in the realm of action. In Burke’s own words:

There can be motion without action (as the sea can go on thrashing about whether or not there are animals that have a word for it). There can be no action without motion (as we animals could not have words for anything except for the motions of our nervous systems and the vibrations that carry our words from one of us to another through the air or that make words visible on the page). (“(Nonsymbolic) Motion/ (Symbolic) Action” 814)

Last winter I wrote and presented a conference paper in which I discussed some of these ideas. (If you want to discuss this idea with me further let me know. It fascinates me.) Anyway, I've been thinking a lot about these ideas. About how much the uncontrollable elements of our lives (motion) affect the choices we make as well as things that we often think of as being fundamental to our idiosyncratic senses of self - our general positive or negative outlook on life or our tastes in music, books and art.

And that brings us back around to my experience at the museum.

Like I said, I've wanted to go to the Art Institute of Chicago for a long time. And ever since I moved out here to Indiana I've been positively itching to get up there. I don't really know how to adequately describe being there, except to say that it was one of the more inspiring afternoons of my life. There just aren't words to describe the joy of finally seeing some of my favorite artists and works of art that I've long only admired from a distance. At one point I distinctly thought that if I could live out my days there I would die happy.

That said, as the afternoon wore on, I could feel myself getting sicker and sicker. I felt a fever coming on, and my back and feet and legs were starting to ache something fierce. But I couldn't just couldn't allow myself to leave. There was so much I wanted to see, so much I wanted to take in. Finally it got to be fairly unbearable, so I left the museum, went to the nearest CVS and bought some cold medicine and ibuprofen. Fully drugged up, I headed back to the museum for a few more minutes until it closed.

As the museum closed and Amelia, Priya, Kristen (Priya's friend who joined us in Chicago), and I were getting ready to go eat some fantastic pizza, we started talking about which works were our favorites. I was quieter than usual, partially from being sick and partially from the awe of what I'd just experienced. I didn't quite know how to express myself. Even now I don't quite know how to express my experience that day. The more I thought about it, the more I was surprised at the works that I kept coming back to as the ones that I'd found impacted me most. 

These are they, listed in the order in which I saw them:

Nocturne: Blue and Gold--Southampton Water, James Whistler

Houses of Parliament, London, Claude Monet

Improvisation No. 30 (Cannons), Vasily Kandinsky

Untitled (Painting), Mark Rothko

Greyed Rainbow, Jackson Pollock

All images courtesy of the Art Institute of Chicago website

I wasn't necessarily surprised that I liked these works, but what I was surprised that in the end these were the ones that had had the strongest impression on me. As I've taken about a week to process it all and think about why these were the most impressive to me, I've decided that it comes back to motion.

As I walked the museum, my body was experiencing the motion of dealing with a nasty cold. If I hadn't been at the museum, that nonsymbolic cold-fighting-body motion would have likely have found its symbolic action in the form of me laying on my bed listening to Miles Davis' Kind of Blue. But I wasn't in bed; I was in an art museum. So art became the chosen symbol system for action.

I don't think I'm unique when I say this, but I am most impacted by art when it reflects life or casts light on what, to me, it means to live. (When I say "art" I mean that in the broadest sense, including literature, music, dance, and even natural landscapes.) I want to feel something and be changed as a result of my interaction with art. And I've realized that that is exactly what happened with each of these works.

As I contemplated so much of the history of art over the space of a couple hours, these were the paintings that made me feel. It was as though each of these painters had looked into the future and had been granted special insight into my soul at the moment I would see their work for the first time. And their skill was such that they had depicted the state my soul perfectly on their canvases. Even now as I look at these (frankly rather uninspiring) reproductions that I've copied and pasted into this post, I am taken back to exactly how I felt that Saturday afternoon. Words inadequately express what each of them makes me feel, even now.

Of the bunch, the most powerful for me was and is Pollock's "Greyed Rainbow." Somehow, despite the crowds that had been ever-present no matter where I went all afternoon long, when I got to "Greyed Rainbow" I was the only person there. As I stood in front of it, I was completely taken in. The painting seemed to engulf my entire field of view, and I felt like I was an integral part of it's chaotic movement. I felt myself ever-so-slightly swaying back and forth, and my vision seemed to focus and unfocus over and over as the painting washed over me. It was utterly mesmerizing. I don't know that I've ever before felt like I was so intimately connected to a piece of art. By this point in the day my body was achy all over and my head was hot and throbbing from what I knew was a fever. In that state this piece of art was the perfect symbolic representation (action) of my uncontrollable, nonsymbolic, bodily motion. That was one of the last pieces I saw before deciding I needed to get some medicine in me.

The motion of my body dealing with a cold changed my entire experience that day, and I'm glad for it. It wasn't exactly pleasant, but it left an indelible impact on the way I will forever view these works. There are definitely worse ways to spend a cold-riddled afternoon.



  

Always Do Right

When I was 14 years old, about a month or so after I received my Eagle Scout award, I was with Mom over at Grandma and Grandpa Anderson's house. I don't remember why we were there, but as Mom and I were getting ready to leave, Grandpa told us to wait a minute and he went downstairs to his study. When he came back up he held a book of his entitled Of One Heart: The Glory of the City of Enoch and a letter he had written for me on his typewriter. He proceeded to give them to me in his quiet, unassuming way. When I was a kid (and frankly to this day to some degree) I was pretty shy and often felt kind of invisible, but not in a bad way. I knew my family loved and cared about me; I just figured people never really took much notice of me because I was quiet. So when Grandpa made an effort to single me out and give me something, I was both surprised and really touched. I stumbled through the best "thankyou" I could muster (I really was an especially awkward 14 year old), and we were on our way.

The letter congratulated me on earning my Eagle, and went on to give me some advice about life. At the time I thought it was great advice that would help me survive my teenage years, and it was. I successfully navigated those treacherous teenage waters with what I think was modest success. But now that I'm on the downhill side of my 20s (first water and now hills? how's that for mixing your metaphors?), I've come to realize that the wisdom he imparted in his letter continues to have a very real impact on my life. I don't want to get into the details of his advice except to share one line that has always stood out to me:

"Always do right, no matter what the cost."

I think about that line a lot. Sometimes it gets stuck in my head and I repeat it to myself over and over again. (In fact it gets stuck in there almost as often as the chorus of King of Pain, except this is more uplifting.)

Today was one of those days when I have been playing it over in my mind a lot. So while procrastinating doing my reading for my composition theory class, I was fiddling around with Photoshop, and I made this:

I've never really done work with typography before, so it's not that great. Mostly I was just playing around with colors and fonts and seeing if I could adjust the kerning and whatnot.

Anyway, as I've been thinking about why I like this piece of advice so much, I've decided that, on top of it being applicable to nearly every moment of every day of my life, I like it because it pretty much sums up the kind of man Grandpa was. As his obituary says, "As a role model for his wife and children [and I'd add grandchildren], he was unsurpassed. His quiet, humble demeanor and unmitigated love was felt by all throughout his life. He was truly a man without guile." 

Grandpa Anderson is one of my heroes, and I try to pattern my life after his in many ways. The book and letter that he gave to me have become some of my most treasured possessions. I've read the book a couple times, and I've read and reread his letter many, many times. Grandpa passed away nearly 11 years ago now, and reading his letter - his encouragement to always live my life right - never fails inspire me and make me happy.

Sweet Tunes

Ever have those days when you absolutely cannot focus on the dense theoretical reading your supposed to be doing?

Me neither.

But if I did have those kinds of days I'd probably spend the time I was supposed to be using reading in finding and listening to awesome musics like this:



and this:



But of course I don't have days like that. I do my reading like a good boy.

Bill Watterson's Life Advice

We now take a break from our regularly scheduled blog programming for a word of advice from the maker of Calvin and Hobbes:

Text taken from Watterson's May 1990 Commencement Address at Kenyon College

Illustrated by Gavin Aung Than at Zen Pencils

Brief Reflection on My Last 13 Years of Life

I'm currently finishing up grading for the persuasive writing class I taught over the summer. Yes, grades are due tomorrow, which is what's really motivating me to work right now.

Anyway, as I've been looking over my students' writing, I read an essay that starts with a story the student tells about a friend who went off a jump on his snowboard trying to "gap" a stream up Big Cottonwood Canyon. Things didn't go as planned and the snowboarder ended up landing on his head on the far stream bank. The first thing the snowboarder said as he was being pulled out of the stream was, "I can't feel my legs." He'd broken his neck and severed his spinal cord.

Reading this account really struck me as it was exactly 13 years and one week ago that I lived a story that easily could have ended the same way. That fateful day in Island Park Idaho should have gone a lot worse for me than a ruptured spleen, a life flight ride, a week's stay in the Idaho Falls hospital, and two months off of school. Sometimes when I really sit down and think about what could have happened that day, and how different these last 13 years of my life very nearly were, I shake my head in disbelief. I could, and maybe should, have died. Or at very least been paralyzed as was this young man I'm reading about.

When I get to thinking about what I've done over the past 13 years, I can't help but be overcome with gratitude that I was afforded the opportunity to live out my life to this point as I have. All too often I don't recognize what a great blessing my life is. I thank God for preserving me as He has numerous times, though perhaps none as dramatic as that time with the ruptured spleen.

I don't mean this to come off as if I consider myself more loved or blessed of God than my student's snowboarder friend who wasn't as lucky as I. In fact I don't like that I just used the word "lucky" in that last sentence. That would imply that my outcome was/is somehow superior to his. The way I see it, God is an eternal being who knows us as our past, present, and future selves. The trials and outcomes we face in this life are a part of helping us become our best future self that is most like Him, which is to say that future self that is as happy and joyous and peaceful as God is. Life in a wheelchair is what that young man needed to help him along his way. Life on legs is, apparently, what I need. I look at the ups, downs, joys, and sorrows of the past 13 years, and I thank God for them and for the growth I have undergone and the improvements to my life and the way I live I've been able to make because of them. My life's experiences would have been drastically different had things gone differently that day 13 years ago, and I would likely be a very different person as a result. As it stands, I feel like I've made my way along the path God has laid out for me (painfully slowly at times), and hope that somehow I can carry on and continue becoming the man God would have me be.

This whole post may be nothing more than a collection of self-indulgent ramblings, and iff no one ever reads them that'll be fine by me. Maybe it's that it's quarter till 2 in the am and I'm feeling more contemplative than usual, but I needed to get this out. I wanted to somehow publicly thank God for my life.

Rejected 140-characters-or-less Self-Descriptions

I do crossword puzzles. with a pen.

If I could eat nothing but Kix and avocados for the rest of my life I probably would.

I think inside the box

Be excellent to each other. Party on dude.

I exude a mensch-y odium.

I've stood here before inside the pouring rain with the world turning circles running 'round my brain.

Blame it all on my roots; I showed up in boots.

I end sentences with prepositions even though it can lead to my being made fun of.

I read in the bathroom. Religiously.

My natural state is asleep; wakefulness requires conscious effort.

I do what I want.