Sad Songs and Waltzes Aren't Selling This Year

Okay...nobody freak out. I thought of a sad song today and it made me think, "What are the saddest songs ever?" So I've put together this little list. Your contributions of what you think is a sad song are always welcome.

"Running Dry (Requiem for the Rockets)" (Neil Young)

"A Man Needs a Maid" (Neil Young)

"Where's the Orchestra" (Billy Joel)

"Fred Jones (Part 2)" (Ben Folds)

"Goodbye to Love" (The Carpenters)

"Rainy Days and Mondays" (The Carpenters)

"Hurt" (Johnny Cash...not the original Nine Inch Nails version)

"Eli the Barrow Boy" (The Decemberists)

"Another New World" (Josh Ritter)

"Mad World" (Michael Andrews & Gary Jules)

I almost hate to include "Another New World" as a sad song, but it is mournful and beautiful. It is an amazing song. If you haven't heard it you must find a way to check it out.

Ch-, Ch-, Ch-, Changes

I may not be Ovid, but I've written a series (if you can call two a series) of short stories on the theme of Metamorphosis. I hope you enjoy and let me know what you think.

Another Story

There are a million fish in the ocean, but in a swampy bog off the coast of Louisiana only a handful of fish resided. There were many reasons for this: the fear of alligators, the murkiness of the water, the above-average warmth of the water. Amongst this handful of fish, two herrings, Rhett and Ol' Blue, swam their days away. The two had been best of friends since their early days in the school, and on several occasions Ol' Blue had rescued Rhett from certain death at the end of some fishing line.

The two would often have the other fish in stitches with their unique talent. Rhett would start a sentence, and Ol' Blue would jump right in and finish for him. Sometimes it was ridiculous and silly, but other times it was downright eerie, for everyone could tell that it was as if Ol' Blue had read Rhett's mind.

One day a funny looking fish swam by. Being the kind and generous boys they were, Rhett and Ol' Blue took to protecting the awkward little thing and spent as much time as they could with him. Especially Rhett. He learned the fish's name was Bo, and he learned that Bo had a completely different way of doing everything. When Ol' Blue had chores to do and couldn't be with them, Rhett would find him later in the day and tell the funniest story of how Bo actually jumped out of the water and flopped around on dry land--something Ol' Blue would never even dream of.

As you might imagine, before long it didn't feel like Rhett, Ol' Blue and Bo. No, it seemed like Ol' Blue didn't fit in the picture any more. Mostly it was because he didn't like Bo. Bo's scales had never fully developed, and so he looked and felt odd. And maybe he was a little touched by the sun, but Ol' Blue could swear that every day Bo's flippers looked longer and his tail looked shorter. But the clincher for him was when Bo's death-defying antics became all too regular, and his jumps onto dry land lasted longer and longer.

So one day Ol' Blue swam up to Rhett and asked him what it was he liked so much about Bo.

"I'm not real sure," Rhett responded. "He sure is different, though."

"Different! I'll say! Look at him just sitting on that log there. How does he hold his breath that long? I mean it just ain't natural for a fish to be out of water like that."

"Yeah, ain't he a hoot!" Rhett said.

"He might as well hoot for how weird he looks," Ol' Blue answered. "What manner of fish do you suppose he is, with his smooth, green skin and them awful spots? And how is it his flippers fold up and tuck under his body like that?"

"Ah...you just don't understand him," Rhett told his friend. "He sings these beautiful songs and jumps across the water almost like he's flying for a little bit."

"You call that croaking singing?" said Ol' Blue. "And we can jump, too. But he don't jump up out of the water, he jumps across it. I'm telling you, it ain't natural."

Ol' Blue decided he better study Bo and see what he was like. Of course it didn't take long, but with a little study he learned that Bo wasn't a fish at all, but a big, fat bullfrog. He didn't understand why Rhett couldn't see the differences between the two of them, Rhett being a fish and Bo now changed out of his fishy state. But if Rhett liked a frog, well Ol' Blue was going to be more like one himself. After all, he missed his old friend.

While Rhett and Bo frolicked about, Ol' Blue fashioned some legs out of branches floating on the bog. He figured out a way to wrap and tuck his tail so it almost looked like it wasn't even there. Finally, and most difficult of all, Ol' Blue learned to overcome his fear of land and wanted to try flopping up on it to impress Rhett.

One day as Rhett and Bo were holding a "Swamp Olympics", Ol' Blue readied himself. He heard them talking about the course for the next race, so he swam ahead and positioned himself for them to come by. He strapped on his prosthetic legs and tucked his tail, then sat and waited. In no time at all he could hear their voices coming, so he swam as fast and he could and leaped as far as he could onto a bumpy little island with tufts of swamp grass. The problem was, when the other two raced by, they didn't see or hear him, but just raced away. Ol' Blue began to panic. He gasped for air to call out their names, but there was none. He tried to use his new legs to hobble back into the water, but they were awkward and only held him down. Finally, he flopped and trashed, but it was no use.

As the darkness closed in on his terrified mind, on final thought flashed through. "So this is what they mean by, 'A fish out of water.'"

Winning, Towels, and Family

Winning and losing. Keeping score. Maybe I'm just a competitive guy, but any personal interaction can feel like a head-to-head. Comparisons are made and I attempt to find in what arena, or in how many, I am superior to another person. That's pride--I struggle to keep it in check. But relationships can be similar. Keep track of what happened: perhaps it will be worth making into a highlight real. Count the score: you have to know where you stand, if you're getting ahead. Make sure you come out on top; make sure you win.

It turns out that is type of thinking is diametrically opposed to the mind of Jesus. Take a fleeting glance at his life, and you will see giving, serving, sacrificing. "Love keeps no record of wrongs." That is why it is hard to be like Jesus. Not because it's complex--it's surprisingly simple--but because it is so divine.

I recently re-listened to a podcast of Selected Shorts entitled "Figuring It Out." The story there is one of my favorite short stories of all time, Ron Carlson's, "Towel Season." It's very apropos because it takes place in summer suburbia. What I enjoy almost as much as the story is an interview with Ron Carlson at the end of the reading. His life motto is, "Make haste to be kind." I love that his stories reflect hope and intentional kindness. He says of his motto, "There's no time to waste. If you have to cross the street [to be kind], do it."

Would I rather "lose"? It's so hard to choose kindness and love sometimes--you feel like you're giving up so much of yourself to do it. They cost. They don't give a glorifying sense of victory. There's no vindication in them. But they are right. They are good. I guess in the end I choose to be the "loser." I hope in doing so I'm choosing to be like Jesus.

"Happy families are all alike. Every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way" (Tolstoy). Poor Anna Karenina. How tragic to live the life of duplicity and heedless chasing after the wind. But don't we all do it? Don't we all "fight [Jesus] for something I don't really want" rather than to "take what [He] gives that I need"? We just hope that somehow there won't be train wheels waiting to crush us at the end. I confess that I spent years of my life doing it. I repent of being a poor leader and a distracted follower. We all must jump off those tracks of selfishness--it's easy enough to look down the line and see where they lead--and follow the new course Jesus offers. I somehow don't think there are rails for that path. I think it sometimes feels like you are pulling the entire train's cargo through the sand to follow him, but even the struggle (at moments of true clarity) seems worth it.

A Story

Many people have heard the tale of Pygmalion, but they have been sadly misinformed. I knew the artist well and have heard his own account of the now well-known events. Here before you are his very thoughts, told to correct the error and share his woeful story.

The workshop resounded with dull thuds and resonant clangs as the hammer hit the chisel. Many a day Pygmalion would leave at sunset, joyful for the productivity, but with hands numb from the vibrations carried through his chisel. He would take the short walk home, often thanking the gods for his talents and savoring the beautiful Mediterranean breeze that sweetened the corpuscular hour.

At home, he was greeted by his adoring wife. She was a beautiful and diligent woman, always hard at work when he arrived at their house. Some days he would walk over and kiss her gently while she continued to work. Others, he would rush about the house, excitedly talking about the day's creation as he prepared a meal for them to share. She was not an artist, but always listened politely and when she did see a finished statue she would praise Pygmalion for his giftedness and the beauty of his work.

These habits continued for many years, until Pygmalion's wife began to wonder what life in the workshop was like. She began following Pygmalion to work in the morning. She pulled a chair into the corner, away from the shower of falling marble, and watched intently as he worked. After days and weeks, she was no longer perturbed by the chips of stone, nor by the dust and noise. She drew her chair closer and closer, desiring to be more a part of Pygmalion's creation.

Pygmalion reveled in his wife's attention. He lavished affection on her, often making sculptures for her or dedicating them in her name. With her in the studio he had a ready model and began posing her for works he was making. It is true that some evenings she would rub her hands and complain of an almost arthritic ache, but these occurrences were so rare and separated by so much time that he thought very little of it. When her hands ached, he pulled her to his side and rubbed them gently with his own calloused, scratched and bruised fingers.

This was a time of flourishing. The statues Pygmalion created were adored by the public. His wife now regularly stood on a model stand right next to the block of marble Pygmalion was carving. Once Pygmalion glanced at his wife while swinging his mallet and missed the chisel entirely, crushing his hand beneath the blow. They rushed home together, bound up the hand, and sat together gazing at the sky while the sun dipped below the edge of their beautiful island.

In the morning, Pygmalion told his wife he would stay home for a few days to let his hand heal. She responded that she would still like to go to the workshop, perhaps to tidy up or just to ensure that no one bothered his things while he rested. Pygmalion consented and watched his wife walk away. When he finally retuned to the workshop, Pygmalion felt something unusual. The workspace was the same. His statue was as he left it. Even the mallet that had done so much damage still felt comfortable and familiar in his hand. He worked through the day, though he took more breaks to rest his hand, and at sunset began to walk home with his wife. She stepped down from the platform and stiffly walked to the door. Pygmalion's trained eye could see a slight difference in her form, though he could not tell what he was perceiving. That whole evening she seemed less herself, rigid and cold. He asked if her hands were hurting her and began to rub them. She did not respond, but he could feel a tremendous tension in the muscles of her hand. Even his hardened digits could feel the stoney flex of her frozen fingers.

In the morning, they returned to the shop. As Pygmalion's wife climbed onto the model stand, he watched in disbelief as the dust from the floor of the studio swirled around her feet and began clinging to her peplos. She stared at him and did not seem to notice, striking a pose instead to prepare for the day's work. His wife's toe peeked from beneath her clothing, and her noticed not only how pale it was, but the rich luster it had. He reached for her garments and slapped at the dust to shake it away, but he stubbed his finger as it bounced of the granite folds. The dust of the room rose higher up her thighs. He rubbed and smoothed, shooing the dust away, but her once supple flesh was replaced with unbending stone. He began to sob, feeling her arms, her breasts, her elegant neck, and at last her soft cheek. He caressed her cold flesh, trying to tell her how he loved her and staring into her eyes for some sign that she understood. In an instant, all light was gone from her eyes. All that remained were the dull, white orbs of a statue.

To be sure, Pygmalion did love a statue. Certainly, a metamorphosis did occur. But the story of Pygmalion is not a comedy; it is a tragedy.

The Best Ever

I was recently contemplating the big questions in life, and I had to stop and ask myself:

What is the best movie ever?

The best movie to depict a conversation about "the best ever" is "City Slickers" (they talk about their best days and worst days). I watched that scene today, but that is not exactly where I was going with this.

Perhaps my favorite movie of all time is "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind." Not on the top of many peoples lists, I would venture to say. But its uniqueness, its humor, its poignancy all combine together to make it an amazing film. (Of course, timing is everything; often my "favorite" reflects what is most significant to me "right now".)

And as I thought about it more, I would say that the viewing experience I enjoy the most has just the right mix of humor and poignancy. I'm not sure "poignant" is always the right word. Sometimes it's more about what is true. It's light and funny, and yet weighty and rings of the terrible beauty that comes with living. "City Slickers" is like that. "Eternal Sunshine" is too. I just recently watched "Punch Drunk Love" again and LOVED it (again). It does such a good job of creating a mood and delivering a message in a unique and creative way. My favorite TV shows off all time do the same. "Scrubs" is hilarious, but J.D. always "learns" a valuable lesson about life. "Ed" brought together law and bowling--a moral compass mixed with a laugh track.

So here's to life: serious and heavy at times, but always mixed with a little bit of joy.

The Long and the Short of It

Summer can be an endless stream of undifferentiated days, but it can also be a mad dash of time between one school year and another.

This is the dichotomy I live with each year. There is so much to be done during the summer: plan for the next school year, paint, complete projects, etc. Yet in another sense there is so little to occupy the time, and there is pure bliss is just bumming around the pool, traveling, and relaxing.

So here we are, two weeks into summer vacation. It feels like a lifetime ago that I had to work. It feels like the summer has just begun. But the dates betray the fact that the summer is speeding along. If I take into account dates that have already been "committed" to activities or trips, the summer is already almost over. But then that's the way it usually goes.

A Confession

May I make a (perhaps startling) confession to you, dear readers?

I have never in my life sustained the practice of daily prayer, for any one person or thing, nor simply for the experience itself.

As a Christian this is a shameful thing to confess. Admitting to our shortcomings, however, in some way takes the shame away and robs the devil of the power to hold it over our head. I've had several conversations with friends about prayer in the past few weeks. At the heart of the matter, I believe, are two intellectual objections I have never been able to get beyond.

1) I do not know how it works.

This must be due, in large part, to the fact that prayer is a great spiritual mystery to begin with. But I struggle with many aspects of the inner-workings of prayer. How do prayer and providence work together? How does my sin affect my prayer? Is prayer really about asking God to give me what I want (he's probably a bit better as a judge of what I need and what is best in the universal scheme of things)? But is praying "your will be done" the only thing I can do, or does God also hear and move and respond to our requests? Being an all-knowing God, is there great need in me praying every day about the same thing...of which he is already aware and working on? The questions seem endless.

2) The lure of the novel

This is the name I give to a deep-seated desire I find at work within me. When given a choice between the commonplace or ordinary and the new and the fresh, I almost always choose the novel. As a child my father often said, "variety is the spice of life" and now as an adult I have apparently taken its meaning to be "novelty is the spice of life." While this guiding principle is not always true, it certainly makes repeated, daily prayer more of a challenge.

I am saying all this because I was challenged at church this morning that the very act of connecting with God, abiding in him, is transformative. I want prayer to be something transformative in the world at large: lives changed, events altered, the power of God brought to bear for me in my life. And, incidentally, I am often like Veruca Salt: "I want it now." What I was reminded of this morning is that the effect is very often within me, and often any discernible effect will require patience to notice.

Just moments ago I read something about C.S. Lewis in a book, and he told a friend that daily prayer for that friend felt a little like short meetings despite their geographic distance from each other. That's a beautiful picture I can get behind. I then jumped online to look for some information on Lewis's book, "Pilgrim's Regress" and read of an exchange between Lewis and his friend. His friend asked, "When will you write your next book" and Lewis's response was, "When I understand prayer." I guess in a sense it's comforting that others have wrestled with this subject as well, and at the same time have practiced what they could not fully understand.

I've started lifting weights again after the accident, and determined to gain back some weight that I had lost. As I read more about weight training, I was reminded that so much of it has to do with diet. A friend told me once, "You can't out-train a bad diet." I say all this because even though I didn't fully understand the correct way to lift or to gain muscle mass when I was a younger man, I still lifted weights. I drew pictures before I fully understood value and color. Part of living and growing is doing, and progressing as you go.

So I am resolving to make a list (I almost shudder at the thought) and pray daily. It may be the most horrible way to go about counteracting the problem, but it will be something. I simply feel I can no longer neglect something so important and blame it on ignorance.

Incredible Historic Document

By no means is hoplesslyuncool as valuable as a real historic document, such as the Declaration of Independence. I mean only that it is an extremely helpful reference that I can use to look back at my own life history.

This morning I was scrolling through old posts, as far back as 2006. My post "Subterfuge" seems more relevant and accurate today than it did five years ago. I notice familiar patterns in my thinking, and in the events that were happening around me. I see a former view of myself--what I thought was anemic and spiritually weak seems stronger than I am today...like I've wasted away to become the man I am now.

What will the next five years hold? From my perspective today, they seem very scary and uncertain. So much will happen. Who will I be when I emerge in half a decade? Only time will tell.

A Rare and Unique Creature

Let me begin by saying that I am not in the habit of snapping pictures with my camera phone while lounging at the local pool. I know, I know...just by having to declare that I make myself somewhat suspect, but nevertheless I am not THAT weird.

But what I encountered today simply had to be documented. The mere description of such a marvelous beast would defy credulity to such an extent that I was afraid no one would believe me without some type of evidence. Sitting right next to this beautiful specimen made it all the more difficult to take its photo unaware, but with a little patience and much craftiness, I was able to do so.

Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you: Poolside Business Dad.

This breath-taking natural wonder can be easily identified in its natural habitat by its distinctive markings, resembling business slacks and dress shoes. Just...stunning.

P.S.--

You may be thinking to yourself, "Bold move, sir." But you should have seen his previous two attempts. They raised quite a few more eyebrows.

Mission Accomplished

This is how I started the day:

And this is how I ended it:

This is only a 4"x6" card. It's only colored pencil. It's far from perfect. But it's a major success in many ways.

1) My summer "return to painting" invariably puts me back to work on a canvas started months if not years earlier, and while I'm knocking the rust off and relearning everything I've forgotten I manage to ruin what had started out as a decent painting. Consider the rust knocked off.

2) Color mixing is a challenging thing. The colored pencil practice won't translate directly to painting, but it puts me back in that mindset.

3) I successfully completed a goal. I told myself I would finish this little card TODAY. When I calculated (each square/pixel takes 4-5 minutes to duplicate. There are 400 total squares. The total time, then, is close to 33 hours) that became a daunting task. Half of that (as seen in the first picture) had been completed over the course of the last two school years. Still, I forced myself to get back into disciplined time in the studio, and close to seven hours later I had done what I set out to do.

4) I saw the torture to which I was subjecting me students. This is an assignment for my Draw 2 class. I noticed this year that the completion rate for the project was way down, and the success rate was smaller still. Knowing that the value in learning to see and mix color was necessary, I used that motivation to justify the project, even though I knew kids were hating it. Having finished my own, and having forced myself to work on nothing else for hour upon hour, I can see how monotonous and tedious it is. Sure, it's valuable...but man was it a pain.

5) I think I'll change the requirements for the project this coming year.

6) I set the tone for the summer. Summers tend to fly by. I'm usually a couple weeks in before I ever start painting, and then after a couple weeks I need to start thinking about school again. This year I'm trying to be more balanced. I've already done some school work, and I refused to let the first days of the first week escape without getting some art done.

Tomorrow I'm off to the Dallas Science and Nature Museum to sketch bird specimens and take photos for a project I've been dreaming about doing for several years. This will be a preliminary step, and I'm not sure I'll start working on that painting this summer (it will be massive!), but I'm excited about two "art days" in a row.