To catapult your image into our inane and inept culture is so easy at first, your first volley successful; and so attractive too, but, as you cross the moat and enter into the layers of the fortress of "life" you realize that the victory would be so much less easily won than you planned at the outset. Allies fall, wounds mount, the fight becomes expensive on so many fronts. And so the siege begins. On the one side our world stands firm, behind it darkened walls, all the intrigue so desired, hidden behind the shadow of fire and pain; on the other side there is you and your army of curiosity, desire, and flesh torn up from fighting unknowingly for the enemy, yet for themselves. the paradox of selfishness and our culture: the thing you seek is the thing you serve.
and at night, when all the lights go down, and all you see is fire and all you hear are the painful cries of your own heart arguing against your mind as strategy is invented, the moment comes. a final volley, a final attempt---or, or, maybe your better side will win out, and, just maybe, you'll reverse field and crawl away, your attempt at getting in swallowed up by your realization that there is something more real than whats inside that castle of our world. and you will raise up your army of thought, reason, and faith and seek out a more true victory. Seek a castle where the doors are open, just waiting for the inquiring mind, the inspired soul, the faithful heart, to cross the moat and enter. A castle built on cornerstones of truth, of beauty, of life; Paved with heaven's hope, decorated with the jewels of eternity's Joy. Which castle will you barrage? Which victory do you desire? Which battle are you fighting?
There's one to win, and one to lose. And tommorrow's hope depends upon your choice.
Monday, October 24, 2005
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
Riverstages. Column I
The Old Guys Did It Best
By: D. Andrew Kern
Capra, Hitchcock, Bogart, Hepburn, Welles, Brando, “Citizen Kane”, and “Casablanca”, the names roll off the tongue much like Emerson, Kipling, Fitzgerald, and Lewis might, amazing in their own right and remembered by a few loyal fans, but largely forgotten by much of young America. It is a sad truth that such greatness is only remembered by connoisseurs of film and movie history, people who know intricate details of cinematic progress, and not by the simple moviegoer, the average American; for in not knowing these great stalwarts of immense talent they are surely missing out.
Without understanding how Orson Welles’s Citizen Kane influenced modern cinematography and photography, or how the character development of the suave Humphrey Bogart changed the typical models of character analysis and portrayal, and how his classic film “Casablanca” challenged all the old ideas of script writing, how can today’s moviegoers truly appreciate what they see on screen?
I suppose some may say, in response, that it doesn’t matter if they understand, who cares if we are educated moviegoers, why can we not just pay our 10 bucks and enjoy the film as it stands on its own? Well first of all because no movie today, just stands on its own, just like no album by Switchfoot, Kanye West, or Kenny Chesney stands on its own. Sure, every artist brings their own creative flair to their product (or at least it is reasonable to hope they do), but no artist, in any industry, is completely un-influenced by past greats.
This is certainly true in literature as well. The great writers of past generations are too easily and too often forgotten, their words fading away into the pages of high school textbooks and outdated editions, their ideas obscured and confused between library woodworking and bookshop shelves. And this is a great injustice to the dignity of their work. Their words ought to be thought about, discussed, enjoyed, and most importantly, read. To banish the great writers of past generations to categorized realms of disinterest is to cheat the newest generations of readers of a great wealth of thought, imagination, and revolutionary concepts. In so doing we are, ultimately, banishing our own minds from realms of wonderment and amazement.
And so, I say the old guys got it right. Let’s bring them back. Let’s remember what they did. Let’s use their talents to better understand how to make movies, how to write; lets not cheat ourselves of the great wealth we can have.
That’s what I propose to do in this column, to review, in the truest sense of the word, what the “old guys” did, review the old classic films and books, the actors, directors, and writers. The worlds they created and the characters they brought to life. Let’s talk about Casablanca, Hitchcock, Fitzgerald and the rest. Because the “old guys” truly did do it best.
By: D. Andrew Kern
Capra, Hitchcock, Bogart, Hepburn, Welles, Brando, “Citizen Kane”, and “Casablanca”, the names roll off the tongue much like Emerson, Kipling, Fitzgerald, and Lewis might, amazing in their own right and remembered by a few loyal fans, but largely forgotten by much of young America. It is a sad truth that such greatness is only remembered by connoisseurs of film and movie history, people who know intricate details of cinematic progress, and not by the simple moviegoer, the average American; for in not knowing these great stalwarts of immense talent they are surely missing out.
Without understanding how Orson Welles’s Citizen Kane influenced modern cinematography and photography, or how the character development of the suave Humphrey Bogart changed the typical models of character analysis and portrayal, and how his classic film “Casablanca” challenged all the old ideas of script writing, how can today’s moviegoers truly appreciate what they see on screen?
I suppose some may say, in response, that it doesn’t matter if they understand, who cares if we are educated moviegoers, why can we not just pay our 10 bucks and enjoy the film as it stands on its own? Well first of all because no movie today, just stands on its own, just like no album by Switchfoot, Kanye West, or Kenny Chesney stands on its own. Sure, every artist brings their own creative flair to their product (or at least it is reasonable to hope they do), but no artist, in any industry, is completely un-influenced by past greats.
This is certainly true in literature as well. The great writers of past generations are too easily and too often forgotten, their words fading away into the pages of high school textbooks and outdated editions, their ideas obscured and confused between library woodworking and bookshop shelves. And this is a great injustice to the dignity of their work. Their words ought to be thought about, discussed, enjoyed, and most importantly, read. To banish the great writers of past generations to categorized realms of disinterest is to cheat the newest generations of readers of a great wealth of thought, imagination, and revolutionary concepts. In so doing we are, ultimately, banishing our own minds from realms of wonderment and amazement.
And so, I say the old guys got it right. Let’s bring them back. Let’s remember what they did. Let’s use their talents to better understand how to make movies, how to write; lets not cheat ourselves of the great wealth we can have.
That’s what I propose to do in this column, to review, in the truest sense of the word, what the “old guys” did, review the old classic films and books, the actors, directors, and writers. The worlds they created and the characters they brought to life. Let’s talk about Casablanca, Hitchcock, Fitzgerald and the rest. Because the “old guys” truly did do it best.
Monday, October 03, 2005
Yellows, greens, golds,blues, and whites, and acts one to the end. the greatest play write of them all.
Quietly the yellow grass, tall from the long summer and the rainstorms of the past months, blew serenely in the light breeze. The wind whispered to the tree, tall and kingly, Lord of the field. The tree responded with a royal bow, its branches gave a regal curtsy, in acquiescence to the sentiment expressed. It wore a brilliant crown, that stately arbor did, it’s colors changing as seasons conceded to each other. Its cloak was colored in browns and grays, its décor intent on camouflage, though alone as it was, camouflage was hardly a likely possibility. High above, across a deep blue sky, as if adopted by a Tar Heel, a striking cloud, looked down intently as it journeyed to another place, this sky its highway to a greater destination. Its speed was never great though not so slow as if to cause much consternation. This sky was glad to have another visitor; it now could share its tea with more than just the sun. Together the three, in dress of blue and gold and white, contrasting delicately would share those middle hours and renew old friendship as grass, wind, and tree were doing just below.
I came upon this little scene, breathtaking as it was, when, once upon a morning’s dew I’d set out for some silence. To my dismay I walked through market, queue, and neighborhood, the things of life and busyness arming my continued discontent. ‘Bout noon I sat upon a bench, sun bleached and painted by the violent discontent of others with whom, though I’d never met, I still identified. My head into my hands fell; disappointed with my unsuccessful attempt at finding some sort of tranquility. But I was hardly ready to give in. And so, from my seat I gladly rose and my journey again began, my persistence soon rewarded.
Not long afterwards I came upon this quiet field, this place of contentment and satisfaction. I felt as if I’d walked upon, accidentally, a scene from heaven’s Globe, a stage set, characters prepared, first line in mind, and director waiting to give first cue. The colors danced daintily, exquisitely, elegantly before my starving eyes. I stood; my senses enveloped in the scene, my unrefined soul in awe, and admired the movement of the actors. The noiseless tensions, the silent action, relationships prepared with utmost care, the scene was witty and clever, dramatic and vivid, a love story from ages past. The script was written with a flawless hand, penned with ink from paradise, each transition, each high, each low, was composed with angelic melodies in mind. The harmony of all that stood upon that stage was matchless, burning into me a peace of heaven. My own dull world, my place, my home, my existence meaning less and less each moment of my visit.
But all good things must end, and soon another world was calling- my market, queue, and neighborhood. I left, my vision stored away, my dream kept in a quiet place, and I understood that the best, the greatest things in life are quiet things, which speak no words and never argue, which never look in jealously upon a neighbors own, which exist, alone, no matter who is looking on. The greatest things are the silent, little things, the visions of heaven, the dreams of paradise, the raptures of bliss. And I will go back often… I will go back often. I will go back, for I know that in doing so I am worshipping the greatest play write of them all.
I came upon this little scene, breathtaking as it was, when, once upon a morning’s dew I’d set out for some silence. To my dismay I walked through market, queue, and neighborhood, the things of life and busyness arming my continued discontent. ‘Bout noon I sat upon a bench, sun bleached and painted by the violent discontent of others with whom, though I’d never met, I still identified. My head into my hands fell; disappointed with my unsuccessful attempt at finding some sort of tranquility. But I was hardly ready to give in. And so, from my seat I gladly rose and my journey again began, my persistence soon rewarded.
Not long afterwards I came upon this quiet field, this place of contentment and satisfaction. I felt as if I’d walked upon, accidentally, a scene from heaven’s Globe, a stage set, characters prepared, first line in mind, and director waiting to give first cue. The colors danced daintily, exquisitely, elegantly before my starving eyes. I stood; my senses enveloped in the scene, my unrefined soul in awe, and admired the movement of the actors. The noiseless tensions, the silent action, relationships prepared with utmost care, the scene was witty and clever, dramatic and vivid, a love story from ages past. The script was written with a flawless hand, penned with ink from paradise, each transition, each high, each low, was composed with angelic melodies in mind. The harmony of all that stood upon that stage was matchless, burning into me a peace of heaven. My own dull world, my place, my home, my existence meaning less and less each moment of my visit.
But all good things must end, and soon another world was calling- my market, queue, and neighborhood. I left, my vision stored away, my dream kept in a quiet place, and I understood that the best, the greatest things in life are quiet things, which speak no words and never argue, which never look in jealously upon a neighbors own, which exist, alone, no matter who is looking on. The greatest things are the silent, little things, the visions of heaven, the dreams of paradise, the raptures of bliss. And I will go back often… I will go back often. I will go back, for I know that in doing so I am worshipping the greatest play write of them all.
Monday, September 26, 2005
life is fragile
Life is fragile, lest we forget, read this link:
http://sports.espn.go.com/ncf/news/story?id=2172623
Everyone should read this link. its a great story. I know some of you may see "espn" in the link and shy away, but its not a sports story as much as a human interest story. Read it.
It's amazing how fragile life is, any day any of us could be diagnosed with cancer, or die in a car crash, or be terribly scarred for life in an accident. Where does your faith lie? When it's all said and done, and when the fat lady has finished her last shrill note, what will happen to you?
Consider.
http://sports.espn.go.com/ncf/news/story?id=2172623
Everyone should read this link. its a great story. I know some of you may see "espn" in the link and shy away, but its not a sports story as much as a human interest story. Read it.
It's amazing how fragile life is, any day any of us could be diagnosed with cancer, or die in a car crash, or be terribly scarred for life in an accident. Where does your faith lie? When it's all said and done, and when the fat lady has finished her last shrill note, what will happen to you?
Consider.
Sunday, September 25, 2005
A Question On My Heart
Consider...
What does it mean to be a christian? In a culture where 80 percent of it's citizens claim eternal security and heavenly citizenship and yet is permeated with idolatry, things such as sex, cars, and food being specific idols, how can we know what it means to be a true christian?
well, as for me, when an unbeliever asks if i am a christian i want to be able to say this: ''if, by christian, do you mean someone who loves their Lord and wants to be like Him and follow Him with all my heart and life, then yes i am a christian, for their is no other definition worth considering.'' And indeed, what other type of christianity is worth pursuing? Chrisitianity ought to be about relationship and as such a relationship with Christ ought to be permeated, in contrast with our society today, with servanthood and a constant gaze upon the throne of heaven from eyes desiring to truly see the Beauty of God.
Do you claim to be a christian?
If so, do you desire to be like your Lord, and are you willing to enter into servanthood and gaze upon the ever beautiful throne of grace?
consider.
What does it mean to be a christian? In a culture where 80 percent of it's citizens claim eternal security and heavenly citizenship and yet is permeated with idolatry, things such as sex, cars, and food being specific idols, how can we know what it means to be a true christian?
well, as for me, when an unbeliever asks if i am a christian i want to be able to say this: ''if, by christian, do you mean someone who loves their Lord and wants to be like Him and follow Him with all my heart and life, then yes i am a christian, for their is no other definition worth considering.'' And indeed, what other type of christianity is worth pursuing? Chrisitianity ought to be about relationship and as such a relationship with Christ ought to be permeated, in contrast with our society today, with servanthood and a constant gaze upon the throne of heaven from eyes desiring to truly see the Beauty of God.
Do you claim to be a christian?
If so, do you desire to be like your Lord, and are you willing to enter into servanthood and gaze upon the ever beautiful throne of grace?
consider.
introspection
Have you suffered from a bad bout with self-introspection. I live that way. Constantly watching myself, feeling almost as if im outside of myself, and yet im not able to actually to get outside of my own skin. I tend to question my motives for most things, to wonder if im sincere. I can be annoying as...well something very annoying at times.
And though i watch myself i still tend to need glasses at times, for things get slightly blurred occasionally.
confusion unbounded release your control.
help me review from somewhere besides outside my soul.
And though i watch myself i still tend to need glasses at times, for things get slightly blurred occasionally.
confusion unbounded release your control.
help me review from somewhere besides outside my soul.
Monday, September 19, 2005
Number One
C.S. Lewis once wrote a wonderful little book about a man journey through the afterlife. Frm the outset the man is standing on a queue, in the rain, ready to board a train that would eventually take him on the beginning of a journey beyond any man's wildest imagination (except Lewis's apparently). I chose ''At the Queue'' as a name for my blog simply to remind myself that in my writing i too want to always be waiting to journey heavenward, to always be prepared, and to allow for such travel in my writing, thoughts, and imagination. How glorious a thought to be reminded that as writers and communicators we can, in some small way, near the throne of grace as we glorify God through what we put into our writing. I pray that i truly do glorify my maker in what i put forth for you all to read.
I can promise that you shall often see Lewis references of all kinds, Chesterton referalls, and reviews of literature and music. I hope to be creative and to create something that you will want to check out every now and then and i hope i don't drift into drivel and self righteous worthlesness. There is nothing more porous and disgusting than a writer obsessed with himself and worse yet, his own writing. If i enter into such banter let me know.
And so i sign out.
Enjoy the Blog.
I can promise that you shall often see Lewis references of all kinds, Chesterton referalls, and reviews of literature and music. I hope to be creative and to create something that you will want to check out every now and then and i hope i don't drift into drivel and self righteous worthlesness. There is nothing more porous and disgusting than a writer obsessed with himself and worse yet, his own writing. If i enter into such banter let me know.
And so i sign out.
Enjoy the Blog.
Sunsets and Canvas Art hidden behind systems and formulas
Your life is but a passing phase, a dying candle, a brilliant, yet short lived sunset, an addiction in remission, a canvas blotched and smothered by incompatible colors, a cathedral full of beauty and lore rotting at it’s cornerstone. And so am I.
I am a paradox. And I am a paradox not of good and evil or truth and lies or love and hate but of me and me. I am the paradox of humanity. For what I am is what I’m not, and what I’m not is what I wish to be.
I’m built upon a block of rubber hopes, controlled by hinges of fate repressing and suppressing my ever, loosening grasp on hope.
And I feed on a sort of mental grass which instigates a sort of brain fart for I am intellectually malnourished.
I have not left my home. Nor shall I leave my room.
And one and one equals two is all that makes sense, and all I’m hearing is that if I do that then this will happen, and if I push this then that will happen and that is a bad thing to have happen, and if I do this that way then both this and that will happen, and those are good things to happen. And I’m being thrust into programs and systems.
And I’m afraid.
And with each passing phase a candle dies, I wonder when Hanukah begins. Or rather, when it ends.
And I wait for light to creep out of the east as I battle my own internal prison wards and there’s a picture lacking an artist, the colors need rearranging- but at least I have system and programs. I think sarcastically. I think. At least I think. I think to myself.
And I have not left my home, nor shall I leave my room. For perhaps in here I can avoid being real, and yet remain real in the only sense in which I actually enjoy functioning. I can revel in reality devoid of fact but steeped in truth, lacking in data but complete in knowledge, and lost to the world but found to…..
And I’m so alive when I’m not eating grass. And I can breath when I’m spending all of my time remembering and recounting the things which are really real….to…..
Me. I’m simply me, a simple ''dude'' locked in his own home, locked in his own heart, starving for something to build up an intellect…and I’ve got grays and blacks and reds and blue’s like the sky and the water, and I just need an artist to put it all together…
And then there’s you...and me and you and me together, and we’ve long ago forgotten to rely on systems cause they’ve failed us before, and we’ve counted all the times that we’ve forgotten who we are, but counting is our first mistake and we forgot to wait. To simply wait. Cause its so much more real than systems. Faith. The Realest of all words.
And You could paint me, make my blues like Yours and my reds like You. And make me colorful, like a rainbow from Your home.
And then there’s you and me. And I’m alive again, and its all real again.
And formula is not the answer cause it can’t answer questions asked by heart.
AND FAITH.
And this simple "dude", has cracked his door.
But they’ll NEVER get in!
And FAITH…
Is soo real tonight.
I am a paradox. And I am a paradox not of good and evil or truth and lies or love and hate but of me and me. I am the paradox of humanity. For what I am is what I’m not, and what I’m not is what I wish to be.
I’m built upon a block of rubber hopes, controlled by hinges of fate repressing and suppressing my ever, loosening grasp on hope.
And I feed on a sort of mental grass which instigates a sort of brain fart for I am intellectually malnourished.
I have not left my home. Nor shall I leave my room.
And one and one equals two is all that makes sense, and all I’m hearing is that if I do that then this will happen, and if I push this then that will happen and that is a bad thing to have happen, and if I do this that way then both this and that will happen, and those are good things to happen. And I’m being thrust into programs and systems.
And I’m afraid.
And with each passing phase a candle dies, I wonder when Hanukah begins. Or rather, when it ends.
And I wait for light to creep out of the east as I battle my own internal prison wards and there’s a picture lacking an artist, the colors need rearranging- but at least I have system and programs. I think sarcastically. I think. At least I think. I think to myself.
And I have not left my home, nor shall I leave my room. For perhaps in here I can avoid being real, and yet remain real in the only sense in which I actually enjoy functioning. I can revel in reality devoid of fact but steeped in truth, lacking in data but complete in knowledge, and lost to the world but found to…..
And I’m so alive when I’m not eating grass. And I can breath when I’m spending all of my time remembering and recounting the things which are really real….to…..
Me. I’m simply me, a simple ''dude'' locked in his own home, locked in his own heart, starving for something to build up an intellect…and I’ve got grays and blacks and reds and blue’s like the sky and the water, and I just need an artist to put it all together…
And then there’s you...and me and you and me together, and we’ve long ago forgotten to rely on systems cause they’ve failed us before, and we’ve counted all the times that we’ve forgotten who we are, but counting is our first mistake and we forgot to wait. To simply wait. Cause its so much more real than systems. Faith. The Realest of all words.
And You could paint me, make my blues like Yours and my reds like You. And make me colorful, like a rainbow from Your home.
And then there’s you and me. And I’m alive again, and its all real again.
And formula is not the answer cause it can’t answer questions asked by heart.
AND FAITH.
And this simple "dude", has cracked his door.
But they’ll NEVER get in!
And FAITH…
Is soo real tonight.
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