In Between Here and There Is War

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.

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.

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.