on christmas lists, god, and the seahawks

some people hate christmas lists. they hate to write them and they hate to receive them. these people see the christmas list as a failure of knowledge and intimacy. they rightly point out that the purpose of gift-giving isn't to fulfill some need but to provide one another with meaningful tokens of our love and thanks and friendship.

i'm not one of these people. i suppose i'm a christmas list moderate.

i don't eagerly keep a list all year of the things i'd like for christmas and then postmark that list for the north pole on the fourth friday of november. and honestly, i never really know what to put on said list. but if my mom calls me up and asks what i want for christmas, i'll certainly oblige.

and as a giver, i really do want to light upon the perfect gift, the gift that would never find its way onto a christmas list. i want to give that very thing that will communicate a special bond between us, that will say, this is a gift uniquely from me to you, and it is awesome. because you are awesome. and i am awesome. and yes, we, together, are awesome.

but finding that special gift is hard. it's not something you can force. it comes to you like a poem, a word or phrase nestled in the rubble of otherwise useless dreams. and you may not know this, but most of us are bad poets. we mistake cutesy rhythm and rhyme or archaic verbiage for inspiration. we can't feel the imagery or themes outside the cage of our own skull.

and so, barring the miracle of the true muse or the true poet, the giver who undertakes a listless christmas may be giving just that, a listless christmas.

instead, i like to think of the christmas list as a tool. if you tell me you like bawdy limericks about snails or that red wheelbarrow poem by william carlos williams, i might still write a bad poem, but at least i'll know where to start. at least i won't be groping around in an infinite wasteland of content, imagery, and form.

so why the post-christmas post on christmas lists? well, mostly i wanted to write about my new kindle. but i got sidetracked by memory and discovery.

this year i mostly received gifts that were on my list, and perhaps some part of me, the christmas list antipath, i suspect, felt cheated by the absence of new poetry.

yet there were little surprises--the fingerless gloves were black, not wool; the e-reader was a kindle, not a nook. and both did the trick; both delighted me in the end--the fingerless gloves perfectly allowed me to adjust my temp when running the polar bear 5K on new year's day, and the kindle has pleasantly surprised me with how much i enjoy reading (and browsing) using its interface.

but above all, there was the unsuspected awesomeness of sharing in those gifts with the givers, in reading to my parents from my kindle as we trekked south to eugene, in accompanying my dad to a chilly wild-card playoff game at qwest stadium and high-fiving him ecstatically (while wearing those gloves) when marshawn lynch clicked it into beast mode, breaking eight tackles and stiff-arming his way to a sixty-seven yard run.

because, after all, what's more awesome than a crazy game that makes nfl and underdog history? what's more awesome than sixty thousand people losing their voices in praise of one thing? this is how i imagine heaven--a gift and an unbridled sense of exultation and joy. and no list could have scripted that.

my new book!

hey, everyone, i edited my first ever book! you can (please) buy it here or ask buy it directly from me.

and to add to the thrill of having a book published, image journal featured our book in their newsletter. whoohooo!

check it out:
Remembering the Future, edited by Chris Keller and Andrew David

Remembering the Future is a selection of works published in the last three years by The Other Journal, an online journal at the intersection of theology and culture. Included in the anthology are poems by the likes of Luci Shaw, Marjorie Maddox, and Paul Willis, interviews of contemporary thinkers such as Lauren Winner, Brian McLaren, and Charles Marsh, and essays on everything from genocide to pop music (including a piece by music writer and former Image intern Joel Hartse). The anthology charts a course across human transgression—poverty, rape, violence, genocide—into the iconography of contemporary culture—Borat, Britney Spears, reproductive technology, the ONE campaign. The book will naturally appeal to readers with a theological bent, but it does not remain in the realm of mere ideas. Rather, its contributors are interested in the ways that theology is incarnated in real life, here and now—in family and community; in politics, economics, and education; in works of social justice; and in art, literature, and music. In the preface, the editors articulate their vision that “authentic, redemptive Christian practice requires double-vision, that is, thoughtful engagement with both the biblical tradition and the cultural moment.” From a broad spectrum of creativity and theology, this anthology encourages us to rethink our comfortable paradigms in light of such thoughtful engagement. The contributors, including voices from the emergent church and the evangelical, Catholic, and mainline traditions, are not always in agreement with each other, and many of the pieces are provocative—a testimony to the diversity of perspective that The Other Journal values. The opening poem by Luci Shaw, “A Few Suggestions for an Insubordinate Idea,” sets the tone for the whole book, which seeks to goad and stir, to “fling / a glitter of ash over the ocean, pocking it like rain. / Ignite a burning bush. Transfix the universe. Then,”—and here’s the beauty of what Remembering the Future does—“having found a mind of your own, come home. / Burrow my brain. Be one of a neuron couplet / that breeds a host of your own kind.”

Click here to buy the book.

profanity, art, and toj

there's some great content up at the other journal. the current issue is on atheism.

also, i really like this poster.

but today i'm returning to an opus that i abandoned several months ago. the psychopathology issue of toj features the poem "hedonist's prayer,"a dark parody of the pater noster. the poem approaches the theme of moral depravity with harsh, honest language as the narrator confesses an appetite for "smut and sex" and an allegiance to "the satiation of desire." the poem even drops a participial adjective f-bomb.

so how does such a poem find its way into a christian journal that is primarily staffed by evangelicals?

there are several ways to approach the issues raised by "hedonist's prayer," but i'd like to deal with my mom first.

i expect that my mom would object most strongly to the profanity. indeed, i remember getting my mouth washed out with soap for calling someone stupid. at the time i was probably being naughty and belligerent in other ways too, but my mom used the opportunity to illustrate a biblical mandate for thoughtful, conscientious, and clean action. as the scriptures say:

do you not know that your body [e.g., mouth] is a temple of the Holy Spirit who is in you, whom you have from God, and that you are not your own? For you have been bought with a price: therefore glorify God in your body [i.e., with your mouth] (1 Corinthians 6:19-20).

and the lesson stuck. i don't cuss and i don't use profanity in my writing, and although i see the distinctions that separate some swear words from non-swear words as somewhat arbitrary cultural designations, i still cling to a belief that there is value to keeping my mouth clean, that this non-divisively sets me apart from a culture that could care less, that this somehow honors God.

my personal rejection of profanity is universal yet nuanced. there seem to be several uses of profanity, and although my personal usage has yet to waver, i recognize distinctions between these uses.

many people seem to use profanity as a normal character in their everyday alphabet. perhaps this pattern of usage supports the view that profanity is no longer profane because some pockets of culture have adopted it into the general lexicon.

yet here comes my mother again, thrashing her broom against those four-letter words, crowing that profanity is unnecessary, that there are better, more eloquent ways to convey one's meaning. were my mom an editor, she might say that when someone's sentences are peppered with profanity, they are falling into the trap of someone who uses like to convey every little thought or who has fallen exhaustingly in love with (nasty) adverbs.

and to this critique, the language lover in me raises his glass and cries, "cheers!" although creative writing that attempts to recreate a foul-mouthed dialect may succeed at realism, i hardly ever find it poetic. likewise, i'm not sold on literature that appears to have missed the copyediting desk--if it uses alternate spellings or attempts to excuse odd pronunciations with a boatload of apostrophes, it's probably not for me--and if the profanity is grating in its insistent repetition, it's probably not for toj.

others seem to use profanity to express anger, shock, or surprise--coffee in the lap, rat in the room, spouse in the doghouse. although these emotional outbursts share an authenticity with the first pattern of usage, they generally are accompanied with more oomph and pack a more powerful punch. if a character drops an anvil on his toe, a lone word can communicate a lot. when the anvil crushes the toe, it really isn't necessary for the character to say anything intelligible, but a brief curse certainly has more literary merit than a weak "ouch, that hurt!"

returning to paul's letter to the corinthians, i find that scripture seems to be speaking to precisely this kind of profanity, this harsh un-love-ly response to life lemons. personally, this is the point where i choose not to swear. but what about my characters? what about a poem in the editorial slush pile?

and finally, the occasional speaker of profanity seems to use their swear words literally, that is, their profanity means what it says. when profanity is used for the purpose of clear explication, when no other word conveys the same meaning as the ostracized word, i think this is where the editorial gates must open wide and begrudgingly let the word stay.

art and morality seem to be in a strange match of tug-o-war, and as a young editor, i'm caught in between, wondering how things turned out this way. if i truly believe that art is our way of communicating some sense of truth, of unconsciously channeling messages from the divine, how do i balance artistic integrity with moral integrity?

i don't really know, but i stand behind art like "hedonist's prayer," art that navigates the precipice of profanity with care, that uses every word to serve the purpose of the work without succumbing to shock and awe, and that seeks to show us something of ourselves, the world around us, and perhaps God.

my culturally savvy christian blurb and some words on poetry

the june 15 issue of imageupdate includes the s.o.'s reviews of sandra scofield's the scene book and michael mott's the world of richard dadd.

in addition to noting that she's reviewing two books, not one, i'd like to emphasize that mott's book is poetry. indeed, i'm particularly impressed when a fellow non-poet like the s.o. can pull that off. yes, i was an english major; i have scanned and explicated my share of strange poems, and i do all right in the comprehension department, but reviewing the stuff is beyond me. i feel rather inadequate when it comes to comparing the quality of one poem to another. i suppose prose is just my thang.

why all this attention to imageupdate? well, i also contributed to the latest issue, and it went something like this:

The Culturally Savvy Christian: A Manifesto for Deepening Faith and Enriching Popular Culture in an Age of Christianity-Lite by Dick Staub

There’s a good chance that the writer and social commentator Dick Staub is a secret apologist for Image. His newest book, The Culturally Savvy Christian, closely parallels Image’s underlying mission: it vigorously challenges readers to discern rather than idly consume, and more importantly, to nourish the contemporary culture rather than becoming pop culture clones. As the past host of a syndicated radio program, Staub has mastered the art of pairing people with ideas and watching them take off. This talent makes The Culturally Savvy Christian a particularly intriguing read: Staub collects facts and voices from sociology, theology, and pop culture and fits them into an insightful conversation about the devolution of culture and evangelicalism. He contends that most Christians, even those who travel in exclusively Christian circles, have been wooed by the forces of marketing and technology and have thereby fallen into an unconscious illicit union with superficiality and sentimentality. Staub dubs this blind self-centeredness Christianity-Lite, and he believes that to avoid a quiet backslide into mediocrity, we must get serious with our faith, sink deeper into the Word, and react to the world with intelligence and creativity. Some Christians bemoan culture’s vulgarities and believe that deepening faith requires us to withdraw into cocoons of Christian isolation and churn out happy-feely Christian art, but Staub warns us that this is not the way of Christ. Instead, he explains that like CS Lewis, JRR Tolkien, and Dostoevsky, “Christian artists are not bound to create religious art, but they understand that their exploration of everyday human occurrences is gilded by their walk in faith.” The Culturally Savvy Christian encourages us to peer through the pop culture fog, dismiss the fluff, and reach for the life-changing, the thoughtful, and the meaningful.

let me know if you want any more feedback about the book. i'd give it a 10 out of 17.

despite staub's criticism of marketing, i think his book succumbs to two marketing ploys: (1) every five paragraphs or so, he has a new section. this makes the text easy to digest, but it's a cheap writing technique. (2) staub loves to watchwords. he picks adjectives that seem heavy and laden with meaning and then he uses them again and again.

still, although i skimmed the meaty middle of the book, the culturaly savvy christian certainly succeeds in its overaching goal. it is an insightful depiction of the emergence and cure for christianity-lite.

an update on (some of the) craziness

good news, i found some corroborative evidence for yesterday's post. the bentleys are indeed making a cross-country trek (there are some cool pictures too). and, from the looks of things, paul seems lucid. mark (my roommate, friend of jed), had me thinking that paul's 'west nile virus' had progressed to the more advanced stages, including severe inflammation of the brain and a resulting semi-stupor.

now, speaking of brain inflammation, check out this "cold telephone" poetry--the first one's a mind-bender, but the cartoon haikus are a bit clearer (and funnier, and darker). just in case you're lazy and don't like clicking links, here's a sample (and please excuse the objectionable content, it's not mine...):

mickey mouse
my face is frozen.
i look excited when i
piss myself. i hurt.

ummm...so why the sudden interest in strange poetry from other blogs? well, if my google sleuthing is still spot-on, then i suspect that "mickey mouse" and cold telephones is the resting place of my childhood friend pj's 2003 poetry. and, in case you failed to commit sentence four of yesterday's post to memory, pj happens to be the son of the crazy (yet not entirely taken over by the mind plague of the west nile) wandering bentleys.

here's some more wanderers:

andrew david, andrew david, and beth the s.o. "romeo and juliet" central park, ny.

is it bad taste to speak lightly of an illness like the west nile virus? especially if paul actually had the virus? and what about 'haikus'? isn't that an odd plural word. it doesn't really work. you lose the ooh. i'm tempted to say "hi, cuz, long time no see." and, speaking of japanese poetry, i continue to despise photoshop (but not enough to convert to gimp--sorry, mark). it took hours and hours of wasted time to isolate the statue in that center picture. so the least that you could do to make my time seem a bit more valuable is to check out his left hand. is romeo being a bit naughty? actually, now that i look at it again...i think that's juliet's hand....okay, enough rambling....

the first essence [5]

here is the seventh poem from my unpublished anthology Poems Written in Brady's UCORE Notes at 3AMish ca 2001:

Theater of Hate
Thumb.
I bite it
At you.

beth and i are considering a cross-country road trip to attend danny warren's wedding. hoping to secure lodgings in spokane, i contacted the original inspiration for these poems, brady hatfield. brady seemed optimistic, but spokane is just the first pit stop; danny's wedding is in saskatoon, which means, according to brady, they might as well get married on the moon. that's a lot of driving. unfortunately, today's poem is not about weddings or driving. i'm afraid that might be a bit too sentimental. therefore, i have selected a poem that is perhaps the most raw of the anthology. it is a poem with teeth. it bristles in a way that the reader can't quite explain. with its economical style, the poem bypasses the analytical matter of the brain and races straight for that ancient primordial throne of anger. Theater of Hate is certainly not my favorite poem in the anthology, but it is the most dangerous. For more information concerning this poetry, please refer to my post entitled 'the first essence [1]' or other poems from this anthology (simply search 'first essence' in my blog).


beth the s.o. 'showering in the jungle.' yelapa, mexico.

i wish i had taken this picture. i really like the contrast of light colors on the left and the dark, almost silhouttey, figure on the right. and i love the two characters of water: the spray and the cascading drip from my face. and she captured a great facial expression; i'm not sure what it means, but it's certainly interesting. still, in this case i think i'd prefer to take a shower than take a picture of someone taking a shower, because it was sooooooooo cooooool to shower out in the open jungle!

the first essence [4]

Here is the fourth poem from my unpublished anthology Poems Written in Brady's UCORE Notes at 3AMish ca 2001:

DiGiorno
She is frozen
Locked in a box of frost.

perhaps by continually mentioning shaun alexander in the context of poetry i am unintentionally cheapening his poetic legacy. if this is the case, please forgive me, for i must make one final comparison. consider the nfl a symbol for the entire literary history of the world. within this bulging body of work, my anthology, Poems Written in Brady's UCORE Notes at 3AMish, would be best represented by the 2005 nfc champions, the seattle seahawks. and, stepping deeper into the anthology, one finds DiGiorno, the shaun alexander of poetery, the mvp. For more information concerning this poetry, please refer to my post entitled 'the first essence [1]' or other poems from this anthology (simply search 'first essence' in my blog).


andrew david. 'big fish' puerto vallarta, day 1.
check out his eyeball. i've always wanted to say that.

SEAHAWKS poetry

it may be lame, but in appreciation of tomorrow's big game, i'd like to recycle an old comment:

Lo, who, incidentally, i just met in-person at matt basinger's birthday party: tsk tsk. poetry and sports. interesting blog. you've made me think.

Andrew: and don't you think that its about time that football and poetry (even if it be my mock poems) finally

collide
what is poetry
if not the brutal
clashing of bones? words
mashed together

on the one-yard line
with a phrase (or two)
coming untucked.
syntactical shaun alexanders,
dashing for an endzone
of the sublime...

and, might i add, scoring many, many touchdowns on our way to detroit.

-------------
whitney -- i still haven't responded entirely to your message. instead, i've tossed stones at yet another conservative position by your friend with the bumper sticker. // patty griffin's love throws a line & ben fold's last polka.

the first essence [3]

Here is the first poem from my unpublished anthology Poems Written in Brady's UCORE Notes at 3AMish ca 2001:

Happiness Ceased
There are times when one might see nights
Days when sunshine takes flight like kites

..........oobleygoo

..........snocketyzoo

......................these marches on stale grounds
......................embark the dogs and mighty hounds

.................................like steps
...........................................like stairs
.........................................................up & down
...........................................from terrible heights

(its hard to know where to start a discussion with this poem. while it lacks the quick gut punch of the previous poems, i'm sure you'll agree that its a poem that sticks with you; like frosting stains from your wedding anniversary cake, it somehow evokes that strange yet lasting combination of frown and smile. such odd bosom buddies. now, in order to reduce the overwhelming amounts of fan mail that i anticipate from the unfurling of this masterpiece, let me answer a few questions right off the bat. first, i'm sure that many of you are wondering about the possible influence of george herbert on this poem. indeed, at the time of this poem i'd been studying herbert's use of carmina figurata and somehow fell under its hypnotic spell. second, while many readers may identify that lines 3 and 4 poke fun at Milton's mistranslation of Virgil, there are no direct quotes from either writer. and third, yes, i am still a bit upset that ben gibbard of the postal service failed to acknowledge me in his liner notes for the inspiration for his title track.)

For more information concerning this poetry, please refer to my post entitled 'the first essence [1]' or other poems from this anthology: Command.

the first essence [2]

Here is the sixth poem from my unpublished anthology Poems Written in Brady's UCORE Notes at 3AMish ca 2001:

Command
Spread your wings
Not your legs

(i really have no anecdotes to share about this poem. looking back, i think it may have been too revolutionary, too cutting edge for a conservative christian arts journal like Second Essence.)

For more information concerning this poetry, please refer to my post entitled 'the first essence [1]'

the first essence [1]

Unless I'm railroaded onto the topic of linguistics (and how they ruined the year 2003) or poetry, I have an overwhelmingly positive view of my alma mater. Let me explain those poetic misgivings. Seattle Pacific University is quite keen on encouraging students to pursue their vocation (in contrast to occupation). They see a student's time on campus as a four year spirit quest, but instead of wandering into the forest to find one's power-animal, its more of an academically christian pursuit. in any case, while on this path to vocational enlightenment, i was astonished to discover that my future lay in poetry. i was a poet laureate in waiting, tennyson with the touch of a smile: andrew, lord david. however (cue angry crashing chords), no sooner did i discover my poetic supremacy then my poetic dreams were dashed by the university's yearly arts journal. You see, the myopic editorial staff of Second Essence refused to publish some of my finest work. Thus, I was forced to pursue a life of Crime and Delinquency (or more accurately and long-windedly put: attend the class, acquire a sociology minor, and spend the next three years working with schizophrenics at a federal hospital). To spite this otherwise fine institution and to finally give my poems their due, I will periodically post my jilted verse here on the 17 point scale. These poems come from the unpublished Poems Written in Brady's UCORE Notes at 3AMish. It is unavailable in stores, but please feel free to contact me if you are interested in signed copies of any of the poems.

Here is the third poem from this anthology:

Goose
White, frosted flakes
Raise high, swiftly

(an interesting anecdote: this poem so moved me that i later took to using the term 'goose' as a curse word of sorts. i wish you the same touching experience)