Faithful is a dirty word to me.

You used your breath to buy me food.
Breath = Food.
I would rather have gone hungry.
Now your breath is cut, your reach short.
Breath = Time.
Your hand is no longer dangerous.

Why am I still angry at you?
Anger = Time
I have been angry for too long.
I fed myself upon anger,
Anger = Food
vomited it out, and chewed the cud.

You were once young and full of hope.
Time = Hope
A boy remembers all on the river.
Hope of future kingdoms lingers.

I see it
The not yet is now.
Some heavenly lake,
blue to the bottom.
You paddle alone.
Each stroke shoots you 3 rods.
Adonis in a canoe.

Time + Love - Anger = Hope

Minnesota Necessary

You can't say "Yes, please" until the third offer. It doesn't matter if your stomach started digesting itself half an hour ago and the smell of her fresh banana-nut bread has reached the furthest corners of the room; I'm sorry, you'll have to wait it out. Don't worry, it's not like that third offer won't come around in a minute here, but don't get ahead of yourself or your host. Be nice. This is Minnesota.

A few months ago I recall making a conscious decision to forgo Minnesota Nice. It wasn't an experiment, there was no trial period in mind after which careful analysis would be made and objective conclusions reached; it was just a resolution to be honest. It wasn't because I was upset with our system of excessive courtesy; I just figured that we both knew that the first two "no"s really meant "yes, but not until you ask me again". Really, I mean, when was the last time someone offered, then after the second "oh, I couldn't... are you sure?" changed their mind and said, "yeah, now that I think about it, you can't have what I just offered." I wasn't looking to be rude, just efficient.

So I had decided: "When Wayne, Tyler and I finish our gallybusters and Wayne offers to cover the tip, I'm not going to argue or jostle for position, I'm just going to let him do a generous thing. I'm still going to sincerely express my thanks for his kindness, but I'm going to skip the part where I say, 'No no no, Wayne. I've got it, let me.' Were I in Wayne's position, I'd rather just be allowed to leave the tip without a fuss. I wouldn't have offered if I didn't really want to."

This process of cutting out the superfluous and obligatory niceties worked fine with Wayne; we think alike, we know each other well enough to be confident that no offense will be taken because it's common knowledge that the other wouldn't, and won't in the future, hesitate to do the same. This whole cut-to-the-chase thing was looking promising.

I began accepting favors and compliments and beers simply by saying "yes" the first time, despite the fact that my habitual response required at least two more steps to get there. Consequently I began feeling freer to offer my own services, compliments, rations, etc., because I subconsciously assumed that others had repented of their Nice ways as well.

So in the spirit of cutting out the fluff and getting to the point, here it is: it turns out that this doesn't work at all. Not here. Before long I started viewing myself as rude, presumptuous, even self-righteous for accepting generosity without first saying, "Oh no, I couldn't possibly accept."

This accidental experiment brought me to a few conclusions:
A. Minnesota Nice is no myth.
B. It's not superfluous flattery. (Well, not always. Granted, sometimes I engage in a good old fashioned Midwest nice-off simply because I feel the need to come out on top of the heap when all the compliments are done piling up.) But really, for the most part when we say "Oh, no, I couldn't... Are you sure? I don't want to put you out... Well, alright, if you insist." we're saying the exact same thing as those who may drop the "yes, thank you" bomb in 3 quick words or less, our passive-aggressive language just requires more time to get there. We, whether by nature or nurture, go about all things indirectly.
C. I will be Minnesota Nice. Sometimes.

Mobile

Some background:

I'm in the deep south where people regularly eat crawfish with sides of hushpuppies. And have winter jackets on even though it's almost 60 degrees. And pronounce words like "St. Charles" in a way that sounds more like "St. Chaaaawles."

My brother Jonah lives in the 15th poorest county in the nation. There are a lot of shacks, trailer houses, $2.99 shrimp baskets and Waffle Houses around this part of Florida. He drives a Saab.

We went to Mobile, Alabama for Mardi Gras on Tuesday. We could've driven two hours more for the experience in New Orleans, but settled for Mobile, which boasts being the site where the original Mardi Gras was started some 250+ years ago. We know nothing about Mobile or its neighborhoods. We're white Minnesotans who shudder at the thought of separate drinking fountains. We've been singing "We Shall Overcome" since elementary school with hands clasped and silhouettes of Martin Luther King hung obediently by our desks. And so we ended up on the corner of Government Street and Washington. We were the only white people there in a crowd of thousands.

And so:

We're in this place, watching black marching bands and elaborate floats go by. Sweet kids with weaved hair, collecting Moon Pies (it's what they throw from the floats) and gobs and gobs of purple, gold and green beads. A man with a straight set of gold teeth befriended us - his name was James - gave us the commentary the news anchors usually give us. Each of those floats represent a different society - a Krewe. They're all masked, they all have their private balls tonight and you have to be invited to be in with the Krewe. The Krewes are all white. Usually wealthy. Under their masks, their sparkly costumes say "KOR" (Knights of Revelry). We found out later that they began allowing black Krewes in the late 30's, but they couldn't use the same parade route as the white Krewes until 1994. They're still not in the same parades.

I kept looking around at all these people, wanted to ask with wide eyes and hand motions, "What do you think of this? Are you OK with this?"

At the turn of the 20th century, 50% of Alabama was black - all from slavery. As I looked around at the crowd surrounding us five, sore-thumb Scandinavians, I could not stop thinking about this. These people are descendants of slaves. Their grandma-grandpa family trees look like people getting sold here and working to death there. Not knowing real last names and one of heck of a road of poverty to work out of. And we found out later that somebody was shot two blocks down during the parade.

We got gobs and gobs of beads, too. 52 strings. One string whipped in our direction hit my mom in the teeth. She thought she lost a frontie. A black woman walking by told her "You gotta watch out for those - they sure send them flyin'!" My mom's eyes involuntarily watered. She said "thanks." We collected Moon Pies. And drove back to Pensacola in a Saab.

Oscar the Grouch eats an ice cream sandwhich. A hymn in the style of Tom Waits.

My life blows on by
like terrestrial garbage minus meaningful graffiti
Is that your hand upon my thigh,
or are you trying to tell the time by
the way I twitch?

If you tell me I'm not real
I'll interrupt you and insist
Oscar the grouch eats an ice cream sandwich
and spits out the pits.

Don't you take that tone with me son.
haven't you heard by now?
that you're the only one
with the real keys,
the real (expletive deleted) keys.

If you tell me I'm not real
I'll interrupt you and insist that
Oscar the grouch eats an ice cream sandwich
and spits out the pits.

Have you ever heard the saddest song?
It's the one that no one hears
though it's played the loudest by
Nursing home ladies in knee boots and silk stockings

If you tell me I'm not real
I'll interrupt you and insist that
Oscar the grouch eats an ice cream sandwich
and spits out the pits.

I dream about your teeth weekly
they stare and spit while you sit and knit
still Oscar the grouch eats ice cream sandwiches
and he spits out the pits.

She Is For The Weak and Wise

SHE is for the weak and wise.

HER, no clever coy disguise.
My sense of safety risks no rise

From SHE or HER colorless eyes.

It wasn't SHE who, all alone,
Ensnared my heart to forge HER throne.
SHE did not shatter all I'd known,

But MEGHANN splintered hope like bone.

I did not throw myself at SHE
Just to recoil instantly.
SHE uttered no heart-scouring plea,

But ANNIE bore the tragedy.

HER kiss was not the sweetest grace

That my naive young lips would taste.

Not HER green eyes did thoughts displace,

But I was lost in KALI's face.

SHE is for the weak and wise.

In dreams of HER no danger lies,

But through a name, lips, hands and eyes

Real hurts and hopes I realize.

I was listening to Bull Black Nova off the latest Wilco album on the way to church this afternoon, and I was struck at how little instrumentation there is at times in that song. This got me thinking about what I was going to blog about (These days most things are becoming fodder for blogging, only I never remember what my thoughts were when actually I sit down to write).

Most people can't verbalize what makes music good. They can't tell you why they like it. They'll say, "It's got a good beat" or "the melody is really catchy". This is, of course, very true. And their inability to ascertain any more distinct reasons than that is no fault of theirs. I understand that there can only be a certain amount of nerdy people in the world who love to think about what makes music good...if we were to tip the balance, we would awaken the dark god of music snobbery and soon wars would be fought over which Death Cab for Cutie album is the best (it's Transatlanticism) not about world's remaining natural resources.

Here's what I'm mulling over. What makes music sound good, disregarding personal taste or genre? Ok, I'm not going to even attempt to come up with a totally unbiased and complete list. I'm simply going to focus on the absence of sound.

Initially, silence is the reason we like sound. The ability to string differing sonic pitches together in a pleasing way was perhaps God's greatest gift to us. That and Jesus. He's pretty great too.

But I would suggest that the use of silence or an absence of sound within a song is often what really draws us. Dynamic, crescendo, and decrescendo are what makes a song interesting to listen to. A couple of years ago a crew from Vineyard Music National paid us a visit and lead a workshop on worship leading. To illustrate the point that musicians on a worship team should listen to each other and consider how what they are doing is fitting into whatever sound the team is trying to create, the VM team began to all play as hard as they could for the entirety of a song, all playing at 100% volume, no change between chorus and verse. It was exhausting to listen to one song like that, let alone an entire set. After two songs of that, I would be done. I would lose interest, and become disengaged--I'm talking purely in a musical sense here.

When the quiet part of the song comes I find I'm drawn in more, I'm grabbed and I want to listen for what instruments are playing and how they will gather momentum again. When I talk about doing this with my weekend worship teams I'll call it "giving the song room to breath". It's a chance for the listeners to take a collective sigh. And this principle is true whether you are playing with an entire orchestra or playing solo at a coffee shop. We do not need to fill up the all the sonic space with sound. When a band or artist does that I find myself very bored with their sound.

I think I could write more but I am already late, so I will end with this. When creating music learning to musically edit yourself is worthwhile.

Runner Sled Sonnet

How long I pause upon that lofty hill

Until my courage summoning I give a kick

And swim out from the slow into the quick

Runners hum and bite, deck sings, snow spits and fills

Mittons, glasses fog, a quickly wiped spectacle

Lean hard! shift, scrape rocks and sticks,

A sudden jolt and brief flight nearly flicks

Our hero, but for my grip and steely will.




Freedom! In that moment pure

Danger married to delight, and laughter

Bubbles out, I fly across the fen

It is such heady wine and sure

Enough, The ditch! road flying under, and after

Coming to a rest, hoist my steed, and climb again.