The night
Hath been to me a more familiar face
Than that of man; and in her starry shade
Of dim and solitary loveliness
I learned the language of another world.
- BYRON
I don’t suppose I’m the only one that thinks this – that as I’m wandering back to my room after a long night of study, and my eyes stray casually to the sky, and there are all the stars, that I think I’ve been rather unfair to night. It’s the same as when you decide to sleep outside for some strange reason (because actual sleep is hard to come by in those situations) and forget the rugged wildness of the night sky. As a child I felt afraid of the dark, though it wasn’t really the dark I was afraid of. It was this great big terrible sense of the unknown. How could I be sure, as I would dash up the stairs late at night with nothing but a dark void behind, that some monster or raving lunatic wasn’t pursuing me? Why would I insist on igniting a chain of lights throughout the house as I went to bed, moving from light switch to light switch, terrified of crossing through even the briefest space of darkness?
All this to say that I’ve grown up with a sort of resistance to the night, when actually it is a thing of its own special beauty. Edward Young wrote that by night an atheist half believes in God. According to the psalmist, the heavens declare the handiworks of the Lord. It is in the dead of night, as we are granted a glimpse of the far field of heaven above, that it becomes so clear, in an almost childish way, that God is real and He is ruler.
So of course I had to propose this question to a friend of mine: will there be night in Heaven? He didn’t seem to think so, the most obvious reason being that the Light of God would bathe all things in radiance, and never would we dwell in the sort of obscurity night provides, that great absence of light. And here is my pondering, that if we can truly say there is Beauty to be seen and appreciated in night - in the ethereal otherworldliness of moonlight, the awesome infinitude of starlight, even the strange and wonderful fading of things into dusk – then is that simply a temporal pleasure God has provided us with on Earth, and never intended to last beyond our death? Is night simply a celestial complication, a mere consequence of our planet’s rotation? I believe with God there are no coincidences, that He could have simply created our planet stationary, with no need to turn itself or turn its path about the sun. But then – we wouldn’t get to experience the night. Or maybe the fact that half our lives are spent in darkness forces us to appreciate the clarity and beauty of the day, of the sun, of the light that makes all Nature known to us, unobscured and beautiful. Think about it.
Friday, September 24, 2010
Saturday, August 21, 2010
Concerning His Image, as well as Monkeys
If any of you reading this have ever attended Grove City College, then you will have been inundated with the term “Imago Dei”. Were it possible that such an interesting topic could wear thin by continuous talk, then I would be positively sick of it. But here’s the thing – it is just too intriguing of a thing to shelve as old news. Sooner or later a believer in the Christian faith should encounter this idea (or is it a doctrine?): that we have been created in the image of God. That in some mysterious way, we reflect the visage of our Creator.
There are any number of good theories and explanations surrounding the idea. Could it be our creative instinct that marks us as God’s image bearers? After all, only a human being could compose a symphony, or transform a blank piece of canvas into a masterpiece. Could it be our compassion for others? Altruism flies squarely in the face of Darwinist thought – any organism interested solely in its survival (and thus the passing of its genetic material) would never deny itself in order to help somebody else. Or is it our instinctive notion of the unknown, the metaphysical, the spiritual realm? The existential question that whispers at every human heart, the deep-seeded belief that there is a greater power and authority?
All these things, I believe, speak to the image of the invisible God. To oversimplify it, humans are special. I think it was Lewis who said the best way of perceiving something supernatural within the natural world was to look at another human being. While the body is certainly mortal, the soul is immortal – and that is altogether a wonderful and terrifying thought. The soul carries with it an eternal destiny. This is the closest Christianity comes to a Humanistic idea – that men are indeed special, and are the great wonders of the natural world.
What baffles me is the link humanists strive to form between their own ideas and that of Charles Darwin, who I see as an anti-humanist. Darwin admitted that his theory allowed for no greater purpose, no ultimate design to the world – an atheistic, purely physical explanation of how everything appeared from nothing in an accidental, naturally-occurring fashion. Humans, then, are simply another animal. The best of the animals, to be sure – after all, we somehow managed to evolve into an ordered society while the rest of our ape brethren languished in the primitive jungle. But we see here that Darwinism culminates in an utter degradation of the human being.
Do you think you’re special? Well I’m sorry to say that you’re not. Nothing is special – in fact, let’s just eradicate that word, “special”, because it serves no purpose any more. And while we’re at it, let’s get rid of “purpose” as well. Though mankind has fashioned his own society, broken scientific barriers, and edged the closest to understanding and creating beauty than any other organism in the brief history of time, it’s all a colossal glob of meaninglessness. With no God, there is no image of God, no purpose to the human existence, no special uniqueness or beauty to the human condition.
But with God, there is Hope. And let’s not forget that God chose to clothe Himself in the likeness of a man, the greatest compliment to our race that ever existed, and lived the lowly human life – the life of a so-called crafty ape – in order to bring about the ultimate message of Hope. Because you see, though Christianity may tend to glorify man’s nature, it simultaneously denounces us as lovers of the flesh, haters of good. No man is righteous. All have sinned. A seeming paradox – man is beautiful, unique, the Imago Dei – and he is the scourge of the earth. A slave to corruption and evil. Man is desperately in need of redemption, and thank God we have already been sent a Redeemer. I believe some day, when we may walk with God in His city as His newly fashioned children, we will fully understand what exactly “Imago Dei” means.
Until then, we are all of us simply guessing. But God knows it’s fun.
There are any number of good theories and explanations surrounding the idea. Could it be our creative instinct that marks us as God’s image bearers? After all, only a human being could compose a symphony, or transform a blank piece of canvas into a masterpiece. Could it be our compassion for others? Altruism flies squarely in the face of Darwinist thought – any organism interested solely in its survival (and thus the passing of its genetic material) would never deny itself in order to help somebody else. Or is it our instinctive notion of the unknown, the metaphysical, the spiritual realm? The existential question that whispers at every human heart, the deep-seeded belief that there is a greater power and authority?
All these things, I believe, speak to the image of the invisible God. To oversimplify it, humans are special. I think it was Lewis who said the best way of perceiving something supernatural within the natural world was to look at another human being. While the body is certainly mortal, the soul is immortal – and that is altogether a wonderful and terrifying thought. The soul carries with it an eternal destiny. This is the closest Christianity comes to a Humanistic idea – that men are indeed special, and are the great wonders of the natural world.
What baffles me is the link humanists strive to form between their own ideas and that of Charles Darwin, who I see as an anti-humanist. Darwin admitted that his theory allowed for no greater purpose, no ultimate design to the world – an atheistic, purely physical explanation of how everything appeared from nothing in an accidental, naturally-occurring fashion. Humans, then, are simply another animal. The best of the animals, to be sure – after all, we somehow managed to evolve into an ordered society while the rest of our ape brethren languished in the primitive jungle. But we see here that Darwinism culminates in an utter degradation of the human being.
Do you think you’re special? Well I’m sorry to say that you’re not. Nothing is special – in fact, let’s just eradicate that word, “special”, because it serves no purpose any more. And while we’re at it, let’s get rid of “purpose” as well. Though mankind has fashioned his own society, broken scientific barriers, and edged the closest to understanding and creating beauty than any other organism in the brief history of time, it’s all a colossal glob of meaninglessness. With no God, there is no image of God, no purpose to the human existence, no special uniqueness or beauty to the human condition.
But with God, there is Hope. And let’s not forget that God chose to clothe Himself in the likeness of a man, the greatest compliment to our race that ever existed, and lived the lowly human life – the life of a so-called crafty ape – in order to bring about the ultimate message of Hope. Because you see, though Christianity may tend to glorify man’s nature, it simultaneously denounces us as lovers of the flesh, haters of good. No man is righteous. All have sinned. A seeming paradox – man is beautiful, unique, the Imago Dei – and he is the scourge of the earth. A slave to corruption and evil. Man is desperately in need of redemption, and thank God we have already been sent a Redeemer. I believe some day, when we may walk with God in His city as His newly fashioned children, we will fully understand what exactly “Imago Dei” means.
Until then, we are all of us simply guessing. But God knows it’s fun.
Friday, July 2, 2010
Books = Life. Computers = Death. Also, the A-Z Song Project
Okay, that post title is a bit dramatic. But not as dramatic as my computer's struggle to survive two nights ago. My computer wasn't even ON (well, it was in sleep mode) when it was suddenly and without provocation ambushed by a dastardly virus. The virus, cleverly created by a few loser hackers out to prove themselves, posed as antivirus software and proceeded to block me from my internet browser and all other necessary programs, all the while in (what I can only imagine) a mocking tone telling me "your computer is infected with spyware! Please activate anti-virus software!" I'm aware of the situation, VIRUS.
To make a long story short, a friend of mine was able to debilitate and destroy the virus before it got out of hand, but there was a brief period when I thought my laptop was a goner, and for those few minutes I sat in mourning. And then I thought to myself, "this is truly ridiculous."
You might ask why it's ridiculous. Once upon a time people kept hard copies of things they found valuable. Entire families, sometimes five or six generations, would wipe the dust off the ol' family Bible, which was the single heirloom due to its eternal significance. Scrapbooks used to be in vogue, I'm not sure if people still make them. Regardless, important things could actually be physically touched, stored away or dramatically unveiled. Not so anymore. While most of my important documents are backed up on an external hard drive, there were still a few stories I had written and music I had bought that I hadn't permanently saved yet. And they almost slipped away. People used to mock me for taking all my class notes on good ol' fashioned looseleaf notebook paper, instead of tapping away on a laptop ("but Brendan, it's SO much easier.") I'll stick to paper, thank you very much. Barring fire or flood, it'll probably last me longer than an intangible file on a microchip.
Not that this is entirely related, but I did write the word "music", and I'm using that as my justification for transition. I'm pretty sick and tired of putting my iPod on shuffle and watching it fail miserably (its idea of "shuffle" is to pick a few artists and jump back and forth repeatedly, sometimes playing four or five songs from the same freaking album). Back when I was sold out for Facebook I even made a group about it. It still bothers me, though. I then realized that if I just select "songs" and play through my entire music library alphabetically, I'll get a better shuffle. I mean, REALLY random things show up, which is the whole point, right?
Anyway, I've embarked upon a new adventure. I usually only listen to my iPod in my car or on breaks at work, but I've started listening to my songs alphabetically. My goal is to go all the way down, numbers to "Z", without skipping any. Mind you, I've allowed myself a loophole - I can change the song after a minute and a half if I REALLY dislike it - but other than, I'm plugging on through, and it's been fantastic. I highly recommend it.
But yeah, computers TOTALLY = Death.
To make a long story short, a friend of mine was able to debilitate and destroy the virus before it got out of hand, but there was a brief period when I thought my laptop was a goner, and for those few minutes I sat in mourning. And then I thought to myself, "this is truly ridiculous."
You might ask why it's ridiculous. Once upon a time people kept hard copies of things they found valuable. Entire families, sometimes five or six generations, would wipe the dust off the ol' family Bible, which was the single heirloom due to its eternal significance. Scrapbooks used to be in vogue, I'm not sure if people still make them. Regardless, important things could actually be physically touched, stored away or dramatically unveiled. Not so anymore. While most of my important documents are backed up on an external hard drive, there were still a few stories I had written and music I had bought that I hadn't permanently saved yet. And they almost slipped away. People used to mock me for taking all my class notes on good ol' fashioned looseleaf notebook paper, instead of tapping away on a laptop ("but Brendan, it's SO much easier.") I'll stick to paper, thank you very much. Barring fire or flood, it'll probably last me longer than an intangible file on a microchip.
Not that this is entirely related, but I did write the word "music", and I'm using that as my justification for transition. I'm pretty sick and tired of putting my iPod on shuffle and watching it fail miserably (its idea of "shuffle" is to pick a few artists and jump back and forth repeatedly, sometimes playing four or five songs from the same freaking album). Back when I was sold out for Facebook I even made a group about it. It still bothers me, though. I then realized that if I just select "songs" and play through my entire music library alphabetically, I'll get a better shuffle. I mean, REALLY random things show up, which is the whole point, right?
Anyway, I've embarked upon a new adventure. I usually only listen to my iPod in my car or on breaks at work, but I've started listening to my songs alphabetically. My goal is to go all the way down, numbers to "Z", without skipping any. Mind you, I've allowed myself a loophole - I can change the song after a minute and a half if I REALLY dislike it - but other than, I'm plugging on through, and it's been fantastic. I highly recommend it.
But yeah, computers TOTALLY = Death.
The Product of Late Nights and Romantic Goofiness
Tonight I dreamed, as they say, a little dream.
Once upon a moment in time,
Once in the daguerreotype world of grays and half-shaded lines,
The two of us were whole and imperfect.
We were colors saturated in a strange hue.
Your hair was done-up, which I know is unlike you
And I had brought you flowers, which is quite unlike me.
As lovers we seem the sort of thing a child speaks,
Silently, in his little smile before the laugh.
We take an eternity to dissolve a minute in our gaze,
Moving slow, in waltz-steps, to negotiate a sigh
And capture the longing in a breath.
The gentle fingers of our souls stretch
Towards the other in a brushing,
Yearning gesture – they’re simply touching
The surface of a glance.
The flowers sit upon the floor
As if you always meant them to, really,
Since we have both forgotten them.
Remember me when you awake and the light
Of the world tips its difficult head to yours to draw a kiss,
And you coyly turn away.
Think of me still when the sun is looking in upon your bed,
And you wish against all wishes to stay there,
And never get out of bed and drink your coffee
Or do anything, ever again.
Perhaps the dream may beat on after all,
But only in real ways, and we can finally meet.
Or maybe I will merely return to sleep.
Once upon a moment in time,
Once in the daguerreotype world of grays and half-shaded lines,
The two of us were whole and imperfect.
We were colors saturated in a strange hue.
Your hair was done-up, which I know is unlike you
And I had brought you flowers, which is quite unlike me.
As lovers we seem the sort of thing a child speaks,
Silently, in his little smile before the laugh.
We take an eternity to dissolve a minute in our gaze,
Moving slow, in waltz-steps, to negotiate a sigh
And capture the longing in a breath.
The gentle fingers of our souls stretch
Towards the other in a brushing,
Yearning gesture – they’re simply touching
The surface of a glance.
The flowers sit upon the floor
As if you always meant them to, really,
Since we have both forgotten them.
Remember me when you awake and the light
Of the world tips its difficult head to yours to draw a kiss,
And you coyly turn away.
Think of me still when the sun is looking in upon your bed,
And you wish against all wishes to stay there,
And never get out of bed and drink your coffee
Or do anything, ever again.
Perhaps the dream may beat on after all,
But only in real ways, and we can finally meet.
Or maybe I will merely return to sleep.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Awesome
awe•some
–adjective
1.
inspiring awe: an awesome sight.
If one were to spend several long days writing out a list of the truly great and tragically overused words in the English language, “awesome” would undoubtedly rear its head near the top. I’m guilty of letting it slip, often as a synonym for “cool!” or “that’s really great, man!” Wrong-o. This word is so much better than that.
In my heart I know there is only one thing worthy of this description. It is not the staggering sight of the mountains at sunset, or some laughing waterfall, or even the brilliant zenith of starlight at night (though that’s getting close). No, “awesome” was designed to describe El Shaddai, the Lord Almighty, our Abba Father. Yahweh. The One who began all things, and in whom all things will come to an end.
A close friend and I were talking the other night about the awesomeness of God, and just how scary He is. Take a moment to think about it. We would like to picture God as a kind-faced, benevolent old man, almost like a grandfather. The fact that we’re picturing God as anything really speaks to the finite nature of our human imagination. God is a wild, intangible, incomprehensible Being. “You cannot see my face, for no one may see me and live.” (Exodus 33:20). God is the perfect embodiment of Love and Power, wielder of the might of the entire universe. In the blink of an eye He could take everything away, cast the earth out of its orbit, blot out the sun, destroy all of humanity in a matter of days (as He once did). Humbling thought.
Imagine how Moses must have felt, slowly scaling the mountainside at Sinai, his skin rippling with the waves of God’s anger, burning against the Israelites for their idolatry and wickedness. Moses had to face Yahweh to speak for his people – even to intercede on their behalf! Moses lived quite a unique existence, interacting with the Spirit of God in such an intimate matter, receiving the Law literally from the Lord’s mouth. He was all at once an incredibly blessed and harassed man. More often than not he had to face an angry and vengeful God.
It’s easy for us to forget that we serve the same jealous and angry God. True, God has manifested His incredible, all-encompassing love for an undeserving people through the ministry, death, and resurrection of His Son. But God never stopped being angry at our sin and wickedness. Christ trembled in fear, was torn apart by anguish by the thought of becoming Sin on the cross, facing the wrath of God all of us have justly earned.
Our God is an awesome God. His Love is an awesome Love, because it goes in hand in hand with his wild, violent, and perfectly just wrath. The Lord is a beautiful paradox.
–adjective
1.
inspiring awe: an awesome sight.
If one were to spend several long days writing out a list of the truly great and tragically overused words in the English language, “awesome” would undoubtedly rear its head near the top. I’m guilty of letting it slip, often as a synonym for “cool!” or “that’s really great, man!” Wrong-o. This word is so much better than that.
In my heart I know there is only one thing worthy of this description. It is not the staggering sight of the mountains at sunset, or some laughing waterfall, or even the brilliant zenith of starlight at night (though that’s getting close). No, “awesome” was designed to describe El Shaddai, the Lord Almighty, our Abba Father. Yahweh. The One who began all things, and in whom all things will come to an end.
A close friend and I were talking the other night about the awesomeness of God, and just how scary He is. Take a moment to think about it. We would like to picture God as a kind-faced, benevolent old man, almost like a grandfather. The fact that we’re picturing God as anything really speaks to the finite nature of our human imagination. God is a wild, intangible, incomprehensible Being. “You cannot see my face, for no one may see me and live.” (Exodus 33:20). God is the perfect embodiment of Love and Power, wielder of the might of the entire universe. In the blink of an eye He could take everything away, cast the earth out of its orbit, blot out the sun, destroy all of humanity in a matter of days (as He once did). Humbling thought.
Imagine how Moses must have felt, slowly scaling the mountainside at Sinai, his skin rippling with the waves of God’s anger, burning against the Israelites for their idolatry and wickedness. Moses had to face Yahweh to speak for his people – even to intercede on their behalf! Moses lived quite a unique existence, interacting with the Spirit of God in such an intimate matter, receiving the Law literally from the Lord’s mouth. He was all at once an incredibly blessed and harassed man. More often than not he had to face an angry and vengeful God.
It’s easy for us to forget that we serve the same jealous and angry God. True, God has manifested His incredible, all-encompassing love for an undeserving people through the ministry, death, and resurrection of His Son. But God never stopped being angry at our sin and wickedness. Christ trembled in fear, was torn apart by anguish by the thought of becoming Sin on the cross, facing the wrath of God all of us have justly earned.
Our God is an awesome God. His Love is an awesome Love, because it goes in hand in hand with his wild, violent, and perfectly just wrath. The Lord is a beautiful paradox.
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Storm
A man sits close to his dying campfire, twisting bark from his walking stick and looking out upon a miracle. His camp perches atop a precipice, one last lookout before the trail’s descent back to the world of deep, deep ground and real things. Here the man still has but air to breathe and a vivid landscape to help him dream. Dream differently, perhaps, than the boy nestled against his shoulder and heaving peaceful sighs in the night. The man wonders whether he should wake his son to view the strange vista before him.
The valley is alive with violence. A storm from the northeast is tumbling wildly between the mountain pass, here and gone within several minutes, but terrible in its brief moment of existence. Snow explodes and freezes upon the air, billowing and billowing as if God finally blew the dust from off his tower on high. And there, in the center of the snowstorm, lightning ripples in dazzling flashes, trailing a low murmur of thunder in the air.
The boy stirs, eases open his eyes and looks up to see the awestruck face of his father, lit every now and then by the ghost of lightning in the valley. The boy is too sleepy to speak, and instead he watches curiously as the flashing fades and his father’s face is slowly overtaken by the darkness. All that stirs now is the mingling of their frozen breath. They both shiver with the dying embers, jealous for the stillness so characteristic of the stars. The man finally notices his son is awake, and asks him what he dreamt about.
The valley is alive with violence. A storm from the northeast is tumbling wildly between the mountain pass, here and gone within several minutes, but terrible in its brief moment of existence. Snow explodes and freezes upon the air, billowing and billowing as if God finally blew the dust from off his tower on high. And there, in the center of the snowstorm, lightning ripples in dazzling flashes, trailing a low murmur of thunder in the air.
The boy stirs, eases open his eyes and looks up to see the awestruck face of his father, lit every now and then by the ghost of lightning in the valley. The boy is too sleepy to speak, and instead he watches curiously as the flashing fades and his father’s face is slowly overtaken by the darkness. All that stirs now is the mingling of their frozen breath. They both shiver with the dying embers, jealous for the stillness so characteristic of the stars. The man finally notices his son is awake, and asks him what he dreamt about.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
On Childhood and Fallen Angels
I recently reconnected with a childhood friend of mine. We had grown up together, spent hundreds upon hundreds of afternoons and weekends at each other’s house. The love that I had for him then, when I was still below the age of ten and taking every friendship for granted, was something I’ve quite enjoyed rediscovering. Spending time at his house has also jarred me a bit, because it is a foreign place strongly tied to my memory, my past, in a way that my home is not.
My own house has, in a strange sense, matured with me. Meaning, just as we never really notice ourselves grow, I’ve never once got a sense of nostalgia in my own house because I’ve never missed it. The back porch is still the same, its wood still feels the same to my touch, the living room welcomes me today in the same way it did in my younger years. But reentering my friend’s house – now that was strange. The rooms were small, depressingly so. His finished basement, a central location for many of our adventures and memories together, has shrunk drastically. I used to be able to bound across from wall to wall and get out breath – but now the walls have all gotten into a great hurry to contract upon themselves, to the point where I can cross the carpet in a few short steps. I’m not a large man by any stretch of the imagination, and so I’m forced to assume that I was just an incredibly small boy. Which I was.
This friend and I have also undertaken in our reunion an important project, one that will possibly echo across our entire lives. And now I must make a dramatic introduction.
Once upon a time, there was a small knot of close friends, all of them between the ages of 14 and 16, who shared a love of filmmaking. No matter that the films they made were crudely fashioned and unable to match the glory and beauty of their ambition; they were nonetheless natural-born storytellers who found true joy in making movies. And so they decided one day to do it right. Two of them, the writers in the group (myself and one other) cobbled together a script about fallen angels seeking redemption and battling each other in a fantasy world plagued by wars and wizards. Turns out the two writers ended up playing the fallen angels, which may or may not have been the plan all along.
To make a very long story short, this ambitious film project, entitled “The Fallen”, became the very center of our lives. We devoted an entire summer and the better part of a school year (2004-2005) to principle photography, which was never completed. Fight scenes were meticulously choreographed, costumes carefully designed, and dialogue scenes rehearsed to the point where we could easily have put the whole thing on as a dramatic stage production and made out okay.
This aforementioned friend I’ve reconnected with, who was the director of photography on “The Fallen” and a true master behind the camera (manipulating angles, organizing scene blocking) and also a consummate professional at editing and special effects, rediscovered all 8 full tapes of “Fallen” footage, and he and I have since embarked on a long, hard crusade to search out and edit all the finished takes and scenes, string them together in some sort of order, add in all intended special effects, and produce a finished product for everyone who was involved in that magical endeavor. Since we filmed out of order, the final film will make absolutely no sense. Entire story arcs and key scenes are missing, but there’s really nothing we can do about it.
Reviewing all the old footage, I am struck by the amount of maturing we were forced to do in order to make headway on this movie. I’m sure it probably taught us something about budgeting our finances, committing ourselves to an idea, and maybe being responsible. But also, it was just a true joy to be apart of, and a true joy to watch it all these years later. I watch my fifteen-year-old self spouting out epic lines (no doubt heartily influenced by Tolkien’s work), attempting to smolder in front of the camera and not break character, and I must say it’s strange. I wonder if I were to sit the 2004 version of Brendan down and have a long chat, probably over coffee and donuts, some pretty interesting differences would arise between us. For instance, I was sporting a long and shaggy hairdo, wearing hemp necklaces, and listening to a lot of Zeppelin and Aerosmith at that point. A significant discussion/argument could flow out of that point alone. But I digress.
If you’re interested in seeing “The Fallen” once we’ve finished our mission, let me know.
My own house has, in a strange sense, matured with me. Meaning, just as we never really notice ourselves grow, I’ve never once got a sense of nostalgia in my own house because I’ve never missed it. The back porch is still the same, its wood still feels the same to my touch, the living room welcomes me today in the same way it did in my younger years. But reentering my friend’s house – now that was strange. The rooms were small, depressingly so. His finished basement, a central location for many of our adventures and memories together, has shrunk drastically. I used to be able to bound across from wall to wall and get out breath – but now the walls have all gotten into a great hurry to contract upon themselves, to the point where I can cross the carpet in a few short steps. I’m not a large man by any stretch of the imagination, and so I’m forced to assume that I was just an incredibly small boy. Which I was.
This friend and I have also undertaken in our reunion an important project, one that will possibly echo across our entire lives. And now I must make a dramatic introduction.
Once upon a time, there was a small knot of close friends, all of them between the ages of 14 and 16, who shared a love of filmmaking. No matter that the films they made were crudely fashioned and unable to match the glory and beauty of their ambition; they were nonetheless natural-born storytellers who found true joy in making movies. And so they decided one day to do it right. Two of them, the writers in the group (myself and one other) cobbled together a script about fallen angels seeking redemption and battling each other in a fantasy world plagued by wars and wizards. Turns out the two writers ended up playing the fallen angels, which may or may not have been the plan all along.
To make a very long story short, this ambitious film project, entitled “The Fallen”, became the very center of our lives. We devoted an entire summer and the better part of a school year (2004-2005) to principle photography, which was never completed. Fight scenes were meticulously choreographed, costumes carefully designed, and dialogue scenes rehearsed to the point where we could easily have put the whole thing on as a dramatic stage production and made out okay.
This aforementioned friend I’ve reconnected with, who was the director of photography on “The Fallen” and a true master behind the camera (manipulating angles, organizing scene blocking) and also a consummate professional at editing and special effects, rediscovered all 8 full tapes of “Fallen” footage, and he and I have since embarked on a long, hard crusade to search out and edit all the finished takes and scenes, string them together in some sort of order, add in all intended special effects, and produce a finished product for everyone who was involved in that magical endeavor. Since we filmed out of order, the final film will make absolutely no sense. Entire story arcs and key scenes are missing, but there’s really nothing we can do about it.
Reviewing all the old footage, I am struck by the amount of maturing we were forced to do in order to make headway on this movie. I’m sure it probably taught us something about budgeting our finances, committing ourselves to an idea, and maybe being responsible. But also, it was just a true joy to be apart of, and a true joy to watch it all these years later. I watch my fifteen-year-old self spouting out epic lines (no doubt heartily influenced by Tolkien’s work), attempting to smolder in front of the camera and not break character, and I must say it’s strange. I wonder if I were to sit the 2004 version of Brendan down and have a long chat, probably over coffee and donuts, some pretty interesting differences would arise between us. For instance, I was sporting a long and shaggy hairdo, wearing hemp necklaces, and listening to a lot of Zeppelin and Aerosmith at that point. A significant discussion/argument could flow out of that point alone. But I digress.
If you’re interested in seeing “The Fallen” once we’ve finished our mission, let me know.
Friday, June 11, 2010
This is the Way the World Ends (and the blog begins) . . .
Not with a bang, but with a whimper. I’d like to say my reasons for creating a blog were noble or different than many other of the reasons ordinary men like myself create blogs. No one suggested or “talked me into” making one. No well-meaning friend, after a long and weary conversation, took off his glasses, pushed aside his dinner plate and seriously told me to consider a blog. Really the reason for this thing is simple: I’ve discovered a need to break silence. I’ve known for years that despite the other titles I toss upon myself like old clothes cycled through fashion, at my heart I love to write. And I don’t do it nearly enough. So here I am.
This is not a Christian blog in the sense that I’m here to provide uplifting words or speak continually of Christian things, but I am unapologetically a Christian, and so that will inform everything I say or do. My life is one transformed by a mysterious and awesome thing – the love of God, in the form of a perfect replacement for me, an undeserving sinner, upon the cross – and so there is no way I can escape the perfect shadow of Christ on my life. I dwell often upon God, upon His influence in my life and the world. He will be making numerous appearances throughout this unstable and disputed endeavor.
If you are a friend, a member of my large and rather widely extended family, or a stranger I’ve yet to meet, I apologize in advance, for this is a place to unload my thoughts, which come streaming, tumbling, and galloping out of my mind in different ways. Short stories, essays, poetry. All those things will probably end up here in some fashion. And they probably won’t be very good. So again, apologies.
This is not a Christian blog in the sense that I’m here to provide uplifting words or speak continually of Christian things, but I am unapologetically a Christian, and so that will inform everything I say or do. My life is one transformed by a mysterious and awesome thing – the love of God, in the form of a perfect replacement for me, an undeserving sinner, upon the cross – and so there is no way I can escape the perfect shadow of Christ on my life. I dwell often upon God, upon His influence in my life and the world. He will be making numerous appearances throughout this unstable and disputed endeavor.
If you are a friend, a member of my large and rather widely extended family, or a stranger I’ve yet to meet, I apologize in advance, for this is a place to unload my thoughts, which come streaming, tumbling, and galloping out of my mind in different ways. Short stories, essays, poetry. All those things will probably end up here in some fashion. And they probably won’t be very good. So again, apologies.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)