The Cultural Artifact circa summer 2009

The thickness of late summer air in the east has found its way up north to those of us here in Boston. The air has a heaviness to it that marks those who travel through it with an odd sticky film. It is the mark of summer that is not as aesthetically pleasing as a tan nor as pleasant as a breeze in the park under the canopy of an oak. However, walking down Commonwealth Avenue and across campus last night I was reminded of the beauty of a humid night. Every light has an extra glow. The greens and reds and yellows of stoplights are warmer and more alive. The blues of emergency stations seem to hang in the air much like the moisture. All the miracle, mystery, and authority that BC attempts to muster in its gothic architecture is softened by the glow of lights on a muggy evening.

I have burned through and burned for more books than I thought I would want to this summer. There were gentle and grace-filled books and there were raw sexual and political escapades (in the books. My life is nowhere near that interesting.) A good piece of fiction can cover a multitude of sins. A great essay can do the same. Learning the origin of the essay in my French class was quite helpful in my appreciation of that genre of writing. In French, to essay is to try. It is an attempt at something. There is a notion of an essay being a shot in the dark, an potential answer but by no means the final word. There are always more attempts to be made.

Words have very much been on my mind this summer, which is no departure from the fall, the spring, or whatever other seasons there might be. I have been thinking about how lightly I use them. Humor as justification for the lightness of words is only so much of a justification. I fear that the words set forth are done with far less heft than they can carry. Part of this comes from Marilynne Robinson's writing style. It is prudent and thrift without being too minimal. The same could be said for Flannery O'Connor's style. I wonder if place shapes these words and the way they are delivered. The isolation of the O'Connor farm or Iowa City might give rise to a subtler literary voice. It might also make one crave company and overstuff the times spent with others with words like a pillow with too small a pillow case. A tendency of mine, which has been suffered by my always more than patient friends, is to see every detail as important, every connection as relevant, and every person in need of a backstory. Perhaps there is a way for me to sift through the connections and the details and the characters of my own tales in such a manner as to disclose them in their fullness without providing an unneeded surplus of words. I have yet to find it.

Still, the cultural artifact. There is a kind of spiritual art which stands out to me. It is art that is deeply personal and acquainted with sorrow and joy which fails not in its creativity nor its compassion. I can list off those whose works bring forth this spirit but it is by no means exhaustive. David Bazan, Marilynne Robinson, Wendell Berry, Flannery O'Connor, mewithoutYou, and several others. I do not know how to describe the spirit of their work in any other way than to say that they could all easily say the line: "Its a cold and its a broken hallelujah". And these artists seem connected to a much deeper and much older tradition than other works. Theirs is a spirituality that is unsettling, theirs a God who is trouble, theirs a spirit who haunts. Their Jesus has flesh on his bones. I don't really know what to say other than that my mind and my spirit has been continually blessed by listening to "Control" whilst reading "The Lame Shall Enter First". If you know some good visual artists who exhibit this same spirit--if it even makes any sense--please let me know. I feel that's missing from this collection of cultural artifacts.