Filed under fantastic points of ignorance

Paradise Lost: Book One

Reading a Harvard Classic, journaling for an MIT open course, watching a Yale lecture. Buckle up, this is about to be the most literated fantastic point of ignorance yet. We’ll have a coffee shop version, an appetizer version and a full course meal for this puppy. Respond and dialog as soon as you want to jump in, regardless of how much you read on this post or in the book.

Coffee: What You Care About

Fireworks. Magic. Cosmic battle. Midgets and Giants. Demons and Angels. Ancient mythology. Modern poetry. All this and more greets us at the front door of Milton’s Paradise Lost. For those of you who enjoy modern poetry, you’ll find some of it old-fashioned. For those who enjoy old-fashioned poetry, you’ll find Milton hates rhymey-dimey verse. Any of you fantasy nerds, if you can get past the iambic-ness of the telling, will love this. And, of course, so will those of you who try to follow Jesus or at least appreciate the O.T.

[jump in]

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Fletching the Sandman’s Arrows

“What’s your name?”

“Fletch.”

“What’s your full name?”

“Fletcher.”

“What’s your first name?”

“Irwin.”

“What?”

“Irwin Fletcher. People call me Fletch.”

“Irwin Fletcher, I have a proposition to make to you. I will give you a thousand dollars for just listening to it. If you decide to reject the proposition, you take the thousand dollars, go away, and never tell anyone we talked.”

“Is it criminal?”

“Of course.”

“Fair enough. For a thousand dollars I can listen. What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to murder me.”

Fletch said, “Sure.”

That’s how Gregory McDonald kicked off the pitch-perfect dialog in his novel Fletch back in 1974. Fletch is a jerk, an absolute pain to everyone he meets because he only cares about the story. He’s not a detective, he’s an investigative journalist and he’ll sacrifice anything–two marriages, relationships with employees, even a rich man’s life–for the sake of his column.  Continue reading

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“Literature is a luxury; fiction is a necessity.”

Recent Work Miscellany

The following articles by yours truly will come out next month, this month or next year at this time:
  • “To Prevail or ‘How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Flak’” in Hollywood and Vine (article, May/June 2012)
  • “Poker in the Pokey” in Poker Pro (article, June 2012)*
  • “Stamping the Name” in Encounter (article, May 2012)
  • “Choices Make the Man” in Encounter (article, Spring, 2013)
  • “The List” in Encounter (article, Spring 2013)
  • “Remember My Death” in Encounter (article, Spring 2013)
  • for older stuff, see published works and projects under the Writer tab
*This was cowritten with another writer under the pseudonym Thom Schriver

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Breakfast of Champions, The Muad’dib & Hospital Visits

Thursday last I ventured with an older gentleman to some local hospitals. We called on the elderly and infirm in hopes to raise their spirits. This guy’s a pro—he’s been doing this for years, visiting sick people in the hospital, praying for any who request it, listening to them ramble about stories of the old country or of one of the many wars, always with a broader smile than I can invoke on my face, the kind of smile that gets both eyes, your nose and your teeth involved. That smile cheers them up more than anything, people who have nobody or few somebodies to come and visit them when they fall or get an infection or go through surgery or when their mind starts to wonder why it keeps wandering. Hold that thought… Continue reading

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Gunslinger and Good News

The man in black fled across the desert and the gunslinger followed.

With that, King opens his seven-part Dark Tower series–an undertaking he originally hoped would create “the largest work of popular fiction in history.” I’m unsure as to what I expected with this one, but I received something else. Perhaps I looked for Tolkien or Lewis or McCaffrey or Herbert or Rothfuss or Martin or something.

I should have known better…

You regulars know my fascination with King’s nonfiction articles, criticism, On Writing and now Danse Macabre. Halfway through Danse Macabre, I realized that I had yet to read any of King’s fiction. Even though I consider screenplays to qualify as “literature” (Maximum Overdrive, 1408, The Shining, Firestarter, The Green Mile, Shawshank, etc) – Shame. On. Me.

The bleak environment of this first world did what he set out to do–it demonstrated the sheer size of the universe. In scope alone, this series already feels epic and the mere concept of gunslingers, of an order of fighters who work their way up to earning guns, fits Americana. We are not a people of samurai, ninjas or knights. We’re a nation of cowboys, indians and pirates. Gunslingers fit our soul. Continue reading

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A Storm of Swords by George R. R. Martin

Martin should have named it A Wreath of Weddings. Yet again by content alone, I can recommend this book to no one. In fact, I hated it. I loathed this book. That’s why I’m giving it five out of five stars. I can’t call it “good” – inherent goodness exists nowhere in the pages. But “well-written” or “well-told” or “brilliantly executed” all fit. Any book that can evoke the kind of emotion this one yanked out of me deserves five stars. I was pissed when I finished.

At the close of the last book, five contended for power and one died, another settled into disfavor all during wars that rampage through the lands. Alliances connect and break. Little Joff sits his tush on the Iron Throne while the Red Lady victimizes Lord Stannis. Robb holds the North and Dany scourges her way west. Not to mention the wildlings move south to take on The Wall with The Others on their tail. Everything sets this book up for a great telling, especially the news of three weddings. Martin delivers by letting all the hope and joy collapse in on itself. Go figure.

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Why I Never Check the News

I can hardly regret having escaped the appalling waste of time and spirit which would have been involved in reading the war news or taking more than an artificial and formal part in conversations about the war. To read without military knowledge or good maps accounts of fighting which were distorted before they reached the Divisional general and further distorted before they left him and then “written up” out of all recognition by journalists, to strive to master what will be contradicted the next day, to fear and hope intensely on shaky evidence, is surely an ill use of the mind.

Even in peacetime I think those are very wrong who say that school-boys should be encouraged to read the newspapers. Nearly all that a boy reads there in his teens will be known before he is twenty to have been false in emphasis and interpretation, if not in fact as well, and most of it will have lost all importance. Most of what he remembers he will therefore have to unlearn; and he will probably have acquired an incurable taste for vulgarity and sensationalism and the fatal habit of fluttering from paragraph to paragraph to learn how an actress has been divorced in California, a train derailed in France and quadruplets born in New Zealand.

– C.S. Lewis reflecting on World War I in Surprised by Joy

When I crack open a copy of Milton’s Paradise Lost, I’m reading the news. When I watch All the Presidents Men, Take Shelter or Citizen Kane, I’m watching the news. When I ask friends what they’ve been thinking through, what they’ve felt recently, what they’re reading or what movies struck a chord with them, I’m asking about the news.

Oxford’s American Dictionary describes “news” as newly received or noteworthy information. I’d switch out that or for an and. Most of Lewis’s last line describes newly received information, but none of it is truly noteworthy. Trains derail. Californian actresses divorce. Women give birth to quadruplets. What’s noteworthy about any of that? Nothing. Continue reading

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Concerning Fan Fiction

Dude or Dudette writes a book. Book takes off—international bestseller. Dude or Dudette who wrote book becomes King or Queen of their now crowded world as people flock there to wander around, watch their characters, witness their characters’ powers (be they wisdom, weapons or witchcraft and wizardry) and eat some of the local cuisine.

The patron of that world (King or Queen Storyteller) continues to guide this client (reader / viewer / listener) to follow characters as they make choices. In following the characters, a client chooses right along with them, for good or for bad. This continues until the tour ends and the patron refers the client to the waiting room. Either one of two things has happened. Either the writer must pause until he or she finishes the next volume in the series or there are no more books. The story is over. In both cases, the patron shows their clients the waiting room.

If they have no reasonable reality to return to or if they have no other world to hop into or if they find a particularly strong attachment to this patron’s world, those reader-clients will wait for a long time. Some might even leave the waiting room. They may try to explore dark corners of the map, eat more of the food, watch more characters. This is okay, I suppose, though it’d be creepy for the characters if they ever discovered these unsupervised peeping Toms. Curiosity’s good as long we temper it by truth and care for other people. However, if clients spend too much time there, they may try to revolt and grab the throne, break the rules, reverse gravity or change the themes and substance of the story.

They may try to rape some of the characters or even murder them. Continue reading

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Literate Yourself

These two pictures circulated around Pinterest awhile back:

Several years ago a friend of mine asked a minister what he was reading.
This minister said, “Nothing.”
My friend responded with, “Okay, well… what have you been up to?”
Hisses sounded out this minister’s mouth when he said, “Saving souls.”
My friend said nothing after that.

A few months after that episode, I read a little something by Mark Twain:

The man who does not read good books has no advantage over the man who cannot.

Last week, a buddy of mine apologized for taking so long to read something. He sent a text, his self-depreciation forcing me to respond differently than normal:

Josh: Sorry, so slow. I’m a terrible reader.
Me: No you’re not.
Josh: Sure I am. I’m slow and I don’t read much.
Me: Why’s that make you a bad reader? People might dislike what they read or the content may bore them, but that doesn’t make them a bad reader, just bored. When you find things you like, you read like crazy. I’ve seen you.
Josh: Thanks man.
Me: No prob.

Or something like that. I’ve thought about our conversation since, about language and our need as humans to communicate deep thought. Even in illiterate cultures, there’s this rich history of sages entrusted with the stories of the tribe. Only certain people can tell that story. It makes for reliable oral tradition and liberates our minds through reflection, memorization and story. When we liberate our mind with imagination, we dream up a better world. Those dreams become realities in time.

Go literate yourself this week – liberate the book side of your life. Read a story. Memorize a poem. Reflect on a song or a film.

Otherwise imagination disappears.

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Zombie Church by Tyler Edwards

When I first glanced at the title Zombie Church by my man Tyler, I immediately recalled the part of Resident Evil 4 where all the monk zombies come out of the abbey grumbling in Latin, chasing you around the graveyard. Or was it priest zombies running out of a cathedral? In any case, the imagery sustains the title and meta-metaphor for his book:

Zombies.

Church.

Yeah, that ain’t right.

Most of you know my deal with Christians – or anyone for that matter – riding the coattails of fads. People use fads to make money rather than masterpieces, so I groaned “not another zombie… whatever” louder than many of you groan “not another vampire… whatever.” However, I know Tyler, know his fascination with all things geekdom (including zombies). Tyler erected a giant retractable screen in his dorm room back in college and mounted a projector over the door. If you set out to watch a cheezy or action-packed or larger-than-life movie, you used Tyler’s room.

More importantly, I happened on the environment he and many of his friends ministered in over the last several years. If anyone has holed up in a little building on some side street, using it as a base from which to pull hit-and-runs with the antidote, it’s Tyler. Eugene Peterson talks about pastors like Tyler in Under the Unpredictable Plant. Tyler stays. He refuses to leave unless, at the last-minute, it might kill his family. Then he’ll move camp. But only then.

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Sympathetic Magic

Search Wikipedia for Kingkiller Chronicles, scroll down to “sympathy” and you’ll see this description:

A combination of voodoo and quantum entanglement

Though that’s descriptive of what sympathy looks like, it doesn’t get at sympathy’s mechanics very well. I know I sound like a broken gramophone playing a warped wax record, but we get at this fantasy stuff through the old books, not voodoo and quantum entanglement despite the presence of mommets and nosebleeds.

Check out a copy of The Golden Bough: A Study in Magic and Religion by Sir James George Frazer from your local library, preferably a print version, and flip to the table of contents. It looks something like this:

Chap.

  1. The King of the Wood……………1
  2. Priestly Kings………………..……..9
  3. Sympathetic Magic……….……….11

I turn to the page eleven and read this:

If we analyze the principles of thought on which magic is based, they will probably be found to resolve themselves into two: first, that like produces like or that an effect resembles its cause; and second, that things which have once been in contact with each other continue to act on each other at a distance after the physical contact has been severed.

Frazer calls the first The Law of Similarity and the second The Law of Contact or Contagion. From the former, the magician produces any effect he wants by emulating it. From the latter, he believes that whatever he pulls off on a given item will influence the person who once had contact with it, regardless of whether it came from his body. What’s Abenthy have to say about all of this?

The law of sympathy is one of the most basic parts of magic. It states that the more similar two objects are, the greater the sympathetic link. The greater the link, the more easily they influence each other.

In other words, things act on one another at a distance through a sort of… well… sympathy. The Law of Sympathy included byt the Law of Similarity and the Law of Contact. Sympathists assumed a sort of ether or fifth element transmitted the effects through the void of space. Ironically, alchemists often called the product of the great work “the fifth element.” I’m unsure whether there’s crossover between the arts. Regardless, Frazer finds the concept absurd as a science calling it a half-science and a “misapplication of the association of ideas.”

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Ninjas verses Pirates


I took Shoto Jitsu from a plumber who happened to win black belt of the year. He took kyūsho-jutsu (pressure-point martial arts) from the sole heir to the samurai. By “sole heir” I mean this little man found out that one of the samurai had refused to commit suicide when the Japanese government squelched their order. Ashamed, he ran and hid high in the mountains. Like some fairy tale or M Ward song, the little man hiked around the mountains until he found that real last samurai’s hiding place and learned everything he could. When the samurai died, this little man became the sole heir. That heir taught my sensei. I guess you could say I’m the peon of the protégé of the heir to the samurai. Yeah, it’s pretty cool.

On the other hand, my favorite film genre is the caper. I love watching criminal masterminds con cops. That’s the appeal of Jack Sparrow for me: raw intuition trumps cold calculation. When I was young, I aspired to be a professional pickpocket or bandit, one of Ocean’s team right along with the rat pack, three-piece suits and jazz announcing my presence. Before anyone yelled “Elvis has entered the building” they whispered about Blue Eyes’ entry. In my estimate, there’s nothing worse than a tacky thief. Add a blunderbuss to the classy swagger along with dreadlocks and a schooner big enough to navigate large Caribbean coves and you could sell me on pirating. Heck, you could steal me away and brainwash me into piracy. Seemed to work out okay for St. Patrick. Oh, and I also met the son of a modern Australian pirate in California. The coast guard only knows of this guy’s dad as “M-4” because it’s his favorite weapon. Crazy. Continue reading

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The Thinker’s Thesaurus

We like words here, don’t we?

Chuh-huh… yeah! That’s why today’s fantastic point of ignorance goes out to all of you wordsmiths, literators, storyweavers and spelling bee champions out there. I asked for free stuff this Christmas, things like carols and cider and snow cones and oral stories involving hearts five sizes too small but my Grandma’s a gift giver like most of my family. She bought me a copy of The Thinker’s Thesaurus.

Touché, granny. Touché.

Here’s the thing, I’m a recovering academic. I root out ivory tower talk when it rears it’s out-of-touch head. I also doubt I’ll be publishing a story, a non-fiction feature or even a poem in the New Yorker any time soon. Though I’m an avid reader, they’d scoff at my work if it ever managed (against all odds) to land a manuscript on their desks. Because of these disqualifications, I find little practical use for such a book as The Thinker’s Thesaurus.

Don’t even care.

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Firefly: Power and Poise

Saturday, February 18th, I lost my Firefly virginity.

I waited right around seven years to do this – ever since I stepped onto the college scene and my newfound friends began badgering me to watch the show. I borrowed the series from a friend, sat down on my Saturday at 7:45am and watched the series straight until 9pm. Yes, I was that hooked. This show’s amazing, and I completely understand why Firefly fans beg so often, so long and so convincingly  about making a second season.

It’s like all of you told me all these years that there was gold in them there hills, but I blew you off because, let’s face it, there’s always gold in them there hills. But seven years later I walk over the tops of them there hills on the first open Saturday it crosses my mind and find out what you meant was “there’s gold on them there hills.” Lying around. In hunks and nuggets and bars. What you meant was “take a walk over this hill and pick up all the friggin’ gold you want, dummy.” That was Firefly for me, walking around and finding gold everywhere. That’s why I imbibed all of it in a single day: gold rush. Three things stood out to me: a lesson, an interpretation and a longing.

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