Old-timey

Ok, I like to brag about this girl a lot. So sue me.

I mentioned in an earlier post how I've recently begun a foray into photography. The reason for this is that I came into possession of my mom's old Nikkormat camera, from the early seventies (if you're reading this mom, sorry for aging you.) When Katie was in town back in June, we were able to play with the camera and see what it could do.

We got a lot of great shots (on the rolls that worked; unfortunately, I'm still learning how to load the film, and two rolls turned up blank) and a lot of shots that proved I'm no expert photographer. I am, however, learned on the Photoshop, so I managed to save a handful (like the one above; originally really bright, but I restored it to its rightful greatness.)

Anyway, the thing that has struck me the most about playing with a nearly 40-year-old camera is how cool the pictures look. The pictures actually look like they're from the seventies. And to me, that makes them better.

Why do I think this? I don't know. I don't have a super-awesome-modern digital camera, so most pictures I usually take with my digital camera are pretty basic.

But I think there is something about nostalgia that makes things cooler. There's something about that old-timey feel that brings out a joyful sensation, like, 'ah, those were the days.' Sure, you can look at any picture and feel nostalgic for the memories, but when the pictures are older (or look older, in this case), you almost feel transported to a whole new world, a whole new time.

Some random thoughts, maybe it's just me that thinks that; anybody else get that sense?
Oh, and here's another for good measure :)

Where we tend to vent

Last weekend I went to the Art Institute of Chicago with my parents while they were in town to visit. I like museums, but I don't actively seem them out - I was glad to have a reason to go.

The Art Institute is a fairly famous museum, home to such paintings as Grant Wood's 'American Gothic' and Georges Seurat's 'A Sunday on La Grande Jatte,' and our trip was pretty fun, especially considering I took an art appreciation class in spring and recognized some of the work.

The part about our trip to the Institute that caught me off guard was how much my mom knows about art. Maybe I'm just a terrible listener, or maybe it was just never brought up, but apparently she studied art in Paris when she studied abroad there. (Who knew?) As we walked the halls of the institute, she went from painting to painting commenting on the artist or movement each piece of work reflected. I was impressed.

No work at the museum excited my mom more than those from the Impressionist period. She happily described how the movement was a change from the clear-cut, hard-edged depictions of life to softer, looser, more expressive depictions (from this to this.) It gave her great joy to go from piece to piece detailing her thoughts on each, and I found myself sharing in that joy.

The joy I found mostly stemmed from discovery - as I viewed each painting, I searched the canvas for some sort of deeper meaning, some lost emotion that the artist was trying to share with me. It was fun, it was refreshing, and it reminded me why I love music - and for that matter, most art.

You see, the way I see it, art is a reflection of the collection of thoughts, emotions, pains, joys and wonder that we all experience within ourselves. Art is a reflection of what makes us each unique; it is our representation of what we can not put simply into words, of those things that constantly weigh on us and excite us and drive us to live life. Every being experiences love, joy, pain, anger, humility, sadness - it is how we handle those experiences that sets us apart from each other. And in art we have a way to vent, to organize those experiences and create something physical, something real out of them. By doing this we are able to make sense of our feelings, and we are able to connect with others who can relate.

Artists like Seurat and Monet and DaVinci have done this. So have Lennon, Dylan and Hendrix. Same with Hitchcock, Scorsese and Tarantino. For some it is painting, for others film, for others maybe Play-doh.

For me, I find solace in writing, and I find solace in music. I try to vent through the writing, and I try to connect through the music. And if you're reading this now then you know how bad I am at keeping up with the writing.

So I usually clasp to music. There are songs that describe my every emotion - whether I'm sad, happy, angry, or simply in love with life, there is music that I can turn to that does a better job describing that emotion than I could ever do. Music takes the weight of my pent-up emotions and releases it by making form of it.

I find it in music in two forms that so beautifully intertwine with each other: in the musicianship and in the lyrics. The musicianship is what tends to catch my attention first; be it tender guitar picking or killer riffs, the right tempo and right melody set the mood for the story a song will tell. And the lyrics tell that story through words big and small, through sentences long and short. When these two elements are put together, they transport me to another place and help make sense of this life I'm living.

Mind you, I don't just listen to music that describes exactly what I'm feeling. For example, I still listen to sad break-up songs, even though I am so much in love with Katie that I could never understand the pain those songs describe. Denison Witmer is one of my favorites, but his songs are clearly influenced by at least one painful break-up. And a lot of stuff I listen to doesn't even have sensible lyrics; Sufjan Stevens, my favorite artist, usually sings of imagery I can relate to, but his state albums have a lot of lyrics that come across as nonsense. Not all of the music I listen to perfectly describes my life, but there is something in the way they create it that makes me understand what they are feeling, that transports me to their shoes, and I am able to find joy in discovery.

Kind of like when I was looking at the paintings at the Art Institute.

There is much more I could say about this; I've written about it in the past and I'll write more in the future. It was the reason I started this blog - to talk about the music that is describing my life. But for now, I'll sign off with the lyrics of one of my favorite songs. It's one of those songs that rocks you to your core because you understand it; you can feel it, you have lived it. The song is called "The Ballad of Love and Hate" by The Avett Brothers. The last verse has brought me to tears more than once. I could tell you what the song is about, and what I think it really means, and why I am so moved by its tale, but I'll let you discover that for yourself (and I highly recommend listening to the song as well.)

~
Love writes a letter and sends it to hate.
"My vacation's ending, I'm coming home late.
The weather was fine and the ocean was great
and I can't wait to see you again."

Hate reads the letter and throws it away.
"No one here cares if you go or you stay.
I barely even noticed that you were away.
I'll see you or I won't, whatever."

Love sings a song as she sails through the sky.
The water looks bluer through her pretty eyes.
And everyone knows it whenever she flies,
and also when she comes down.

Hate keeps his head up and walks through the street.
Every stranger and drifter he greets.
And shakes hands with every loner he meets
with a serious look on his face.

Love arrives safely with suitcase in tow.
Carrying with her the good things we know.
A reason to live and a reason to grow.
To trust. To hope. To care.

Hate sits alone on the hood of his car.
Without much regard to the moon or the stars.
Lazily killing the last of a jar
of the strongest stuff you can drink.

Love takes a taxi, a young man drives.
As soon as he sees her, hope fills his eyes.
But tears follow after, at the end of the ride,
cause he might never see her again.

Hate gets home lucky to still be alive.
He screams o'er the sidewalk and into the drive.
The clock in the kitchen says 2:55,
And the clock in the kitchen is slow.

Love has been waiting, patient and kind.
Just wanting a phone call or some kind of sign,
That the one that she cares for, who's out of his mind,
Will make it back safe to her arms.

Hate stumbles forward and leans in the door.
Weary head hung, eyes to the floor.
He says "Love, I'm sorry", and she says, "What for?
I'm yours and that's it, whatever.
I should not have been gone for so long.
I'm your's and that's it, forever."

You're mine and that's it, forever.

God Bless America!

Ah, the fourth of July...

So, one of the more interesting things I've had the chance to do in Chicago while living here for the summer is church-shop. Growing up in Athens, Ohio, I've attended one church for 21 years - yes, all 21 years of my life spent at one church. And I've loved every bit of it (ok, maybe not every bit; going to church as pre-teen is pretty uncool). Sure, I've never really seen what other churches are like, but I think my church is the perfect fit for me. So I never looked for another one.

That being said, finding a church outside of Athens will be something of an interesting journey. I've been spoiled with a great church, and I expect great things from whatever church (or churches) I call home in the future.

So, like I said, I've never really had the opportunity yet to actually church-shop. Living in Chicago by myself all summer provides the opportunity, and I've been pretty excited about it.

The first church I knew I wanted to see was Willow Creek Community Church. I'd heard a lot about the place - pastor from home church (hi Paul) speaks highly of it, and it's a fairly famous church, what with its 20,000 attendants and all. Turns out, Willow is about a 15 minute drive from my place, too. When Katie was in town my first weekend here, we decided to hit it up and see what kind of church could possibly have 20,000 attendants.

If you grow up in a church with about 300 weekly attendants, going to Willow is something of an experience. The sanctuary is a 7,000-seat arena, with fancy lights and electronics, a huge stage, waterfalls outside the windows surrounding the stage. From the road the place looks like an airport - it even has its own lake. Inside, you think you're in a mall; there's a bookstore, a coffee shop, a fountain, and escalators (escalators in a church?!)

I wanted to hate it.

I have a problem with corporate America infiltrating the Church. In my eyes, church is a place to build community and worship God - not a place to sell a latte and the youth pastor's latest book. I've been to big churches - what I like to call airport churches - before, having visited the Vineyard churches in Columbus and Cincinnati on different trips to those cities. And I did not like them, not one bit. So I had my doubts about Willow.

Turned out, Willow is ok. The worship is eh (granted I may be a little picky when it comes to worship music) and the congregation is slightly unwelcoming. Plus I feel about as tiny and unimportant as can be in that sanctuary. But the teaching - whoa. Pastor Bill Hybels has a gift. I was sold on my first visit.

So I figured I'd go back to Willow. Not like I'm lining up become a member or anything, but it's a decent place to frequent when you're living in a place for 12 weeks.

Alas, I wanted to church-shop, not just settle with my first choice. My friend Tom told me about this other church in Chicagoland, called Harvest Bible Chapel. He and his girlfriend a branch of that church in Rockford, and he swears up and down by it (praises? Hmm...)

Because I enjoyed the teaching at Willow so much, I decided I'd hit up the 9 a.m. service at Harvest, and then head over to Willow for the 11:15 - the two churches are fairly close to each other. This was the weekend of Independence Day. I should have been prepared.

I arrived about 5 minutes late to Harvest, and the worship had already started. The band was energetic, and the songs didn't totally suck (sorry Willow, but seriously, "I am a Friend of God"? Somewhere God is saying, "That's what you came up with? Those are the lyrics you're writing? I gave you the gift of music and the best you can do is say 'I am a friend of God?'") The sanctuary was no arena, just a former warehouse with seating for maybe 1,000. I thought it was a pretty comfortable place.

Then the worship was over.

A man took to the stage, and said, "There are three things we need to pray for today. Thanks to God for our freedom, wisdom for the president, and safety for our troops!" He suggested we get in groups of three to pray for these things. I kept to myself.

Following the prayer, the man proceeded to explain how happy he was to be an American. I decided I was never going back to Harvest (and I even decided that before the pastor took to the stage - via satellite. From some other church).

I was happy to hit the road and head to Willow. I needed to feel like I wasn't insane, like I was truly a loving Christian who followed God's principals and who didn't worship any idols and who belonged in a loving, righteous community. I needed to get away from America.

Upon walking into the sanctuary at Willow, my heart sank. Red, white and blue lights filled the stage, in front of a billowing flag graphic.

Am I the crazy one? I thought to myself. Am I missing something?

I didn't leave, but I thought about it. I took a seat and hoped for the best. The Australian-accented emcee came out onto the stage and announced that he had recently become an official U.S. citizen, and the place cheered wildly. I gagged. Thankfully he didn't dwell on it.

And praise God, that was it. No more mentions of America. No more mentions of our freedom blah blah blah blah blah blah. Willow, in my eyes, was redeemed. I shrugged off the lights and flag, assuming they felt like they had to accomodate their patriotic members with some mention of the holiday. It was excessive, but it could have been worse.

I left Willow with a lot on my mind about America. Frankly, I was disturbed that day from the church's obsession with our nation. And I was sad for what we call 'Christianity.'

I should preface at least a little. I've grown up something of a cynic towards America, having been raised by lovingly liberal - Christian - parents. I didn't care about politics until George Bush became president, and, with the help of a.) actually paying attention at church for once, b.) going to high school social studies classes, c.) doing some soul searching and d.) being raised in a highly-liberal town with liberal-leaning mentors, I realized that our country was totally f-ed up. The Republican administration was represented by corporate America, the population concerned only with making themselves richer and protecting their right to do so. Millions of people were going hungry, working three jobs, struggling to get by. People were dying, overseas and at home, in the name of honor? Vengeance? Petty issues like gun rights, gay marriage, and whether or not a politician wears a flag lapel dominated air waves. Hatred was brewing, people were dividing. And what's worse? Said Republican administration was claiming it was doing it all for our Christian God.

I'm no divine power, but hatred, killing, greed, and ignorance don't seem like something God would support.

So I started to care - maybe too much - about politics. The 2004 presidential election rocked me to my core and made me question my Christian brothers and sisters. I adamantly decried the Bush administration and its claim on Christianity, even wrote a 10-page paper about how Bush's policies contradict the Bible. I fought with friends. Good Christians that I knew called me baby killer, even though I don't support abortion. I didn't feel loved, and worse, I lost hope in the Church.

The last four years have been ok; the world realized how awful the Bush administration really was, Republicans (even the Chrisitians) realized what a terrible mistake they made (for the most part), and I forgot (mostly) about the how harshly politics divide religion. Meanwhile, our country digressed further and further into a hellish mess, far from what God would want of us.

And then my Independence Day church foray reminded me how misled Christian Americans can be.

According to BibleGateway.com, there are 532 mentions of the word 'nations' in the Bible, and - surprisingly! - not one single mention of America. Here are some passages: "In his name the nations will put their hope.," "And this gospel of the kingdom will be preached in the whole world as a testimony to all nations, and then the end will come," "All the nations will be gathered before him, and he will separate the people one from another as a shepherd separates the sheep from the goats," "Therefore go and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit..." and those are just a couple from the book of Matthew.

What's my point here? My point is that 'America' is nothing more than borders. It is a group of people and laws that, praise be to God, is fortunate enough to be free. But it is not the chosen nation. It is not the most righteous. We are not God's designated cheerleading section. We are just one nation in many that God loves. So when I see people celebrate this nation so powerfully - even more powerfully than their celebration of our God - it makes me kind of sick. It makes me sad. If you want to be patriotic and love this nation, go right ahead. But to somehow believe that it sets you apart for God, or to believe that these borders somehow make you better than others, then you're dead wrong.

America needs to bless God, not the other way around.

God loves Iraq too.

As I sat in Harvest Bible Chapel on the Sunday of Independence Day, after the man on the stage told me to pray for freedom, our president, and the troops, here's an idea of what I prayed:

Father God, thank you for blessing me, for delivering me into a free nation in which I am wealthy and live comfortably. I pray that I would appreciate these blessings, and never take them for granted; help me to remember that very few in this world have as much as I. I pray that I will have a heart to give back, and that I will remember that it is all yours. Allow me to use my blessings in some way to reach the unfortunate, or those who don't know you.

I pray Lord that our president will have a heart for the needy. Soften his heart and open his eyes to the hungry and the poor, so that he may do what is in his power to follow your word and help the needy. Help him respect those in other nations, and to do what is in his power to love on other nations.

Lord I ask that you watch over our troops, but also watch over Iraqi troops. As these men and women kill each other in the name of freedom - and in the name of some god - I pray that you will show yourself, comfort them, and love on them. I pray that we may always do what we can to bring peace to this earth, and turn our other cheeks to our enemies.

Amen.

That's Chicago

I’m finishing week five as a resident of Chicago (aka Chi-Town aka the Windy City aka the Second City.) It’s been something of a whirlwind month – I promised myself I’d post more upon settling here, and obviously I’ve not had the time to do that yet – and I now find time for reflection on my great adventure to the third-biggest city in the U.S.

Let’s start with the set-up. Here I am, small-town boy born and raised in South Detroit (wait, that’s something else…) Ok so I’m born and raised in small-town Appalachia. Never left home for more than a few weeks at a time in the course of 21 years. Preparing to graduate college with the intense desire to finally get out and find somewhere new (not because I hate home, but simply because I want to see/know more of the world.) Land a paid summer internship in Chicago that has nothing to do with what I want to do in life, but alas, it’s paid. Ship off all starry-eyed and alone to the ‘big city’ so’s I can ‘make it.’

Ok, so maybe I’m sounding cynical. It’s probably because I don’t want to over-hype this adventure; so I’m living in Chicago for the summer, big deal. Making it up to be some huge thing – which most people do – makes it sound like they never thought I could have made it here in the first place.

I’m a country boy. How could I ever survive in this setting?

Yes, I am being too cynical. I concede, it’s a big deal that I’m here, and whenever people sound all excited about it, I get pretty excited too. I’m just trying to neutralize it, because I’m not some poor country boy who didn’t have a hope in the world. I’m accustomed to cities. I trusted I’d make it just fine.

Still, Chicago is a whole new level than Athens. And I'm learning to adapt.

I've had a lot of adventures here since arriving last month. Katie visited for a few days early on, and we hit up a nice restaraunt ($75 for two entrees, an appetizer and a tip), went to the top of the Hancock, walked around Wrigleyville and Lincoln Park (Wrigleyville for end of Cubs-Sox game = whoa), discovered a great park in my borrowed-home suburb of Schaumburg, and took a bunch of pictures with my mom's old camera (view pictures here.) It was so great to explore the city together.

But of course, it's still Chicago.

The first night in town, Katie and I walked about ten blocks from the restaraunt to my car at 10 p.m. You think you know a place, and then darkness falls. It was not a fun walk - neither of us felt safe. Scary stuff - so we learned not to spend too much time in the city at night.
Then there are the prices. As with the nice restaurant we went to, everything here costs a TON of money. Gas, food, you name it.
And the traffic. Bumper to bumper, hour-long-trip when it's normally 20 minutes. A lesson in patience.

Katie and I learned all of these bad aspects of Chicago together. I have to admit, before I came here, she and I both had pretty grandeur visions of what Chicago would be. So this other stuff caught us off guard and left something of a sour taste in our mouths.

Of course, we should have expected it. This is Chicago.

I've had other adventures since that first week, when Katie came. Sister Kristi and bro-in-law Lee came, we took the train in, walked around, played tourist for a day. Another time, met up with friends downtown one evening and walked around Taste of Chicago, a huge food festival in Grant Park. I've also driven around the 'burbs, checked out the sites (malls, parks, etc.)

It's fun to see the city. It's fun to discover all these new things. Yet something about Chicago just hasn't screamed 'home' to me. Try as I might to settle in here, I just can't seem to do it.

Guess I'm too much of a country boy.

I'll post more about thoughts, experiences, and music(!) since coming here in a series of posts...

Intermission

So I missed June and a lot of July. Ugh, I'm bad at this.

BUT I am not really to blame. In Chicago for the summer, and my apartment doesn't give me internet access (darn wireless router says limited or no connectivity?!?!) So, it's been a lesson in patience (pretty pathetic how hooked to the web I am.)

Anyway, I will update very, very soon.