Oeuvre Rated

For Halloween this year, we decided to stay home at watch one of our favorite French movies… about Murder!

 

“Keep your friends close, but keep your enemies closer.” As America flounders in a never-ending sandstorm of Franco-phobia, there’s never been a better time to embrace the oft forgotten art of French cinema.

Possibly the most controversial product to come out of Gaul since escargot, and probably the darkest comedy to hit the silver screen since the discovery of piezoelectricity, “Man Bites Dog” — directed by Remy Belvaux and Andre Bonzel and starring Benoit Poelvoorde — leaves you half way between begging for mercy and crying for more.

With all the shenanigans of Albert Camus and twice the passion of Maximilian Robespierre, “Man Bites Dog” puts your savoir-vivre to the ultimate test. Imagine “Spinal Tap” meets “Natural Born Killers.” Poelvoorde’s inspiring performance as a modern day Jacques the Ripper on a suburban reign of terror grips you like a two-dollar bottle of Bordeaux and sends you floating face down on the river Seine.

Stalking the streets and housing projects of Paris in search of innocent victims — preferably the old and the defenseless — our anti-heroic protagonist turns his line of work into something of an art form. So proud is he of his technique that he hires a camera crew to follow him around and document his exploits for posterity. But of course, those who kill by the celluloid are destined to die by it as well.

Leaving no sacred cow unturned, this iconoclastic tour-de-farce assaults your senses with moral ambiguity and gratuitous exhibitionism, calling into question the very purpose of film making itself. Not since Fellini’s “8 1/2” has any director so graphically explored the sensational ego trip that can be taken on either side of the camera’s eye.

(1993; 92 minutes: Black and White; on DVD and VHS; not suitable for the politically correct or those with heart conditions.)

 

The Emptiness of Forms

Zen Koans, a cornerstone of Far Eastern philosophy, by virtue of their paradoxical nature, are not meant to be understood, not in the traditional rational sense. They are meant to illustrate the paradoxical nature of existence, and frequently serve as focal points in zen meditation as tools for the tearing the mind’s attention away from the ordinary, material and mundane. But every once in great a while, an inkling of insight can be grasped from these seemingly nonsensical sayings.

One of the better known Koans refers to “the sound of one hand clapping”;  one of the most esoteric alludes to “your original face before your mother and father were born.” What are considered the best answers to these riddles are generally the most absurd. For example, Q: Does a dog have Buddha nature? A: Woof.

One my favorite Buddhist proverbs states simply: Form is emptiness; emptiness is form. No it’s technically not a riddle, and not exactly a Koan in the strictest sense, but it is nothing if not paradoxical. First and foremost, this statement equates two opposites, form and emptiness, the coincidence or resolution of opposites being fundamental to Buddhist philosophy. Like the black and white swirls of the Yin Yang, form cannot exist without emptiness, light cannot not exist without dark, and joy means nothing without sorrow.

The emptiness of form can be seen even in a common natural feature like river. A running stream of water has a definitive form, but its contents are entirely indefinite, always changing. The water itself is never the same, but the body of water always looks the same. Even in its emptiness, the form remains the same, as the Grand Canyon demonstrates most dramatically.

With a little bit of help from particle physics or molecular biology, we can transfer this analogy over to the human anatomy. Not one of the cells (or atoms) in your body was there in its same place seven years ago, nor will it be there seven years from now. Like the river, the substance comes and goes, but the form remains. You may have gone through some changes, but you always remain the same person.

Contemplating the magnitude of these tiny particles, it’s a also fascinating to consider that as these units that continuously come and go  – the cells, atoms, particles, the substance – are freely exchanged, over time, between individuals. Statistically speaking, we can be fairly certain that in each in every one of our bodies lies at least one atom that was at one time in the body of Adolph Hitler, as well as a few which at one time passed through the body of Joan of Arc.

Facts like these challenge they way we conceive of simple Newtonian concepts like matter and form. And the metaphysical implication – that we are deeply and intrinsically connected, flowing from a single spring – becomes impossible to deny. And there’s another way in which this wise old saying illustrates the interconnectedness of all beings.

Looking at our rudimentary forms, we easily see ourselves as separate, billions of distinct entities. But forms are defined only by their boundaries, where the emptiness ends and the form begins. The emptiness pervades all things, it is singular and all encompassing, the one emptiness that delineates all forms and imparts on them the illusion of separateness. Without this emptiness we would have no form; only from this single emptiness does any form take shape. Again, we recognize the single spring from which we all flow, like the drops in a river, riding the crests and troughs, imaging the conscious experience of life to be ours and ours alone.

In Search of Bliss

With the widespread popularity of Joseph Campbell and his appealing fusion of religions, philosophy and folklore, “Follow your Bliss” has become the mantra of millions of modern thinkers in search of a more soulful life experience. But like so many well-meaning mantras, this pithy expression can all too easily be misconstrued or over-simplified. On the surface, for instance, “Follow your Bliss” has a temptingly similar ring to Aleister Crowley’s “Do what thou wilt.” Both axioms encourage the pursuit of that which brings the most joy and satisfaction, with the implication that this will render the world a more joyful and satisfying place. Failure to recognize the difference between self-serving hedonism and the piety of mythological universalism however leads the way down a twisted path of narcissistic anomie.

In the first place, Crowley’s credo seems to call for a surrender to (not of) desire, doing for yourself that which pleases yourself. It resonates like a call to action, to find what you want then reach out and take it. Nothing about “Do what thou wilt” suggests any kind of sensitivity to how one’s actions might affect any else.  Campbell’s bliss, on the other hand, is not something to be simply taken and held by the horns, but rather something to follow. He acknowledges the pursuit of something possibly unattainable, where the journey overshadows the destination, the search eclipses the grail, the quest itself is the treasure.

“Bliss,” furthermore, carries none of the egotistical meanness of “what thou wilt.” Instead, Campbell’s choice of words suggests a kind of joy that transcends fanciful wants and personal desires. Bliss is not something an individual can hold or contain, but a kind of radiant sensation that can only multiply and magnify. When genuine bliss is identified and followed – and not confused with impulsive lust or habitual craving – its follower will glow both inside and out, in a way that will inspire all those around him.

Imagine a string of Christmas lights illuminated by a single current of electricity. Somewhere along the line, a red bulb is glowing bright. In its urge to glow brighter, it draws more and more juice from the current, causing neighboring bulbs to dim and flicker. Elsewhere on another string, a clear bulb from a different brand has been engineered to burn more efficiently; by drawing the exact charge of energy that it needs, it exudes a perfect, warm glow and allows the other bulbs to get the electricity they need. The first string shines unevenly and occasionally even blows a fuse; the imminent risk of fire hangs overhead like fresh reindeer droppings. The second string adorns the tree and provides an even, balanced glow that illuminates every ornament, while also consuming less electricity. With the money the family saves on its PG&E bill, they can afford to stuff another handful of goodies into their stockings.

Show respect for those other luminous being with whom you share the life energy. Take what you need to burn your brightest, serve as a model for others to do the same, and see that your neighbors are able and willing to glow at the fullness of their own potential. Together we reinforce our own brilliance through the awareness of that single current which radiates uniquely through each of us.

The Flawed Delusion

A friend was telling me about Richard Dawkin’s “The God Delusion” last night. I told him I’d heard the great reviews, but that I’d declined to read it because I didn’t need to be convinced of the argument for atheism. After all, the argument is pretty straightforward, not to mention irrefutable, at least by reason.

He went on to extoll the book’s great qualities, including Dawkins’s delicious writing style. That alone makes it a worthwhile read. Apparently it’s not quite the polemical tirade that one might expect. Instead it’s filled with humor, insight and unusual anecdotes. And I guess there’s a long discussion of how G.W. Bush invaded Iraq because God explicitly told him to do so.

I’m not about to challenge, deconstruct or otherwise analyze a book that I haven’t read, but I would like to take a moment to address this point (as it was explained to me) about G.W. and what his religious experience says about Christianity.

Of course, if a rational person hears this story of how Bush justified a war by the voices in his head, and they are told that this is what it means to believe in God, they should certainly not hesitate to join the atheist movement with all their heart and mind. A rational and thinking person, however, should stop and say, “no, that’s not religion.” No indeed, for that’s the most baseless corruption of religion ever made.

Religion ought to be an inner, personal experience, one in which the individual comes to terms with his conflicting aspects, his selfish impulses and virtuous conscience, and carefully manages to reconcile the two. God acts as the numinous arbiter that unites those opposites and brings the soul to peace.

When a politician points to God as his justification for leading a country into a preemptive war, we’re clearly dealing with something other than an inward, soul experience, a gross misappropriation of spirit. Religion as a collective force has caused a great deal of damage, consider the long litany of European wars, the Middle East, the witch burnings. But we should also bear in mind the capacity for organized religions to bring good through philanthropic efforts around the world. (And we need not compare the two lists, for that’s somewhat beside the point.)

There’s no reason for a thoughtful person to accept the truculent voice in G.W.’s head as the the supreme being in the universe, but that absolutely should not preclude the attentive mind from looking inward and reflecting upon his own soul. The great challenge is to follow this path of personal soul searching while still incorporating the collective, cultural function of religion, to provide some sort of ethical, social cohesion, without doing it in such a way that one viewpoint assumes the higher ground and forces its “morality” into the very personal lives of everyone else.

This is the challenge I put to you this week, to be critical enough to improve yourself, but tolerant enough to accept the ways of those who still have some catching up to do.

Religion and Reason: Irreconcilable?

The many faces of Truth

 

Surf through the channels of so-called news programs and web logs, peruse the bumper stickers on your daily commute, or spin the dial across the gamete of fuming radio personalities, and the grim reality becomes obvious. A culture war is rattling the foundations of our society, dividing hearts and minds, driving a wedge between friends and family. Worse than the saber rattling of Jesus versus Allah that’s turned southwest Asia into a political sandstorm, another force is parting us like the Red Sea. But neither paradigm holds water, for they’re two sides of the same coin.

No less than a clash of civilizations, the battle raging between religious fundamentalists and secular humanists threatens not just the stability of our world, but the destiny of our very souls. Positions on abortion, whether to allow prayer and evolution in schools, and the latest controversy surrounding same-sex marriage all reveal irreconcilable differences based on a gap in worldviews that seemingly cannot be bridged.

On one side stands a devoted fellowship of traditional Christians who trust the literal word of the Bible concerning the divine formation of the world, the certainty of man’s sin, and the necessity of his salvation through a single, solitary savior. And across the burning sea, a contingent of secular Darwinists sings its praises to the almighty wisdom of concrete materialism and the scientific method, rejecting the Holy Bible as a fabrication of ancient myth and mind control. Like rivaling siblings who would never admit to having anything in common, both parties are guilty of the same flawed, one-dimensional approach.

On the moral high ground, Bible scholars sift through the sands of Palestine and Mesopotamia in search of evidence to verify the walls of Jericho, the line of King Solomon, and the flood of Noah. Hard-line skeptics assume their intellectual superiority by casting stones and doubts on immaculate conception, a 6000-year-old planet created in six days, and Joshua’s stopping the sun in the sky. Scrambling for empirical proof to satisfy their belief systems, followers on both sides sink deeper into the quicksand of misunderstanding, and the fruits of spirituality slip ever further out of reach.

To pin one’s religious perspective on historical evidence, or to feel this religion somehow threatened or invalidated by certain advances in biology, geology and astronomy, reveals a pitiful paucity of soulful awareness. Such a misguided attempt to nourish the spirit amounts to the same naivety as discarding Hamlet because it contradicts the real history of Elsinore and the true lineage of Danish royalty. The layers of meaning and insight that grow richer with every subsequent reading have nothing whatsoever to do with a faithful representation of history; the remarkable portrayal of human nature speaks for itself, depicting the same conflicted nature that appears in every book of the Bible.

Imagine poring over the birth records in all the church basements of Skotoprigonyevsk and finding not a trace of any brothers named Ivan, Dmitri and Alexey Karamazov. Only a complete nudnik would resolve to reject Dostoyevsky’s great novel in its entirety. These three brothers do not belong to an obscure, unpronounceable village a hundred miles from St. Petersburg; they reside within us all. The intellect of Ivan, the sensuality of Dmitri, the spirituality of Alyosha: this trinity survives in every human soul.

Just like Hamlet, Moses, Job and Judas, even Harry Potter and Han Solo, these characters personify universal energies and carry a rich meaning that is figurative, not literal. Such a linear reading is about as satisfying as trying to eat a photograph of a sweet, juicy apple. Like a picture that holds a thousand words, these stories represent the great ineffable mysteries of human consciousness, issues so vast that they defy language. Imagine describing an apple to someone from another planet: a life-like illustration would be incredibly helpful, but hardly edible. And how many fruit lovers would bet their lives that their photo is the one true apple – not just a picture of it – and that all the rest are not only worthless but poisonous?

Obsessing over the concrete components of a theological narrative proves just as foolish, about as reasonable as raising Aesop’s grasshopper to a position of divinity because it possesses supernatural abilities– or worse, dismissing the fables and their morals altogether because you know that real insects don’t. Yet millions continue to rely on the folklore of a Neolithic tribe of desert nomads to explain the origins of the stars and planets and life on earth. And millions more ignore the timeless lessons of  the holy texts because they don’t correspond with geological and paleoanthropological records.

None of this calls for a crisis of faith; it simply demands a little more imagination, asking ourselves what lessons we can learn in the belly of the whale, or at the bottom of the trash compacter, challenging our Faustian egos with the wisdom and compassion of our own conscience. Scientific inquiry and pious devotion are not mutually exclusive polarities, but twin horses driving the chariot of human progress. When we see these stories for what they are, we see that we’re not so different after all, and finally we can stop condemning each other and start to examine the drama unfolding within.

Chapter III

(The Story of Bell can be read in its entirety right here.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter III

 

Frozen in shock the young boy stands exposed

And does all he can to remain well composed

As three husky maidens step out of the black

And beholding his presence they’re taken aback

 

It’s perfectly clear to the women thereby

This child’s a gift from the Lord up on high

Their ancestors promised a babe dressed in white

Would rescue them out of their famine and blight

 

The great river spirit has finally come through

Their call for salvation at last has come true

So the eldest produces her buckskin canteen

And offers a drink of her goat’s milk pristine

 

Wiping the creamy mustache from his lip

Bell joins the three on a short woodsy trip

Through the thick of the forest all luscious and damp

A trail leads four of them right to their camp

 

To a circle of teepees on velvety green

Where the village is mourning its posthumous queen

And somber bystanders prepare for the wake

As three boars are slaughtered for eulogy’s sake

 

An ambivalent cluster rejoices and grieves

As the holy witch doctor looks up from his leaves

At the boy who now stands in a thin shaft of light

Surrounded by women who blush with delight

 

“So this is the one from the oracle reading

Now you must help bring an end to the bleeding

The well has been poisoned and deer meat is lacking

Diseases are sending our best hunters packing

 

Our queen she was recently struck by the scourge

A pestilent plague that we beg you to purge

The spirits now taunt us with callous and dread

Forsaking our queen like removing our head

 

You’ve come from outside, so innocent, pure

And now you’re my tribe’s only hope for a cure

It’s funeral day, and you’ll lead the procession

Together we’ll end this most heinous oppression”

 

So Bell takes his cue and he follows the Shaman

Preparing himself for expelling the daemon

Approaching the coffin, half buried in flowers 

The boy reconsiders his magical powers

 

Unsure what to think of this puzzling scene

Young Bell peers inside to examine the queen

Transfixed by this vision of stillness and grace

The boy reaches in and caresses her face

 

Holding their breath, each villager stares

“Funny way fate has of mocking our prayers!

Just when we thought it could never get worse

The boy will now bring an unspeakable curse!”

 

Chapter II

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

No father, no family and nothing to lose

A three-day-old child now embarks on his cruise

A clean empty slate, a mind like a sponge

Curiosity takes him where kings dare not plunge

 

The journey begins in the high alpine peaks

Under icy blue skies he meanders for weeks

Swiftly careening ’round sheer glacial chasms

He handles the rapids with tremors and spasms

 

The boy in a basket keeps floating downhill

Till finally the current grows calmer and still

Amazed at himself for enduring the ride

Young Bell takes a moment of personal pride

 

Then a boulder takes Bell and his boat by surprise

At which point he pauses and starts to surmise 

“Is something else out there? Is everything planned?

On board this light craft am I not in command?”

 

With that he looks up, to observe his position

To watch as he makes an important transition

Passing the timberline, grey turns to green

He enters a landscape like nothing he’s seen

 

For the first time Bell witnesses water fowl feeding

And frogs on the shore are successfully breeding 

A serpent with grace on the water goes gliding

In the trees he hears sparrows and finches in hiding

 

Perceiving these creatures, uncommon and new

Bell wonders reflectively just what to do

So he opens his mouth and commences to sing

In his clarion voice his gives names to each thing

 

He gradually tires from epithet singing

Now from his gut comes a rumble and ringing 

The clear mountain water is perfect for drinking

But the ration of roots from his mother is shrinking

 

Inspecting the shoreline, the forest grows quiet

Bell is now craving a change in his diet

Occasional waterborne treats can be found

But for genuine food he must anchor aground 

 

Continuing down on the babbling brook

Approaching the shore for a curious look

Bell reaches out with a fumbling hand

And paddles his basket right up to the strand

 

Disembarking with caution, up out of his seat

The very first time on his very own feet

Alone in the forest with eyes all agog

He crawls his way over and onto a log

 

Adjusting his vision he squints at the trees 

In search of fresh berries or wild mountain peas

But he sees only shadows, the harder he tries

Till out of the wood emerge three pairs of eyes

Chapter I

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In a high mountain village the first day of Autumn

A mother caresses her new baby’s bottom

On top of the world, encircled by snow

The newborn possesses a heavenly glow

 

The villagers’ council drops in for a visit

And mother, surprised, begs them, “Tell me, what is it?”

“It’s a miracle, wonderful, magical thing

This child before us was born to be king”

 

But mother just chuckles and sends them away

“I’ve got cooking and nursing and no time to play

I’m ever so sorry for letting you down

But no son of mine is in line for the crown”

 

As the envoy of senators shuffles along

The woman foresees something terribly wrong

A bane of misfortune has fallen upon her

Being chosen as king is no gesture of honor

 

In earlier ages the kings drew respect

But in these troubled times they can hardly expect

To enjoy a position of glory and grace  

Instead they have Damocles’ sword in their place

 

The last several kings were delivered to God

Always in June when the icicles thawed

As gifts to the Sun from the people who love it

A place on the throne is no station to covet

 

So mother looks down at the young would-be king

As her eyes water up he releases a ring

“What a curious sound, for your name shall be Bell 

And now my son, Bell, I will hide you quite well”

 

From her frosty green garden she gathers some twigs

Some branches of poplar and five poppy sprigs

And weaving a basket for precious boy-wonder

She proves it will buoy and never go under

 

A dark stalk of cedar for the boy she adores

She breaks it in two and says: “This half is yours

Keep it close to your chest as your guide and protection

And never meet danger from any direction”

 

So into the basket she packs her young son 

Who may have to paddle before he can run

At a fresh mountain spring she prepares her young Bell

“And someday, my son you’ll have stories to tell

 

Hold on to your cedar, remember your source

Have faith in the river and follow her course

In time you’ll know many, but always be one

For nothing replaces a mom’s only son”  

 

Touching the water she watches him drift

And between them there grows an unstoppable rift 

Alone he will travel on currents and streams

And discover the world isn’t all what it seems

In the beginning … was the Word document

In his treatise on the difference between Eastern and Western thinking, Carl Jung put forth the proposition that “the conflict between science and religion is in reality a misunderstanding of both.”

As soon as I get some free time I’ll be expanding on this valuable notion, dispelling certain myths by elucidating others, beginning with the first Chapter of Genesis.

Stay tuned, if you like . . . but it’s not like you’re going to burn in hell if you don’t.