The Hold Steady – Heaven is Whenever

Need any more proof that Craig Finn is a genius? Aside from writing a song essentially about the Catholic concept of heaven coming to earth every time we perform Mass (though his communion is over vinyl rather than bread and wine; no complaints here), check out the research done by some Hold Steady fans to uncover ten or fifteen references in four and a half minutes.

The way Finn weaves countless cultural, religious and personal reflections into a single song that means the world to a lot of people (well, at least two that I know of) is endlessly comforting.

I’m reminded of Scott Adams’s theory of God’s debris: that, as time moves forward, the world at large slowly converges back into a single consciousness that is the consciousness of God himself. Finn might be the patron saint of this idea, if for no other reason than to prove we’re getting better at massive consciousness in compact form. It’s a beautiful thing.

Conversation #1 and Conversation #2 are two short comic books that discuss the philosophy of art, what it means to live and whether creating art is necessary for life to be worth living.

The style of each book is that James Kochalka, creator of American Elf, personal favorite comic, collaborates with one other comic artist. They write the dialog and guide the direction of the art together, and interfere with each other so that both the dialog and the art are a conversation of styles and philosophies. In the first book, Kochalka collaborates with Craig Thompson; in the second he works with Jeffrey Brown

Both comic books were highly enjoyable, especially as someone who enjoys comics, philosophy and the analysis of art. Both were right up my alley, so being $5 each it was a bit of a no-brainer to invest in a copy of each. Kochalka’s mindset on free expression and open honesty — both things I love about American Elf — come through well, and getting to appreciate the work of two other comic artists I wasn’t familiar with was great.

My only complaints about the books would be that, for one, they were both really short, and also that the conversation meandered in and out of topic a bit much at times, which occasionally made the ideas hard to follow. I wouldn’t say this interfered with my enjoying them, but were the only things that held them back from being a perfect read.

Another book about the craft of writing. That’s two in a row, sort of. This one’s a bit more explicit than the last and, coincidentally, recommended by the author of the last.

This one is called The War of Art, and if you consider yourself a creator of anything — writing, painting, websites, photographs, businesses — and want to hone your skill to the highest form, this should be on your must-read list. In fact, it should probably be on your must-read-once-a-year list.

The War of Art is a short and easy-to-read book by Steven Pressfield, author of The Legend of Bagger Vance. Departing from his normal territory of fiction, he wrote this one as an expository piece by an artist for other artists. He expresses the idea that, to be a professional writer (or painter, or programmer), we have to fight resistance every day and continue pushing through and creating, whether we feel “inspired” or not.

It comes across as a bit of a self-help book at first, but it really does feel empowering. It was a quick encouragement that, if I’m serious about becoming a pro at anything, it’s something I have to do daily. Writer’s block does not exist in the world of the pro. They write, no matter what. If it sucks, that’s okay. At least they wrote. You can always throw it out and try again tomorrow. It’s breaking through the daily resistance that matters.

This book is too short for me to really want to say much else (I read it start to finish in a couple hours), so I’ll repeat myself: if you are someone who creates, or wants to create, anything on a professional level, at the highest quality, and not once but repeatedly, this is a book you should have in your own library. Go get yourself a copy right now.

My friend Matthew recently started a community of bloggers doing what he calls “Poetry Wednesday.” The idea is simple: post your favorite poetry (yours or someone else’s) on Wednesdays. And that’s it. So here’s mine.

One final selection from Ryan Adams’ Infinity Blues.

Dreams, God, Albert, and Disappointment

by Ryan Adams

Albert wakes God up (again) and God is pissed,
but then laughs
and makes tea
tea for two
and they sit by the bay window
and God speaks
and Albert, grinning, says, “hmm”
and not much else
and when he talks
it isn’t in a germanic drawl
no
they speak one language
Angelica
which sounds like a puppy barking
about nothing in particular
like an animal sigh
and
eventually
Mrs. Claus comes round too
and says, “hello, Albert,” like he was a kid
because he is just a kid
always was
always is
punk as funk
and they all listen to the story of how
and why
and Albert tries very hard
not to ask too many questions
and
eventually
goes back to the dormitory
and writes stuff down
the ink disappears
into a cloud
and I wake up
in the middle of this firing range
where the bullets
and still the curse of days
and the worry
that my heart will explode
from love
and
disappointment

My friend Matthew recently started a community of bloggers doing what he calls “Poetry Wednesday.” The idea is simple: post your favorite poetry (yours or someone else’s) on Wednesdays. And that’s it. So here’s mine.

Yet another selection from Ryan Adams’ Infinity Blues.

Joy

by Ryan Adams

When you say a thing that I write too much
I dream myself a thousand-plus
more books I wrote myself
and imagine them in a swinging stack
fainting
and collapsing onto you
as they crush your bones
in the name of art
in the name of american idealism
in the name of the future
because
fuck you and your sleeping wordless criticism
and
that path before me is lit with possibility
and lore
and my cup is not full because it is not a cup
it is a life
it is a heart
and me
I am trying to show you something
about yourself
not me
that a person can do anything
and
that is what hope is
so,
with all due respect,
fuck you if you dismiss this
because it is a process
and
I accept
if you discount what it has to say
but if I draw a line
and say
what have you done today
be prepared
because while you are sleeping
I am with the sunlight
and the life
and joy
joy will rise in the names

My friend Matthew recently started a community of bloggers doing what he calls “Poetry Wednesday.” The idea is simple: post your favorite poetry (yours or someone else’s) on Wednesdays. And that’s it. So here’s mine.

This week’s poem comes from Ryan Adams’ Infinity Blues.

Becausewhy

by Ryan Adams

because we are bored
We War
Because we are bored
We Fuck
sexy or not
and
Because we were born to fight
inside
we know
our children too, eventually will die
this is how it is
in the universe of ours
us against time
and
in this place,
show me where god stood up
and said otherwise
i say he does not speak
and may be everything
inside that thought
you are allowed
but may not keep
for the growing
of things
immeasurable
i have not seen him
while i have been alive
and regardless
heaven
that would not work
if men and women
were anything like this
someplace else
especially an elsewhere
of brights
and
if so
that is not a good place to go
i would not dine there
how could one relax
infinitely
in a place like that
so why?
becausewhy
that’s what
that’s what they say
right before
“shut up”
and i’m like
ok
no
never.
Fuck-Face.

It’s no secret that I’ve had a thing for pretty much everything Ryan Adams does for quite some time. I own a good handful of his many albums, I read his blog, followed his Twitter, watched him on Tumblr, and wherever else he chose to publish his words, videos and songs for 10 days at a time before deleting it all.

It started when a good friend introduced me to his album Love is Hell — one of the saddest and most beautiful collections of alt. country and piano ballads about heartbreak ever put to tape. It started a snowball effect that has slowed down but I doubt will ever stop until he does. (Coincidentally, he stated a while back that he’s on an indefinite hiatus from making music, so maybe that time has already come.)

So it comes as no surprise to most that I finally got around to reading Infinity Blues, his book of poems that he wrote a year or two ago.

Adams has undergone what seems to be a significant transformation in the last few years, having given up several addictions, getting married and, generally speaking, doing everything he can to shed the asshole image he had created for himself during several years of self-destructive actions on stage and off.

If nothing else, Infinity Blues is a look into the mind of Adams at the age of 33. It’s frantic, thoughtful, funny, sad and all over the map from one moment to the next. He talks candidly — and yet still with a shroud over names and events — about his broken family, lost loves, life in the city, art, faith and everything. In one poem he claims that he wrote anywhere from 3 to 17 poems a day for the book which, knowing his prolific creation schedule, isn’t too surprising.

If you like free verse poetry or watching Adams “find himself by losing himself,” Infinity Blues might be worth a read.

My friend Matthew recently started a community of bloggers doing what he calls “Poetry Wednesday.” The idea is simple: post your favorite poetry (yours or someone else’s) on Wednesdays. And that’s it. So here’s mine.

The following is a poem titled The Kingdom of God by Francis Thompson. I know nothing of Thompson other than when he was alive; or this poem, other than that it was quoted in part in The World’s Religions, a book I recently read.

The Kingdom of God

by Francis Thompson

O WORLD invisible, we view thee,
O world intangible, we touch thee,
O world unknowable, we know thee,
Inapprehensible, we clutch thee!

Does the fish soar to find the ocean,
The eagle plunge to find the air—
That we ask of the stars in motion
If they have rumour of thee there?

Not where the wheeling systems darken,
And our benumbed conceiving soars!—
The drift of pinions, would we hearken,
Beats at our own clay-shuttered doors.

The angels keep their ancient places;—
Turn but a stone, and start a wing!
‘Tis ye, ‘tis your estrangèd faces,
That miss the many-splendoured thing.

But (when so sad thou canst not sadder)
Cry;—and upon thy so sore loss
Shall shine the traffic of Jacob’s ladder
Pitched betwixt Heaven and Charing Cross.

Yea, in the night, my Soul, my daughter,
Cry,—clinging Heaven by the hems;
And lo, Christ walking on the water
Not of Gennesareth, but Thames!

My friend Matthew recently started a community of bloggers doing what he calls “Poetry Wednesday.” The idea is simple: post your favorite poetry (yours or someone else’s) on Wednesdays. And that’s it. So here’s mine.

Another song cascading as a poem. Except Saul Williams is originally a slam poet (with degrees in acting and philosophy, no less) who found some release in hip-hop. So a poem it is.

Talk to Strangers

by Saul Williams

Now, I wasn’t raised at gunpoint and I’ve read too many books
To distract me from the mirror when unhappy with my looks
And I ain’t got proper diction for the makings of a thug
Though I grew up in the ghetto and my niggas all sold drugs

And though that may validate me for a spot on MTV
Or get me all the airplay that my bank account would need
I was hoping to invest in a lesson that I learned
I thought this fool had jumped me just because it was my turn

I went to an open space cause I knew he wouldn’t do it
If somebody there could see him or somebody else might prove it
And maybe, in your eyes it may seem I got punked out
Cause I walked a narrow path and then went and changed my route
But that openness exposed me to a truth I couldn’t find
In the clenched fists of my ego, or the confines of my mind
In the hipness of my swagger, or the swagger in my step
Or the scowl of my grimace, or the meanness of my rep
Cause we represent a truth, son, that changes by the hour
And when you open to it, vulnerability is power
And in that shifting form you’ll find a truth that doesn’t change
And that truth is living proof of the fact that God is strange

Talk to strangers when the family fails and friends lead you astray
When Buddha laughs and Jesus weeps and turns out God is gay
Cause angels and messiahs, love, can come in many forms
In the hallways of your projects or the fat girl in your dorm
And when you finally take the time to see what they’re about
Perhaps you find them lonely or their wisdom trips you out

Maybe you’ll find the cycles end you back where you began
But come this time around you’ll have someone to hold your hand
Who prays for you, who’s there for you, who sends you love and light
Exposes you to parts of you that you once tried to fight
And come this time around you’ll choose to walk a different path
You’ll embrace what you turned away and cry at what you laughed
Cause that’s the only way we’re gonna make it through this storm
Where ignorance is common sense and senselessness the norm
And flags wave high above the truth and the two never touch
And stolen goods are overpriced and freedom costs too much
And no one seems to recognize the symbols come to life
The bitten apple on the screen and Jesus had a wife
And she was his Messiah like that stranger may be yours
Who holds a subtle knife that carves through worlds like magic doors

And that’s what I’ve been looking for, the bridge from then to now
Just watching BET like, “What the fuck, son? This is foul.”
But that square box don’t represent the sphere that we live in
The earth is not a flat screen, I ain’t trying to fit in
But this ain’t for the underground, this here is for the sun
A seed a stranger gave to me and planted on my tongue
And when I look at you, I know I’m not the only one

As a great man once said,
“There’s nothing more powerful
than an idea
who’s time
has come.”

My friend Matthew recently started a community of bloggers doing what he calls “Poetry Wednesday.” The idea is simple: post your favorite poetry (yours or someone else’s) on Wednesdays. And that’s it. So here’s mine.

The Soviet

by mewithoutYou

God is love and love is real
But the dead are dancing with the dead
And whatever’s charming disappears
All things lovely only hurt my head

As I gather stones from fields
Like pearls of water on my fingers’ ends
And wrap them up in boxes
Safe from windows
From things that break

As the nighttime shined like day
It saw my sorry face
Hair a mess but it liked me best that way
Besides, how else could I confess?
When I looked down like if to pray
Well, I was looking down her dress

Good God! Please!
Catch for us the foxes
In the vineyard, the little foxes

So turn your ears, you musicians, to silence
Because they only come out when it’s quiet
Their tails brushing over your eyelids
Wake up, sleeper, and rise from the dead!
Or the fur that they shed
Is gonna lay on your bed
In a delicate, orange-ish cinnamon red

Ah, but I don’t need this!
Fall down! Stay down!
I don’t need this

One of my favorite songs by one of my favorite bands, and it just so happens to be one of the most sadly poetic things I’ve ever read.