I read a good deal of Langston Hughes’ poetry for one of my classes this semester and in preparation for the final, I went reviewed the ones I made notes on.  “Bouquet” being one of my favorites, I thought I would share it with you.

Bouquet

Gather quickly
Out of darkness
All the songs you know
And throw them at the sun
Before they melt
Like snow.

The sultry air of midday Tennessee hung in the overcast sky.  Beneath, the virid hills of trees stretched to the rolling horizon.  Each knoll sat still in the stagnant surroundings.  Around every corner, History concealed itself.  It hid there, waiting to be reawakened in the corners of battlefields, plantations, and in the meadows of bullets and other trinkets of war.

 

            Here, in Franklin, Tennessee, specters of the past haunted each acre.  I was visiting this bleak place and I wondered at its foreign atmosphere.  My location was one of the old genteel-like plantations.  It stood two stories high with a baronial terrace that stretched from one end to the other, on both levels.  It was whitewashed, with eight paned windows and a single teal door. Two chimneys stood as bookends to the southern mansion. 

I arrived just in time for the tour to begin.  Our guide was a woman, over forty, under sixty, and well-rehearsed in her occupation.  We were seated on the lower porch, on wooden benches that matched the door, to hear the rules: do not touch anything, respect the building and it’s past, and other basic guidelines one always receives at events such as these.

            We began the tour with the grounds; a literal battlefield, where the Union and Confederate ghosts struggled in a macabre reel before my eyes.  Among the buildings on the property was the slave quarters; slightly decayed over time, yet still vibrant with the memory of an African slave culture.  My imagination was overpowered with images and realizations of our history.  I was hardly able to grasp the hundreds of lives that this single place had altered and the paths it had changed.

            There was an extravagant garden, surrounded by a white picket fence.  In the center stood a monumental tree that looked out over the estate.  It was altogether possible that this arbor was a spectator to the Second Battle of Franklin.  And if that tree did not recall the conflict, the old house most assuredly did.  For it’s eyes saw more of blood and death than the tree’s eyes ever could.

            As I entered the home, my hopes faltered, but only slightly, at the hall that seemed less than lavish.  I had imagined the grand halls of Tara and 12 Oaks, but Gone With the Wind was hardly an accurate chronicling. The gentlewoman guided us through the McGavock family history and recreated the battle’s movements for our minds to review.  There was talk of ghosts and haunted houses, and for the first time in my life, I entertained the idea for a while.  There was no difficulty in this, for as we mounted the stairs to the upper level, I saw two medical personnel carrying the battered body of Johnny Reb to a room, somewhere beyond me.  It was a curious feeling, being so close to the past.

            Around the corner, in an elegant bed chamber, we stopped.  The atmosphere was solemn.  This house,

rather the entire estate, had served as a make-shift hospital for the Confederate wounded.  On the other side of the bed – or should I say operating table- was a stain.  Crimson and in the shape of agony, it lay flat against the wooden floor.  A three-dimensional phantasm of life and death.  I scanned the wood and my heart beat louder with each blood-tinged finding.  “This was where miscellaneous appendages were piled after amputation,” recited our guide with cold nonchalance.  The specters I had seen returned, and I could hear them shouting orders for medical supplies, and then cursing under their breath when the things they needed could not be found.  Yet my eyes remained fixed on the stain, the blood mark, the memory of which will not soon depart from me.

            In these rooms, history had been given life and Johnny Reb a name.  Facts and figures were given faces and the songs of war rang anew.  Even the phantoms and shadows of someone else’s life, long deceased in this deep south, were resurrected.  I had seen the past, and it was not as it is described in the text books.  It was real.           

The Scarlet Letter.
Supposedly the greatest American novel ever written.
Not so.
Not according to me.
I liked Huck Finn better.
And I didn’t like Huck Finn.

Understand me, it was fabulously written, insanely deep, and very interesting. There is simply something about the entire story that I can’t seem to describe… except perhaps as a distaste. It has a very bitter, salty, metallic, dirty (as in actual dirt), concrete kind of taste. What I find even stranger is that many of my friends (yes you), love this book! Why? Don’t get me wrong, I don’t hate it, but that’s probably only because it’s a classic, something that I should like and should give attention to. The Scarlet Letter is like a rock, no a brick: harsh, heavy, red, rectangular, requires mortar to be of any use, makes a good doorstop, and has a depth all it’s own. Ok, so maybe it’s nothing like a brick or vice versa, but whatever. Or is it? It is heavy and the color red is very prominent, rectangular if you’re speaking literally (maybe you can make it work with the text in some philosophical way), it requires a good prof/spark’s notes to get you through it (this could be the mortar… so that it sticks, at least enough to write a good paper), it has depth for sure (bricks do too, mathematically… I think, I was never good at math), but as for the doorstop… it’s simply too small to hold a door open. Now that I’ve officially carried that analogy too far….

I chose to write my paper on Pearl, the illegitimate child of adulteress Hester Prynne, because she is the only character who provides a breath of fresh air. Seriously though, going over the book again, it’s like swimming in muddy peanut butter or trying to perform brain surgery when you’re not a brain surgeon… or even a doctor. Now I may be over exaggerating a tad, but I think I’m allowed to… simply expressing my current state of mind.

Back to Pearl. She’s cute. I’m one of two in my class who don’t hate her. She’s lovely, honest, adorable, creative, bright, and observant. Probably a genius in the making. She is the only person who doesn’t fall into the incredible affinity for melodrama (at least not too much). If you’ve read the book you know what I’m talking about. Basically a soap opera.

Ok, I’m done with my rant… I think I’ll finish my Star Trek ‘psode (shh, don’t tell anyone), grab some ice cream, and fade away to some Henry Mancini.

*Disclaimer: I actually like red and melodrama, just not at this moment

Hats should be worn more often.  By men and women alike.  Well not alike in the kind of hat they wear, just that they should both wear more hats.  Hats should be fashionable again.  From the eccentric to the simple.  Think mid-twentieth century chapeaus.  The ones you had to use a hat pin to keep it on your head.  Ones that came in hat boxes.  Men don’t tip their hats anymore unless they’re a cowboy.  And I most certainly am not referring to cowboys or cowboy hats at the moment (nothing against either).  I am referring to the derby, bowler, fedora, boater, flat, panama, and trilby (I may or may not have done a google search).  Men should tip their hats to ladies.  Unless they are not wearing a hat, or they are wearing a baseball cap.  Those should really be done away with, they are not very attractive.  No offense meant to baseball hat lovers, I was once under their spell as well (only for a brief time).  Simply put, if hats never make a comeback, I shall bring them back myself (or move to England, where I hope they still wear hats).

Shoo bop-pa dee-pa dop-pa doo, boop.

A tune is always a nice way to start off a blog.  “Really?” you might say.  “Yes.”  I will firmly reply.  A tune is always a nice way to start anything.  Except maybe an opening statement to a presidential debate.  HA!  McCain vs. Obama in the Presidential Edition of American Idol!  Can Simon Cowell please be the moderator?

Anyhoo, I love jazz piano.  Don’t play much myself, but listening to it is absolutely mauvelous.  I feel that mauve is a very jazzy color, not to mention a bluesy name.  I can just hear some cat singin a raspy beat about his lost girl Mauve.  Can’t you?

By the way, I just googled the color mauve.  Wikipedia will give you the correct definition. 

*happy sigh*  I must return now to my history books.  Boy do they make me feel smart. 

I have up to this point checked threeout from the library, but have yet to watch any of them.  1. Beauty and the Beast; 2. Le Million; and 3. Le Corbeau.   I do not speak French, but was intrigued by these films and enjoy foreign film (though not a connoisseur).  I just haven’t been in the mood to watch them yet.  Perhaps I’ll give Le Million a chance tonight.  I imagine it is tres adorables!

I started reading Les Miserables last week.  It’s pretty intense.  A lot of words…. no kidding.  It’s going to take some serious work to get through.  Don’t get me wrong, it’s very good so far (chapter 5 or so, I can’t remember).  I am determined to finish it, not soon mind you.  I love the musical, at least I think I do.  I’ve only seen it once and I am not exactly in a position to see it every chance I get.  I thoroughly enjoy the music and the passion behind it.  Some serious vocal talent.  My favorites being I Dreamed a Dream, Come To Me, Empty Chairs at Empty Tables, Do You Hear the People Sing, One Day More, etc. etc. 

THE END.

Wowzers, I never realized how awesome C. S. Lewis was!  I mean I’ve read several of his books, but they have all been fiction.  This is the first I have read of his nonfiction works.  Granted I am only through the second chapter, but this promises to be a very thought-provoking, perhaps life changing, read.  I find him to be extremely witty and forward in his writing; I love it!  Here are a few excerpts that I loved, not to mention good points:

“Novelty, simply as such, can have only an entertainment value.  And they don’t go to church to be entertained.  They go to use the service, or, if you prefer, to enactit.  Every service is a structure of acts and words through which we receive a sacrament, or repent, or supplicate, or adore.  And it enables us to do these things best – if you like, it “works” best – when, through long familiarity, we don’t have to think about it.  As long as you notice, and have to count, the steps, you are not yet dancing but only learning to dance.  A good shoe is a shoe you don’t notice.  Good reading becomes possible when you need not consciously think about eyes, or light, or print, or spelling.  The perfect church service would be one we were almost unaware of; our attention would have been on God.” (pg. 4)

“I can make do with almost any kind of service whatever, if only it will stay put.  But if each form is snatched away just when I am beginning to feel at home in it, then I can never make any progress in the art of worship.  You give me no chance to acquire the trained habit…” (pg. 5)

“If the sheep huddle patiently together and go on bleating, might they finally recall the shepherds?  (Haven’t English victories sometimes been won by the rank and file in spite of the generals?)” (pg. 6)

“Broaden your mind, Malcolm, broaden your mind!  It takes all sorts to make a world; or a church.  This may be even more truer of a church.  If grace perfects nature it must expand all our natures into the full richness of the diversity which God intended when He made them, and Heaven will display far more variety than Hell.  ‘One fold’ doesn’t mean ‘one pool.’  Cultivated roses and daffodils are no more alike than wild roses and daffodils.  What pleased me most about a Greek Orthodox mass I once attended was that there seemed to be no prescribed behaviour for the congregation.  Some stood, some knelt, some sat, some walked; one crawled about the floor like a caterpillar.  And the beauty of it was that nobody took the slightest notice of what anyone else was doing.  I wish we Anglicans would follow their example.  On meets people who are perturbed because someone in the next pew does, or does not, cross himself.  They oughtn’t even to have seen, let alone censured.” (pg. 10)

Please ponder……I know I am.

Yes.  I am having cheesecake for breakfast.  Well, it’s not really breakfast, being as though it is almost 1pm.  Yet to me it is breakfast because I haven’t eaten yet today.  I have a little secret: I ate it for breakfast yesterday “morning” as well.  This is probably not a good thing, but it won’t last forever.  See, I have this insane sweet tooth in the morning, it’s all I want when I wake up.  Eggs are good too.  I justify it by reminding myself that the day after Thanksgiving I have pumpkin pie for breakfast!  Works for me! 

That is all – continue about your business!

So.  It’s been a little while.  More like a long while.  But hey!  I’m back and ready to rock!  (ok, so I didn’t really go anywhere, I simply encountered a little thing called “writer’s block” – in other words, not really trying). 

I am sitting in my room, thinking about doing homework, but wishing that I were playing LOTR Monopoly instead.  Why would you play the plain generic Monopoly when you can play Disney, LOTR, Rudolph, Here and Now, or Pixar Monopoly?!  You can’t beat those with all of their colorfulness and cool pewter tokens!  Not to mention the detail put into each property card (eg. Pixar Mon. – Monster’s Inc. – houses = doors).  I am one of those emotional Monopoly players though.  Does anyone remember that episode of the Cosby Show where they play??  Yeah, that’s kind of what I’m like (it runs in the family).  ……..on to other things.

 Right now I am listening to Oh! Gravity by Switchfoot.  It came out sometime last year and brings back memories of OT field trips and springtime!  Good news!  Spring is practically here!!  There are little green buds on our old plum tree!  Crocuses are blooming all over!  There was a noisy little bird outside my window last evening, it sounded so pretty chirping its little heart out!

 I would rather be reading Sense and Sensibility with a passion that would make Marianne very pleased.  She would most assuredly contrast my reading with that of Edward’s senseless rendering.  Seriously, it’s practically a one-woman show when I grab a cup of tea of start whipsering Jane Austen’s words to myself.  This is the first time she’s really hooked me, mind you I love the movies, I started Emma and Pride and Prejudice, but that’s as far as I’ve ever gotten – UNTIL NOW!  I can hardly put it down!

 I love all things Peter Pan.  I got the Hook and Peter Pan (2005) soundracks at the library and LOVE them.  Peetah and all his fancifullness try to keep me focused as I do my homework.  DISTRACTION: the sun just started shining very brightly through my window and is now making it very hard to see my laptop screen. But it does create a lovely sillouette. END DISTRACTION.  I actually like the name “Peter,” but I could never name my child Peter, the temptation to call him Peter Pan would be too great (he would hate me).  This reminds me, I need to go out and buy the DVD of the wonderful Disney version of Peter Pan….aaannnnd read the book.  Dear Mr. Barrie, please forgive my never having read your lovely book.

 Alright, I really do need to start my homework. ugh. 

“So long, fare thee well, pip pip, cheerio, we’ll be back soon!”

Amazing Grace.  If you have not seen it, GO RIGHT NOW to Blockbuster or whatever place you rent from and SEE IT! 

 So many people see movies just to be entertained, to forget their lives for two hours by escaping into a world that doesn’t exist.  A world full of fictional people and fictional problems that get solved in every happily ever after.  There is nothing wrong with that.  I do it myself, but it is not then that I get true enjoyment from movies.  My favorite of all movies are the ones that are real.  By real I don’t mean history or non-fiction.  I mean something that happens, things that happen to people across the world every day; films about life.  Life is grand and there are happily ever afters, but the happily ever after takes a long time coming.  A long, painful road steeped in hard work and tears.  When I watch a movie, I want my life to be somehow different than it was when I sat down.  Better, maybe not profoundly changed, but perhaps to walk away with a slightly different perspective on life.  On my own life and lives of the people who’ve come before, who will come after, and who surround me every day.  There are no words that can describe the passion that I feel for the incredible power of film, only that it comes from God and that it is only a vague reflection of the passion I have for Him.  Amazing Grace is a real movie.  Not just because it is a true story, but because it is true to each person in a different way.  In fact, all movies are like that.  No one will ever see exactly what I see in this movie (and so many others).  I could try to explain it, but they will never fully understand what it means to me personally.  Just as I will never fully understand what it means to them.  Each of us has a dream (at least one, I have several) and we each of us have a desire to see those dreams fulfilled.  Without God’s help they are impossible, but with God all things are possible!  So next time you see a movie, one that is real, go with an open mind (and heart) to what God just might want to say to you.  Some of you may laugh, why would God want to speak to you through a movie?  I ask you: why not?