The Lord of the Rings Is Not Better than Star Wars: A Subjectivist Diatribe

A friend of mine who doesn't watch Star Wars (and admits openly to never having gotten through one of the movies due to finding them boring) recently sent me an online article by one J.S. Clingman titled "10 Good Reasons why The Lord of the Rings Film Trilogy is better than the Star Wars Film Series". Receiving that article ended up being the perfect catalyst for a lot of recent musings I've been having about what it means for a piece of art to be "good" or "bad", or "better" or "worse" than another piece of art, to boil over into an actual thesis: namely, that art as a whole cannot be objectively critiqued relative to other art because the "quality" of a given work of art is inherently bound up in the audience's subjective perception of the art.

I originally spewed out to my friend a whole ridiculous set of specific rebuttals of each of Clingman's "10 Good Reasons" (which are, spoiler alert, actually all terrible and fallacious reasons). If you want to read those rebuttals, skip to the end of this post. My argument for my thesis (which is what I'm really interested in posting here) follows.

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I'm all for having aesthetic opinions. I'm all for leaning into loving a particular work of art. I'm all for saying, "I enjoyed this movie way more than I enjoyed that movie because of all of these subjective reasons." I'm even all for saying, "I will never watch that movie because I get totally bored when I try to, and I'm not going to waste my time on something I don't enjoy." But those subjective opinions cannot be referenced as a basis of objective judgments. 

To acknowledge my biases, I freely admit that I have a pretty radically subjectivist perspective when it comes to aesthetics. For example, take The Human Centipede: the concept of that movie is totally disgusting to me, I find its existence kind of offensive, I don't understand why it was made in the first place, and I will never watch it. But I'm nonetheless not willing to say that The Human Centipede is a bad movie, because everything I just listed is a personal aesthetic response to the movie; and I don't have the universal authority to definitively say that something is bad based on my own perspective.

I get that a lot of people are uncomfortable with that level of subjectivism, and that's fine. Everyone has their own philosophy of aesthetics (even if that philosophy is unexamined and can't be stated clearly). I'm not here to advocate for subjectivism, but I am here to say that you have to have some sort of solid empirical argument to definitively say that one work of art is better than another work of art. This is especially true of films, which are by comparison closer to something like a cathedral than to something like a painting. Scores of people work on film sets. The final product as we the viewer experience it is the result of probably thousands of hours of work from individual artists. No one person could "do better" at making a movie than the multiple people who actually made it, because no one person can do each job required to make a film to the level of expertise that a professional in that job could.

How do you judge a movie's quality?

Is it solely by its sound design? If so, can you really say that the sound design team on The Fellowship of the Ring did a better job than the sound design team on the original Star Wars movie (who created some of THE most iconic sounds in ALL of cinema with, for example, the Darth Vader breathing, the TIE fighter engines, the Wookie noises, the lightsaber sounds, and the blaster noises)?

Is it solely by its acting? If so, can you really say that Martin Csokas's performance as Celeborn in The Fellowship of the Ring was better than Liam Neeson's performance as Qui-Gon in The Phantom Menace? (For the record, I love Csokas, but I and my family have mocked his Celeborn for as long as I can remember.)

Is it solely by its visual effects editing? If so, can you really say that the visual effects for the dream sequences of elven healing throughout the Lord of the Rings movies was better than the visual effects for the final lightsaber fight sequence in The Revenge of the Sith?

Is it solely by its set design? If so, can you really say that the digital ruins in the walking montage in The Fellowship of the Ring look better than the Geonosian arena in Attack of the Clones?

My point is this: any single film is a composite of numerous, relatively tiny works of art that all come together to make a whole, and my individual aesthetic response to that whole is actually itself a composite of my individual aesthetic responses to each of those individual works of art. There's not really an empirical way to determine which of these individual works of art is the most important to any individual movie, let alone to all movies of all time (a martial arts movie will have a very different emphasis on dialogue's importance than a movie by Quentin Tarantino); there's not really an empirical way to determine which between two movies' individual works of art (like their music or their costuming) is better; and there's not really an empirical way to determine which overall composite is better than another overall composite. The closest we can get is to say, "Well, more people liked this movie than liked that movie," but (leaving aside all of the many ways that argument from authority is fallacious and all the numerous counterarguments for things that are popular but shouldn't be) does the fact that 100 people disliked a movie mean that 1 person is wrong for liking that movie?

Ultimately, I think that's what it boils down to: making the objectivist claim that "Movie A is better than Movie B" (as opposed to the subjectivist claim that "I like Movie A more than Movie B") is making the objectivist claim that, "Someone who likes Movie B better than Movie A is incorrect," and the sheer weight of the logical lift needed to confidently and coherently make that assertion is, to my view, insurmountable. Lots of people disagree, but I've yet to have someone make a good argument why they're justified in disagreeing.

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What follows is a point-by-point rebuttal of Clingman's illogical article. Before I go any further, I want to preface that I enjoy the Lord of the Rings movies immensely. I have deep admiration for and appreciation of all of the incredible hard work that went into making them, and regularly rewatch them purely for the enjoyment of it. Please don't misconstrue my arguing against Clingman's points as somehow dissing The Lord of the Rings. I'm not dissing The Lord of the Rings; I'm dissing Clingman's illogical article.

POINT 1 is fallacious because it's an argument from authority. Using the Academy Awards as an indication of comparative quality is an inherently biased and elitist perspective.

As an example, Alan Rickman never won (and as far as I know, was never nominated for) an Oscar. Does that automatically make him a worse actor than Eddie Redmayne, who has? Is Nicolas Cage, who's won an Oscar, automatically a better actor than Willem Dafoe or Ed Harris?

I would answer "No" to both questions, because (a) whether an actor is better or worse than another actor is subjective (since acting is an art), and (b) the Oscars are not a reliable metric of quality but rather a reliable metric of what the upper echelons of the filmmaking industry want to recognize as important or valuable.

To be even more specific, The Return of the King far and away has the most academy awards of any of the Lord of the Rings movies, but does that mean it is inarguably the best of them? (In case it's not obvious, I would also answer "No" to this question.)

POINT 2 is fallacious because it's an argument from majority--"Look, lots of people like this thing so it must be good!"--but even more so is just based on a misunderstanding of how public reviews work.

Brigading is a well-documented problem within user reviews open to the general populace. There are all kinds of reasons that people will review-bomb something, but even beyond this, the very fact that people can review something they've never seen and have no interest in seeing shows that you can't rely on these reviews.

For example, on Goodreads The Winds of Winter by George R. R. Martin has a 4.39 average rating over 12,261 ratings... and not only hasn't been released yet but hasn't been finished, meaning these reviews are all just people expressing how excited (or not) they are about a book that may never come out.

I'm not saying that's where every single online rating comes from, but I am saying that online ratings are inherently unreliable metrics in any context because of the presence of this problem.

POINT 3 (like pretty much the rest of this list) is fallacious because it's an argument by assertion; or, to put it another way, this is where we start getting into purely subjective statements presented as authoritative and objective.

What does it even mean for one fictional, make-believe story to be more "authentic" than another? They're both totally made-up worlds. You could just as easily say that Star Wars is more "authentic" than The Lord of the Rings because it was born out of a desire to tell a story, as opposed to Tolkien's writing conlang fan fiction, or that the Star Wars movies are more "authentic" than The Lord of the Rings movies because they're original stories, not an adaptation of a preexisting work.

Looking past nitpicking word choice and criticizing the assumption of objective standards here, there's this problem: saying that The Lord of the Rings is better than Star Wars on the basis of this definition of "authentic" is ALSO subjective! I personally prefer things that have LESS world-building in them because I get extremely bored with having to slog through memorizing all these details about an imaginary world just so I can engage with a good story. Thinking that being more "authentic" in this way is better than being less "authentic" in this way is based entirely on personal taste.

POINT 4 is also fallacious because it's an argument by assertion. The author believes that the music of The Lord of the Rings is scarier than the music of Star Wars. First, that itself is a subjective opinion, and second, saying that having scarier music makes The Lord of the Rings better is also a subjective opinion. This is the same logical problem as the use of "authentic" in the previous point.

Let's allow Clingman's assertion that the music is scarier (which, again, I'm only doing for the sake of argument because scariness is in the eye of the beholder: I once worked for someone who found corgis absolutely terrifying). Peter Jackson (at least at the time of making The Lord of the Rings) was a horror film creator. Howard Shore was a horror film score composer. A creative intention of The Lord of the Rings is to be scary. That's not (as far as I am aware) a creative intention of most of Star Wars. You would expect something made by a horror film director and composed by a horror film composer to be scarier than something made by a pop sci-fi director and composed by the biggest mainstream film composer of all time. That doesn't make a non-scary film worse than a scary film. 

You can easily see the silliness of the argument here by reframing it: "Alien is better than Shawshank Redemption because the music is far scarier." That's obviously a ridiculous assertion, no matter whether you like Alien more than Shawshank Redemption. Whether scary is "better" or "worse" is entirely subjective here.

POINT 5 is just... nonsensical in every way?

I mean, first of all, Clingman says that both The Lord of the Rings and The Hobbit are beloved movie series, but The Lord of the Rings fans hate on The Hobbit all the time. I remember The Hobbit being hugely controversial among my LOTR fan friends when it came out, and later on in this very point he says "The Hobbit trilogy was met by fans with less joy". So that's one argument by assertion (fallacious): "these are both beloved because I say they're both beloved".

Second, he arbitrarily decides that we should split Star Wars into separate trilogies and consider them individually because "The Original Trilogy was a phenomenon in its day, and is still acclaimed as the best of the three, and is therefore probably the only real challenger to LotR." Then, he immediately turns around and says that "its day is long past", which first is an argument from novelty (fallacious) and second doesn't even make sense because The Lord of the Rings is itself decades old.

He goes on to say that the Original Trilogy's legacy has been tainted by the other trilogies, which also doesn't make sense because Clingman said it should be considered individually. Does he think the other trilogies should count in this comparison or not? Furthermore, while this article was written before Amazon's The Rings of Power was made, do we use how people think that series did as a basis for judging The Lord of the Rings? I don't even know what fallacy this would be. Does sheer mind-numbing inconsistency have a fancy fallacy name?

(I'd also like to note that he's saying "about 80%+ liked" the non-Original Trilogy Star Wars and saying that's bad, but somehow 90%" liking The Hobbit is good, I guess because that extra 10% makes all the difference between something "apparently terrible" and something "acclaimed to be excellent". I'd ALSO like to note that he's getting these statistics from just googling the movies and using the search results, which looks like some weird combination of an argument from authority and an argument from majority, both of which are fallacious.)

POINT 6 is fallacious because it's once again an argument from authority and an argument by assertion.

First, saying that The Lord of the Rings music is better than Star Wars music is a subjective aesthetic judgment: people like different music, full stop. (If you'd like an example, my favorite artist is Petey. I pitched him hard to all of my work friends, two of whom said, "This can't possibly be what you're recommending because it's so bad.")

Second, as I've already mentioned in point 1, you can't use Academy Awards as a reliable indicator of objective quality.

Third, two can play at this game! Sure, two of The Lord of the Rings movies won Oscars, but one of them wasn't even nominated, whereas ALL of the Original Trilogy movies were nominated and ALL of the Sequel Trilogy movies were nominated, for a total of 6 nominations to 2. Does that mean the Star Wars scores are better than the *Lord of the Rings* scores because there were more nominations? No, it doesn't, the same way it doesn't mean the Lord of the Rings scores are better because they had more wins.

POINT 7 is once again fallacious because it's once again an argument by assertion.

To start, it's very weird to say that an entire series is better than an entire other series just because one of the characters in one series is better than two of the characters in the other series. That's like saying, "Harry Potter is better than The Lord of the Rings because the Death Eaters are better than the Ringwraiths." It doesn't hold up because again, the whole point here is that "better" is subjective, so how do you even start to decide which set of characters is better; and second, these subset characters don't define the entire series, so comparing them doesn't say anything about the overall works themselves.

To continue, his whole argument for WHY Gandalf is better than Obi-Wan or Luke boils down to... POWER LEVEL?! Is what makes a character good or bad how strong they are? If that's the case, doesn't that make... I dunno... Boromir better than Sam? or Denethor better than Frodo? or Saruman better than Aragorn? or Sauron better than Gandalf?

And then to say that because Gandalf is more powerful than Obi-Wan or Luke, The Lord of the Rings is better than Star Wars is just foolishness. I mean, I'm sorry that Star Wars isn't a story about "primordial being[s] endowed with great power by the great Eru Iluvatar himself", but what does that have to do with its quality? Is The Eternals better than The Curse of the Black Pearl because the Eternals are more powerful than Will Turner and Elizabeth Swann? NO!

POINT 8 is another bizarre and nonsensical one.

First, it's once again an argument from majority (fallacious) because it's saying that how many people go to see a movie determines how good that movie is.

Second, if we're using box office numbers to gauge quality, then both of James Cameron's Avatar movies, every Avengers movie, and--huh, that can't be right--TWO OF THE STAR WARS MOVIES are better than The Return of the King. Additionally--get this--five of the Star Wars movies are listed on the top 50 grossing films on Wikipedia, and only The Return of the King is on that list. So the argument that he's trying to make, fallacious as it is, doesn't even prove the point that he's trying to make.

Third, he already said that we should only really pay attention to the Original Trilogy, so why are we talking about Solo, which is a spin-off film not even in one of the main Star Wars trilogies? Fourth, it's factually inaccurate to say that "the movie 'Solo'...didn't make its budget", because according to the film site The Numbers, Solo made over $60 million more in worldwide box office than its production budget.

POINT 9 is once again fallacious because it's once again an argument by assertion.

What makes the Lord of the Rings names "sound better" and "more imaginative"? Like genuinely, how is Rohan a more imaginative name than Tatooine? How is Eowyn a more imaginative name than Padme? All of these comparisons Clingman presents as self-evident examples, but they are totally based on his personal preference.

I personally think Star Wars names are really cool and have a fun cadence to them that somehow manages to feel consistent without having any of the nerdy linguistic underpinnings that Tolkien put into developing his names. (Also, as a little quibble, I think it's very funny to compare a person's name to a space station's name or the name of a mountain to the name of a person.)

But EVEN IF we grant that the names are somehow objectively more imaginative or objectively sound better (which they aren't and they don't), how does that make the movie better? Answer: it doesn't.

POINT 10 is once again fallacious because it's ONCE AGAIN an argument by assertion.

Clingman personally likes faux-early modern English dialogue more than modern vernacular dialogue. He's entitled to that opinion, but his holding that opinion doesn't make the one film's dialogue better than the other's, nor does having the better dialogue automatically make a movie better. Does he really think Star Wars (a pop sci-fi movie, remember) would be better if that dialogue were something like, "Answer me forthwith, upon what swift zephyr have you and your stunted fellows stowed our stolen missives?" "I beg you, my liege, release me. Our purpose entire in presenting ourselves in these great interstellar routes was to bear unto a faraway world a servant of the diplomatic arts." "Tell me, then, wherefore seest I not this 'servant of the diplomatic arts' of whom thou so glibly speakest?"

Even if Clingman does think that dialogue would be better, I don't think that, and what makes his opinion more valid than mine? NOTHING.

Hey, You. You're Finally Awake

The problem with saying I've been playing Skyrim for just over a decade (since I bought a friend's Xbox 360 in 2013 and promptly picked up a copy of the legendary edition) is that it doesn't really accurately portray my relationship with this game.

I'd estimate (I don't have actual numbers here because I've played it on various platforms over the years so I don't have an official time-in-game tracker) that on average I've played about twelve hours a month of Skyrim over the last one hundred and thirty months. That's definitely an average, because there have been periods where I haven't played it for months at a time and periods where I've played probably four to six hours a night for weeks at a time. That means that (again, wildly estimating here) I've played roughly 1,560 hours of Skyrim.

Despite this exorbitant amount of time playing the game, I wouldn't say it paints an accurate picture of my experience of Skyrim. It would be more accurate to say that I've been restarting the game for just over a decade.

There are 17 quests in the main storyline (19 if you count a couple optional quests). I have only ever completed the first 8 of those quests.

There are 12 quests in the first DLC's main storyline. I've only ever completed 6 of them.

There are 7 quests in the third DLC's main storyline. I've only ever completed 1 of them.

Of the 7 side questlines in the base game, I've completed 2 of them.

My problem is character creation. There are so many different choices of playstyle in Skyrim, but not only that, there are also so many different choices of aesthetic in Skyrim. You can choose for your character to be from one of ten different playable "races"; each of which has a different culture, history, and place within the world of Skyrim. That's the aesthetic. Each of them also has a different set of skill bonuses and special abilities, which lend themselves to different playstyles. You can use heavy armor, light armor, or spells that toughen your skin against blows. You can use one-handed weapons (with a shield, a spell, or another one-handed weapon in the other hand), two-handed weapons, bows, or spells. You can try to sneak past enemies (or sneak attack enemies), or you can charge in with your weapon swinging. You can cast spells that summon allies to fight your enemies, or turn your fallen enemies into zombies to fight against their former friends, or cast a spell that magically calms your enemies so you can walk past them, or cast a spell that turns enemies against one another so they kill each other for you. You can make potions to give you various benefits, or sharpen your weapons and improve your armor, or place enchantments on your equipment. The sheer amount of variety is overwhelming.

I don't choose that word lightly. I get overwhelmed by the number of character choices, and to try to compensate for that overwhelmed feeling, I try to optimize my character: pick the numerically best option. But which is the best option? What is easiest in the early game? What is best in the late game? What is theoretically the most efficient combination of weight carried and damage dealt? What can deal the most damage per second? What can take the most damage per second without dying? I'm sure there are answers to this: there are whole wikis dedicated to analyzing the math of Skyrim combat and talking through how to exploit gameplay loops to create armor that makes you invincible or weapons that will kill anyone in a single hit. I could (and have) spend hours poring over these blogs, planning out in meticulous detail how overpowered my character will be, how to never worry about dying, how to get the best gear as quickly as possible; i.e., how to win Skyrim.

The problem is that that's not why I like playing Skyrim. I like the world of Tamriel, the story of the various characters and factions that fill the world, and the marvel of inhabiting an imaginary character in an imaginary world that still manages to look and feel somehow real in spite of its age and its well-documented glitches.

My cycle of playing this game typically goes like this. It's been a bit since I've played, so I'm excited. I think up a character who seems cool. I go based on aesthetics: "Ooh, a super strong orc who's basically a walking tank and can take out people with a two-handed weapon super easily!" Then, I look up the optimal way to build that character, make a plan, look up Elder Scrolls orc names online. I start playing the game. I have a good time, until at some point, I bump up against something that would be cool to do but that my character isn't designed to do, and that's where everything falls apart.

See, there's this problem in games in The Elder Scrolls (which Skyrim is part of) called underleveling. Or overleveling. I'm not sure which. It takes different forms in different games, but in short it's when suboptimal character decisions when playing the game and leveling up makes you too weak compared to the enemies you're facing, leading to a much more difficult experience than you'd otherwise have. Here's an example: when you're low level and travelling the wilderness in Skyrim, you periodically get attacked by wolves. As you level up, that switches over to sabertooth tigers (basically), which are significantly more dangerous. In Skyrim, every skill that you improve contributes to your leveling up, even if it doesn't contribute to your being able to fight enemies. You might be really good at picking pockets and picking locks and selling things for a good price, but terrible at fighting with a sword. That means that when you fight something that's ostensibly a good enemy for your level, you don't actually have the fighting skills to handle it. That's underleveling. Or overleveling.

So maybe I get excited about creating a sneaky character who uses poisoned arrows to kill enemies with a single shot, and I have a great time doing that right up until I run up against something that I can't shoot from afar that can kill me in one hit. And I think, "Well, I messed up my character optimization. I'm not powerful enough. I'd better start over."

It's a bit of a brutal cycle, compounded by the fact that there are lots of cool questlines that seem pretty niche: a guild for warriors? I'd better make a dedicated warrior! A school for wizards? I'd better make the optimal mage build! Which would be a fine way to experience the game, except there always comes a point where my optimized character is very good at a specific thing, and I want to do something that's not that specific thing, and so I start over to make a character who's optimized for that specific thing.

It's not a very fun way to play. I essentially math all the fun out of an activity I enjoy, and I end up stressed, burnt out, and done with the game. I try to optimize a character to be good at something, and end up hating playing that character.

So here I am, back at the start of this cycle, and I'm done. But not with Skyrim. I want to play Skyrim. I want to finally finish all these questlines I've been starting and restarting and restarting countless times over the last few years. I want to discover what happens in the end! There are whole areas of this game that I've never experienced, never gone to, because I keep starting over.

So this time, I'm not going to optimize the character for the game. I'm going to optimize the character for myself.

See, I've played hard games. I don't mind trying again and trying again and figuring out new tactics and trying again. The problem is that if I have tried to make the perfect character to "win", and then I don't "win", what's the point? So no more of that. I'm going to play the game doing all the different things I want to do: magic! fighting! potions! enchantments! And I'm going to plan to be underleveled (or overleveled). It's going to happen, because I want to use well over half of the skills in the game. I like using well over half of the skills in the game. A jack of all trades is a master of none, right?

This might sound like I'm just setting myself up to do the same thing again: get frustrated, start over, eventually quit. But the key is that I've finally identified why I like Skyrim and what I want out of it. There was a tagline on the box of Morrowind (an earlier Elder Scrolls game): "Live another life in another world." I have always been excited about that promise from The Elder Scrolls, and I have always been disappointed, because you can't do it. Not really. You can't change the course of the imaginary world except in the specific pre-designed ways. You can't say, "Hey, I want to join you with the werewolf hunters instead of becoming a werewolf." You can't say, "Hey, I think the colonized natives in this region have a point. I want to help them retake their home from their oppressors." In my all-or-nothing way, I chafed against those restraints on my creativity, and I thought, "If I can't actually choose anything I want, then I'm not going to engage with this imaginary world as anything other than a game to win," and if you recall, that's not what I love about playing Skyrim.

So here's my character: he's an Altmer, also known as a High Elf. His people are aggressive and expansionist, and their religious zealots (the Thalmor) are among the most hated and feared groups in Skyrim. He used to be one of them, but now he wants out. While on a mission, he fled, hoping to start a new life, but was captured by the Empire and sentenced to execution, until a dragon attacked. He escaped in the confusion, teaming up with a Nord freedom fighter who actively hates the Thalmor and Altmer in general. His name is Bel, named after Belteshazar (or Daniel) from the Bible because it has a book called Bel and the Dragon and Skyrim is about killing dragons and I thought that would be cool.

I played for a couple hours last night before bed and this morning before work, and I spent most of that time hanging around the first town, eating food even though it has no mechanical benefit, getting a good night's sleep even though it doesn't really do anything, and chopping wood so that I can get the money to buy gear so I can go adventuring because I didn't loot any armor off the soldiers we fought while escaping because I imagined myself in Bel's shoes: hurrying to escape, scared for his life, not wanting to stop and take the time to go through anyone's pockets for change. I also hid the rebel armor I got in the escape in a cupboard in the house I'm staying at because the freedom fighter I escaped with said, "This isn't Stormcloak territory. We'll have to lay low."

I know that none of this matters in the game. I know I could walk up to an Imperial soldier in Stormcloak armor, and they wouldn't bat an eye. I'm still only level 1, and I know that the choices I'm making are actively making the game slower and less efficient and therefore harder. But I don't care. To quote Sofi Tukker's "Good Time Girl": I'm not winning, but I'm having a very good time.

What am I doing?

In the past, I've tried to stick with sharing thoughts that I thought were profound enough to be worth contemplation. This is, admittedly, ironic, given the title of my blog, but I supposed I've adopted a sort of pedagogical approach to blogging, which explains why I've not really written anything here recently. I feel like I have increasingly more questions than answers about most of the deep things that matter in the world (especially in the categories of theology and philosophy and ethics). So since my blogging has been contemplative, trying to drive at some sort of ill-defined point in a more-or-less roundabout sort of way, I haven't had much to say.

But I have all sorts of things I'm interested in thinking--and blogging--about, even if they are of no real import or interest to anyone except me. I've been silent for the last year or two because I've self-censored, essentially editing into nonexistence what I've initially been excited about writing. I've bought the lie that to be worth writing, something has to be important or meaningful or thought-provoking or otherwise somehow great.

It doesn't.

Writing, like all other art, is at its core an act of self-expression. People shouldn't be judged by whether they're important enough or meaningful enough or thought-provoking enough or great enough. Who gets to say whether what you choose to spend your time on is worthwhile? I'm sure there's some sort of objective standard out there, and there are all sorts of different religious philosophies aimed at trying to define the "good life", but even if we take that into consideration, I ask you: if someone is living a good life, does that make them valuable? Or are they valuable because they're a person, regardless of whether they're living a good life? I'd say it's the second one.

So it follows: if a person is valuable for being a person, and self-expression is a way for a person to communicate some part of themselves, whether to the world or just to themselves, then that self-expression is valuable for its providing a window through which to see some aspect of the person. Thus, writing is valuable as writing.

I'm not writing any of this to justify to anyone who happens to be reading this why I'm giving myself permission to write about stupid shit that I think might be fun to write about. I'm writing this to give myself the permission to not care anymore. I haven't seriously written fiction in over a decade because someone I looked up to gave me feedback that they probably don't even remember that made me feel very silly for even wanting to write fantasy fiction. I'm sick of caring what other people think about my art or my hobbies or my interests or my beliefs. They're mine. Not anyone else's. So I'm going to write whatever I want, and who gives a fuck whether anyone reads it or thinks it's good? It's self-expression, and that's good enough.

Loving the Art, Not the Artist

When I was in fifth grade, my best friend was a kid named James. I'm not sure if I was his best friend, but we hung out often: I would bike over to his house of an afternoon and play with him (back before any of the kids my age had learned that you had to call playing together "hanging out" to be cool). Sometimes James and I would play in his backyard and his treehouse with his kid sister. More often, we would play video games. It was James who introduced me to Assassin's Creed and who reintroduced me to the Halo series by way of Halo 3. (An encounter several years earlier with the original Halo: Combat Evolved when I was way too young to handle its midpoint horror twist had left me mildly traumatized.)

More importantly for my life than any of that, however, is that James introduced me to a game called The Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion (the predecessor to 2011's wildly successful The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim). James and I haven't spoken in fifteen years, but to say that he transformed my life by introducing me to Oblivion would not be an exaggeration.

The first album I purchased was Jeremy Soule's soundtrack to Oblivion. When my sisters teamed up to buy me The Elder Scrolls III: Morrowind, I learned how to make hidden folders visible on Windows so I could locate Morrowind's music files (also composed by Jeremy Soule) where they had been installed on the family hard drive. The first two discs I burned (back when we still burned CDs) were the soundtracks to Oblivion and Morrowind.

They are still my favourite soundtracks of all time. Over the course of the last decade and a half, I've spent more hours than I could possibly count listening to them. I recently purchased a car with a CD player, and almost the first thing I did was fish out my old burned discs of Oblivion and Morrowind, which I've been listening to daily on my half-hour commute. I never tire of them, and even when I find other amazing scores, I keep coming back to these two soundtracks.

Naturally, I have also loved and admired Jeremy Soule for just as long as I've listened to his music.

Of course, the title should tell you that this doesn't exactly turn out a wholly happy story, but if you know anything about me, you know that sometimes I have to ramble to get to a particular point, so let's take a detour and talk briefly about memory.

I don't remember most of my childhood. I have very specific images of moments in my childhood, but I cannot conjure more than a static snapshot of much of anything before I was a teenager. I haven't spoken with any professionals about this phenomenon, but my layman's opinion is that it's the result of some relational trauma I experienced in middle school that resulted in an addiction to self-harm that I didn't manage to overcome until near the end of my time in college.

I also have had interpersonal conflict over the years with people who've told me that I am misremembering something. Due to my lack of most of my childhood memory, I have previously been especially vulnerable to such assertions because I've viewed my memory as flawed. If I remember someone saying something to me or doing something and they claim not to have said or done it, then surely (I tell myself) I must be the incorrect one.

Naturally, this has led me to be fascinated with the concept of memory. I read an article years ago about how researchers showed subjects pictures of their childhood and subsequently asked them to recall stories of growing up. The pictures included doctored photos of an invented hot air balloon ride that the subjects' families never went on, but the majority of subjects told stories about that hot air balloon ride, believing that it happened, even though the researchers made it up. The subjects invented a memory that didn't exist to explain the false photographic evidence they had been presented.

There are similar documented cases of suspects in criminal cases being bullied by police officers into believing they were guilty of a crime they did not commit. (This is one of the reasons torture is now generally considered an ineffective way to get accurate information from someone.)

These examples dovetail with the Mandela Effect, so named for the widespread false memory that Nelson Mandela had died when he was in fact still alive at the time. A similar occurrence of this effect is in people's false memory that the Berenstain Bears are in fact the Berenstein Bears. I myself am an example of someone who remembered the series as The Berenstein Bears, and I can hardly believe even now that it has always been The Berenstain Bears.

This question of reality and memory become especially interesting in the context of the internet. Kids and young adults are often cautioned that anything they say and do online is permanent, but this warning is not actually as true as the sages giving it believe. I frequent the social media site Reddit, where it is a frequent occurrence to see comments and users which have been deleted, their contribution permanently removed unless someone thought to take the time to screenshot them. I have previously visited detailed hobby blogs that have suddenly disappeared because the owner let their ownership of a website lapse or lost interest in maintaining their online presence.

One specific example is worth noting. Several years ago, there was an online piracy website called The Remuz RPG Archive. It retained a collection of thousands of bootleg tabletop roleplaying game products. When I was in college, I happily utilized it to get into a hobby that I could not otherwise afford to access in my cash-strapped state. It was taken down (presumably by outside intervention as a result of copyright violation), but after a bit of digging I uncovered a new version of the same site, rebranded and revamped as The Trove. It persisted for a couple years before it, too, was taken down. In its wake, an entire online community sprang up, doing their best to salvage the huge repository of files that were available on The Trove and the Remuz archive before it, which was only able to be accomplished by massive amounts of effort from numerous folks essentially crowd-sourcing information.

My feelings on content piracy have changed over the years, and I have since deleted or legitimately purchased what I once downloaded from those sites. The question of piracy aside, though, I share those examples because it demonstrates the transience of information online. Just a couple weeks ago, I read about a cryptocurrency trading website that had altered its terms of service to remove a misleading advertisement only after it had already collected large sums of money from investors based on that misleading advertisement and filed for bankruptcy. In an age where the public record can be altered by those who most stand to obfuscate the truth and where the internet can serve as a false witness for whoever has the ability to alter it, it's no surprise that conspiracy theories and utter falsehoods have come to have such a rabid following that it's now commonplace to hear people talk about "competing truth claims" and "alternate facts" and "doing your research" as if any old blog or mailing list can be just as authoritative as official government publications, peer-reviewed journals, or news media.

The website where I purchased Oblivion no longer exists. Online versions of the soundtrack are, for some reason, missing the final track of the copy that I purchased, which I listened to in my car yesterday. That song is in the game, so its exclusion from the current available recording is somewhat puzzling to me. When I purchased Oblivion, I purchased a soundtrack that was not by Jeremy Soule, but by the brothers Jeremy & Julian Soule. Morrowind was also listed as the product of the Soule brothers. Nowadays, Oblivion is listed on Spotify as composed by only Jeremy Soule. Morrowind's soundtrack isn't available at all.

Jeremy Soule's soundtrack for The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim was released in 2011. Soule did not return to compose any music for either The Elder Scrolls Online or The Elder Scrolls: Blades, and he issued a statement in January 2019 that he had not been invited to return for the highly anticipated The Elder Scrolls VI (which does not yet have a release date).

In August 2019, Jeremy Soule was accused of sexual assault by multiple women he had worked with in his musical career. His social media accounts were subsequently deleted, and his website has shut down. He has been essentially silent since then.

I only recently learned of the sexual assault allegations and the fact that Soule defrauded over four thousand people of over $120,000 in 2013 for a symphony he never composed. My initial reaction was to try somehow to rationalise these events or excuse Soule for his misdeeds. But the more I thought about it, the more I came to the conclusion that I don't gain anything by trying to hold on to a positive image of Jeremy Soule. I've never met the man, nor do I interact with him in any way. I don't know him.

And that makes me wonder: why did I ever have a positive image of him? It has to be wrapped up in my love for his music. It has meant so much to me for so many years; is wrapped up in my most formative experiences for over half my life, including the only portions of my life that I have actual memories of (more than the snapshots I described above); is, in many ways, integral to my life. It's only natural that I would unwittingly expand that affection for the music that means so much to me onto the person who composed it. After all, this beautiful thing I love came from him, so surely he must also be beautiful, right?

In a perfect world, that would be true. I'm not a professional theologian, but the first thing I see Yahweh doing in Genesis at the beginning of the Bible is creating art. If humans are made as pictures of Yahweh, then there is something of the divine in our feeble, faulty, fleeting imitations of his awesome creativity. To create something beautiful is to be, in a small way, like Yahweh. Yahweh himself is beautiful, so those who are like Yahweh must also be beautiful. I would also argue, as an aside, that turning from the art to love the artist is the right thing to do. The art is just a thing. Though it is powerful and meaningful, it has no life. The artist is the picture of Yahweh. The artist lives. The artist matters. Even more so, to love the artist for their art is a microscopic version of loving Yahweh for his creation: worship.

But like I said, that's only in a perfect world. In this world, morally ugly people make aesthetically beautiful art. People who do not deserve admiration make admirable things. If I knew Jeremy Soule, I would be faced with the prospect of seeking to love him in the same way that Yahweh loves me despite my many sins and failings, seeing them all and acknowledging them as evil but embracing me nonetheless. However, I do not know Jeremy Soule. I have no relationship with him. I have only his music, which I love, and a desire to love him for that music even though he is a thief and allegedly a rapist.

Do his moral failings somehow taint his music? I don't think so. Instrumental music is about emotions and aesthetics, not about meanings or propositions. You can't communicate information or ideas through instrumental music. You could listen to a beautiful piece of instrumental music and never know that it was written by a mass murderer and never have the artist's chosen pastime detract from your enjoyment of that music.

I've seen people online state that they will never be able to enjoy Soule's music again because of the allegations against him. I've tried adopting that mindset, but I find myself unable to. A work of art has its own existence separate from its creator. Though the artist might have some ownership over it in a legal and economic sense, they cannot control it: it affects its audience in its own way, beyond the artist's will. Beautiful art is beautiful for its own sake. Soule's music is still beautiful to me, even if Soule himself has done wrong things, because the music is not the man, the music is the music.

This post has gone on far longer than I intended it to, but I'll leave you with one last thought before I end it. I think in my heart I imagined Jeremy Soule to be a good man because I selfishly want being an artist by itself to make someone a good person. I write music. I write poetry. I write stories. I'm an artist, and I think, deep down, I want being an artist to somehow make me transcendent. I want to have keener insight into human character than others have, a special grasp of the poignant and meaningful, a unique ability to touch the heart and guide the mind. I want to believe that the artists who make the art I love are somehow special, because that would mean that I can also be special because of my art.

That's not the way the world works. Transcendent art is made by rotten people. Incredible, wonderful people sometimes never amount to anything in society's short-sighted estimation. The truth of the matter is that we don't get our value from what we make or what we do. We get our value from being human, from being made by Yahweh and from being pictures of Yahweh: not by nature of our action but because it's who we are.

It's kind of bittersweet, I guess: I am special, which is what I want. But I'm not special because of what I do. I'm special because of how Yahweh made me, and so I don't deserve any credit for it. I guess that makes me kind of like the soundtracks I love: they're beautiful because Jeremy Soule made them beautiful, but they don't deserve any of the credit for his artistic choices, nor any of the blame for his life choices.

Gone Is the Old Year

Today is Christian New Year: the First Sunday of Advent. I'm thinking of it as "Christian New Year" instead of "the start of the Christian liturgical calendar" because it sounds more outlandish, more foreign, like how Chinese New Year is a bit of an alien concept to those who aren't Chinese. Similarly, Christian New Year should sound foreign to those who do not belong to our nation: the Kingdom of Christ.

You see, for several months I've been wrestling with this notion of my Christian-ness as separate from — indeed, as opposed to — my American-ness. I was taught in childhood the myth that America was a Christian nation. My calling it a myth is not meant to make any historical claims about the American founders' faith or lack thereof; rather, regardless of the true religious status of the founders, America cannot reasonably be called a Christian nation, now as ever. What we Christians desire — peace on earth, self-destitution to provide for the poor, the welcoming of the refugee, the brotherhood of all nations, and the spread of the Good News to all by living as sacrificially as Jesus did — is antithetical to the American ideals of security, prosperity, supremacy, and exceptionalism. Living the American dream means setting aside your cross in order to build big barns and form political coalitions with the enemies of the Good News.

The irony of my saying this is not lost on me. I still have my streaming service subscription and my thousand-dollar board game collection and my fifty-dollar dinner dates and my dreams of buying a cushy house with a big yard. I haven't sold all I have to give it to the poor. I don't spend my free time in ministry.

But this isn't a "call-out" post or an indictment against anyone or a commentary on what the Christian life should or shouldn't look like. (If you feel convicted by my words, as I do, I recommend joining me in taking some time this Advent to examine Christ's words and life and consider what it means to be his disciple.) Rather, this post is a first fumbling at asking myself, what does it mean to be a Christian? Or, to put it more specifically, what does it mean to be a Christian in a non-Christian nation that nonetheless very vocally tries to misdefine what being a Christian means?

I don't have the answer, or anything close to the answer, but I'm excited to spend this new year exploring that topic. I'm excited to be in this season of waiting for Christ to arrive, wondering at his promises, and seeking to live faithfully even in the silence since he last spoke. Happy Advent, and happy new year.

Rainbows

I think I may have forgotten the reasons

That I am supposed to be sad:

It's summer, and the rains that froze

Are warm now, and playful.

I laugh at the sky's explosion and feel

The thrill of risk explode in my veins

Alongside the lightning and thunder and brilliant gold droplet

That shines in the water so briefly I miss it

Until you stop, and stoop, and hold it out, smiling,

As if to say "Look! You dropped something!"

When you know full well it wasn't mine until

You pressed it into my palm and gave me a hug.

Grey Days

There is a cloud bank.

High above my head it floats,

Threatening to rain.

A metaphor

Dear Emotion,

I know, it's weird to write a note

When all this time we've been okay

With morse code (dashes, more than dots),

But lately, I've been thinking through

The many notes I've sent to you

By telegraph. I can't recall

A time before I made the call

To open up the line to you

And let you tell me who was who.

It's comfortable, our classic way

Of talking. (Well, you never talked.

I guess it would be better said

That I was praying all along,

But that's another can of worms.)

But all that is to simply say,

I wish this were a telegram.

There's far less need for eloquence

When words are simply happenstance.

The medium means more to me

Than what I say (and more to you,

I'd wager, than the tender dreams

I burned upon the effigy

Of love), but what's the point of art

If no one's there to see the art,

And no one cares to talk about

The art, or (God forbid) the dab

Who dares to break the mold of dust

That binds the words to meaning?

I submit to you, my dear,

That what we made was truly great

Because it took your face and brought

A magnifying glass to bear

Upon the smile dancing there

Without a single word. Who needs

The words when you are so sublime

Without them? (See, the romance now

Is rather drab because I'm so

Constrained by making sure I dot

My "I"s and cross my "T"s when all

I'd really rather do is send

A simple fucking telegram.)

But even you were not the point,

Emotion; rather, dashes were,

And you were just an opportu-

Nity to use my art to say

Nothing.

I think, if I could venture back,

I'd try to use the telegrams

To send a story, not a note.

I'm sorry, but I simply think

You weren't worth the time it took

To come to that conclusion, so

I guess if I could venture back,

I'd really rather simply cut

The wire between you and me.

That's not because I think you weren't

A worthy friend. (You are! I'm glad

To have you in my life.) It's just

That now I have this awful dream

Of masterpieces: telegrams

The world will hear and marvel at.

But that is not the way it works,

'Cause every telegram I send

Is better than the one before,

But there is only so much time

And space with which to paint my song

Before I have to pencil in

The note that all the world has stood

And left the show, 'cause really, who

Would take the time and space to send

A million telegrams?

I fell. And when I fell I thought,

"How lovely is this tunnel when

It doesn't have that nasty si-

Bilance that everybody seems

To think it ought to have!" But now

I see how silly thinking that

Must be when really all the si-

Bilance is meant to do is keep

The fall from ending with a nap.

You see, Emotion, I do not

Recall a time when I was not

Obsessed with art. I thought, at first,

That you were what was wrong, and thus

The silence, all these years, for which

I must apologize, my dear,

For now I see how wrong I was

To blame you.

Do not think that I have changed.

(I mean, I have, but that's beside

The point.) I still believe that art

Will mellow out the tossing sea

That runs about within my mind,

And yet I see (or, better, I

Concede) that this must truly be

A fib that I have swallowed like

A pill. Emotion, I have ram-

Bled on for far too long. Forgive

Me! All I'd hoped to say to you

Was that I'm done avoiding you.

Sincerely, and with great remorse,

Your friend.

A Weed So Lovely

Tenuous is our grasp on reality,
For reality and the things which we desire
So often fall on opposite sides of the line
That divides objectivity from perception,
And tears us between our dreams
And the fears within our minds.
What we see is an artist's rendition
Of another's design, and so we critique wrongly
What we think is happening, but isn't.

Dreams are an impulse of the heart;
Fears are the armor of the mind,
Wrapped around youth's vulnerability
To make it age's impregnability.
This is our death before death:
The imprisonment of perception (and therefore hope)
Behind the bars of soul-sucking
Realism: the devil's weed has overtaken
The garden and choked out the flowers.

Lo! the bowed heads of a generation
Trapped with dreams of freedom
From a slavery self-imposed in fear.
Lo! the raised hands of a generation
Benevolently laying on our necks
The yoke they long to escape,
And asking us why our necks chafe
Beneath inhuman realism, too-human realism,
So we shut our mouths and strengthen our necks.

Life is cruel, and people are cruel,
But none so cruel as we to ourselves.
We gouge out our eyes and call ourselves wise
For calling what we can see "darkness,"
When light falls on faces we cannot see
And illuminates dreams we can no longer dream
Because we told ourselves enough times
That dreams are dandelion seeds that
Blow away in the breeze of reality.

But dandelions die to send out seeds
That die to send down roots
That take hold and grow into more
Until a field is filled, by one flower's death.
We might be blind, but even the blind
Can pick a flower and smell its fragrance.
They say the dandelion is a weed,
But a weed so lovely is a flower worth picking,
And a dream so tender is worth cultivating.

A generation stands at the crossroad
Between death's resignation and hope's life.
The light fades from our eyes;
We walk in darkness, our hands outstretched
To pluck the flowers we now call weeds.
Is this the darkness of blindness
Or is it the darkness of night?
The flower dies in our hands,
And its seeds fall into the quiet wind.

Forever is a long time, but forever is not now.
Now, time is short, and seasons change,
And flowers die to be born again,
And hearts are broken to beat anew,
And blindness comes so we can love our sight.
Darkness falls, but the sun also rises.
This yoke is heavy, another is light,
And we have hope: we are not happy now,
But one day we will be happy.

Despair, in Three Short Sketches

Alone is an interesting place to be,
Since none can observe it
Save the one who sits in solitude
And thinks on life's nature
In a state quite contrary the same,
So that he learns nothing.

Wonder at love, until it acknowledges you,
Then shrug and turn away.
Make yourself invisible to those who might care.
Tell yourself you are happy.
Lie until the lie continues to lie,
And now you are happy.

Though I once dreamed of several futures,
Now I see but one.
It is an elegant dance of fools
About a stalwart point: Necessity,
The tyrant (so named by lemming's spite)
Who quietly pushes us forward.

A chance encounter with another's loss

I am an artist.

The word means something different to everyone. It often means something different even to the same person, depending on when it's used.

To me, being an artist holds a whirlwind of meaning. Being an artist means I think way too much about everything in my life. It means I'm likely to take pictures of the sidewalk in the rain because it looks cool. It means I stop a hundred times on a hike to try to capture something I see with a few meagre words in my notebook. It means that I hide my heart in my stories and pictures and poems and songs, and give them to the world, but it means that I wrap my heart up behind a smile so that those I love won't look too closely at it and be disappointed. It means I'm less likely to open my emotions to one of my closest friends than I am to a total stranger, because I'm more comfortable when I'm hidden and unknown.

Being an artist means that I look at the world as beauty, as symphonies of wind and rain, as paintings of light and shadow, as stories of love lost and found. It means that I spend far too much time in my head, thinking and feeling and fearing in an endless cycle of imagination, hope, and remorse.

Being an artist also means that I read a book, hear a song, see a painting, or watch a film, and I see myself reflected in another human's work. It means that I have learned more about who I am, what I fear, what I love, and the life I want from the stories I have consumed than you would probably believe.

I had the immense privilege last night of watching with some of my dear friends an older movie that opened my eyes to something I've somehow missed for years. You would think that a bizarre film starring Jim Carrey would be the source, at most, of perhaps a little uncomfortably bawdy hilarity. And yet, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind rocked my worldview in a way I would never have imagined before seeing it.

For those of you who haven't seen it, it follows a man who chooses to have a medical procedure to erase his ex-girlfriend from his memories. It's an odd little film that occasionally treads into the bizarre, but watching someone lose all recollection of someone they care deeply for has a way of making you take a step back and ask yourself what your life means and why you live it. The experience struck a chord in my heart that I hadn't realized had been silent for far too long.

Anyone who knows me knows that America's current political discourse deeply upsets me. Being an artist, for me, means that I feel things far more acutely than I ought, and that I occasionally tread into the melodramatic. And so, despite my nonsensical regurgitation of pious belief in some greater plan, I have found myself afraid of my future, and angry at those who appear to me to threaten it. I have said I have confidence in God's work, but I have lived as if all that ultimately determines the future is my behavior. And maybe that is the case; I don't, and can't, know which of those alternatives is true. All I know is that I have lived the past few weeks afraid, consumed by the shadow of politics that looms large in so many of our minds and hearts.

Last night, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind forced me to ask myself a question about a different sort of fear: If I knew that I was going to lose my memories, which of them would I be most frightened to lose?

Look, there's an old adage that small people talk about people, but great people talk about ideas. I would largely agree with that, but I think there's more to be said. The small person is the one who cares about ideas more than they care about people. An idea is an abstraction, a possession, something foreign to ourselves. A person is a life, a work of art, something that we ourselves are.

If I went to sleep tonight, knowing I would wake up without my memories, I would not mourn my opinions. I would not mourn my political thoughts, my achievements, or my unique perspective on the world. I would mourn the people I've met. I would mourn the memories I've made. I would mourn the laughter they've given me, the tears I've shed, those who've loved me and those who've broken my heart. I would mourn the people in my life, because they have made me who I am.

My dear friends, before last night it looked to me like the world was ending. I looked around at these broken lives we lead, and I felt my heart sink a little more each day. How could anything good remain in the shadow of so much wrongness? How could we continue when the deplorable was held up for our commendation by so many around us?

I'm not here to deny that this life is shitty. I'm not here to tell you that our political horizons aren't bleak. I'm not here to say that we should close our eyes to the pain that so many are experiencing. But at the end of the day, these few years that we have are a gift, and there's no guarantee that you'll ever get another opportunity to smile at the person on the other side of the room. There's no guarantee that you'll ever have the chance to see your loved one's eyes light up again because of something small. There's no guarantee that you'll get to ask that person out next week, that you'll talk to that family member when they come visit next Christmas, or that you'll see that friend tomorrow.

Being an artist means that I see life itself as a chance to create art. Our memories are paintings, and every word, every look, every touch is a brushstroke on the canvas that is another's heart. Last night, I was confronted with the starkness of my own mortality. The world as we know it is heavy, and so we walk around with hearts that have been broken by carrying around that weight. I'm not denying that, but that doesn't mean that we have to paint in dark tones. If you knew that your next interaction with someone would be the last memory you ever get to help paint, what would you want that painting to be? Hold that memory in your mind, and now ask yourself: what if today really is your last day?

This isn't a new sentiment. Countless people before me have said it, and countless people after me will say it. But I never got it before last night, and so I have to repeat this cliche, because what if there's someone else who hasn't gotten it yet either? There are so many things in life that matter, and each of them has a name: Elanore, Olivia, Evelyn, Benjamin, Richard, Jessica, Cameron, Abigail, Karl, Riley... Those are only ten of the countless people I love, and yet how many are the nameless, unimportant other things I tear myself into pieces caring about, when people are so much more precious?

O Death all-eloquent! you only prove

What dust we dote on, when 'tis man we love.

      - Alexander Pope, "Eloisa to Abelard"

We are all artists, and we have only these few years to create something beautiful. Our lives are our brushes, and our canvases. One day they will end, and we won't leave anything behind except the memories we help others paint. Please, dear friends, let's not waste them.

To a friend who was really no friend

Tell me once more the story, my friend,

of a world that needs my services,

and I will call you a liar. This world?

You think it needs me, of all people?

You're either a fool or (as I've said)

a false friend who mutters pure nonsense

to me in the hopes that I'll listen

and care

and change.

But why? What's here for me? You?

Not likely.

"Don't give up! Fight! Continue to struggle!"

Do you even know what it feels like

to know nothing's right but the fact that I'm wrong?

I am incorrigible,

insufficient to mend e'en the first thing about me

but here you stand: smug, secure,

certain of your ability to "fix" your friend.

Your friend?

Really?

Your project?

Oh, I'm sorry. That's too close to home,

isn't it? Do you honestly think that a band-aid

of half-hearted "care and concern"

will patch up the seven-inch scar that's been bleeding

since I was a child, pretending heroics at thirteen,

telling myself that you were what matters,

forgetting my dreams and my wishes

and turning to all that you told me.

Bleeding dry.

How could I know that your stories were lies?

I was naïve! Yes, I should've known better

but you were so lovely and needy, affirming

my thoughts of importance,

of saving the damsel,

and now, seven years down the road?

Whom have I become?

Empty

Unknown

Enigmatic (by choice)

I base my life on opinions from others

and pretend I am more than

just veneer

coating

dead, hollow places:

once bright, now cold, dark, forgotten.

Who am I but a dozen masks?

I take one off and put one on,

but underneath

I remain

featureless

To cry

Quietly imagining a world

In which everything we pretend has become

A reality--unimprisoned, faultless, and free

But that is not reality.

It's a drug, to keep me sated and clumsy.

I drink the death I brew for myself

And wish for a day when I will be

Alone

Unloved, unhated

Unbroken, unformed

Unknown

The realness of a record of wrongs

(Wrongs that mean nothing?)

Is too much for me to grasp

I twist away from what I feel

Because feeling is like a finger, pointed

Ruthlessly at me, accusing

Never relenting

Always tormenting

No one defending

And what does it mean to be free

If freedom is nothing but agony?

Explain to me why, God!

I believe, but so do the demons

Is that what I am?

Are they just like me?

Knowing, but running and mocking and dying?

I want to cry, but you've closed my eyes,

And now I'm alone.

Alone with the one that I hate

More than all

Emptiness

The past few weeks have been a time of some serious soul-searching for me. I'm almost halfway done with my undergrad, working on getting a degree that will hopefully lead me into the field I would like to pursue my whole life. I'm studying stuff that's interesting to me, and that I love learning about.

In spite of that, I feel empty. My academics aren't bad, but I'm not focused or diligent or excited when it comes to any of the things I'm working on. My relationship with God is not at all in a healthy place. I am consumed by the cruel lie that so easily dominates so many of our lives: the lie that others' opinions define me.

In a cruel twist, though, I very rarely consciously care about the opinions of the people around me. I think that I'm okay and secure in who I am, but I have gradually come to the realization that my motivations for most of what I do and who I am are based entirely around a desire to shape others' perceptions of who I am.

I thus find that I'm not actually certain what I want out of life. I care so much about how people view me that I have trouble knowing who I really want to be. I want people to think I'm smart, spiritual, philosophical, deep, funny, outgoing, reliable, friendly, or any number of other adjectives. I look at the people around me, see personality traits they have that I admire, and attempt to gain them for myself. The problem is that rather than focus on developing them in myself, I have a tendency to work to develop the appearance of having them. I think about how a nice guy would act or how he would talk, and then I work to behave that way.

The result is that the time I spend with people, I spend playing an elaborate part that I have developed in order to gain their approval. My identity is defined by appearing to be a certain way, rather than actually being that way. And this leaves me lonely, tired, unmotivated, angry at the world, and angry at myself. I know that I'm not supposed to be living for other people, and so the life I've been living doesn't feel like life at all.

Who am I? To be perfectly honest, I don't really know. I know I'm not the person I've been spending my energy pretending to be, but that doesn't really mean much; knowing who I'm not doesn't go that far towards helping me to know I am.

I wish I could conclude this post with a point. But there isn't a point to it--it really is an inconsequential thought, one born of desperation and frustration and sadness. It's a thought more for me than for anyone else, and so it's not a particularly motivational one. I feel like I've lost myself. No, it's more that I feel like I never found myself in the first place.

Cross-Section of the Cuts I Make

I wish I could express the way the pain

Is what I want. I know you doubt it, but

I do not want attention when I cut.

I do it for myself, so I can gain

A bit of what I used to feel again.

See, I feel dead. I feel it in my gut,

But how am I to live when I'm about

To fall apart? I live inside my brain,

And all the things I hate are thoughts that build

Into a monster that devours all

I want, until I'm left with only hell:

A hell I hate. It leaves me drained, weak-willed,

Alone, and I feel nothing, so I fall

Into the only way I feel alive.

Dark Strokes on Light Pages

The early morning light comes through

the window at my back and I am

happy that the sun has not come up yet.

The early morning shadow at

the far side of the room reminds me

I am the exception, not the rule.

I see that the beauty of

the world is not monopolized

by daylight, blue skies, summer sun, or spring.

Darkness can be beautiful--

sometimes more than light--because

both were made by hist'ry's greatest Artist.

At night we see the stars above us:

massive pinpoints, always showing

sunlight still exists, although it might be far away.

It's easy to walk around alone

during the day, when you don't need help

but what about at night, when every step you take, you stumble?

Happy are they (and fortunate!)

who know how weak and frail they are

before the shadows come and show it further.

I am not a "pessimist,"

a "nihilist," a "realist,"

or any other name you want to use.

I am a connoisseur of art--

the kind of art that lives are made of--

written, drawn, composed in black and white.

Pain is just another stroke,

a Master's brush upon the page,

a little detail none can imitate.

This Artist uses light and contrast,

blending good and ill in moments

that define the lives of those he crafts.

The greatest moment I have found

(his magnum opus, if you will)

was when he painted blinding black upon the page,

not because the paint he used

was special. (On the other hand

it's dirty, cloying, sickeningly sweet.)

It's beautiful because the black

was painted over spotless White

as Artist (become artwork) was destroyed

So when the black is painted on

my own canvas, how can I

complain about the way that I've been painted?

(To use another metaphor:

the denouement is only lovely

for the conflict that preceded it.)

When I'm faced with discord in

the measures of my life, I'll play

them all the louder. I know they'll resolve.

So back to what I said before,

how beauty isn't just reserved

for pleasant scenes, but painful moments, too:

maybe beauty is in waiting

for the twist that makes us question

how life can be so good time and time again.

So I'll sit here and relish waiting

in the shadows of this room,

knowing that the Light will soon shine in. 

The Pain That Our Neighbors Are Feeling

I live in a world that is so black and white

And I'm not talking about true or false, wrong or right

I mean racism: failing to love the way He loved

Is just as much my fault as anyone else's

But I look around and I'm frustratingly helpless

White privilege disarms me, it makes me defenseless

Against all the evil I see in the world

I'm part of the problem, not part of the cure

And that's not 'cause I'm white; white men are not evil

But my voice is hushed by the hand of the Devil

"This isn't your fight, it's not anyone's fight!

Shut up and sit down! It'll turn out alright."

But he's lying; injustice is real, all around me

A frightening, sobering, crushing reality

I'm deafened by hate, but they say, "It's okay!

It's based on statistics; you'll see that someday."

Well, I don't want to see it! I don't want to be blind

To the way that my selfishness hurts other lives

We're the children of God, and God's not black and white

He's the King of the nations, and I know I should fight

To tell you that He doesn't care about color

He showed that when He chose to let Himself suffer

For you and for me, for "God so loved the nations"

That isn't just white, it's the whole of creation

So I don't know what Bible you think you've been reading

'Cause race and religion are so damn misleading

Forgive me, I'm 'bout to go off on a tangent

But this is a problem that I see is rampant

The Muslims who wanna get into our country?

They're people too! Let me say it quite bluntly

It's stupid to think that we aren't called to love them

For God loves the world, whether Christian or Muslim

So excuse me for this, but I'm not out for blood

I don't say "Kill 'em!" or "Gimme my gun!"

My God is Yahweh Sabaoth: Lord of Hosts

I think, if He wanted, Islam would be toast

So He doesn't need me to take up the sword

He needs me to love, to live by the Word

Look, I'm not pretending I've got it together

I'm guilty of tons, and I'm sinful as ever

But don't drag the name of my God in the dirt

By pretending He's out to get Muslims deported

Look at me ranting, I feel kinda stupid

Back to the subject (my tangent's concluded)

If God wanted racism, wouldn't He say it?

"Thou shalt choose one race to hate and go hate it"?

But do we see that anywhere in the Scripture?

Uh... No. That hasn't been written!

God doesn't want us divided and hating!

The racism raging has got His heart breaking

With white Christians faking the love that they're taking

From God, who is waiting to see us awaken

To what we've forsaken, the way we've mistaken

How sin has us broken for some sort of token

That black is the problem or white is the problem 

When sin has us killin' and teachin' our children

To raise up their children to keep up the killin'

And God damn the Devil for pickin' that apple

That opened our eyes to the nature of evil

And showed us that evil was tasty (if deadly)

And tasty was better than just being holy

The lies that we've bought have corrupted our hearts

Now we're so good at hate that it's almost an art

And I hate that I hate them who hate them who's different

But I see what they've done and I feel insufficient

To patch up the wound that the white folk have caused

By pretending that racism came from the laws

That allowed them to show us all what was inside

But now they just hide all their hate with the lie

That the poison they spit causes nobody pain

When people are DYING, and the poison's to blame!

Look, cops are just people, but people are broken

And the boys in the blue demonstrate what I've spoken:

That hate is as real now as it has been ever

And until now I've just let myself say whatever

But now I am sick of the sickness that threatens

Us all--rich or poor, black, Latino, or cracker

The air in this nation, the U. S. of A.

Is heavy with hatred, and I hate to say it

But we, as believers, are part of the issue

We say that we love, but then we continue

To hate, while pretending that God will still hear us

When we pray for healing! It's like we're delirious

Caught up in fakery, high off our sin

"Rebuking" the Devil, then letting him in

To feed off the darkness we carry inside

A darkness that, frankly, we're failing to hide

And everyone sees it! Do YOU think we're different?

They say, "Christians hate!" and I'm not indignant

Because I know the truth--what they're saying is true

And I'm desperate to know that it's not me and you

Who are feeding the pain that our neighbors are feeling

Ripping the scabs off the scars that were healing

Following Jesus is not about freedom

Freedom from sin, yes, but not from the Kingdom

We are not ours! We're slaves to the Father

Ambassadors, not simply sons, not just daughters

The life of the Christian is one of denial

We give up ourselves to become His disciples!

"I do not live, it is Jesus in me"

To be slaves of Christ is to truly be free

So put up your privilege, your right to be comfortable

Give of yourselves in your love, though it's vulnerable

Yeah, you might lose friends or status or power

But store up a treasure that lasts for forever

And know that the God who we know as our Father,

If we run the race well, will stand in our honor

"I do not live, it is Jesus in me"

To be slaves of Christ is to truly be free

So put off yourself and put on the Spirit

Let Him take over and silence the bigot

That shouts from inside and fills us with lies

Of how we are better than those who don't hide

Their sin behind masks or in pretty white tombs

If we hide our sin, it just grows in our wombs

And when it is full-grown, it gives birth to death

Not just for ourselves, but also for others

We are not perfect, though we are redeemed

We can return to our sin, though we're free

But brothers and sisters, we bear Jesus' name,

So sin versus righteousness isn't a game!

The hate you hold on to, with which you still flirt

Is one way to drag Jesus' death in the dirt

So let go of hate, and step out in love

Live like you live for the One who's above

'Cause we do! We've been bought with the blood of the Lamb

So let's not behave like the whole thing's a sham

Remember, everyone sees how you live

The love you withhold and the hate that you give

So it's not just a joke, it's a really big deal

The tongue is set fire by the fires of hell

Every decision and every word

Is made for the Dragon or made for the Word

You will serve a master, and now you must choose:

The King who will win, or the Serpent who'll lose?

"I do not live, it is Jesus in me"

To be slaves of Christ is to truly be free