a. n. wilson

"Sadly, they have all but accepted that only stupid people actually believe in Christianity, and that the few intelligent people left in the churches are there only for the music or believe it all in some symbolic or contorted way which, when examined, turns out not to be belief after all.

As a matter of fact, I am sure the opposite is the case and that materialist atheism is not merely an arid creed, but totally irrational.

Materialist atheism says we are just a collection of chemicals. It has no answer whatsoever to the question of how we should be capable of love or heroism or poetry if we are simply animated pieces of meat.

The Resurrection, which proclaims that matter and spirit are mysteriously conjoined, is the ultimate key to who we are. It confronts us with an extraordinarily haunting story.

J. S. Bach believed the story, and set it to music. Most of the greatest writers and thinkers of the past 1,500 years have believed it.

But an even stronger argument is the way that Christian faith transforms individual lives - the lives of the men and women with whom you mingle on a daily basis, the man, woman or child next to you in church tomorrow morning."

-a. n. wilson, English writer & columnist, public atheist-turned-Christian, and my latest obsession

read more here & here.

ode to NY street performers

sometimes, days can get you down
living in a city that moves
at the speed of light

we find ourselves drowning
in just a blurry abyss
of work, schedules, business as usual.

and as we muster the strength
to carry our heavy legs
to our next course of action

you are there.

the little tiny accordion player
on the long stretch from the 7 to the F
- your music makes my feet lighter
and my steps a bit jaunty

the acapella quartet in union square
- your sweet melodies & harmonies
seem to cut through the bitter air

the sax player in the subway cart
- your expressive gestures & notes so blue
create the perfect rendition of "as time goes by"

i close my eyes and i'm not there
i'm not with the sullen chinese lady
holding grocery bags of cabbage
or the gaggle of teens, hyper
with energy suppressed from school hours
or the petulant toddler giving slobbery death stares

i'm in that place again
a place where time & energy & life stands still

no, you don't deserve a quarter
or even a dollar or two

you deserve much more -
for taking us into (or out of) a moment,
transcending us to a better place
and breaking our 'cycle' from time to time.

we thank you for your craft, your passion, your souls
your brilliance

people i don't get

i had a nice little impromptu play-date with a friend this week post-hurricane sandy.  it was so lovely - we ate beard papa's while we discussed our favorite books & music.

we were both sharing our disdain towards people who hate reading and/or books.  i might come off a little elitist and pretentious (as some people have already labeled me), but i don't care - because i think it's pretty sad that reading has become an "elitist" activity (especially considering that libraries are free to anyone). 

but living in this A.D.D. generation obsessed with instant gratification, taking the time to actually sit down to read a book (or even a long article) can be considered a tedious activity.  it's sad, yet understandable. but i think something that boggles my mind even more are people who are indifferent towards music.  i actually have a friend who once told me "i don't really care for music."  how...why... i don't even understand that statement.  it's like saying you hate puppies - it doesn't make sense. it's not human.

i remember i actually gave up music one time for lent.  i was able to manage, but it was a quite dreary 40 days.  yes - i became more aware of the outside world as i wasn't consumed in my own world within my headphones, but i felt my soul was starving for its usual musical accompaniment.

as mentioned before, i don't care too much about the details about my future wedding (if i have one), but the one detail i will fuss over will be the music.  i will not allow any overly cheesy/bad music at my wedding.  never!  i will curate each and every song on that playlist to perfection.

in Walter Isaacson's biography on Steve Jobs, there was a story about Jobs meeting Yo-Yo Ma.  upon hearing Yo-Yo Ma play a piece by Bach, Job's actually teared up and told him "You playing is the best argument I've ever heard for the existence of God, because I don't really believe a human alone can do this."


and speaking of yo yo, i love this (& many other) npr tiny desk concert series:

gasp!

going off of joyce's newly condensed list of non-negotiables, i have decided to create my own:

gentle-hearted
affectionate
smart
playful

hmm. maybe i'm pushing it?

waking & feeling the fell of dark

i feel very reluctant writing about death.

well, let me clarify - i can discuss death in the abstract.  i can write about the impact of death, the mysteries of death.  how death is portrayed in books and films.

but i find it nearly impossible to write about it on a personal level.

i don't think i have exactly figured myself out on this, but i think it comes down to a mixture of things. one would be that i just can't seem to wrap all the events, the emotions, and the effects of it into words.  the way i can just kind of think and ponder about certain inconsequential or lighthearted topics (food, korean-ness, the la vs ny dichotomy, relationships, etc) and pump out some vain opinion or another, i can't do the same about this topic. not necessarily because it's a "sensitive" issue, but because it's that much harder to form a more singular, packaged idea/thesis about the whole thing.

they say words/stories can breathe people back to life.  i still remember one of my favorite books we had to read back in school was tim o'brien's the things they carried. in the book, there was a poignant chapter on the narrator losing his childhood love (linda) to cancer and how he dealt with it (years later) by writing her into his stories. i remember i loved this particular story so much, i cried when reading it. i even remember reading it to my boyfriend (at the time) on the phone - though i'm pretty sure he couldn't have cared less.  however in this chapter, i realized that through the craft of storytelling, tim wasn't saving linda's life, but saving his own.

and then it dawned on me that writing about it would ultimately just be a selfish move on my part (at his expense). i don't have the "right" or the authority to write about it.  i don't want that person's life (or the memories of his life) to be made immortal through my words (especially since i wouldn't know if it would be against his will).  all these words would probably be for my own benefit or my own need for "closure" and/or self-expression - a means of coping.

so that is why (or at least partially why) i can't write.

i was re-reading excerpts of joan didion's the year of magical thinking.  she is so spot-on that she has a way of making me short of breath and drown in her grief.

the aftermath

the storm has come and gone - and we are still alive & standing.

living in an outer borough of ny, we've been blessed with electricity and internet all week.  others haven't been as fortunate. while we are having the longest, extended slumber party (sandy brought down our schools, offices, and  subways), others are living and scavenging without any power.  we can't help but to feel a teensy bit of survivor's guilt as we eat up a storm and watch every rainy day movie possible.

i haven't had the opportunity to venture out to the city yet, but i've heard stories from friends & roomies that it's like a ghost-town at the lower parts of manhattan, while anywhere north of 30th st - there are throngs of bodies roaming the streets like it's the zombie apocalypse.

when i see the epic/horrifying photos showcasing all the massacre of nature, i can't help but to think that it's like a superhero movie come to life. it's funny because as much as nyc gets demolished time and time again in every summer blockbuster, you somehow still think that the most exciting and arguably the most important city in the nation is invincible.  but then sandy hits, and you realize that even a place like manhattan is subject to disaster, which only brings on the harsher reality that we really don't have control over every aspect of our lives. we are small, and even a city like manhattan is fragile.

one of my favorite photos from the storm. jane's carousel in brooklyn.

May God be with those who are mourning the loss of their loved ones and those who are putting their lives on the line to help others.