Making and Breaking

"The mind is its own place, and in itself
Can make a Heav'n of Hell, a Hell of Heav'n."

John Milton, "Paradise Lost"

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Dear Kate,

That must be a hyperbole, Milton's claim, perhaps an over-correction of our sterilized secular mind?  How can it be true that just because we think so that it be so?  How about the prized objectivity of, say, natural science, pride of human progress?

Well, objectively, there's no "heaven" and there ain't no "hell" either.  WYSIWYG: what you see is what you get.

What we don't get then, is what we can't see.

So the question is: how far can we see?  Let me stand up from my office chair (doing it right now, seriously, as I type), and I can tell you I can't see far.  In fact, many office workers can tell you they feel trapped in their office space, sitting or standing.  Sometimes they might engage in hyperbole to name the state of their daily existence Hell.

The three pictures above, meant to be viewed as one series, I took them yesterday afternoon.  What do you, your mind, see in them?

There's an obvious progression, from left to right.  They happened, upon me, in quick succession, within a matter of 5 minutes.  I took them in as they are, no double-exposure, very minimal touch-up.

Now you see, I am shaping your mind already, your seeing.  And with the information so far, what do you see?

If I am to tell you more, that I give the series the title "God Loves Stuffs," would it help you to see further?  How about the title is a line our pastor said twice this past weekend, when speaking about the first chapters of Genesis and last two of Revelation, more specifically regarding the materiality of Creation and Re-creation; would that open up your mind, your seeing a tad bit more?

Of course I could be just making all these up, that there really is no "objective" meaning to the pictures.  WYSIWYG.  It's all in my head, my mind, and I am just imposing, overlaying my intent on the layers of material.  The bad rap of an artist.

Then let me tell you more, about the "obvious" progression of the three pictures that might not be too obvious.  I stumbled upon the first image on the left, an empty café with two window sides at a street corner, then discovered, became aware of myself in the second picture within the context of the content, finding my leg in the materiality of a table leg, and finally took the proactive step to create (procreate) in the third and painted myself into an ongoing story.

What was my hand trying to hold on to in my attempt to join God in his creating?  The answer is in the first picture, the givenness of stuffs as they are--"objectively," stuffs that God loves into their existence, a subjective, purpose-endowing, life-enabling love.

I hope you are enjoying this beginning of spring.  It is a good time to make things up.

Yours, Alex

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Dear Alex,

The noisiest place on earth is in the head. No hellish or heavenly bounds. An infinite reel of monologues, thoughts unwind as a silent movie animated in the highest decibels for an audience of one. In this space of my own, monsters mingle and muse.

Over the past few midnights, these monsters have kept me awake wide-eyed. They singled me out by name, harassed me, mangling my sensibility with insensible questions about silverfish and wasps under the sharp sun in beautiful hell. How much space of a spot do I need to stand stretch sprint, to leave more heaven than hell in place before I shrivel up in ashes?

My monsters are snow lizards without a measuring tape or purpose, creeping in the cavern of consciousness. They just ramble in mimes about my motive, curiosity and addiction. Their sonorous echoing amplifies at night. I could hardly sleep in peace.

For they know about my addiction. Sugar of all sorts. Earlier this week, they watched expectantly as I fled to the closest Chinese bakery in Portland 300 miles from home and rushed out with 4 full boxes plus 2 stray bags of pastries and rolls. They saw I had let go to let in the binging: coffee rolls exclusively for 3 square days of breakfast and supper. More bread around the clock. Half of the purchased bakery has found its place in my adipose layers while the other half morphs in mind to fuel my obsession for sweet poison.

They know the addict needs company. Yesterday I baked banana chocolate bread with double sugar content and spread them among my colleagues, my words to self and others honeyed in gossip and judgement against the unsweetened to my taste. My blood has been spiked, spilling over with syrup. Sugar turns rancid. Monsters are intoxicated.

Into my dark space tonight drifted the words of Michelle Obama in her recent return to an all-girls London school: “I still have impostor syndrome.. It never goes away.” Am I good enough? Sufficiently smart to succeed?

Or can I grow small enough to fit into this cross section of a slice where heaven and hell mesh on earth, now and here in suburbia, my home?

I wonder where the silverfish, wasps and lizards fit in any place. In our tilting of land towards Spring, they come forth from shadow to spotlight. They demand attention and action, shoving me down on my knees so I can lean in and consider their fate with mine. They strip me of my vanity, silence my monsters. They slay the addicts of our own making in mud and mind.

My place and yours may differ in sound and sight far removed from the civic mind-set in rural Nebraska or the plush in a Manhattan penthouse. And our addictions and monsters vary in all sorts. But the silverfish are rampant among us. In dream, they look more like nonpareils than pests.

This morning with my dog, I walked out in the Spring showers, a lump of sugar melting to give space for manna falling.

Yours, Kate