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Finally edited and uploaded, it's my side project from South Africa: Part one, Part two (on youtube), or here.
Most institutions that want to serve the poor play out a conflict between exclusivity and compassion. Faced with extreme need, an institution can establish rigid in/out boundaries in order to serve a few people well. Or it can take the alternate tack: It can open the gates wide and be overwhelmed, working hard to establish even a baseline standard of service and courting "burn out".
In the context of South Africa's dramatic and ongoing Zimbabwean refugee crisis, the Central Methodist Church has opted for the latter approach. An observer becomes aware of this in the South African media, where accusations of crime, sexual abuse, and "sub-human" living conditions are often made. The same realization can be had in visiting the place, which I had the privilege of doing in March: One is immediately greeted by that instantly recognizable cornucopia of stale stenches that usually accompanies human misery.
Paul Verryn, former Anglican bishop and current caretaker of Johannesburg's downtown parish, has not denied the chaos of the situation he has created by refusing to shut the doors. Rather, he has attempted to do his best to get the problems under control while reframing the discussion to talk about the national government's complete refusal to come up with some sort of plan to deal with the influx of Zimbabwean immigrants.
Beyond dirty bodies, what the place really reeks of is compassion. This dilapidated industrial-style monolith goes very far to embody compassion--black sheep of the family of Holy Spirit fruits, unmentionable in polite conversation--what with her enormous sweaty embrace, effusive, jabbering, unseemly, incapable of making all kinds of distinctions, blind to all the varieties and categories of personal accomplishment and failure claimed by those she draws to herself.
Sure looks bad now, but here's a church that might just stand a chance on the last day.
How to explain it to my parents?
Here is a perfect video interview project, in which nine abstract artists attempt to explain their works of art to their parents.
A fascinating theme in the series is the acute familiarity of the interviewer and interviewee, whereby it seems very difficult for most of these artists to maintain their composure when asked a question (there's plenty of squirming), much less to treat their parents' questions objectively or seriously (despite the fact that several of the questions are valid and well-articulated). Reminds me that the habitual nature of intimate relationships brings about a certain blindness towards the other.
There is a gracefulness that involves learning (or maybe loving) the esoteric vocabulary of a certain society well enough to perform it convincingly for the in-group. There is another, very different kind of gracefulness which is able to engage someone from the out-group, in spite of the inherent awkwardness (or nakedness) involved in setting aside jargon.
A fascinating theme in the series is the acute familiarity of the interviewer and interviewee, whereby it seems very difficult for most of these artists to maintain their composure when asked a question (there's plenty of squirming), much less to treat their parents' questions objectively or seriously (despite the fact that several of the questions are valid and well-articulated). Reminds me that the habitual nature of intimate relationships brings about a certain blindness towards the other.
There is a gracefulness that involves learning (or maybe loving) the esoteric vocabulary of a certain society well enough to perform it convincingly for the in-group. There is another, very different kind of gracefulness which is able to engage someone from the out-group, in spite of the inherent awkwardness (or nakedness) involved in setting aside jargon.
Putting up
For something near two years I have been plodding at a luscious, stop-and-smell-the-flowers pace through the copious autobiography of the excellent Ammon Hennacy. This morning I came across an especially sparkling section of memoir-izing; this excerpt I consider a crystallization of the best of Ammon. It deals with a period of his life in which he was living and working at a Catholic Worker house located in the Bowery, New York City. This would have been the mid 1950s:
We are a paper and a movement and a house of hospitality. We are a station where folks who have lost their way stop for a time until they can decide where they want to buy a ticket to--a monastery, the Ford Foundation, a union job, the Carmelites, marriage, or lower down on skid row...
In my early days at 223 Chrystie Street... I got up at 5:00 A.M. and helped pour coffee for the line and scrubbed the slime from the hall and kitchen floor. Some men would come back as much as three times in the line. Often one drunk would preach to the men in the line, telling them that they were all no-good bums.
What kind of people come to us? All sorts of tortured souls who have no other place to go. Peter [Maurin] said that we had to put up with one another the way God puts up with us, and Dorothy [Day] said we loved God as much as we loved the person we loved the least. By this measure I am a failure, and so are the most of us. The only thing is that we have different points of touchiness and tension and different breaking points as to how much of any certain kind of misery we can take. And I suppose we get a "tolerance" toward certain irritations and and added intolerance toward others.
One kind that is especially difficult for me to take is the scrupulous, over-pious person always wanting to put a scapular on me and hovering near the holy water. They are sure to burst out in vituperation a little later. We have had some of the quiet, withdrawn scrupulous types who have generally been good workers in detailed filing, etc. But once they are presented with an emergency their frustration and hatred of life have resulted in their violently attacking whoever is in their way. Then we have the loud-mouth braggart who when drunk would upset everything by his very noise. One such person who has been here for twenty years used to exasperate me by his noise when I was trying to phone, and I said to him, "How long do I have to put up with you?"
"How long do I have to put up with you, you damn intellectual?" he replied.
This is wonderful, for the Catholic Worker is a place for derelicts, and we intellectuals talk pacifism and anarchism and go to Mass. All some of these folks want is one more drink, and in between they have to listen to us.
We are a paper and a movement and a house of hospitality. We are a station where folks who have lost their way stop for a time until they can decide where they want to buy a ticket to--a monastery, the Ford Foundation, a union job, the Carmelites, marriage, or lower down on skid row...
In my early days at 223 Chrystie Street... I got up at 5:00 A.M. and helped pour coffee for the line and scrubbed the slime from the hall and kitchen floor. Some men would come back as much as three times in the line. Often one drunk would preach to the men in the line, telling them that they were all no-good bums.
What kind of people come to us? All sorts of tortured souls who have no other place to go. Peter [Maurin] said that we had to put up with one another the way God puts up with us, and Dorothy [Day] said we loved God as much as we loved the person we loved the least. By this measure I am a failure, and so are the most of us. The only thing is that we have different points of touchiness and tension and different breaking points as to how much of any certain kind of misery we can take. And I suppose we get a "tolerance" toward certain irritations and and added intolerance toward others.
One kind that is especially difficult for me to take is the scrupulous, over-pious person always wanting to put a scapular on me and hovering near the holy water. They are sure to burst out in vituperation a little later. We have had some of the quiet, withdrawn scrupulous types who have generally been good workers in detailed filing, etc. But once they are presented with an emergency their frustration and hatred of life have resulted in their violently attacking whoever is in their way. Then we have the loud-mouth braggart who when drunk would upset everything by his very noise. One such person who has been here for twenty years used to exasperate me by his noise when I was trying to phone, and I said to him, "How long do I have to put up with you?"
"How long do I have to put up with you, you damn intellectual?" he replied.
This is wonderful, for the Catholic Worker is a place for derelicts, and we intellectuals talk pacifism and anarchism and go to Mass. All some of these folks want is one more drink, and in between they have to listen to us.
A big white globe
"First Lesson About Man" by Thomas Merton
Man begins in zoology.
He is the saddest animal.
He drives a big red car called anxiety.
He dreams at night
Of riding all the elevators.
Lost in the halls,
He never finds the right door.
Man is the saddest animal.
A flake-eater in the morning,
A milk-drinker.
He fills his skin with coffee
And loses patience with the rest of his species.
He draws his sin on the wall,
On all the ads in all the subways.
He draws moustaches on all the women
Because he cannot find his joy,
Except in zoology.
Whenever he goes to the phone to call Joy,
He gets the wrong number.
Therefore he likes weapons.
He knows all guns by their right name.
He drives a big black Cadillac called death.
Now he is putting anxiety into space.
He flies his worries all around Venus,
But it does him no good.
In space where for a long time there is only emptiness,
He drives a big white globe called death.
Now dear children
Who have learned the first lesson about man,
Answer your test:
"Man is the saddest animal.
He begins in zoology,
And gets lost
In his own bad news."
-------
I don't know much about poetry. But I like this poem, which I just came across last night in an essay about the poetry of Thomas Merton. One reason I like the poem is that I find it to be a graceful interplay between tragedy and humor. But I don't know what is meant by that repeated line about man beginning "in zoology."
Man begins in zoology.
He is the saddest animal.
He drives a big red car called anxiety.
He dreams at night
Of riding all the elevators.
Lost in the halls,
He never finds the right door.
Man is the saddest animal.
A flake-eater in the morning,
A milk-drinker.
He fills his skin with coffee
And loses patience with the rest of his species.
He draws his sin on the wall,
On all the ads in all the subways.
He draws moustaches on all the women
Because he cannot find his joy,
Except in zoology.
Whenever he goes to the phone to call Joy,
He gets the wrong number.
Therefore he likes weapons.
He knows all guns by their right name.
He drives a big black Cadillac called death.
Now he is putting anxiety into space.
He flies his worries all around Venus,
But it does him no good.
In space where for a long time there is only emptiness,
He drives a big white globe called death.
Now dear children
Who have learned the first lesson about man,
Answer your test:
"Man is the saddest animal.
He begins in zoology,
And gets lost
In his own bad news."
-------
I don't know much about poetry. But I like this poem, which I just came across last night in an essay about the poetry of Thomas Merton. One reason I like the poem is that I find it to be a graceful interplay between tragedy and humor. But I don't know what is meant by that repeated line about man beginning "in zoology."
Living in Germantown has given me a brand new appreciation for birds
Hafez says:
One rosy face from the world's garden for us is enough,
And the shade of that one cypress in the field
Strolling along gracefully for us is enough.
Look at the flow of money and the suffering
Of the world. If this glimpse of profit and loss
Is not enough for you, for us it is enough.
The dearest companion of all is here. What
Else is there to look for? The delight of a few words
With the soul friend is enough.
--
Listening to Chopin in my room, both windows open and the rain pouring down outside, incense burning, watching that nocturne spinning around on a beautiful turntable. Cascading notes getting twisted up into the quiet, repetitive chaos of the rain.
I suppose it will sound hyperbolic to say it, but wouldn't it be somehow opulent to ask for another dose of this? In the interest of modesty alone, wouldn't it feel appropriate now to put away this whole business of recorded music? Surely for me one side of a good record at the right moment is enough.
This morning I experienced the glory of God on my front porch--I was eating a grapefruit at 830 in the morning, jobless "downwardly-mobile" bourgeois dilettante that I am; I was surveying the front yard. A moment of silence creeps up on you and then the foreground of Yard and Breakfast and Schedule and What-I-Am-Doing-With-My-Life starts disintegrating, like expanding holes of acid consuming a piece of paper (where the acid is the dull, stubborn insistence of the Background to be noticed). White noise becomes colored noise and suddenly I get startled to notice all of these birds, singing, taking turns, overlapping and interrupting, screaming, calling from every direction, up in the trees all around, at every distance, at varied volume, all shapes and sizes. Lord have mercy I live in the center ring of a bizarre circus. Help, my homo sapiens frame of reference is outnumbered, drowning in the chaotic net of delicate sounds and drowning in what it represents: The day-to-day routines of a million tiny winged bodies (twitching, contracting, jumping into the air, pooping, hungry again), none of whom for even a moment have felt the need of taking up the burden of self-awareness. For goodness sakes what has the Robin or the Cardinal ever done to accommodate the grand narrative of the human race, much less the arc of my life?
Surely for me a half an hour with these little chirping aliens is enough. Surely I could move back to the cement jungle of North Philadelphia and live there for the rest of my life without ever seeing another exotic-looking migratory bird, protected by the reality of one such encounter.
One rosy face from the world's garden for us is enough,
And the shade of that one cypress in the field
Strolling along gracefully for us is enough.
Look at the flow of money and the suffering
Of the world. If this glimpse of profit and loss
Is not enough for you, for us it is enough.
The dearest companion of all is here. What
Else is there to look for? The delight of a few words
With the soul friend is enough.
--
Listening to Chopin in my room, both windows open and the rain pouring down outside, incense burning, watching that nocturne spinning around on a beautiful turntable. Cascading notes getting twisted up into the quiet, repetitive chaos of the rain.
I suppose it will sound hyperbolic to say it, but wouldn't it be somehow opulent to ask for another dose of this? In the interest of modesty alone, wouldn't it feel appropriate now to put away this whole business of recorded music? Surely for me one side of a good record at the right moment is enough.
This morning I experienced the glory of God on my front porch--I was eating a grapefruit at 830 in the morning, jobless "downwardly-mobile" bourgeois dilettante that I am; I was surveying the front yard. A moment of silence creeps up on you and then the foreground of Yard and Breakfast and Schedule and What-I-Am-Doing-With-My-Life starts disintegrating, like expanding holes of acid consuming a piece of paper (where the acid is the dull, stubborn insistence of the Background to be noticed). White noise becomes colored noise and suddenly I get startled to notice all of these birds, singing, taking turns, overlapping and interrupting, screaming, calling from every direction, up in the trees all around, at every distance, at varied volume, all shapes and sizes. Lord have mercy I live in the center ring of a bizarre circus. Help, my homo sapiens frame of reference is outnumbered, drowning in the chaotic net of delicate sounds and drowning in what it represents: The day-to-day routines of a million tiny winged bodies (twitching, contracting, jumping into the air, pooping, hungry again), none of whom for even a moment have felt the need of taking up the burden of self-awareness. For goodness sakes what has the Robin or the Cardinal ever done to accommodate the grand narrative of the human race, much less the arc of my life?
Surely for me a half an hour with these little chirping aliens is enough. Surely I could move back to the cement jungle of North Philadelphia and live there for the rest of my life without ever seeing another exotic-looking migratory bird, protected by the reality of one such encounter.
In the glass
Pre-eminent documentary filmmaker Errol Morris contributes something to the NY Times every now and again.
He's just come out with a fascinating retrospective of iconic images from the 43rd presidency, as curated by representatives of three of the major still photography proprietor: AP, AFP and Reuters.
Some of the commentary is of interest, some of it is forgettable and/or predictable. I'm afraid that many of the images are best reviewed as they were first viewed: without much interpretation.
In general, I find that the AFP collection blows the others away. However, the standout image for me is this AP shot, from Crawford, Texas, which I had never seen before:
There's so much to see here, between the varied poses of the supporting cast (esp. Rice), the lines of perspective, the horizon, the evocative setting (interrupted by the microphones). The president dominates this photo in his casual attire and confident poise. There has been from the beginning something very compelling about Bush's Texan-ness, something the Republican strategists sniffed from the get-go and then failed to capitalize on, and this shot sums up for me precisely that essence. As one facet among many, this Bush is--dare I say it--dead sexy.
The other worthy bit from Morris' piece is his closing thought, as nabbed from Oliver Wendell Holmes:
"Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr., writing in 1859 (about 20 years after the first daguerreotypes appeared), called photography 'a mirror with a memory.' He writes,
'The man beholdeth himself in the glass and goeth his way, and straightway both the mirror and the mirrored forget what manner of man he was…'"
He's just come out with a fascinating retrospective of iconic images from the 43rd presidency, as curated by representatives of three of the major still photography proprietor: AP, AFP and Reuters.
Some of the commentary is of interest, some of it is forgettable and/or predictable. I'm afraid that many of the images are best reviewed as they were first viewed: without much interpretation.
In general, I find that the AFP collection blows the others away. However, the standout image for me is this AP shot, from Crawford, Texas, which I had never seen before:
There's so much to see here, between the varied poses of the supporting cast (esp. Rice), the lines of perspective, the horizon, the evocative setting (interrupted by the microphones). The president dominates this photo in his casual attire and confident poise. There has been from the beginning something very compelling about Bush's Texan-ness, something the Republican strategists sniffed from the get-go and then failed to capitalize on, and this shot sums up for me precisely that essence. As one facet among many, this Bush is--dare I say it--dead sexy.
The other worthy bit from Morris' piece is his closing thought, as nabbed from Oliver Wendell Holmes:
"Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr., writing in 1859 (about 20 years after the first daguerreotypes appeared), called photography 'a mirror with a memory.' He writes,
'The man beholdeth himself in the glass and goeth his way, and straightway both the mirror and the mirrored forget what manner of man he was…'"
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