This was a gale that formed a fist, a punch turning into a full kick that almost sent me flying downhill. The Greek word translates as “a movement of air.” But this was karate; I loved the force of it, its full release and enthusiasm.
In my tedium, I wish I might keel over when that other spirit blows, or that that fierce, holy breath would fill me to almost-bursting, a red balloon buoyant with air, pressure inside and out, and no strings attached.
As soon as you hear the title, you can probably guess what kind of film The Book of Eli is going to be. Yes, it is the story about a man named Eli (played by Denzel Washington, who is also one of the film’s producers), who has a book; it is also about the Bible, which in this case seems to provide not a set of beliefs but simply the hope that humanity has a future.
I am fearfully made and I imagine the sleek curves of my kidneys and the round red onion shape of my bladder. I will never see those parts with their perfect forms, their elegant overlaps sealed in my skin. All I know is their transparent function, or its change, or that blind nerve dance we call pain.
I will never see those long pale ropes that take my food and turn it to steps or speech. All I know is the wonder of containing such exchange, that lets the morning eggs and the noon bread rise as song in the kitchen, laughter in the back yard, rise as indignation, care, or grieving, rise as love or longing or belated thanks.
This winter I had the opportunity to observe a Caravaggio painting upclose and often: his Supper at Emmaus (1601) was on loan to the Art Institute of Chicago from its permanent home in London’s National Gallery. From the Century offices, it was only a few steps across Michigan Avenue to see this vibrant, dramatic painting.
where’s alfreddy who cuts your grass or lifts your rake when you’re not looking and where’s the reliable gunfire from the deuce-eights’ section eight doorways down on twenty-eighth on this last day of August lavender all rotted at the bottom splayed across the concrete walk as you sit barefoot on the porch steps and watch without a thought honeybees and bumblebees ascend and drop in praise of higher fragrances and offer thanks there’s no parade today for trayvon on your street named mlk jr way because you’re that weary
so for this moment with this breath you God bless the bees
“Our best college students are very good at being critical. In fact being smart, for many, means being critical,” says Wesleyan University president Michael S. Roth. In the last half century an emphasis in education on inquiry has been reduced to exposing error and undermining belief. Not only does this stance not get college graduates very far later in life, “fetishizing disbelief as a sign of intelligence” has diminished our culture. Liberal learning, argues Roth, should have an equal commitment to finding meaning in culture and becoming absorbed in creative and compelling work (New York Times, May 10).