Further Up & Further In…

As many of you know, I work for a small non-profit organization called the CiRCE Institute. Simply put, our focus is to provide vision, tools, and encouragement to Christian and classical educators worldwide. We work closely with heads-of-schools and principals, with teachers and curriculum developers, with home-schoolers and parents, with authors and journalists, with professors and artists. We help educators, in the home setting or otherwise, develop their curricula, train their teachers, develop and fulfill their own goals and visions. We provide books, curricula, and other resources. We believe that education is the cultivation of wisdom and virtue by nourishing the soul on truth, goodness, and beauty. We exist to help teachers and schools instill in their children that wisdom and virtue.

If you want more information on CiRCE or on classical Christian education head over to our website.

But as is true of many non-profit organizations in this current economic climate, 2009 has been a rough financial year. Private schools, especially the smaller Christian schools with which we are so intimately linked, lack the funds to invest in teacher training or in new resources and, therefore, many of our most popular and helpful endeavors are suffering. For example, each year we host a conference on a theme in education. In 2009 the theme was Nature, as in the nature of things (i.e., human nature, etc.). It was our most successful, best reviewed conference to date. But we lost money on it and we aren’t sure whether or not we will be able to put on a conference next year.

Recently, CiRCE released this notice on their website:

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Like many not-for-profit organizations, the CiRCE Institute depends upon the generosity and kindness of individuals who believe, as we do, in the mission and vision of Classical Christian education.

Today, we are launching our 2009 fundraising campaign:

FURTHER UP & FURTHER IN.
If you are in a position to donate even a little, please consider doing so. Your generosity will go a long way towards enabling us to fulfill our mission and accomplish our goals.

In return, we promise to continue teaching, training, and researching. We promise to keep on spreading the word. We promise to continue providing inspiration. We promise that, if you will stand by our side, we will continue to stand by yours. Together we’ll take this mission, this vision, this calling further up and further in!

As thanks for your generosity, we are offering downloadable materials for anyone who makes even the smallest donation. No gift is too small. No gift is too large. Whether you donate $1 or $100 or $1000 there is a gift waiting for you.

In return for your help, you will be able to download talks like Debbie Harris’s popular talk Understanding and Instilling a Love of Beauty, and Andrew Pudewa’s useful and inspiring, Teaching Boys and Other Kids Who Would Rather Be Playing In Forts. You can also download Ken Myers’ talk on how to Re-educate Oneself As An Adult, or Laura Berquist’s insightful talk about Assessing Student Performance.

To get these talks, and others like them, just go here and make a donation of whatever amount you feel comfortable giving. For even $1 these talks are yours.

We appreciate all of your support so far—everyone who’s come to a workshop or the conference, given a gift a gift in the past, or ever read an article or blog online. Your partnership has enabled us to succeed thus far. Now, we humbly ask you to consider helping out a little more.

While you’re at it, please let us know how we can improve. What should we do (or do better) to help you fulfill your goals as educators? In what ways can we help you cultivate wisdom and virtue in your students?

We look forward to working alongside you in the coming years as, together, we go further up & further in. Sometimes the journey is long and the climb is steep, but with every step we’re closer to fulfilling our goals.

With our sincerest thanks,

The CiRCE Institute

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I highly recommend each of these talks, and now also available is a book excerpt from Dr. Vigen Guroian’s wonderful and challenging book, Rallying the Really Human Things. The specific excerpt examines the the work of Chesteron, O’Connor, and Russell Kirk and the role they played in the Christian humanist tradition. You can read more about the book at the CiRCE blog, Quiddity.

I hope you’ll consider making a small donation to CiRCE. As the copy above notes, for just $1.00 these talks and the excerpt can be yours and each of them are full to the brim with inspiration and wisdom.

If you want to donate, simply click here.

Feel free to email me any time for more information: david@intothehill.com or david@circeinstitute.org

Reading Journal: All the Pretty Horses

I am not necessarily a follower of Cormac McCarthy’s work, nor am I even a fan, per se. I didn’t love his recent Pulitzer Prize winning novel, The Road, and didn’t find that the prose of No Country For Old drew me in. I am willing, however, to give both another try after reading his All the Pretty Horses (1992), a novel that USA Today once called “surely one of the great American novels.”

While this is probably a bit of hyperbole, the novel is, without a doubt, truly American through and through, which is ironic considering it takes place largely in Mexico. I say it is a thoroughly American novel because it is, first and foremost, about place, about land, about territory and man’s place in it. Writers from other countries have certainly focused on the theme as well, but no country breeds people so uniquely and fully interested in the idea of land – and the acquisition of it. After all, we are a country bred by immigrants, people who first came here in search of fresh land.

The novel traces young John Grady Cole as he escapes his small town, post-war existence in Texas, hoping to find adventure, and a future, in Mexico. He finds both, in more ways than one. Along with two companions and their beloved horses, Cole faces nature’s harshest tests, outlaw renegades, deceitful lawmen, a beautiful woman, and a loneliness found only in the solitude of desolate, rugged places.

Like many American novels that focus on the often dialectical relationship between man and nature, Horses features a rhythmic, tense, finely wrought sort of prose; a bold lyricism, a dark, mysterious thematic core. It is a unique, meaningful, utterly artistic, and beautifully crafted take on long beloved and well worn American archetypes. It may not be one of the great American novels ever, but All the Pretty Horses is one of the better novels in recent decades.

3 THINGS I LIKED:

1. The Pace
McCarthy is, if nothing else, a master at pace. His prose here is so finely tuned and carefully crafted that it acts as a truly satisfying objective correlative (if I can borrow the phrase again…) to the dangerous but beautiful landscapes in which the story takes place. The writing is stark but creative, descriptive but focused, weighty but romantic. McCarthy draws you into the story with his beguiling descriptions, but keeps you interested by revealing, at the perfect moments, something new and meaningful about the characters. The action sequences – of which there are the perfect amount – are deliciously crafted. But he has no trouble slipping seamlessly into the most romantic, sensual of moments. I mean both words – romantic and sensual – in multiple ways. This is certainly a romantic, sensual book for it puts strains, demands, on each of the senses, and thus on the imagination since this is a novel. That is the mark, I think, of truly fine fiction writing. The author demands a great deal of the imagination by recreating sensory experiences that interact with the action of the story itself.

2. The Descriptions
Whether he is describing the landscape, the action, or the characters, McCarthy is detail oriented without, as I inferred above, losing focusing. Each cactus described, each mesa or mountain or lake, each horse or dog or house or barn, is described within the necessary confines of the tale. This is surely a “show don’t tell” novel. These things, and actions, he is describing are the heartbeat, the meaning of the story. They reveal the conflict more meaningfully, perhaps, than the action itself.

3. The secondary characters:
John Grady Cole is a fantastic lead character: brave, cunning, adventurous, charming, and persistent, and featuring a brooding melancholy side, he is everything for which the traditional western tale asks in a lead. But some of the secondary characters are equally as fully imagined. For one, young Blevins, who believes he is doomed to die by lightening strike. At times, he’s utterly frustrating, at others he’s as lovable as a young puppy. He’s a character straight from the canon of Flannery O’Connor.

Cole’s best friend, Rawlins, is another. Less sure of himself than Cole, and more of a hot head, he makes for the perfect side kick. But, like Cole, he too dreams of a better future. Rawlins is a bruised, battered character. He’s damaged goods without the resourcefulness that belongs to Cole. And when he is faced with the decision of how much he’s willing to give up to realize his dreams, he makes a much different choice than his buddy.

The female lead, Alejandra, speaks little and is mostly seen from the point of view of Cole, but she remains a fascinating character for her sense of loyalty, history, and family. She is not some typical run-away who seeks out the troubled bad boy, nor is she a pretentious snob. No, she’s a much deeper character. And, despite how little she actually appears in the novel as a flesh and blood character, she is one of its most interesting inventions.

A Quote to Whet Your Whistle:
“He remembered Alejandra and the sadness he’d first seen in the slope of her shoulders which he’d presumed to understand and of which he knew nothing and he felt a loneliness he’d not known since he was a child and he felt wholly alien to the world although he loved it still. He thought that in the beauty of the world were hid a secret. He thought the world’s heart beat at some terrible cost and that the world’s pain and its beauty moved in a relationship of diverging equity and that in this headlong deficit the blood of multitudes might ultimately be exacted for the vision of a single flower.”

Sensory Deficit Disorder: On the Disappearance of DVDs and Books

Last week, PasteMagazine.com published an article by film critic Robert Davis entitled Your DVDs Are Rotting, in which Davis argues that the DVD as we now know it will soon be as extinct as the VHS or cassette tape. In the face of the rise of online viewing, he argues, the DVD will not be able to stand long. And no, the Blu Ray is not the answer. As fantastic as the Blu Ray picture is, and as cute as those little discs are, even the almighty Blu Ray will eventually fade to oblivion. No, online viewing is the answer, according to Davis.

Naturally, Davis cites Netflix as the most prominent online purveyor of the world’s finest films. But he also notes such inventions as the Roku box, which is plugged into the back of your tv (just like the good old fashioned DVD player), and, of course, the now abundantly popular digital sales by companies like Amazon and Apple. Throw in the likes of Hulu and the multitude of other websites that make tv shows and movies available online for streaming and it’s no wonder movie rental stores (including large chains like Blockbuster and Hollywood Video) are dropping like Starbucks franchises (rapidly and often, that is).

It’s so easy to find quality viewing material online, for extremely reasonable prices, why would anyone purchase a DVD anymore? Why would anyone bother heading to their favorite video rental store, used bookstore, or electronics shop to buy an old school DVD? Well, for the same reason that they still go to the movie theaters, for the same reason they go to the football game, for the same reason they go to a concert. For the experience.

In the age of YouTube and Hulu, of Bartleby and iPhones and Kindle, of itunes and emusic, the sensory experience of visiting the store is lost. We’re so focused on ease and speed and precision that we don’t care enough about the experience of a good old fashioned choice. Don’t get me wrong, it’s wonderful to be able to simply fire up a web browser, head over to a bookmarked web page, scan through a few pages of more or less familiar artists, sample and download them right then and there, and all for a pretty reasonable price. It’s great for finding new music, for networking; it’s great for the bloggers.

But it’s a shame that future generations could miss out on the uniquely rewarding experience of wandering the aisles of a video rental store or bookstore, of the smells and sounds and sights and the hundreds of DVD or book covers. Of the ironically demanding pressure of deciding between Big Jake and The Magnificent Seven in less than an hour, without the aid of an online trailer or imdb. Go ahead, take a chance! Yul Brynner or John Wayne? Steve McQueen or Richard Boone? Sounds like the decision is made for you. But the art work….

What about the book stores? I imagine it will take the Barnes & Noble and Borders chains a little longer to die out than their video rental store counterparts, but it seems only a matter of time. The Kindle is growing ever more popular and the rate at which people are reading books online is rapidly increasing.

This is sad.

What could be better than perusing the crowded shelves of an old used book store run by a proprietor with a big, bushy mustache and yarns as tall as Paul Bunyan? What could be better than the musty smell of moth balls and dust and old, loved pages, crispy and torn from years of affection, written in and marked up and dog-eared? What could be better than the glorious discovery of a little known early novel by a favorite author or a hundred year old copy of poems by your favorite Romantic? What could be better than climbing into your car with a stack of new treasures under your arm, a sweet, sweet, hard earned collection of wisdom and history emanating from the very pores of each dusty page?

The only thing better is reading them.

We live in an age where our senses are bombarded from all angles, at all times. Yet, we don’t appreciate the simple pleasures available to them. They have become so overwhelmed, so over-crowded, so over-stimulated that they no longer have the capability to recognize those sensory experiences that are most unique, most inspiring, most physically meaningful.

Yes, it’s great to be able to quickly and easily read a favorite novel on a Kindle. But it’s important that we not forget the sensory wonder of holding a book in one’s hands, of marking spots and flipping the pages back and forth, of noting those passages that are meaningful, of realizing just how much effort and care was put into the creation of the thing. These are the kind of experiences that condition us, that allow us to escape the extreme busy-ness and sensory overload of the modern world. These are the kind of experiences that free us from the indulgent modern existence and allow us to revel in the simple, to take joy in the subtle, to explore the art of the commonplace (to borrow Wendell Berry’s phrase).

When I was in high school I once complained to my dad about how I had managed to collect more books than I had time to read. My shelves were stocked with stories and theories I feared I would never get to. But he responded with a piece of wisdom I will never forget. He said, “the things we collect say a lot about who we want to be.”

I love this.

But I fear that as long as we are collecting downloadable links more than hard copy books and bookmarked web pages more than DVDs for the shelves, we are aligning ourselves with a modern ethos detrimental to both our intellects and our collective sanity. I wonder what we are saying we want to be. It is important that we be willing to take the time to enjoy small pleasures, to take part in commonplace experiences, to take joy in the subtle blush of a physical work of art much, and well, loved.

Otherwise, we will be creatures with unpolished senses, uneducated, unguided. We will be like children who simply follow lights and colors. We will be blind to many of the mysteries of the physical universe, our ability to see will be diminished. Our senses will be bombarded yet we will be unable to tell the difference between the various things we see and hear and taste and feel. We will be hungry for Ramen noodle when a delicious steak dinner would provide more nourishment. We will suffer from a sensory deficit disorder.

I, for one, am happy to keep on buying used. Don’t want your hard copies? I know people who will take them.

Viewing Journal: Where the Wild Things Are

3 THINGS I LIKED:

1. Spike Jonze’s creative – and seemingly effortless – direction.

Jonze has a precise, subtle way with a camera, and in Where the Wild Things Are, his direction is as good as ever. Without ever drawing attention to itself, it is wonderfully effective at creating meaning through the standard filmic elements.

In one particularly moving and creative sequence, the main character, Max, races into the secret hiding place of one of the wild things, Carol, hoping to find him there. Max enters the place – a cave – excitedly, hopefully, with the intention of mending their friendship. But he quickly discovers that Carol is not there, and that all is not well. The place is a disaster. Carol has destroyed his favorite place. Of course, we see the disappointment and the confusion on Max’s face, but Jonze also allows us to enter into the psyche of his main character through the camera, as all good directors do. As in other places throughout the film, Jonze uses a bouncy hand-held to represent Max’s inner turmoil, his anger, his fear, his lack of understanding. But he also employs some really fantastic static shots to create moments of pathos. In this particular scene, we see Max’s confusion through the hand-held, but then we see his sense of loss, his sadness, we understand that he is mourning, through a quiet, still, wide shot. The calm after the storm, if you will. He is on his knees, surrounded by rock and water and light, completely alone, utterly confounded, full of regret and remorse. And Jonze wide shot reveals the drama of this moment wonderfully. But it would have been less meaningful were it not juxtaposed with the more harsh hand-held shots. Such are the decisions of filmmaking.

2. The portrayal of the mother.

Sadly, Hollywood parents are often portrayed as dull and overbearing, incompetent and dimwitted. Parents are often one dimensional caricatures while, on the other hand, children are often portrayed as the intelligent, understanding ones, the multi-dimensional, complicated characters. Certainly, children are each of those things. But so are parents and Hollywood has, in my opinion, done a great disservice in setting forth parents as such flimsy characters.

It would have been easy – and perhaps more financially profitable too – for Where the Wild Things Are to follow suit. Yet, to their credit, Jonze and co. didn’t take that approach. Instead, they created a more true, more real, dynamic between mother and son.

Max is not a hero. He’s troubled and disobedient and angry. Like all children, he is fully capable of doing terrible, horrible things. But he’s also creative and has the potential to be kind and do much good. He wants people to be happy but doesn’t know how to make that happen. He doesn’t even know how to make himself happy.

Meanwhile, the mother is not some dumb grinch. No, she’s a loving but frustrated mother. She’s intrigued and inspired by her son’s creativity and generally good heart, but she’s at her wits end with his sometimes “out of control” behavior. Like many single parents, she doesn’t know how to raise this kid. The scenes between the two are some of the film’s best (despite taking place in our world!). I very much appreciate, and was moved by, this dynamic, by the way Jonze carefully and lovingly developed the relationship between Max and his mom.

3. The terror.

As my good friend Tyler pointed out, WTWTA contains some moments of very real terror, horrifying scenes in many ways. But they are terrifying not because of some flimic manipulation, or because of blood and guts, but because of the pure human drama of the moments, the kind of drama we all know and experience.

For example, early in the film, Max gets buried under a pile of snow that used to be his igloo. His sister’s friend jumped on it while he was in it and it collapsed on top of him. Jonze shoots the scene so that the viewer is under the snow with him, buried and struggling to breathe. Most everybody knows what it’s like to be a kid and be buried under a pile of snow, or people, and to have to struggle to breathe. It’s truly terrifying at first. The same effect is used when Max is buried under all the wild things, who clearly don’t know their own collective weight. It’s scary to be a kid and have no control, to not be able to breathe and to be too small to make sure you can.

It’s possible that such scenes, and others like them, will be too much to handle for young kids. If so, then who cares? Take your kids when they’re ready. Why do we need to force them to see a movie because some ad campaign said it was good for kids? At the same time, like the much more terrifying Grimm’s Fairy Tales, this is the kind of story that kids need to see and hear. It’s the job of the storyteller to tell good stories and the parents and adults to help kids understand and appreciate them. And this is one good story.

Ultimately it’s about learning to cope without control, about learning to control oneself when you can’t control anything else. Where the Wild Things Are is about, I think, learning to behave gracefully when everything around you is a crazy mess. That, I think, is a lesson that kids and adults alike need to hear.

Where the Wild Things Are reminds me of a famous poem by Kipling that most people know but is worth a fresh encounter:

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or, being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream – and not make dreams your master;
If you can think – and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with triumph and disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build ‘em up with wornout tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: “Hold on”;

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings – nor lose the common touch;
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run -
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And – which is more – you’ll be a Man my son!

Film Review: Bright Star

In 1920, poet/critic T.S. Eliot published a now infamous famous essay called Hamlet and His Problems, in which he suggested that the play is actually an “artistic failure.” In the essay, Eliot defends his thesis by introducing a literary term that has since become famous: the objective correlative. To Eliot, Hamlet didn’t work because the play contained no so-called correlative for Prince Hamlet’s strange behavior, especially towards his mother, the Queen Gertrude. He argued that Hamlet’s responses “exceeded the facts” of the play. That is, Eliot believed that Shakespeare failed to provide a reasonable and balanced reason – either syntactically, structurally or thematically – for Hamlet to do as he does, and therefore for the audience to identify, or not identify, with the Prince. The audience, he argues, is left mystified.

Naturally, Eliot’s paper drew a fair bit of rather scathing criticism and a confused frown or two, to say the least. His thesis was not a popular one and today seems to have taken on the mystique of some crude, quaint, ancient relic. Oh, it was just Eliot being Eliot, today’s critics and scholars will say.

Yet, his idea of the objective correlative has lasted and remains an important and effective term for examining not only literature but all art. All art, one way or another, no matter the medium, evokes some kind of response from the audience. All art inherently contains a series of circumstances, of relationships (between people, colors, sounds, etc.), of settings, which necessarily evoke a response. Together with what Eliot called “the external facts,” these circumstances, relationships, and/or settings combine to create the objective correlative that leads to that response. If they fail to combine in such a way that a right, natural response is evoked, as Eliot suggests Hamlet does, the correlative mechanism has failed to work properly and the work of art itself suffers.

As I watched Jane Campion’s new film, Bright Star, I was struck by the way in which all of the filmic elements combined to create a unique and unified whole that acted as an extraordinarily effective objective correlative for the action of the story and the emotions of the characters. I was immediately drawn in and was held tightly.

This lush, literary period piece tells the story of famous poet John Keats’ love affair with his young neighbor, Miss Fanny Brawne. Of course, history tells us that Keats died at the tragically young age of twenty-five and so a sense of impending doom seems to hang over the film. Yet, it remains a tender, beautiful, true love story about sacrifice, the poetry of falling in love, and the beauty and tragedy of love’s many pains.

When we are first introduced to the young poet (played remarkably by Ben Wishaw, also from Brideshead Revisited and I’m Not There) we learn that he has been caring for his ailing brother, who is sick with tuberculosis, a disease that ravaged the Keats family. We discover that both his parents have died, that some of his siblings have also passed away, and that this brother is likely to also slip away soon. And yes, it is the disease that we know will one day take his life as well. The scent of death, the very real possibility of it, permeates the film, like a dark cloud, or a pin about to pop a bubble. Bright Star is a love story, but it is one that is essentially told against the backdrop of tragedy.

The melancholy, bohemian Keats is a poet through and through, ever consumed by images and pictures and words and sounds. Like many artists he is eccentric. But he is no flake, not some stereotypical Romantic poet waxing eloquent at grandiose parties or on some wooden bridge near a rippling brook. He works hard to make a living as a writer, is his own hardest critic, and believes strongly in the power of the form at which he works. He is friendly and polite, and he is charming too, in his own way. And when he takes up residency in the English countryside with his friend and writing partner, Mr. Brown, the locals are taken with him, especially the equally eccentric Miss Brawne.

An artist in her own right, Fanny designs colorful, unique clothes that often ruffle the feathers of the more traditional women of the town. Raised eyebrows follow her train as she floats about at dances. Like the poet, she is a free spirit, inspired by the colors and images of the natural world. But she is no poet, she doesn’t “get” poetry. When she meets Keats she is fascinated by him, by his reserved yet charming personality, his intellectual demeanor, and his mastery of language. She seeks out his help in understanding poetry and soon they are engaged in weekly lessons. It doesn’t take long before these two spirits fall deeply, hopelessly, in love, to the chagrin of Mrs. Brawne who wishes her daughter to “marry up.” It’s not so much that she dislikes her daughter’s choice personally as she finds him quite likable, rather she is worried about her daughter’s future should Fanny attempt to marry the poor poet.

This all sounds relatively standard. It’s a fairly common plot in period pieces of the kind in which class plays such a prominent role. But Bright Star manages to separate itself as a unique work of art through the inspired way in which Campion and co. turn commonplace things into moving elements of the dramatic narrative.

The narrative of the love story is driven by an attention to existential, transcendent, meaning, by the potential for meaning in things like nature or a long walk or a shared secret. These are the elements that serve as the objective correlatives for the film’s action. Campion never feels the need to bombard the viewer with sentimentalized dialogue, passionate sexual scenes, or divisive yelling matches. These are two people deeply, richly in love with one another, failures and weaknesses included, and therefore there will naturally, and rightly, be eloquent dialogue, deep passion, and a disagreement or two.

But Campion doesn’t need to resort to typical filmic tripe or common manipulative tricks. This romance is told through the passing of the seasons, through the whisper of the wind, through the softness of the grass. It is told through the poetry of flowers and snow and rain. These are things all people know, even people who have never been in love, and so they are things with which all people can identify. As such, therefore, they can serve as effective metaphors for the process of falling in love, can saturate the screen with picturesque meaning that even the most hardhearted or inexperienced viewer can understand.

At one point, Keats tells Brawne that “…a poem needs understanding through the senses. The point of diving in a lake is not immediately to swim to the shore; it’s to be in the lake, to luxuriate in the sensation of water. You do not work the lake out. It is an experience beyond thought. Poetry soothes and emboldens the soul to accept mystery.”

Jane Campion doesn’t force us to “work out” the film, or to “work out” the emotion of falling in love or enduring in love or hating the fact that one is in love. Rather she provides a mystery, a poem, a window or icon for those experiences. She provides the viewer with an utterly beautiful and true objective correlative for the tragic love story in her hands.

And indeed, Bright Star also stands out for this inevitably tragic ending. This is a relationship that, history constantly reminds, is doomed, a truth that, before long, both parties realize. And when Keat’s dies in a faraway country and the audience is left with Fanny, in her lonely English environment, we share in her pain, in the tragedy and the longing and the tears. We are wrapped in the tragedy of possibilities not met, of a beautiful relationship so quickly ended, in the tragedy of a talent so richly endowed but so suddenly buried. The lasting hope, the lasting piece of optimism comes in the form of Keat’s own, now famous, canon and the sweet words of the sonnet he wrote for his beloved in the months before his passing:

Bright star! would I were steadfast as thou art—
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night,
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like Nature’s patient sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth’s human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors—
No—yet still steadfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow’d upon my fair love’s ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever—or else swoon to death.

Songs for Fall

Last week I posted a list of my five favorite albums for autumn. But since everybody loves a good mix-tape (mix-playlist, I suppose, would be more appropriate) I have also compiled my 15 favorite songs for the fall 09 season, listed in no particular order. Once you’ve hit up itunes or emusic and purchased these songs, be sure to head over to my friend Brett McCracken’s blog and wade your way through his fantastic list too.

15 songs for fall 2009:

“Post War” by M. Ward: Soft and sweet and tender, like leaves falling in an autumnal breeze. The voice most evocative of fall, in my opinion.

“In the Devil’s Territory” by Sufjan Stevens: At first glance it’s softness seems delicate, but Stevens work on Seven Swans packs a meaningful punch. The work of the Holy Spirit can be a real pain sometimes, just as the changing seasons often are. But ultimately, the result of that work is beautiful. Here he sings “I saw the dragons drying, I saw the witches whine, we stayed a long, long time, but I’m not afraid to die. To see you, to meet you, to see you at last.”

“I Dreamed I Saw St. Augustine” by Bob Dylan: One of Dylan’s underrated gems and a great example of how to use the harmonica well. Rich with imagery and motion and thus perfect for fall.

“Firefly” by Over the Rhine: Dramatic, poignant, beautiful, and hopeful song about memory, perfect for the season’s end when the frosts start moving in.

“The Only Moment We Were Alone” by Explosions in the Sky: Like Brett, I associate Explosions in the Sky with Friday Night Lights (my favorite TV show). This lengthy instrumental is wonderfully evocative of the ever-changing beauties – and inherent melancholies – of autumn.

“Death of a Maiden by Joe Purdy: A historically set ballad about a civil war solider who leaves the girl he leaves so his brothers and friends won’t have to fight alone. Deeply rooted in place and time and relationships, just as autumn often reminds each of us that we are inextricably linked to the time and place in which we have been set.

“The Ballad of the Broken Bones” by The Low Anthem: The lead-off track on this great band’s fantastic first album, What the Crow Brings, is folksy and bluesy and minimalist and absolutely gorgeous.

“In the Aeroplane Over the Sea” by Neutral Milk Hotel: The song that birthed a movement. Maybe. Either way it’s a great song for driving in the country as the leaves dance across the pavement and in the fields and as orange skies and brown grass whisper softly to one another by way of the breeze.

“Where the Wild Things Are” by Patrick Watson: Adventurous, creative track from Watson’s haunting new album, Wooden Arms, is appropriately named.

“Long Way Home” by Tom Waits: A favorite song by a favorite artist, “Long Way Home” is beautiful poetry, beautiful imagery, and beautifully performed.

“Curse Your Branches” by David Bazan: A song all about falling leaves probably demands to make a list such as this. Ever wondered if maybe a leaf or two would prefer not to hit the ground? Well, Bazan does here. One of the year’s best, most thought-provoking albums.

“Comets” by Fanfarlo: Maybe the year’s most underrated band and best unheralded album. “Comets”, off Reservoir, is a wonderfully conceived, wonderfully structured indie pop song, much like the next song…

“Wake Up” by The Arcade Fire: The song featured on the trailer for the new Where the Wild Things Are film, is one of the best songs of the decade and is potentially perfect in any season.

“Glory” by Radical Face: A new discovery for me, Radical Face’s (mainly fronted by Ben Cooper) Ghost is an album worth scooping up now. It’ll be on repeat all season.

“Monster Ballads” by Josh Ritter: Few artists do beautiful melancholy like Josh Ritter. From his best album, The Animal Years, “Monster Ballads” is a gorgeous road themed song and one of his lovely songs to date.

Happy Leaf-raking everyone!

Viewing Journal: Sugar

As part of a new feature, I plan to begin posting a series of journal-like blogs based on my experiences with each of the three major art forms: film, music, literature. So you’ll see Viewing Journals, Reading Journals, and Listening Journals. They will be less review than thoughts and impressions. Sometimes they will be written immediately after the experience has taken place (as in, just after I’ve closed the back cover or finished a film) and other times they will be written after a bit more thought and consideration. My goal with these journal posts is twofold: to continue exploring how art acts as icon in our lives and to bring to light worthwhile, meaningful art.

Check back soon – many more of these will be showing up. For now, I begin my first Viewing Journal with some thoughts on the film Sugar.
*****
Like many great filmmakers, Anna Boden and Ryan Fleck seem interested in telling stories about outsiders. In 2006, they brought us the wonderful Half Nelson, about a white, inner city teacher who finds himself enveloped in a complicated and desperate world in which he is not at home, despite his many efforts to become a part of it, to help improve it. He’s deeply troubled but also interested in making a meaningful difference in the lives of his students. Ultimately, he is able to make a difference when he is able to accept the dialectical (a key them in the film) differences between the culture in which he grew up and the one in which he lives and works. It’s a bit of cliche’, but what works in the ‘burbs ain’t always working in the inner city. He discovers that what unites people is a common understanding of the difficulties of the human condition.

Now, this is might sound like a simple story. And it is. But in the hands of Fleck and Boden Half Nelson also turns into a masterful film filled with lovely, fully developed characters, sharp dialogue, and a rugged, realist visual style.

The same can be said for Sugar.

Starring superb newcomer Algenis Perez Soto, Sugar is a gem of a film about a 19 year old Dominican baseball prodigy named Miguel “Sugar” Santos whose dreams of playing professionally in America are on the verge of coming true. A few years prior to the film’s opening Miguel signed with the Kansas City Royals for about $15,000, a relatively small sum compared to many of the other prospects. Since then he has developed a wicked curve ball and has become one of the top prospects in the organization.

But he dreams of more than baseball. He dreams of bringing his mother to America, of building her a house and providing her with all kinds of nice things. He dreams of living the American dream, of making it from the bottom to the top. We meet him in the ball fields of the Dominican and root for him as he attempts to one day play in Yankee Stadium.

Soon Miguel is in the U.S., in Iowa, wowing scouts and teammates alike. He’s well on his way. But he’s also in a strange land with a different way of speaking and new food. And he’s alone in a land of vast cornfields and farms, in a place where he’s stock, trade-able and sell-able just like any old cow or pig or goat. He’s got a magic arm, and people love him for it, but he’s acutely aware of the possibility that it could all crumble to the ground with one bad step from the mound or pop in his elbow. A bad slump and he could be gone just as quickly as he’d arrived. And virtually no one would know the difference.

As the film progresses, the pressures mount and Miguel begins to question whether he will ever make it to the big leagues. During one particularly moving moment, Miguel rides past Yankee stadium on a train and catches a glimpse through the famous center field wall. He sees the blue bleachers and the green grass, and the dirt. But it’s just a simple, fleeting glimpse, gone in seconds. We can’t help but wonder if that’s all he’ll ever see, just a glimpse of the success and fame and security of which he dreams.

Of course, this is not a new story. Every year hundreds of young men are brought to the United States to give baseball a shot. And for every miraculous success story – for every Albert Pujols or Manny Ramirez – there is the kid whose career takes a turn for the worse and who never makes it. For every big-league home run champion there are hundreds of South American kids who blow out their knees; for every Cy Young winner there are hundred of kids whose elbows pop. For every multi-millionaire there are hundreds of kids who return home to slums and poverty, their glimpse at the fulfillment of their dreams sweet like sugar at first, but ultimately fleeting – and now gone. Too often things fail to go according to plan.

Fleck and Boden do their version of this tale remarkable justice. The film boasts remarkable, vibrant performances from the entire cast, and a vivid, realistic tone reminiscent of other recent sports productions, such as Friday Night Lights. But, like Friday Night Lights, Sugar is a story in which the sport is simply context. This film is not primarily about baseball (although the baseball scenes are remarkably true to life). It’s about people and places and dreams, it’s about Miguel and his teammates and the people who support him.

In fact, Sugar is a an immigration story more than a baseball story and as such is about the challenges inherent to living in an unfamiliar place: language barrier, new food, new life styles, new religious practices, etc. But this is not a political film. It doesn’t make any broad sweeping claims or statements. It simply focuses on a life that fails to go according to plan; it tells the story of a young man who is forced to decide how far he’s willing to let this dream take him, how much he wants it and how much he needs it.

As I watched, I couldn’t help but think of Jim Jarmusch’s amazing Stranger Than Paradise, a film similarly interested in the plight of the lonely outsider and about the possibility that the so-called “American Dream” is simply a lie, make-believe perhaps. Fleck and Boden are probably less cynical about it than Jarmusch is, but there is no doubt that they question the validity of the idea. Like Stranger Than Paradise, Sugar ends in a wonderfully bittersweet fashion, albeit properly and appropriately. There is no grad slam, no no-hitter, no miraculous heroics. Just a life lived, with hope and as well as possible.

Sometimes that’s all you can ask for. After all, hope is what enabled thousands – even millions – of immigrants to make new lives in America. Hope isn’t all you need, but it sure can get you started, sure can plant a seed, sure can build a foundation.

Sugar is a film about foundations, about getting started.

A few things:

- Loved the work by cinematographer Andrij Parekh, who also shot Half Nelson. Equally adept at shooting closed in or crowded locations as the open expanses of Iowa fields. Does some nice things with deep focus.

- Soto is remarkable in the film. Fantastic job by this complete newcomer. You’ll see him around again soon.

- One of the better in-action depictions of any sport I have ever seen. Yes, better than Rudy (*tongue planted firmly in cheek*).

- Speaking of which, no, this is not a Rudy story. This isn’t an inspirational, Lifetime Channel flick. This film is much more gritty than that, much more based in reality, much more…. gut-wrenching.

Five Albums For Autumn

October is my favorite month, I think. Around here, the summer lingers, sweaty and desperate and long, like winters in the upper midwest. First there are the mosquitoes which invade on the heels of the blossoms, then the days of drought roll in like relatives who visit once a year with too much stuff for too little space. Hurricane season follows fast, of course, and now and then the beach bums and rich folks scamper back mid-state, away from the oncoming rush of late summer’s humid fury, for a long weekend or two.

But then comes autumn, slowly and gracefully, with purpose. And we pull out our sweaters and put the summer clothes in a closet or box until, say, March when the cycle starts over. Winter doesn’t stick around all that long here, not compared to other places I’ve lived anyway, but it’s certainly gray and dreary, more rainy than snowy and therefore usually lacking the charm of a good old fashioned freezing winter. The fall though in North Carolina – well it’s majestic. The colors are rich and various, from early October until just after Thanksgiving, and the air is crisp and clear, often sunny and blue. There is no more beautiful place to take a drive than on I-40, through the Smoky Mountains and up over into Tennessee. The fog hangs low all day in some places, casting a bluish tint over the fantastic colors of the foliage. The orchards are in season for weeks and Smoky Mountain apples are downright heavenly.

Of course, the weather demands good art and no doubt inspires a great deal of it. Autumn drives, and apple picking, and evenings with the windows open, and long walks, all demand good music, good accompaniment. Over the last few years I’ve found that I tend to return to some of the same albums each season. These are five albums, in no particular order, I think are perfect for the autumnal season (plus one new one I’m loving this season).

1. Explosions In the Sky – The Earth Is Not a Cold Dark Place
Truly, this is an album perfect for any season, especially the delicate, icy winter days when the sun is shining brightly off the snow, and the lush, happy days of spring’s first blooming. That said, to me it most characterizes autumn, the rising and falling action of the season, the current beauties as well as the anticipated bleakness of winter. What a paradox autumn is: everything is dying, but all is beautiful and rich and inspiring. This wordless album captures that sensation in a subtle, original, meaningful way. It is a valuable objective correlative to this season’s meaning, if you will.

2. M Ward – Post-War
I hesitate to put it quite so strongly, but this album very well might be one of my favorite albums. Ever. Ward’s genius combination of early pop sounds with folk sensibilities both rollicks and coos, and is an inspiring synthesis of personal – albeit seemingly mythical – tales, with lovely, earnest arrangements. Like autumn, it is simultaneously elegiac and prophetic. Few artists reach so deeply into their bag of musical tricks, draw out so many tools, and still maintain a unity and order to their work like M Ward.

3. Bob Dylan – John Wesley Harding
Few instruments represent autumn as well as the harmonica, and John Wesley Harding uses it as well as any album ever as, in my opinion. This 1967 release is haunting (some would say dark) and ripe with imagery fitted for the season. With songs like “As I Went Out One Morning,” “Drifter’s Escape,” “I Am A Lonesome Hobo,” and “All Along the Watchtower,” it’s an album in constant motion, and about motion, just as the season is in constant change: no two days are the same, on no two days do the trees look, or smell, the same. Although not Dylan’s masterpiece, John Wesley Harding is the perfect album for a fall drive or a breezy evening with a book – windows open, of course.

4. Over the Rhine – Drunkard’s Prayer
A fairly recent release (2005) by this Ohio bred husband and wife duo, Prayer is deeply personal, gorgeous, and lush from beginning to end. “I Want You To Be My Love” reminds of a walk through woods with a beloved, stepping, hand-in-hand, over fallen leaves exhausted from the fall, dry and crunchy beneath the feet. “Born,” one of the best songs Over The Rhine has ever done, is hopeful and tired all at once, both a promise and a sigh for the future. Meanwhile, the title track sounds like the end of autumn, when Thanksgiving draws near and the wind begins to come harder from the North as the leaves fall more steadily and gather in piles, and “Little Did I Know” is a jazzy, hazy number, perfect for swaying on the porch, your arms around your beloved, a glass of wine in one hand. Fittingly, “Firefly” is a moving, hopeful track that ends with these words, words that seem to usher in the start of winter: “my memory will not fail me now//and the rest is history…”

5. Sufjan Stevens – Seven Swans
Change is sometimes good and right and necessary, a truth that Seven Swans, an album seemingly about the Holy Spirit, explores deeply. It’s not a boisterous album, but it is finely and precisely wrought. At first glance it’s softness seems delicate, but Stevens work packs a meaningful punch. The work of the Holy Spirit can be a real pain sometimes, just as the changing seasons often are. But ultimately, the result of that work is beautiful. In “In the Devil’s Territory” Stevens sings “I saw the dragons drying, I saw the witches whine, we stayed a long, long time, but I’m not afraid to die. To see you, to meet you, to see you at last.” Autumn is ironic and tragic in it’s beauty, it is the moment before death, but it also holds the promise of future transfiguration: “Lost in the cloud, a sign: Lamb of God! We Draw Near! Lost in the cloud, a sign: Son of Man! Son of God!”

New Album For the Season:

Grizzly Bear – Veckatimest
I’ve found this much lauded new album to be a fine compliment to the mood and tone of the season’s early days. The airy harmonies, impressionistic, orchestral arrangements, and rustic, folksy heartbeat are the perfect side dish to the visual feast that is autumn. Romantic and cryptic at once, Veckatimest makes for a lovely, creative transition between seasons, like a great mug of hot cider and rum. Or your beverage of choice.

Fall is here, drink up!

The Low Anthem: Oh My God, Charlie Darwin

It should come as no surprise that a band whose members collect more hobbies than Rachel Wiesz’s character in The Brother’s Bloom is not easily categorized.

Made up of folk-singer/painter Ben Knox Miller, jazz bassist/baseball scholar Jeff Prystowsky, and classical composer/NASA technician Jocie Adams, Rhode Island based band The Low Anthem are a synthesis of the very best elements of au-courant “Americana.” On the one hand, Miller, the lead voice, and company could be considered a part of the winter-cabin-recordings world of Sam Beam and Bon Iver’s Justin Vernon – as other critics have claimed. Miller’s crooning falsetto is as clear and smooth as they come when it needs to be. Combined with the band’s sparse, but sophisticated, arrangements, it’s the perfect conduit for the melancholy folk ballads that made up much of their first album, What the Crow Brings, and a good portion of their most recent effort, the evermore highly acclaimed, Oh My God, Charlie Darwin, a record that, perhaps coincidentally, was itself recorded in “the ghostly stillness of a Block Island winter.”

Yet on the other hand, The Low Anthem seems, at times, to have been educated in the school of Tom Waits and Woody Guthrie, and majored in the long-standing folk music motif of the “road.” Indeed, Charlie Darwin boasts Waits’s own “Home I’ll Never Be,” and the similarly raucous “The Horizon Is a Beltway”, a song that sounds as if it may have come straight from Wait’s recent Orphans collection. It’s an album constantly in motion, full of as many twists, turns and progressions between styles and moods as the Americana genre itself. Fittingly, this construction creates a road-like effect, like going on a journey or thinking deeply about Big Ideas that don’t necessarily fit together in a clear pattern. But while the band is actually thinking about such deep ideas, and is presenting their thoughts in varying and diverse ways, the record is no post modern pastiche of philosophical angst and so-called indie platitudes, lyrically or otherwise.

On the contrary, in fact. There is a lovely unity to this record, despite the reported 27 instruments employed during the recording process and the relative youthfulness of the band mates (they are all in their mid twenties). Miller’s writing is poetic throughout, focused on the idea and value of change (as the record’s title might imply), particularly as brought about by a good solid journey, but also by the value of questions, doubt, and ultimately, it seems, hope. On the beautiful title track which kick-starts the album, Miller sings, “Set the sails I feel the winds a’stirring//Toward the bright horizon set the way//Cast your reckless dreams upon our Mayflower//Haven from the world and her decay.” Here, the horizon, another ubiquitous motif, is the land of opportunity and hope, a faraway place perfect for a new start. But suddenly something changes. Here’s the rest of the song:

“And who could heed the words of Charlie Darwin
Fighting for a system built to fail
Spooning water from their broken vessels
As far as I can see there is no land

Oh my god, the water’s all around us
Oh my god, it’s all around

And who could heed the words of Charlie Darwin
The lords of war just profit from decay
And trade their children’s promise for the jingle
The way we trade our hard earned time for pay

Oh my god, the water’s cold and shapeless
Oh my god, it’s all around
Oh my god, life is cold and formless
Oh my god, it’s all around”

The journey isn’t going quite as planned. The horizon, no matter how faraway it may be, doesn’t simply change all things, doesn’t simply offer the edge of the world and an entrance into something better. Rather, out there is the “cold and shapeless” sea. As Miller said in one interview, “while species are evolving, our morals and ethical codes are evolving too, depending on which [idea] has legs. . . .”

Change, in all it’s scientific, philosophic, even religious manifestations is not simply some cure-all. Rather, as Knox sings in “The Horizon is a Beltway”, “The horizon is a beltway that we may never cross//The tops of buildings tremble like children lorn and lost//The stain runs deep it’s deeper than the blood upon the cross.//The horizon is a beltway that we may never cross…” He continues later, “the horizon is a beltway, the skyline’s on fire.”

Yes, the journey offers change and the potential for new-ness, but it also might be dangerous, as the gorgeous “To Ohio” suggests. Here, the singer “lost [his] love before her time” on the way to Ohio from Louisiana. And like Moses to his people, she sings to him “bless your soul, you crossed that line.” The narrator’s haunting descriptions of this lost love singing these lines from the shadowy pine forests of Ohio make for poetry as gorgeous as any you’ll come across this year – and a moving, beautiful song to boot.

But every song on this collection is beautiful. Each of them are exquisitely crafted, songs pitch perfect in tone and mood, clearly crafted with great care and significant effort. Each song fulfills a purpose, helps tell the story. If there is a flaw, it’s that (if indeed one wants to call this a flaw) the latter part of the album’s middle feels almost too quiet after the rowdy fun of the heart of the order, so to speak. But if these rowdy songs are the blood pulsating through the album’s veins, the quiet, more reflective ballads are the album’s heart and lungs, running the show and letting the blood do it’s thing. The quieter the song the more the poetry stands out, the more raucous the song the more the emotion stands out. A win-win in the case of this album, if you ask me.

Some listeners might detect a hint (or perhaps more than a hint) of agnosticism in the record, however I’m not so sure I’d agree with that sentiment, one which, by the way, has been tossed about some in the blogosphere. In the interview I mentioned above, Miller says that the album is about, in part, “Darwinism driving the evolution of values, and not being grounded in a set of absolute values…” I think he may be suggesting that what is important is this sense of certain values as absolute, as true and good and necessary, values without which change is more or less meaningless in any kind of lasting way.

Eventually, all ships at sea will run into nasty weather and without some sort of absolute guideline for dealing with that weather the ship will sink. Similarly, all the change that is at the root of Darwinism is fundamentally rendered decay, lifeless, unless there is some sort of absolute system to make it otherwise. What that system might be I don’t think Miller and his mates presume to know, although they might be offering a clue in “OMGCD” when he sings, “Do your job and I’ll do mine//I’ll do my best to hold the line.” I wouldn’t call this agnosticism unless it’s agnosticism tinged with a relatively poignant dash of humanism.

Yes, there is hope here, running throughout. Perhaps, like those more quiet songs, it is this hope which is the heartbeat of Oh My God, Charlie Darwin.

As Miller sings to open “Don’t Tremble,” “If your pilot light should die//Do not quake and do not bark//You will find the spark.”

What If America’s Greatest Authors Played Baseball?

A few years ago my friend Riley read to me a poem by Charles Bukowski called “The Batting Order” in which Bukowski creates a baseball lineup made up of famous writers. Salinger was, appropriately, the catcher, Dostoevsky was in the five spot, Nietzsche is the pitcher, and so on. You can read the poem here.

Since then I’ve thought a lot about it and wondered what my lineup would look like were I to attempt something similar. The following is that lineup.

Now, certainly Bukowski’s poem is filled with a number of humorous plays on words and is driven by a significant satirical bent. I have no real intentions to create any kind of social commentary or even much of a literary commentary per se.

My choices derive from three things:

- My opinion of the place the writer holds in America’s literary history.
- The kind of writer they are.
- My love and knowledge (albeit minimal) of the game of baseball.

A few rules I set for myself:

- The author had to be American. No time-frame in particular.
- The author had to be a novelist. No poets this time.
- This particular lineup had to be based on my opinion of the stature of these various authors and not my personal preferences. If I chose from my favorite authors this list would look significantly different.
- Try to write like it’s a scouting report.

I would love to see what your own lineup cards would look like. Post them in the comments section. Play by your own rules. You can fill out your list simply based upon your preferences and tastes, based upon your critical opinions, or based upon their names.

Here’s my lineup:

1. Short Stop F. Scott Fitzgerald
I’d play Fitzgerald at SS because he would surely display a stylish glove, would be consistent at the plate and defensively, and because he would probably be fast on the base paths. Always fun to watch, Ole’ Fitz would hit with a bit of power too, I’m sure. He’s the kind of guy I feel good about starting out the game. He would probably wear his socks high.

2. First Base. James Fenimore Cooper
One of the most important early American writers, Cooper helped define the American novel. While a bit plodding and slow, he would surely hit for just enough power and would be a consistent source of leadership in my clubhouse. Perhaps not much of an athlete, but he won’t make many mistakes and will be able to get Fitzgerald over to the next base when necessary. Perhaps not a defensive standout but he should make the necessary plays to make us an above average team. Almost certainly a stirrups guy.

3. Left Field. William Faulkner.
Perhaps the most skilled hitter in my lineup, Willie Faulkner can hit to all fields with great creativity, has a firm sense of what this team is all about, and consistently hits for the power necessary to drive in a ton of runs. Quintessentially American, Willie F. will be the catalyst for my offense and a sure glove in the outfield. He has good range, particularly near the wall, and solid speed when necessary. He has the superstar’s eye for detail.

4. Third Base. Edgar Allen Poe.
A surprise pick to hit cleanup? Maybe. But E.A. Poe was a leader for this team in the past. Although perhaps not a consistent contact hitter, he hits for great power and to all fields. Now a veteran, he once was one of the young stars who introduced the long ball to this team. A big-time RBI guy, he’s intimidating and ruthless when he needs to be, but is also characterized by a certain poetic authenticity reminiscent of the old-time ball players like Ruth and Cobb.

5. Center Field. Flannery O’Connor.
Versatile, consistent, and surprisingly agile, Flannery is a must have in this lineup. She’s nimble enough in the outfield to cover the necessary ground in center field and will hit for a surprising amount of power in the middle of the lineup. She’ll keep the pitcher throwing strikes to E.A. Poe – and when they don’t she’ll make them pay. Never one to shy away from a challenge, she’ll want the big at bats at the end of the game. Sporting a creative, Southern sense of humor and a ton of resiliency she’ll keep the guys lose and working hard.

6. Second Base. Wendell Berry.
The young gun on this team, Wendell is an up and coming mega-star. Some might be surprised to see him in this lineup, but his consistency and creativity in the infield demands that he see at bats. Plus, the kid can play multiple positions – and well. His intelligence and subtle insights into the game are invaluable and his ability to hit for power in key situations demand that he see the field. He rarely ever makes an error and has a shockingly low strike-out rate, making him an attractive option in the middle of this star-studded batting order. Watch out, he may climb this list soon!

7. Catcher. Nathaniel Hawthorne.
What you thought I’d play Salinger here? Nope. I swapped him in a trade for this guy, heads up. Seems that other teams fear he won’t age well and are looking for a more energetic approach to the position. Well, I’m looking for consistency out my catcher, and the ability to call a good game. Nate has that, absolutely. He gets the flow of the game, what pitches to call when, and when to just give up that free base. Plus, like Cooper, his leadership will be valuable with my pitchers. He’s not the fastest guy anymore, but he can get from first to third when he needs to. He’s got a good arm and will hit for enough power when he needs to.

8. Right Field. Washington Irving.
A crafty veteran with solid defensive prowess, Irving won’t hit a ton of home runs but he won’t hurt his team much either. He’s a nightmare for opposing pitchers to strike-out. He walks a lot so hopefully he’ll set the tone for the top of the order guys. Like O’Connor, he’s a bit of prankster so you never know exactly what you’re going to get from him.

9. Designated Hitter. Herman Melville.
A free agent pick up this off season, Melville seems to have been cast overboard by a number of teams. He’s had a great career though so he deserves another chance. Probably not appreciated like he should be. He’s gonna hit for a good bit of power, but he’s got a bit of hole in swing where pitchers can get the strike-out. Didn’t cost much to get him so there’s not much risk, but the reward could be phenomenal by year’s end. Give him a chance, he may surprise you.

Starting Pitcher. Mark Twain
The Ace of my staff is Mark Twain, a small town kid with nasty stuff and a wicked breaking ball. You never know what he’s gonna throw at you in the key situation: the fastball inside or the big curve ball tailing down and away. He’s got a ton of stamina and the ability to go late into the game. While he can be a bit of a live-wire, the leadership on this team should help settle him down. Should be a star for a long time.

Set-up Man. Ernest Hemingway.
A side-armed lefty, Ernie isn’t a conventional pitcher, but he figures out ways to get people out. He can’t necessarily pitch a ton of innings but we think he can bridge the gap between our Ace and our closer. He’s good at gauging a situation and determining the appropriate pitch for the time. He’s a bit of a brooder, though, and doesn’t do great with failure so we’ll need to put him in the right situations to succeed.

Closer. John Steinbeck.
A hard throwing righty, Steinbeck can be gruff and imposing on the mound, but he’s got the ability to get out of a jam with the deftness of a treed raccoon. Can’t go to him for long periods of time but he’ll throw darts for strikes when he’s in. Got to be careful of overuse.

Multi-tool player. Laura Ingalls Wilder.
Another free agent, Wilder is versatile and can fill in in any situation. She can pitch-hit, pitch-run, or come in for the double switch. Not a power hitter, but a solid contact hitter who sure makes life better for the rest of us. A necessary commodity on any team. Should see a fair amount of playing time, especially when it’s time to rest one of those plodding, aging infielders.

So there it is. What would your line-up look like? Determine your own criteria and have fun!