Ouch. That's Hot.

Great interview in the month’s TapeOp with Sufjan Stevens, a man mostly unknown but loved and adored by my former clique in the big ol’ OH-IO.  The article is called “So Wrong, But So Right” and that really sums up everything that is true about this guy and the way in which he goes about making his music.

I listened to Illinoise again yesterday at the gym. (The gym being this place where I like to strap on the headphones and find a world of my own, the anonymity of the group-sweat,  being together alone, all human, inescapably human.  The man beside me in the locker room, falling apart, his 60-some years of burgers and fries falling over his too-tight whites, heavy-breathing and panting while shrugging black socks up his shower-damp feet.  A quick-shave later and he’s risen from the bench, fully robed in pin-point starched oxford and charcoal-wool slacks.  Matched cordovan belt to Johnston & Murphy’s.  Watch, ring, wallet, keys.  A captain of local industry ready to take on the rest of his day, transformed, indestructibly armoured by the Macy’s Men’s Department.)

At the gym yesterday, I listened again to Illinoise.  (The gym being the place where I like to really give things a listen, being a captive in search of an audience to slip into, being able to listen in perfect ear-budded stereo to new and old and try new things knowing that just because my body’s strapped to the machine doesn’t mean that my mind can’t be stretching its wings.)

And so, at the gym yesterday, while listening to Illinoise, and reflecting on the recording as a recording after reading TapeOp’s interview with Sufjan, the following point was made more clear than ever:  It’s not what you’ve got, it’s what you do with it.  It’s not the tools, it’s the hands that weild them.  Within 10 feet I’ve got enough gear to write the next folk anthem and record a MySpace-ready demo capable of blowing up the indie charts.  Within 10 feet I’ve got enough typing-up and editing-down tools to write the greatest and latest novel to burn a hole in your soul.  Within 10 feet I’ve got a broadband connection and quiet room and a space for my head to burst, to bloom.

All of this can be summed up in one quote from Dallas Willard:  Never try to find a place to speak, try to have something to say. Alrighty then, here goes.

Here’s the quick deal on this one:  There’s been a lot of love passed around my extended circles of friends with this book, and baby, I was feelin’ the lovin’ too.

So, cynical spectacles smashed by Same Kind of Different As Me, I hereby take another crack at posting from the heart, and shall let the soul roll wherever the soul may wish to flow.  Heck, you’re listening to a guy who once read and fully embraced not just The Celestine Prophecy, but also gave solid consideration to the The Tenth Insight.  I’m very ok with didactic cheeseball parables loosely inspired by real or imagined visions and touted as the next big thing to change your life forever.  I might even start watching Oprah.  I might.

The big difference between this tale and similar books (always shrouded in mystic light breaking through the dust jackets and paper-backed bookcovers glowing warmly on its way to your heart like a fleet of literary Thomas Kincaids) is Jesus.  That’s just facts.  Once you get into this book, you start hanging out with Jesus.  If you’ve ever done that, or would like to try it, this book will bring some joy to your heart.  If that creeps you out, you might not be into this one.

For me, it was like popping in an old CD that swung open memory gates and reminded me of good times, good friends.  The characterization of the Lamb of God as Buddy Jesus brought back to mind times we spent together, and prompted me to kneel down and dial in.  I’m glad it did.  Yeah, the book’s a little different, but then again the things that it wrestles with — divine love & forgiveness — are a little unusual too.  It won’t hurt you to read up on it.

In a self-less act of self-denial of the cynical self, and in an effort to cultivate the warm little garden of love a-bloomin’ in my heart, I will not offer any of the disclaimers that I (as a former English major who is capable of reading and enjoying David Foster Wallace and who would otherwise be judged “Totally Awesome” by a jury of his well-read peers) really wants to drop right about now.

The bottom line is that this book tells a good tale (a bonafied true story!) about a homeless black guy and rich white guy who become best friends through the pluck and persistance of the latter’s freakin’ angelic wife.  The story is remarkable, and it has left a real mark on the city of Ft. Worth, TX.  I’m not saying that it’s for everyone, but anyone who ever laid a claim to a hope in The Lawd could use this book as quick test of the state of their soul.  (I know mine could use some work.)