a-muse-ment...i don't think so...

Well, my favorite shows are back on.  24 and Lost.  I know that some people pit these shows against each other, but I’m an integrationalist by nature.   I also like the Office and American Idol.  The American Idol thing is especially unique in that I can watch it with my girls.  The laughter and mirth we share is transcendent.

I know that I’ve written before about my love of story and the idea of living a storied life, but I don’t think you understand.  I soak in story like a taproot.  I marinate in it.  I gestate.  I percolate.  It flows in and out, through and through.  It is romanticized, yes.  But it is romantic even more.  It is vicarious, yes.  But it is so much more than that.  It is a wellspring of life giving nourishment to the soul looking for a picture of what is and what could be if only... 

I realize, believe me, that none of the aforementioned four shows serve to speak perfectly, or deeply for that matter, to my soul’s yearnings, but they do shake certain desires out of their slumber and these desires pandiculate as they stretch their sleepy arms toward the starry sky.  The sleepy seeds flake and fall. The eyes of the heart are illuminated, enlightened.  The blind in me sees.  The deaf in me hears.  The dumb in me speaks.  And I am taken, if only for a moment, into something more than what I’m living.  It reminds me of what a heart could look like if it was fully alive.

Some people watch shows for amusement.  A-musing by way of definition is “no thinking”.  It speaks of shutting down and going limp.  But I watch shows to start thinking, which is what the word entertainment evokes.  To wake up, to excite, to illumine.  And how desperate we are to wake from the long winter of the soul.  How much the mass of men needs something or someone to press lips against the cold and blue lips of the dead soul needing resuscitation.

Stories show me what I’m missing, what I’m wanting, what I’m wasting, what I’m wishing, what I’m feeling, what I’m trusting, what I’m hating.  They aren’t pressuring me with propositions that I’m not adhering to.  They aren’t beating me over the head with duties to perform and disciplines to instill.  They are beckoning me, seducing me.  Some days they’re killing me softly.  Other days they hurt me so good.  All in all, I feel transported to a better place.  A place that feels safe, safe enough to relax and let your heart’s hair down.  Safe enough to be yourself and even take out your cup and let life kick you as hard as it can.  I need this.  I’m so guarded, even when I don’t know it.  And when I shed the armor or amorous activity, I feel things when they touch me.  I feel the prick of compassion. I feel the pinch of passion.  I feel hurt and healing.  I feel stirred and stayed. 

Stories do this for me, be they great like “Slumdog Millionaire” or decent like “Lost” or silly like “American Idol”.  They move me.  Maybe that’s why they are called “Movies”.


Marcus Burton said…
Pandiculate, eh? I was considering this word the other day and the likelihood that it can be injected into a nuanced sentence. Congratulations, my friend. You've accomplished the impossible.

Popular Posts