methinks

New Photos

Normally I give you a preview of the new photos in the gallery, but I don't feel like doing that at the moment. Instead, I'll just tell you with words.

There are photos from my trip to New York, with sub-sections on Manhattan and The Crusade.

There are photos from when Brian, Laura and I hiked the grueling Knobstone Trail in Southern Indiana.

And lastly, there are a handful of photos from China that have been waiting to be developed for the past ten months.

Enjoy.

Click here to see the photos.

NYC - The Crusade

I am not a follower of Billy Graham, neither physically nor spiritually. Before Sunday I'd never been to one of his Crusades, the term used for his multi-day (often multi-week) mission efforts, and didn't know what variety of salvation he preached.

I didn't go for the message, I went for the event. I went because Mr. Graham is one of the most respected leaders of our time, and has a reputation for equally respecting his contemporaries regardless of creed. I went because many predicted this Crusade will be his last. I went because his rise to "stardom" came in New York nearly 50 years ago when he extended his Crusade for sixteen weeks, six nights a week. I went for the history and experience of it all.

I dwell on why I went and why I didn't because I need to set my observations of the Crusade in a larger context. You see, I have almost nothing to say about Mr. Graham, a loss of words not shared by the media. All I can say is that he spoke with the skill of fifty years experience and the repose of a man comfortable with his impending death (he's very ill). He obviously had great charisma and was the reason the 90,000 people sat in the sun for three hours that balmy afternoon. But he was also just one man out of those 90,000 and spoke for twenty minutes of the three hour program. If there is a story to be told, it is not the story of him standing on stage, but of the pedestrians on the lawn.

The Crusade was in the park surrounding Shea Stadium, home of the Mets, and deep into Queens. Had this been twenty years ago, there would have been an ironic connection between the then sinful Times Square and the pious Crusade, as they are on opposite ends of the number 7 train. No such irony today.

I arrived via the 7 at about five minutes until the official start time of 3:00 p.m. I'd heard the metaphor "sea of people" before, but didn't understand how accurate it was until I saw, from the elevated train platform, the waves of people walking towards the park. Steps and obstacles would create gaps in the crowd, which would then fill in. The waves flowed forwards until they got beyond the confining walkways designed to coral people from the train to the stadium and park, then it dissipated as everyone went their own way to look for a chair or a shady piece of grass.

There were, from what I saw, four large sections of seating. The largest was the "real" one, where you could actually see the photos reflected from the real people on stage, instead of the massive teletron TVs; it was completely full and blocked off by fences and police by the time I arrived. One unlucky soul had to stand at the fork in the road that lead to the "real" area and tell people - over and over and over - that the section was full and that they needed to keep walking to the overflow area. "But, my family's in there. I'm just going to take a peek," or the smile and nod followed by total disregard for instructions...this is what this man with the mega-phone had to contend with for 3 hours straight. I was walking in circles around the park, so I saw him several times throughout the day. His demeanor went from polite to short to, frankly, bitchy. The last I heard he was throwing a temper tantrum into the megaphone saying, "Keep moving. Keep moving. This is not a standing area. You can't stand here. Go to the left. That's this way." The next time I saw him he was silent, megaphone by his side, and flanked by three police officers on motorcycles.

Wandering around the event - every where but the off-limits area - I was struck by how few white people there were. I'd estimate that less than 20% of the people in the overflow area were white, and the bulk of those were student church groups. There were probably an equal to slightly less number of black families, with the overwhelming majority being Asian and Hispanic. I've since learned that Flushing, the district in Queens where this took place, is home to the largest Chinese community in NYC and one of the largest Korean communities. Queens in general is also very diverse, and thus could've contributed to the demographics at the event. I'd accept location as the only explanation, except for two things. First, I was one of eight white people on a very full subway car that went all the way from Times Square to Shea's Stadium, and lost only a handful of people along the way. What I'm saying is that even starting in the heart of Manhattan, Mr. Graham's audience was not very white. Second, before the Crusade was over - but after Mr. Graham had concluded his sermon - people started to leave, started to speed walk towards the subway. Those people where mostly white. At the subway platform (yes, I was one of the most speedy), the entire platform was filled with white people. I'm not sure what to make of that. What does that say about the cultural differences among races in New York City? Are the whites busier? Less religious? Or did they just live farther away?

Before Billy Graham gave his sermon, there were many lesser figures on stage, though I didn't have the interest to really "watch" them all. I strolled and ate ice cream and took photos - as did many other people; it was a park after all - and then would glance up at a teletron from time to time to see what was playing. The first of those times I found the President of the Police Officers for Christ giving an insulting speech about 9/11. He certainly didn't intend it that way. The man lost many friends that day. He sought to honor them, but in so doing he cheapened them. Following his speech was a similar speech from the President of the Fire Fighters for Christ.

What I struggle to understand is how nearly four years after the fact, 9/11 is the only noteworthy act of heroism or patriotism. That string has been plucked so many times, by so many fingers, that its sound is dull and flat. The names of those lost are invoked for everything from anti-flag burning amendments to the entire war in Iraq. In fact, President Bush made that connection last night. If you want to play that game, ask this question. Do you think the victims of 9/11 would like their deaths to be used as a rhetorical device? I think the victims of 9/11 died a tragic death. All of them, civilians and civil servants should be remembered and honored, but their tragedy and heroism should not be a tool for furthering agendas nor should it eclipse the tragedy and heroism of today.

What I fail to understand is how the heroism of civil servants finds a home in a religious service at all. When you have an audience of 90,000 people from all walks of life, who've all come to hear a man speak of a Call to Christ, how does honoring a specific group of heroes fit with that theme? It can only be a tacit acknowledgement - perhaps even a subconscious acknowledgement - that we are fighting not a war against Terror, not a war against Iraq, but a Holy War against Muslims.

Not all the speakers were so serious. Most in fact were musical groups, playing rockish Christian songs. My particular favorite song was Dance With Jesus, not because of the song itself - though it was a catchy tune - but because a woman near where I was resting took the lyrics quiet literally.

She was forty-ish and plump wearing leather Keds, white socks folded over once, shorts and a t-shirt. She permmed her own hair. The up-tempo song said to dance, so she did, but not like one would expect. It was as if she were a young ballerina, who'd learned the most fundamental of foot moves, and decided to leave hand placement up to the wind. First she was a swan, flapping her wings in take off. Then she was a tree swaying in the breeze. I think once she was cloud floating through the sky, but it could've been an impression of earth's elliptical orbit around the sun. All this she did standing in place. Her feet moved, but only to point her toes, to move through first, second, third positions and then return. If she put her left foot directly in front of her right, her arms would do the sweeping swan and then she would spin around 180 degrees. At any other time, any other place, you would think she was nuts, or at the very least an awful dancer. But here, at this Crusade, she showed us all what it means to internalize Jesus' teachings and be "like a child", because that what she was. From the expression on her face to the uncoordinated limbs, she was a five-year-old dancing in her front yard, oblivious to the eyes of the world.

I was tired of wandering, tired of standing in the sun, so with less than an hour remaining I found a nice patch of grassy shade behind a row of senior citizens in their own chairs along the paved footpath's edge. We could see and hear the teletron from our vantage point, but were not actually in the designated seating area; there was no shade in those areas.

The leader of the senior citizens was a kind of reverend. At first glace I would say Catholic - he wore a stiff white collar on a black shirt - but the woman to his right (he sat on the far left end of the row) interacted with him as if she were his wife, so perhaps Episcopalian. Regardless, he played the part of tour guide for this line of thirteen people, likely members of his congregation. When a speaker would take the podium, the Reverend would explain the man's connection to Billy Graham - if any - and other such banter. When George Shea (an original member of the Billy Graham Crusade and author of the hymn How Great Thou Art, which he was there to sing) appeared on the teletron, the Reverend said, "I remember seeing him in '55," in a tone that emphasized the "I" far more than the "him". His congregation gave him nods of admiration down the row. Then came the scandal.

A man with a heavy beard and long hair in a ponytail walked in front of the row from left to right - from Reverend to the other end - with a pamphlet extended in his hand. This man and many others like him had been there all day passing out literature on their beliefs and on Billy Graham. I'll tell you who they are and what they believe, but first we'll finish the scene.

The bearded man extended the pamphlet and the entire line of chairs stiffened and fell mute. The bearded man smiled and offered it at a walking pace to everyone in the row, until finally the last women in the line extended her hand to take it. Obviously she was not aware that her companions had turned to ice cubes at the bearded man's approach, nor did she hear the Reverend shouting - yes, shouting - "Sharon! Sharon! Sharon!" which I took to be her name. She clasped the pamphlet in her fingers, completed the transaction, and the bearded man kept on walking.

The Reverend bellowed down the row to Sharon, disgust across his face, "That's CULT stuff!"

Sharon must've not understood how serious that was. She didn't throw it down or set it on fire or pass out or anything. She just held on to it, looked at it, and even started to open the first page. The Reverend gave a double-chin shaking nod to his wife/companion, who jumped up and ran down the line of people to snatch the pamphlet from Sharon's hands. She returned just as quickly, but this time held the pamphlet out to her side like a dirty diaper. She threw it into a plastic bag the Reverend had ready, a bag which contained many more of those pamphlets, some of them torn into shreds.

Again, Sharon was slow to comprehend the gravity of the situation. She didn't call for the Holy Water Hand Wipes, nor did she even have the tact to thank Reverend's Helper for snatching the cult pamphlet from her hand. She just sat there and looked perplexed. Reverend had to call her down for a chat.

"Sharon, that was cult material. They pervert the gospel. They make it look like they have something to do with Billy Graham, but it's just a cult." She nodded and went back to her seat.

So who is this nefarious cult spreading evil at Billy Graham's Crusade? They call themselves the The Twelve Tribes, though it's not a claim to be THE twelve tribes of Israel, but rather a reference to the fact that they have communities in twelve geographic regions (and of course, it is also a reference to the twelve tribes of Israel, no matter what their website says). I'd seen many of them on the way in, and even stopped to talk to one about his beard. He seemed like a nice guy, and told me that they - his church - believes God created man with a beard, so man should not shave it off just to suit social norms. What else do they believe?

They live in communes and sell crafts and produce. They make their own clothes. They believe that faith alone is not enough, works are also needed (The faith v. faith/work debate is as old as Christianity; some say faith in Christ is enough to be saved, others say faith and works, i.e. doing what the Bible says you should do, are both necessary; hardly a cultish belief.) They don't own TVs, and they do home school their children. They think Billy Graham is great, but would like to see more sincere, long term conversions than the mass Calls to Christ, which get tabulated on the Graham Score Card. Perhaps their most "cultish" belief is that they believe Heathen's - people who never had a chance to hear the Gospel - don't go to hell by default, but that is hardly an unique belief either. Overall, they seem a lot like modern day Amish, but with the use of electricity. Are the Amish a dangerous cult? They were certainly seen as such when they started, so I guess there is not much difference in that regard either.

On my way out of the park, I saw members of the Twelve Tribes dancing and old fashioned circle dance. I'm sure it has a name, but I don't know what it would be. It seemed wholesome, and certainly no goats and alters in the middle. Those not dancing were pleasantly chatting with interested passersbys. Their children played tag in the open field.

It seemed to me then ironic, almost comic, that the community that most embodied Christ's teachings, that lived the closest to the Bible, was branded a cult by those who presented themselves as devout followers of the main event, Billy Graham, a man who undoubtedly would've welcomed them all to worship as brothers.

NYC - Days 8 -12

It doesn't take long for the novel feeling of being a visitor to be replaced by the mundane feeling of being a resident. One can only spend so many nights in a bed and bathe so many times in a shower before each becomes as familiar as his own. I'm at that point. That's neither a bad thing nor a good thing - one is not preferable to the other - but it has impacted how I've spent the past four days.

A visitor spends his hours visiting points of interest. A resident spends his free hours socializing with friends and watching movies. A visitor experiences the world as a string of destinations. A resident as a string of experiences. During these past four days I've seen almost no landmarks and have done very little, where doing something is measured in terms of ticket stubs and photos taken. But I’ve nonetheless managed to have more intense experiences than any others I've had on this trip. Three experiences in particular - spaced no more than one a day - are The Banquet, The Dakota and The Crusade.

The Banquet

I was walking south on 9th avenue, returning from an excursion to the diplomatic residences on the East Side, when I passed The Grand Sichuan restaurant. Of the scores of "Chinese" restaurants in this section of Manhattan - at least one a block - this was the first one to strike me as something more than Canto-American Barffet. First off, there was the name - Da Sichuan. Then there was the wooden facade, large round tables inside. The menu seemed authentic enough, and there were reviews pasted to the windows confirming my hunch. This was a real Sichuan restaurant.

I made a reservation for 8:30 the next day, and went back to the apartment to invite my hosts to a Chinese banquet. They, of course, accepted.

The next morning I went back to order the evening's meal (as one does when hosting a banquet). I'll spare you the menu details, but I'll say that we had a full spread. Six dishes, soup, dessert and a delicious bottle of Wuliang Ye. The food was 98% authentic, and was well received by all. The Baijou was 100% authentic, and was...well, we had the customary san bei and called it an evening. Truthfully, the shot glasses were huge by baijiu standards, so we probably really had liu bei, but in three drinks. I thought it was classy stuff, but Tom and Arian's shoulder convulsions after each swallow said otherwise. I guess it's an acquired taste.

It was great to have a real Sichuan meal again, but even more rewarding was watching the logistics of the meal - dishes served at a reasonable pace, chopsticks to prevent speedy eating, baijiu to lubricate the conversation - transform what elsewhere might've been a hurried ingestion of sustenance into an evening of good company.

The Dakota

Yesterday I watched two movies, Rosemary's Baby and Imagine, a movie about John Lennon. Two movies in one day might seem excessive, but Tom and Arian were stricken with the after-effects of baijiu and Sichuan food, and thus were in no hurry to leave the house. Moreover, it was muggy and stale outdoors, which deterred us all from hitting the streets.

Rosemary's Baby is set in the Dakota building on 72nd and Central Park West, though they call it by something else in the movie. If you've never seen the movie, suffice it to say that the beautiful Mia Farrow gives birth to Satan's spawn, and, in the last scene, is left to decide whether she'll raise him as her own or disown him, her husband and his devil worshiping friends. It's a dark, psychological horror film that makes the Dakota out to be the HQ for Satan's witches. As if the story wasn't spooky enough, the pregnant wife of the film's director was killed by Charles Manson the year after the movie was released.

John Lennon lived in the Dakota and was killed on its sidewalk while returning home late one evening. Both events are understandably large parts of the second movie we saw that day.

That is to say, in one day we inadvertently saw two movies which feature the Dakota as a place of grave misfortune. We had to see this place for ourselves.

Tom and I set out for the Dakota at 4:30 pm, but through a very random, incidental set of circumstances, didn't actually arrive there until 1:20am. A full yellow moon, no one on the streets, this massive, mysterious building with gargoyles and iron gates flanked by gas candelabras. I was glad to leave.

The Crusade

Today was the last day of Billy Graham's last crusade. I was there. I have a lot to say about this, but I'm going to save it for later. I'm tired of writing.

NYC - Days 2 - 7

Manhattan is a walker's paradise. By walker I don't mean one who walks briskly in spandex shorts and headbands in hopes of buring away surplus calories - though there are places here for that crowd as well; I speak of one who takes pleasure in transporting himself through his own powers, one who likes to live in the world and not just drive though it, one whose stride and pace reflect his mood.

Manhattan is an obese man's hell, or at least the cause of his financial ruin. There are buses and subways and taxis, very true, but they none can match the benefits of a fast gait. The buses are slow and stop frequently; the subway is fast, but stops are too few to be of use for a short commute; taxis, of course, are expensive. Walking is cost free and stop free and goes exactly where you want.

That's not to say that walkers don't use the public transportation, but it's only useful when traveling distances of at least twenty blocks, and even then - depending on where you are - it might be better to walk.

The result, if only by neccessity, is that almost everyone who lives in Manhattan is a walker. The sidewalks are always bustling with understandably fit adults who deftly weave around each other. I've yet to see an obese man (probably in the taxis). Street-side storefronts thrive on these passerbys and indoor mega-malls are seemingly non-existant. Cell phones and iPods mark the many walkers who are tired of their thoughts. And the "walk" and "don't walk" signs seem rather to indicate "no need to look" and "might glance before crossing".

Personally, I've walked more miles in these past five days than I've walked in the nine months I've been in Indiana since leaving China. In addition to purposeful walks - walks with a destination in mind - I also have taken some mammoth "strolls", for example last evening I walked from 46th to Battery Park and back, which is well over one-hundred blocks roundtrip, and loved every step.

In between walks, I've done a lot. I haven't done much in the way of sight-seeing (though I've walked through many of the more recognizeable parks and squares); most of my time has been spent either working with Waterwell - setting up the stage, selling tickets, running errands, brianstorming ideas for the big move to the new theatre - or socializing with the people in the troupe. I guess you could say I'm spending my time more like I live here and less like I'm visiting, a long-term idea that is growning on me.

NYC - Day 1

For years I've been meaning to visit New York. I've finally made it happen, converted intent into action, and am now writing this post from Hell's Kitchen, where some old roomates of mine live and where I'll be staying this fortnight.

One day down and thirteen to go, I feel the traveller in my bones start to re-awaken. NYC is trully the greatest city on earth. Greatest in the sense that the advantages people attibute to cities - entertainment, diversity, public transportation, etc - have all been distilled to the point that Manhattan is more like micro-world than a city.

Yesterday, the offical day one, I charmed the staff of a Thai restraunt with my spicy eating skills. I even went so far to respond to their concerns about the food being to spicy, by saying "I don't think its spicy at all," which coupled with my dexterous chopstick usage and dashing good looks prompted a secretive conversation between the husband/wife owners about how I might be the perfect husband for their daughter.

After that I headed uptown to the Museum of Natual History. Truthfully, I overshot by about 40 blocks because the train I took - one of three that run right by the Museum - didn't actually stop at the museum. I got off in Harlem and headed back Downtown on the right train.

The Musuem of Natual History has significance for me beyond its contents, significance that I might not be able to communicate, because it was there that a young Joseph Campbell - a teacher, scholar and author on the common threads of world mythology - was inspired to begin his life's work. I won't say that the Museum similarly inspired me, but I did spend quite a bit of time examining the development of written languages. Overall I found the museum depressing; it was case after case of dieing cultures, animals and habitats.

After the Museum I came back to my friends' apartment and started to catch up on old times. They're doing well, so well in fact that they're trying to move their current show (they have a theater company) to a larger, more well known venue in hopes of snaring a NY Times reivew. The catch is they need twenty thousand dollars to make it happen; twelve thousand in a week. Any one want to donate?

www.waterwell.org

Well, I'm off for another day of adventure.