SoulPancake

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This is a column about being torn. I’m torn about a lot of things. From awesome commercials produced by despicable corporations to whether or not a cartoon family is a good role model for my children. My goal is to weigh the odds and, ultimately, explore my own fractured feelings while discovering the people, places, and things that inspire me.

Today, I want to talk about porn. I wonder about it. On the one hand, I get it: sex, boobies, wiggling body parts, sweating, moaning. All good. But isn’t there something inherently sad and lonely about the person who watches it? “I am sad and lonely, so I want to watch other people simulating a pleasant experience so that I can possibly feel a physical sensation that will ultimately only remind me of how alone I am.”

I’m realizing this is not a typically male point of view.

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:: spiritual evolution by afeatheradrift

The most elegant part of scientific theory is the ease with which science accepts new information and adjusts past ideas and hypotheses that were incorrect. In a sense, the scientific method itself, like evolution, has a built-in feedback loop that can fix or abandon what doesn't work and pursue traits (or ideas) that are useful and rewarding. It made me wonder: Can faith evolve and grow in the same way?

For the answer, I’m turning to an unlikely place: evolution. More than 15 years ago, archeologists discovered Ardipithecus ramidus (or 'Ardi') in Ethiopia. Ardi was a likely human ancestor that walked upright around 4.4 million years ago in the jungle and is the earliest candidate for a human ancestor ever to be found. Ardi has the intermediate characteristics we would expect from a human ancestor—she was an able climber, yet could still walk upright on the ground; she had a more dexterous hand than a chimpanzee; she did not walk on her knuckles. In other words, she has characteristics that are distinctly unlike both chimpanzees and humans—characteristics unique to her species. Since the initial discovery, teams of researchers have been painstakingly performing and compiling research about Ardi, much of which was published last month in the journal Science.

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What is God? That's the question that Peter Rodger has asked all in his path—from Ringo Starr to David Copperfield, from Princess Michael of Kent to Zen masters, from gun-toting Texas fundamentalists to Kashmir extremists—in his soon-to-be-released film, Oh My God.

Frustrated by a globally prevailing schoolyard mentality of religion, a concept he summarizes as “My God is better than your God,” commercial filmmaker Rodger—whose father George was a founding member of the Magnum Photography collective—ditched the cosmetics and Toyota ad contracts, grabbed two HD cameras, and hit the road, spending two-and-a-half years filming across 23 countries to complete this feature-length documentary, which explores people’s diverse opinions and perceptions of God.

Along the way, Peter lost all of his equipment in Morocco, was turned back at Palestinian and Israeli checkpoints in the Holy Land, and conducted interviews from behind the barrels of machine guns. Still, Oh My God ultimately uncovered a less visceral but more profound truth for Rodger, a truth that is delicately but deftly realized in the film’s final cut: that the world, for all of its publicized and glorified nastiness, is ultimately a surging sea of humanity and that the beauty of religion and spirituality lies in its simplicity. Those who embrace their religions with honesty, kindness, and a larger respect for the world in which we live are the truly faithful.

Rodger sat down with SoulPancake to talk about his film and how he hopes it will help audiences take away a new appreciation of their own beliefs and the beliefs of others.

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Brace yourselves. This is a column about … cue scary music … poetry. What does that mean, aside from the obvious? Hell if I know, but here’s the thing: We like to de-lamify things here at SoulPancake, and since poetry often gets written off as (and sometimes is, in fact) lame, I’ve put on my English major superhero cape and set to typing. The basic idea? To explore and discuss the use of words—beautiful, glorious words—while perhaps sparking more interest in (or at least a lesser aversion to) poetry.

Perhaps you’re wondering, “Why does it matter if I’m open to poetry?” Well, you’re still reading, aren’t you? Beyond that, the thing I love most about poetry is how it can capture a feeling, a moment, a life in a way that nothing else can. A poem can be deeply personal, with meanings only its writer understands, and at the same time, it can be relatable or appealing to everyone else.

Think about it. Poetry is one of the most flexible art forms we have. And today, art has reached the point where rules don’t apply. Translation: Poems don’t have to rhyme! You don’t have to count meters and feet, come up with a rhyme scheme or even a specific object, feeling, or person upon which to ponder. Feel that? It’s freedom. You can, of course, stick to some rules—structure’s not all bad, especially when trying something a little or a lot different. And pushing those boundaries are the poets themselves. Stodgy old men smoking pipes in velvet armchairs? Heck no. Today’s poets are graffiti artists. Heavy metal lyricists. Kindergarteners. Soldiers. Teachers. Preachers. And assorted fictional creatures.

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I'm not in movies. I don't have a three-novel contract with a major publishing house. Supermodels don't have me on speed-dial. Wikipedia doesn't have me listed. My name is never on the list—I always have to wait in line to get in. I look ordinary. I make enough money to get by. I am not a genius. I can't solve a Rubik's cube. And I'm luckiest when I work the hardest.

There are two reasons why I'm thinking these things: 1) I'm planning a novel in my head. At first, I thought my protagonists would be crazy party-harders who had lots of promiscuous sex. Then I realized I didn't actually know anybody like that. Most people I know are not exactly French-Riviera-Dolce-&-Gabbana cool. 2) During lunch with a friend, she complains about her crush's recent impassivity towards her—and I get worked up over it.

"Dude, no way,” I tell her. “It's a matter of mindset."
"What is?"
"Everything. You're smart; you're a ton of fun to be with; you're caring; you're beautiful; and you're sweet as double-chocolate ice cream in that old-school way that's hard to find nowadays. Frankly, if he doesn't like you, I'm offended. Screw that guy."

Now add (1) and (2) together (one's not half two. It's two are halves of one), and you get:

Nobody's got it all. I mean it. I forget that a lot of the time. When someone young and beautiful drives by in a Porsche—or I see those kids basking in the sun, smoking cigarettes with trendy sunglasses on—I look down, frown, and walk on. What to do, right?

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Jackson’s first lesson ended with a few three-shot rallies and a homework suggestion: “Observe some of your rules and break one. One, just for fun.”

“Break rules?” he asked suspiciously, as he tapped his last shot barely over the net. “Can you give me an example?”

“Like: ‘I have to do this’ or ‘I should do that.’ Those kinds of rules,” I explained. “Murder would go beyond our scope.” I thought that was funny, but his consternation remained fixed.

We had our next meeting three weeks later after his family vacation to the South Carolina coast. “Did you break any rules?” I asked the wiry 36-year-old, while we rallied to warm up.

“No,” he admitted. “It was honestly too hard. Rules are just too habitual.”

“That’s how they become rules,” I laughed.

“They are so ingrained,” he repeated, his play stiff with premeditation. His over-6-foot body seemed stuck.

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What does art have to do with the soul? That single question provides quite the opportunity for exploration. In Eye to I, we’re rolling up our sleeves and trying to understand the interplay between the two.

We humans spend a lot of time and energy trying to decode the mysterious emotions and rationales that motivate other humans—case in point: the fishbowl phenomenon that is reality TV. In a desire to feel more connected, we constantly search for insight about why people do what they do. At the same time, there’s this idea that through art, we can access a person’s feelings and conceptions about the world. A piece of art can be an eloquent expression of a person’s hidden, inner state, which is by its nature, abstract.

But how does art reveal the invisible? Take photography. We expose the film, but at the same time, the film exposes us: A photograph can reveal as much about the person who took it as it can about its subject. The photographer’s vantage point, the feeling of connection or distance you get from the image, the sense of mood, relationship and place—all of these present clues about the photographer, the subject, and us.

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:: tasty temptation by Ben Frank

It’s hard to believe, but our lil’ SoulPancake is growing up fast. All you crazy Dr. SoulPancakensteins have embraced it, plugged it in, and channeled the lightning storm that makes SoulPancake ALIIIIIIVE!!! Never mind our upcoming book. We've also noted all of you Tweet-o-holics who love to respond to all of Life’s Big Questions. There’s even one loyal fan who’s set out to do every challenge and answer every question on the site—all of which she chronicles on her blog.

Lately, though, we’ve been hearing about a few people taking SoulPancake into the—gasp!—real world to have out-loud, face-to-face discussions. In light of that, and the fact that we love it more than Snuggies, we wanted to spotlight a group that’s been meeting for a few weeks now, as well as one about to embark upon its first meeting. Pay attention and steal their ideas—or (even better) come up with your own.

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Chew on that and these other tasty morsels from recent weeks.

Today's headlines: Serious-ly divine comedy, owning Bon Jovi's ass, moon water, and a science-and-religion get-together.

What in your life causes you to question the design of the divine?

If you’re sitting around moping “Why Me?” get your ass to the nearest multiplex independent theater and check out A Serious Man. Currently in limited release, Ethan and Joel Coen’s latest dish heads back to Minnesota for a story about a Jewish physics professor who finds his 1967 Midwest life falling apart all around him. Critics have drawn the obvious parallel to the Old Testament’s Book of Job, with the movie’s central character Larry Gopnik questioning the design of the divine that could leave his life so hopelessly mired in the sh*t. If No Country for Old Men had you hanging on the question of moral or metaphysical certainty and the balance of good and evil on earth, expect more resolution from Serious, which in the more traditional Coen Bros. style also punctuates the narrative with cringing comedy as opposed to fatally sadistic pneumatic head trauma. But like No Country, you’ll have to wait for the last line for your ultimate delivery, and just knowing your Bible isn’t going to prepare you for the answer.

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ALEXITHYMIA: literally "without words for emotions"—to describe a state of deficiency in understanding, processing, or describing emotions

"Stop," she says at last. I make an uncomfortable face. "Seriously, we need to sort this out. Let's just talk it through." She's right. She is. The whole night's been awkward. "Not just tonight; we've been weird all week."

I give her a strained look. I'm speechless, and I'm almost never speechless. "You know every word in the dictionary—what do you mean you can't find the words?" I look some more for words, but I just give her that strained, uncomfortable look again. "Why can't you talk about this? You're a writer for god’s sake. I've read your writing… you can describe anything!"

"Blind men are great at describing… they just may not know what they're holding,” I respond. And because we sometimes speak in legalese: “What I mean is, there may not be a consensus ad idem, an express intention to be bound by terms and conditions, and… look… I'm not trying to claim sovereign possession over you, but…”

"I know what you're saying: Despite no clauses that clearly state the terms of the contract—in this case, exclusive possession—certain expectations may be implied." Damn. That was exactly what I was trying to say. But all I had were reverberating thuds.

"You can do what you like, OK?” I tell her. “I don't mind, but if we're… I really don't care, OK? But I'm into you, and if you're sleeping with other people then… then… that's fine, really, but I need to deal with this differently. It's a protection thing."

I'm scared of what she might say next. I want to throw up. I almost broke it off with her without reason or excuse four hours ago just to avoid the answer to this question. I'm so scared of what she might say next I hadn't even thought this question into existence. Frankly, I'm shocked it came out of my mouth—it felt more like lightning without thunder, a pointless flash in a dark room.