I watched "American Movie" again in stunned amazement, just like the first time. My mouth hung open until the very end.
Mark Borchardt and his friend Mike Schank. What can you say, really?
How can a guy who knows more than most about making films not know how bad his are? It's the old "Velvet Elvis" paradox. How can someone skilled enough to paint a recognizable Elvis not know better than to paint on velvet?
I don't know, but the scary part is wondering if what separates me from Mark Brochardt is simply a matter of who's in the audience.
What would Annie Dillard say about my writing? How would Karl Barth evaluate my theology? I've been loving my wife for 18 years, but do we really need to compare ourselves to the Kama Sutra?
God, I hope not. I threw my back out last year trying to "Peel the Lotus". At my wife's request, the whole “Congress of the Wallaby” episode will not be discussed.
I've come to understand there will always be someone smarter, faster, better, and more driven than me. Always. I must make peace with my own mediocrity.
What I want – no - what I NEED is for someone to love me not for my achievements, but for that certain, little cute “something” I add to the world.
The hard part is what I must endure to find this kind of love.
She must open my chest cupboard and brazenly rummage through my stuff. All of it. The goofy stuff, the embarrassing stuff, the silly stuff, and the ugly stuff. She must handle everything as she searches for one piece of redeeming treasure.
I must stand perfectly still and avert my eyes while she plunges her hands into my holy of holies. I must allow her to do a full inventory. I must listen to her comments, cringing.
“Hmm...THAT'S interesting.”
“Whoa!”
“Ew.”
While she sorts through my mess, I close my eyes and say, “please, please, please, please, please let her find something good. If not good, at least something cute and endearing.”
“Oh dear God, don't let her find my secret compartment.”
I've spent a lot of my life trying to become better and better at what I DO. Somehow I thought my achievements might attract love. This has always been my fantasy. It's a crazy fantasy because I'm not good enough to do anything worthy of love. I don't think anyone can DO anything that would make him worthy of love.
Love is a gift and cannot be earned. It can only be given.
I should be learning to stand close to others and hold up under the deep pressure of intimacy. I should be practicing the esoteric art of being comfortable in my own skin and being comfortable with others joining me there.
I should be opening my holy of holies to the fresh air and making ready for visitors.
I should do these things, but the fear of investment keeps me playing the lottery, hoping against hope that someday I will do something so great that people will decide to love me.
That's a fool's game, and I've always been something of a fool.
The Preacher
