April 25, 2010

Turbulent night, the moon appearing and disappearing behind rags of cloud. Went to church; worked in the garden; prepared manuscripts; watched a foolish movie called Princess of Mars. I study bad movies to see if one can be objective about what causes badness in art. Yet it remains one of those things that is undefinable but instantly recognizable. The anthem this morning, based on an old country hymn, “The King of Love My Shepherd Is,” was perfection, simplicity, naivete, profundity all at once. It would convert me were I a heathen. But why? Just the simplicity? Just the comfort of the sentiment? Usually the too-easy availability of sentiment makes me suspicious. When is it too easy and when is it exquisitely simple? Perhaps I am trying to explain things which are not meant to be explained. The part of me which is a teacher is tempted always to explain, as much as the part of me which is an artist scorns explanation.

The yellow rose bloomed in the night rain, even as I prophesied.