Franny and Zooey and Seymour and Jesus

I have just finished reading Franny and Zooey, by J.D. Salinger, for the umpteenth time. Lukas led me to this book about 10 years ago, and although I no longer feel as connected to Franny as I felt in my early 20s, she is still one of the most relatable and empathetic characters I have ever read. I feel her.

Somehow, every time I come back to this book I have forgotten how heavily Jesus-themed it is. I remember Franny's feelings of disillusion and confusion with the world, yet somehow Zooey's beautiful Jesus rant comes as a surprise every time - a wonderful, joyful, Jesus-surprise. So, I thought that I should more permanently take this rant into myself, the way I have consumed Franny, and thus I am sharing it with you. As Zooey Glass says,
       "My God! He's only the most intelligent man in the Bible, that's all! Who isn't head and shoulders over? Who? Both Testaments are full of pundits, prophets, disciples, favorite sons, Solomons, Isaiahs, Davids, Pauls - but, my God, who besides Jesus really knew which end was up? Nobody. Not Moses. Don't tell me Moses. He was a nice man, and he kept in beautiful touch with his God, and all that - but that's exactly the point. He had to keep in touch. Jesus realized there is no separation from God.... Oh, my God, what a mind!"

Thanks for that, Zooey. And thank-you, Franny, for introducing the Russian pilgrim's prayer book to me - I just ordered it off Amazon, and am looking forward to my upcoming existential crisis.

Nuit Blanche @ the WAG

The first nuit blanche I ever went to was in Paris - i.e. the real nuit blanche. Julia and I were spending a few days there together before we took the train down to Spain for the camino, and our time happened to overlap with Paris' all-night party. We took this as an opportunity to visit the Orangerie Gallerie (for free, of course), which houses 4 of Monet's wall-sized waterlilies. Because we were starting to save up on sleep for the camino we didn't stay out all night, but did enjoy walking the Champs de l'Elysee with so many other Parisians way past our bed time. There was such an ado about the whole night, and I felt so alive.

Yesterday I participated in Winnipeg's version of nuit blanche for the first time. Julia and I went to the WAG quite early, so we got in without having to line up. We spent a good while in the galleries, enjoying the lone Chagall, the 2 Emily Carrs, and all the William Kureleks, before it started filling up so much that we could hardly see the art. By the time it was dark outside, our twosome had grown to a dozen hippie/hipster/art-lover/west-enders just hanging out together at the WAG. The art bled into the music, which bled into the movies, which bled into the dance - all taking place in this strange, triangular building.

As I walked home from the gallery, through Osborne, and then down Corydon - and past many, many people on their way to partake in their own nuit blanche activities - I realized how much an experience like this makes me love everything. I love my friends. I love art. I love finding joy in expected and unexpected places. I love the city of Winnipeg.

John K. Samson: I think you need to rewrite your song. The colours of this city are painting over the shades of gray.