Wilson - Notes From The Tilt-A-Whirl

Notes from
the Tilt-A-Whirl

2009 by N. D. Wilson

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any meanselectronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or otherexcept for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of Thomas Nelson, Inc.

Page design by Mandi Cofer.

Thomas Nelson, Inc., titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail SpecialMarkets@ThomasNelson.com.

Unless otherwise noted, scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Wilson, Nathan D.
Notes from the tilt-a-whirl / N.D. Wilson.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-0-8499-2007-3 (pbk.)
1. Creation. 2. Theology. I. Title.
BT695.W53 2009
231.765--dc22

2008055586

Printed in the United States of America
09 10 11 12 13 RRD 6 5 4 3 2 1

For my sisters
(who have always seen)

CONTENTS

What excuses can I possibly make for this book?

Alcohol was not directly involved. I do not (to my knowledge) have a diseased brain. Ive never used drugs. But thats not entirely true. Spring is a drug to me. So is Christmas. Love, poetry, wind, smells, lightning, children, ants, very small beetles all drugs in their own way.

Its not my fault. Those things made me write this book. Those things and a few others, both sweet and sour.

Heres how it happened: Philosophers of various sizes and shapes and flavors and ages crowded into the saloon of my skull and began throwing elbows to make some space. Poets and preachers piled in with them. John Donne said some zippy things about Kant, and the ancients wouldnt stop snickering at the moderns. On top of that, Gilbert Keith Chesterton (that fabulously large Catholic writer) overheard someone making fun of Milton (it didnt matter that the insults were all true).

Note the eruption.

For me, this book was an occurrence. It rolled over me. I worked to shape and control it, to pace it, to leash it and teach it to sit and roll over. I did my best. But at times my best was insufficient, and in some places you might notice this thing climbing on the furniture, licking my face, or dragging me down the street.

I enjoyed the ride, though it left me panting and clammy. Im grateful to the thinkers and writers who triggered the brawl. Im grateful to God for the eyes in my head, and for the wildness of the spinning world these eyes see. This world, shaped by His words, can never be tamed by mine. But there is joy to be had in trying and falling short. My cuts and bruises will heal. I may live long enough to try again.

Ive learned from this, and I feel lighterlike Ive lost some mental weight. I hope thats a good thing.

A few comments, warnings, and an explanation or two:

This book does not go straight. It is not a road in Wyoming. The earth spins while orbiting the sun. A car on a Tilt-A-Whirl queases children at the county fair using a similar motiontightly spinning on a larger, also rotating platform (throw in some rising and falling for good measure). This book is built on that patternspinning small and spinning bigand follows the earth through the seasons of one orbit. Like the earth and the Tilt-A-Whirl, you will end at a beginning.

This book attempts to find unity in cacophony. The barrage of elements (philosophy, poetry, theology, narrative, ad nauseam) may at times feel random. It isnt. It is intended to be symphonic: dissimilar voices and instruments moving from dissonance to harmony. The emotional spectrum (anger, love, happiness, grief ) is meant to be as broad as the material covered. It seeks the same unity.

Words: They are more than tools used in the transfer of simple information from mind to mind. Throughout, I was attempting to use them as paint, spreading them on a canvas rather than paper. I wanted to write to the body and to the senses as well as the mind. Did I? Its a tricky goal, and perhaps I shouldnt admit to having aimed so high. The admission can make failure more obvious.

There are times when my word choice may seem odd for a religious book hoping to reach a religious audience. But rest easyI never reach the level of shock and surprise achieved by such writers as the prophet Ezekiel.

Rhythm: Given the movement, pace, and shape of this book, I have included occasional seasonal rest stops, hiatuses (hiati, if you really prefer) along the way. This is so no one will pull a hamstring.

Title: In the nineteenth century, Dostoyevsky, the Russian genius, wrote a short novel entitled Notes from Underground. My title is an acknowledgment to him and to his vision.

On too many explanations in the front of a book: It is art to conceal art. Yes. I know. Some would say Im ruining what little artistry exists in this book by including too much direct commentary on it. But I see no greater danger in this preface beyond that of boring a potential reader flipping pages in a bookstore. If artistry exists in the book, then surely it can survive despite a few dull opening pages. (How many people read prefaces?) If no artistry exists, then I have ruined nothing.

At this point, I feel the need to piously admonish all readers to buckle up, as it is the law. But Ive forgotten to include seat belts, and I dont know where I left the liability waivers.

Finally, before the true beginning, I would like to thank the makers of Dramamine. My gratitude is real.

I am a traveler.

Do I sound important? Or at least meaningful? Im not Kerouac. And Im not in sales. I travel like the flea on a dogs back. I travel unintentionally, a very small cowboy born on a bull. I travel with the Carnival. Where it goes, I go. Its people are my people, and its land is my land. Most of my time is spent on the Tilt-A-Whirl and occasionally in the squirrel cages. I couldnt stop traveling if I tried, and not because of some kind of wanderlust, gypsy blood, a need for meaningful experiences, or a desire to see Europes castles.

I was born into the Carnival. Ive done all my living, sleeping, playing, growing, and throwing up at the Carnival. When I die, I wont escape itnot that Id want to. Death is that black stripe above my head on the measuring board. When Ive reached it, well, then I can go on the gnarly rides.

Just to be clear, I live on a near perfect sphere hurtling through space at around 67,000 miles per hour. Mach 86 to pilots. Of course, this sphere of mine is also spinning while it hurtles, so tack on an extra 1,000 miles per hour at the fat parts. And its all tucked into this giant hurricane of stars. Yes, it can be freaky. Once a month or so, my wife will find me lying in the lawn, burrowing white knuckles into the grass, trying not to fly away. But most of the time I manage to keep my balance despite the speed, and I dont have to hold on with anything more than my toes.

You live here too. Which means Im not special. Were all carnies, though some people are in denial. They want to be above it all, above the mayhem of laughter and people and lights and animals and the dark sadness that lurks in the corners and beneath the rides and in the trailers after hours. So they ride the Ferris wheel, and at the top, they think theyve left it all behind. Theyve ascended to a place where they can take things seriously. Where they can be taken seriously.

Let them have their moment. You and I can eat our corn dogs and wait and smile. Solomon smiles with us.