christ's superfluous appendix

The Aesthetic Attitude - the notion that, in looking at something, we take an attitude that determines which of its characteristics we will consider. The practical attitude; how it can be used functionally, what purpose it will help us achieve. The cognitive attitude; its physical properties, how tall it is, long it is, wide it is. The moral attitude; what it means and stands for, whether we agree with it or find it abhorrent, what is it saying? The aesthetic attitude considers none of these; it is purely concerned with how the object looks. The practical attitude sees a waterfall that could be converted into a ski-slope; the cognitive attitude is concerned with how tall the waterfall is; the moral attitude sees the site of a suicide and is perturbed by it. Only the aesthetic attitude sees the stone and the foam, the light glinting off droplets.

The aesthetic attitude, truly divorced from the other attitudes could see beauty in a bag of rice, a spoon, in the hollows of starving children's faces. It wouldn't see the children, just the curve of their bones; it would see aesthetics and theatricality rather than atrocity.

The aesthetic attitude was mentioned in one of the Critical Theory lectures that I was ill through. Since then, 5 weeks ago, I've heard it mentioned in every one of my seminars and have only just taken the time to read the article and find out what it means. I've commented on it, argued for it, explained it to someone, but only just found out what it is. Thus, my friends, is the power of bullshit.

*****

I walked out of church today. I don't think I've ever done that before. I'd been up a couple of hours before, tearing up the radio with Est and Frankie and I was in a great mood. I walked down on my own, got there in time for the armistice silence. Got nostalgic for the days of being a Girl Guide, carrying the flag, singing the national anthem, wearing boot-cut trousers in my uniform instead of a navy skirt.

I went inside for the family service and sat on a row on my own, a few behind the rest of the students I recognised from last time. I didn't want to sit with them. I have only one friend at St Johns, and I couldn't see him. I hoped that he'd come so I could get his attention. It was pathetic, looking round for him. Not in my usual, he's-male-and-has-a-pulse way, more in the way that you look for the person who you consider your only friend in a place. Desperately.

A group of girls came to sit in my row. The one nearest me sat down one chair away, even though there was too many of them. She'd rather push her friend on to the next row than sit next to a stranger.

I thought about the family of Christ, how we're all one body and every part matters. I wasn't feeling it. Never mind.

A family came in and sit on my row. The man, the father, sat one seat away from me. I was sat in the dead centre of a row full of people. The only vacant seats were in the middle too, one either side of me.

Next time I see a lone stranger at church I will sit next to them, even if the room is empty. Personal space be damned, I've never felt such a fucking leper. I'm used to church surrounded by friends, people leaning on me, legs on each other's laps, hugs and shoves. Not this.

Eventually I felt so uncomfortable that I moved right to the back of the church, sat myself down in the last vacant row, right in the back. In retrospect, it would have made more sense to sit next to someone, strike up a conversation, but by this time I was feeling awful, wanting to go.

I should explain that church hasn't been easy recently. Being around other Christians hasn't been easy. The old 'I'm not good enough to be here' complex that marred my first year of church has returned. I went to Exeter Uni CU last week and sat there and seethed. No one was doing anything wrong, but I revert to finding fault when I'm nervous. I just don't feel happy in new churches. I need someone to talk to me, so I can say it, explain that I'm terrified, but the only person in St John's who would do that, my one friend, wasn't there.

The same thing happened on the back row. One vacant chair either side of me.

We stood up and nobody sung. A congregation of maybe 150 people and I could hear the worship band louder than the people next to me. I could hear the rustling of newsletters. Nobody sung. I didn't know the songs, but I sang anyway, to fill the silence.

We sat down to pray and I focussed on hating everything. When we stood up to sing again I found myself pushing out of the row and heading for the door. A smiling woman held it open for me.

*****

In the kitchen, about ten minutes ago, the girls started singing songs from Les Mis. I thought of long conversations with Trevor and dropped a glass of milk on the floor. It didn't break but it spilt everywhere. Fflur helped me clean it up, and they told me to go to bed. I think they think I'm odd, but they're nice about it, so I don't really mind.

*****

I went to Yateley in the evening. That makes three weekends in a row. Maybe when I can go to church here, maybe when I don't find reasons to avoid cell group, when I have people to talk to, I'll stop coming home. At the moment, if I don't come home, there'll be no church at all, and that's not an option. Someone was upset at Chaos and I prayed for them, which I'm rubbish at, but I couldn't not pray for her. I couldn't not give her that. I prayed that she would get better, that she would be well and happy and peaceful, and I remembered that I read James this morning - "when you ask, believe and don't doubt". For the first time, I really believed that my prayers would be heard, that she would be helped like we wanted her to be.

That was my church today.

*****

In the corridor, I bump into Adam, my absent flatmate. He asks me about church, I tell him, he says well done for going and by the way, he might try St Judes. It's a small congregation, family like. I think of 150 people not singing, maybe I'll try that too.

I'll try anything right now.