The puzzled ones, the Americans, go through their lives
Buying what they are told to buy,
Pursuing their love affairs with the automobile,

Baseball and football, romance and beauty,
Enthusiastic as trained seals, going into debt, struggling —
True believers in liberty, and also security,

And of course sex — cheating on each other
For the most part only a little, mostly avoiding violence
Except at a vast blue distance, as between bombsight and earth,

Or on the violent screen, which they adore.
Those who are not Americans think Americans are happy
Because they are so filthy rich, but not so.

They are mostly puzzled and at a loss
As if someone pulled the floor out from under them,
They’d like to believe in God, or something, and they do try.

You can see it in their white faces at the supermarket and the gas station
— Not the immigrant faces, they know what they want,
Not the blacks, whose faces are hurt and proud —

The white faces, lipsticked, shaven, we do try
To keep smiling, for when we’re smiling, the whole world
Smiles with us, but we feel we’ve lost

That loving feeling. Clouds ride by above us,
Rivers flow, toilets work, traffic lights work, barring floods, fires
And earthquakes, houses and streets appear stable

So what is it, this moon-shaped blankness?
What the hell is it? America is perplexed.
We would fix it if we knew what was broken.

-Alicia Suskin Ostriker

(HT: The Writer’s Almanac)

I don’t know if it was a mistake, or a point of sobriety for which to be thankful, that I followed a link to the story about Heath Ledger’s death. But what I found there grieved me: A picture of dozens of photographers, piled on top of each other, ravenous, flashing their cameras at Ledger’s body wrapped and rolling away on a gurney. Grieved because they did not gather to pay homage to a human life, but to commodify its end. Grieved because they do not feel sting, but satisfaction at possessing another story to tell. I am grieved because we have created them to do this. And how eager they are to give us what we want.

I had no great affection for Ledger or his work. Please understand, I mean him no disrespect or disservice. But as far as the vast millions of us are concerned, he was not a great leader to mourn. With his passing a great cause did not suffer (as far as I know). We did not know him but on screen, in magazines, in gossip. He was an entertainer, an actor, and soon more actors will take his place. As such, I have no loyalty to him except for this: Heath Ledger, fellow human, made in the image of the Living God, son, father and friend. His film credits matter nothing. As far as I’m concerned, this is what’s greater: that he was loved by the One called Love—a distinction we all share. Certainly he deserved more respect in his passing than he was afforded.

I take the events surrounding Heath Ledger’s passing as a reminder of the dignity of all human life and how our culture so quickly debases and denies that which is sacred. It’s a reminder to turn my attention from celebrity to the flesh and blood beside me—my wife, family, friends and neighbors both near and far. It’s a call to live apart from Hollywood gossip and talk about things that truly matter; to look less into screens, glossy magazines—all that seeks to disgrace our being—and look into living and breathing faces.

In anything less than looking into each other’s eyes, hearing each other’s voice, and taking each other’s hand, life is but a shadow of what it is meant to be. Let us run from turning one another into mere functions or products to be consumed. Let us love instead.

I thought we’d be driving to catch the train to London. From there, the plan was to take the EuroStar to Paris. But Annabelle had plans of her own. The night before, she told me we wouldn’t be going to France. I was miffed, to say the least. Most annoying was that she wouldn’t tell me why. “Trust me, okay?” she said.

The light clicked on in the early morning. Annabelle set a cup of tea on the bedside table. Before long we were on the road to the train station, I guessed, to visit her brother in Manchester. She told me to find the paper bag in her backpack. Inside was a city map to Dublin. She was taking me to Ireland. On the sly, with my birthday within a half-month’s view, she had bought plane tickets and booked a couple beds in a downtown Dublin hostel. I forgot about Paris.

I loved the city, the people, the beer. I loved Annabelle for surprising me with a visit to the country top on my list—for running all over town with me, seeing the sights, learning Celtic history, shopping, praying during Evensong at St. Patrick’s Cathedral, collapsing in exhaustion under ancient trees at Trinity College. And I love her for taking me to see “Once,” a new film by John Carney, last night. Set in Dublin, it was a charming and artful reminder of that trip we shared, and the special place the city holds in our own story.

The film stars Glen Hansard (lead singer of The Frames) and Markéta Irglová—both are untrained actors but still manage to deliver performances more honest than I’ve seen in any blockbuster release in recent memory.

“Once” is a musical in the best sense—free of silly, non-sequitur dance routines, sung dialogue and stage-like dramatics. It’s a singer-songwriter’s musical, the songs performed as they would be in a café or bar, telling stories like only good songs can, and paired with dialogue both winsome and true. Everything ends up in its right place by the finish without feeling contrived. The whole thing had me ready to fly to Ireland, or sit down and write songs through the morning, or both.

But I’m biased, of course. I’ve been listening to the music Hansard, on a break from his band, and Irglová make off-screen. They released a record together last year under the name “The Swell Season.” I found it early in January and loved it at once. And Carney did a wonderful job weaving the songs into the story.

Rather than try to recapitulate here what I perceive to be the ineffable, transcendent quality of notes and lyrics woven together, have a listen for yourself. You can hear The Swell Season perform live at NPR.com, or hear a few tracks from the album here.