I've been up since o dark thirty. Don't you just love that phrase? O dark thirty - it's mysterious, and tough, while conveying an ever so subtle air of complaint. Tell me, dear reader, whence this genius in the language?
In a few minutes the thing starts. It's raining outside. I would rather not do this thing, you know. When I signed up for it, well, it was like I was an uncanny enthusiast in some sort of cult. Now, here I am, having paid a smallish fee for the thing, and I would rather read patristics or Vasari's Lives or Plato....
You get the idea.
Don't I have people to do things like this for me? I mean, this is ridiculous. Shouldn't I be on a yacht somewhere receiving the occasional report from underlings busy about the task of making money so that I might read patristics or Vasari's Lives or Plato on a yacht? Let's say we're off the coast of one of them Azores, that'd work, or perhaps in the Aegean. Come to think of it, the Aegean sounds just fine, although I hear it's a tad polluted at the moment.
O well, dear reader, here you find me, with responsibilities and obligations [they aren't exactly the same]. Cumbered I am, o my friends, cumbered with cares. This must be what it's like to be an emperor, say, or at the very least the President. Come to think of it, were I the President, I could have drones circle overhead, listening to the thing and recording all of it. Were their video game operators.... O, I'm sorry, apparently they think they're pilots.... As I was saying, were the pilots [heh] to detect anyone asleep during a particularly important and riveting presentation, well, then, KAPOW!
Where was I? O yes, the thing. I won't bore you with details. Suffice it to say that it's all business. No one will mention patristics or Vasari's Lives or Plato, not for three whole days. O, look, some denizens have arrived and are making their way as we speak to the thing. I feel a creeping sense of ennui. I mean, it wouldn't be so bad if one of them were to say, 'You know, I don't much feel like discussing patristics or Vasari's Lives or Plato, but have you heard of this Richard of St. Victor?' That would be fine. Let's not wait for it.
So now this has become an exercise in writing for the sake of procrastination. Time never seems to stop for me. O well. Assuming Jesus doesn't return in the next few days, and granting that it's unlikely an asteroid will hit the earth, it's likely that by Sunday I can return to patristics or Vasari's Lives or Plato or, now, have you heard of this Richard of St. Victor?
Peace out.
Friday, January 11, 2013
Thursday, January 10, 2013
more adventures of a freaked out businessman...
Ah, the Sheraton in downtown Columbus - it's such a, well, it's a hotel. Sitting here in the bed, I can see the city lights in the distance. It's not so bad really.
Some of us are here for a conference. We're going to learn all about something or other, and it'll be good for business. Who would have ever thought that your humble narrator would one day have multiple revenue streams?
Weird.
Some of us are here for a conference. We're going to learn all about something or other, and it'll be good for business. Who would have ever thought that your humble narrator would one day have multiple revenue streams?
Weird.
ringing changes...
Tried to post this earlier, but it was lost in the virtual void of the interthing.
In most of Plato's dialogues where it lodges, δόξα signifies opinion, nothing more. An opinion is groundless; an opinion is easily acquired; everybody has an opinion about everything; and everyone thinks they're entitled to these opinions. [They aren't, by the bye, but that's for another hour.]
Consider the changes rung on this simple sign by the time it becomes embedded in our Christian orthodoxy. Here, δόξα signifies not opinion, but praise, teaching, proclamation, confession. This is crucial because it's yoked to such a word that makes it the right praise, teaching, proclamation, confession. This opposes heterodoxy, which is 'other', 'split away', 'divided from', the right praise, teaching, proclamation, confession. [Many nowadays refuse to accept that there is, within the Christian Church, such a thing as heterodoxy. They are wrong.] Thus does a simple term of abusive art become honorable and multivalent when yoked aright.
I just like that.
In most of Plato's dialogues where it lodges, δόξα signifies opinion, nothing more. An opinion is groundless; an opinion is easily acquired; everybody has an opinion about everything; and everyone thinks they're entitled to these opinions. [They aren't, by the bye, but that's for another hour.]
Consider the changes rung on this simple sign by the time it becomes embedded in our Christian orthodoxy. Here, δόξα signifies not opinion, but praise, teaching, proclamation, confession. This is crucial because it's yoked to such a word that makes it the right praise, teaching, proclamation, confession. This opposes heterodoxy, which is 'other', 'split away', 'divided from', the right praise, teaching, proclamation, confession. [Many nowadays refuse to accept that there is, within the Christian Church, such a thing as heterodoxy. They are wrong.] Thus does a simple term of abusive art become honorable and multivalent when yoked aright.
I just like that.
Wednesday, January 9, 2013
or did he say it?
The 'beautiful is difficult' - Plato said that did he?
That occurs at 435c in The Republic, part way through Book 4 in English translations. It is tossed off in passing by Glaucon during an exchange with Socrates. Here you go, starting with the ugly little guy himself:
But again, a city seemed just when three kinds of nature were present in it, and each did what is its own. And again, it seemed temperate and courageous and wise through certain other affections and dispositions of these same kinds.
True, he said.
And so, my friend, we will thus also expect the individual to have these same forms in his own soul, and rightly expect the same names for them as those for the city, because of the same affections.
Quite necessarily, he said.
Here again, we have fallen into a trifling inquiry about soul, my friend, I replied: whether it has in itself these three forms or not.
It hardly seems trifling to me, he said. For perhaps the saying that noble things are difficult [χαλεπά τα καλά] is true, Socrates.
Apparently, I replied... [translated by R. E. Allen, p. 132].
Consider, Glaucon, Socrates, and the rest of their party, are engaged in a long and arduous inquiry into the nature of the soul and its formation, or deformation. The City conjured in the long and arduous inquiry, dear reader, is itself a simulacrum for that formed or deformed soul. To thus inquire about the nature of the soul is noble, and beautiful [καλά], implies Glaucon as he offers this gnomon, and, again, noble and beautiful things are difficult [χαλεπά]. Socrates approves.
Or does he? Plato is the master ironist in his portrayal of the ironist Socrates. I hear a certain tone in Socrates's reply, a combination of astonishment and resignation. One can see him looking down a bit, and almost muttering Apparently. This inquiry will be even more difficult than any of them first thought. So far so good, but can we say unequivocally that Plato says categorically that noble and beautiful things are difficult? I think we can infer that he would echo his master's Apparently, and the whole of his works attest to a love of and a desire for the Good, however understood, and a conviction that the attainment of the Good is arduous and therefore quite rare.
To reach that conclusion, however, requires that we hear a gnomic saying, woven into a brief exchange designed to shift the dramatic flow of the dialogue at a particular point in the inquiry, in the context of Plato's work as a whole, and The Republic in particular. We must grasp at least somewhat the many modulations of the word καλά. [noble, beautiful, good, and so forth - Philokalia, etc.]. We must, finally, understand that the true danger and difficulty of this dialogue is that it just might lead to greater perplexity about the nature of the soul. If we find ourselves ever more perplexed as to that nature, we will thus be ever more perplexed as to how that soul can be rightly formed so as to tend to the Good.
We might, in short, end up in a Dark Wood of Error. It is no accident, dear reader, that Plato can seem quite the absurdist, especially in the early and middle dialogues.
That occurs at 435c in The Republic, part way through Book 4 in English translations. It is tossed off in passing by Glaucon during an exchange with Socrates. Here you go, starting with the ugly little guy himself:
But again, a city seemed just when three kinds of nature were present in it, and each did what is its own. And again, it seemed temperate and courageous and wise through certain other affections and dispositions of these same kinds.
True, he said.
And so, my friend, we will thus also expect the individual to have these same forms in his own soul, and rightly expect the same names for them as those for the city, because of the same affections.
Quite necessarily, he said.
Here again, we have fallen into a trifling inquiry about soul, my friend, I replied: whether it has in itself these three forms or not.
It hardly seems trifling to me, he said. For perhaps the saying that noble things are difficult [χαλεπά τα καλά] is true, Socrates.
Apparently, I replied... [translated by R. E. Allen, p. 132].
Consider, Glaucon, Socrates, and the rest of their party, are engaged in a long and arduous inquiry into the nature of the soul and its formation, or deformation. The City conjured in the long and arduous inquiry, dear reader, is itself a simulacrum for that formed or deformed soul. To thus inquire about the nature of the soul is noble, and beautiful [καλά], implies Glaucon as he offers this gnomon, and, again, noble and beautiful things are difficult [χαλεπά]. Socrates approves.
Or does he? Plato is the master ironist in his portrayal of the ironist Socrates. I hear a certain tone in Socrates's reply, a combination of astonishment and resignation. One can see him looking down a bit, and almost muttering Apparently. This inquiry will be even more difficult than any of them first thought. So far so good, but can we say unequivocally that Plato says categorically that noble and beautiful things are difficult? I think we can infer that he would echo his master's Apparently, and the whole of his works attest to a love of and a desire for the Good, however understood, and a conviction that the attainment of the Good is arduous and therefore quite rare.
To reach that conclusion, however, requires that we hear a gnomic saying, woven into a brief exchange designed to shift the dramatic flow of the dialogue at a particular point in the inquiry, in the context of Plato's work as a whole, and The Republic in particular. We must grasp at least somewhat the many modulations of the word καλά. [noble, beautiful, good, and so forth - Philokalia, etc.]. We must, finally, understand that the true danger and difficulty of this dialogue is that it just might lead to greater perplexity about the nature of the soul. If we find ourselves ever more perplexed as to that nature, we will thus be ever more perplexed as to how that soul can be rightly formed so as to tend to the Good.
We might, in short, end up in a Dark Wood of Error. It is no accident, dear reader, that Plato can seem quite the absurdist, especially in the early and middle dialogues.
'Plato has told us that the beautiful things are difficult, but that we must not avoid the beautiful dangers. The human species would be placed in peril, and soon in despair, if it shed the beautiful dangers of intelligence and reason,' Jacques Maritain.
I always liked Jacques. Oh, by the bye, Plato tells us that beautiful things are difficult in The Republic 435c, just in case anyone, you know, cares to check.
I always liked Jacques. Oh, by the bye, Plato tells us that beautiful things are difficult in The Republic 435c, just in case anyone, you know, cares to check.
a lazy cross-platform post about 'personal spirituality', edited for content and length...
The gift of dogma and doctrine resulting from the disciplined meditation on Scripture over time; great traditions of liturgy and other forms of corporate prayer; libraries full of books; curved space-time; entangled quarks; platypi and junipers; wine, scotch, tea; food; my lovely wife; terrifying extremes of sin and virtue; all of which I barely understand after forty-four years: these I suppose form the 'scaffolding' I'm supposed to kick away when I finally mature enough to cultivate my own 'personal spirituality'. We live in a world of wonders out there, and I'm supposed to get lost in my own curved inward something?
I would rather not, thank you. I will, mind you, but that's called sin don't you know, and sin is bad for us.
not a book review...
So, I'm disappointed as hell in the new Poems of Octavio Paz. The poems, of course, are beautiful. It's just that the collection itself is slapped together from already existing books that, taken separately, offer a far more generous collection of the master's poems. This went right over my head as I went all euphoric at the possibility of finding in this book poems never before found. Alas and alack, my friends, that was not to be. Instead, you get selections from Paz's early poems, from Eagle or Sun, from East Slope, etcetera. That there from is the key my dear reader.
You are better off picking up Early Poems, 1935-1955, Eagle or Sun?, prose poems; and The Collected Poems of Octavio Paz: 1955-1987. While you're at it, why not pick up Alternating Current along with The Bow and the Lyre, two of his finest prose works. Oh, and you'll need The Double Flame. Then there's...
the new 'murder, inc'...
Killing children sure is a lucrative business. Of course cancer screening and other preventive medical procedures must give way - all those children need to be killed. Imagine, folks at Planned Parenthood killed just shy of a million children between 2009 and 2011, with a rise in productivity each year. Thus did they earn that $542 million in fiscal 2011-12. After all, we as a people hate children. What's more, we know that there is only a limited amount of stuff to go around. Imagine if there were a million or more clamoring lives unworthy of life out there taking some of the stuff that could be ours. The only reasonable thing to do is kill as many of the little bastards as we can.
books!
Books by Vasari, Castiglione, Plato [in Greek!], and Cellini are on the way to my door. What a wonder.
Tuesday, January 8, 2013
'californee is the place you oughta be'...
I'm thinking about taking a trip. You know, someplace warm, sunny, on the other side of North America.
Last year the epic trip to California fizzled. It busted. It was a wash. The epic trip to Seattle and Portland was delightful, but, still still I never made it to California.
It's time to make that right.
This will take some planning on my part. That's right, I plan things now. Feel free to look about for the Four Horsemen.
There are people I want to see out there. Unfortunately, in an example of blatant indifference to my needs, they are found in Northern and extreme Southern California, Berkeley and Irvine to be precise.
Madness!
So, I haven't quite worked it out. I have a business to run, you see, and customers and employees and all manner of responsibilities. That's right, I have those now. See above.
It may require two trips, one in early February, one later in the summer. We'll see. Of course, if some folks would just move then it would be easier on me, and really now, isn't that the most important thing?
an 'atheist church' you say...
Seems that someone has founded an 'atheist church' in England. (Or is it in Britain? It can be so hard to keep track of such things.) Now, the tedium of this development boggleth the mind. There are some few 'edgy, progressive' Christian and other types who imagine that this is of course another edgy and progressive appropriation of 'church' by yet another edgy and progressive gaggle.
They are of course wrong.
You see, my friends, there is The Church, otherwise known as One, Holy, Catholic, and Apostolic; also known as Hard To See and Shipwrecked; there is, I say again, The Church, and there are all the other gaggles we like to form and found. This gaggle in Brenglelond sounds like any other voluntary association, and I wish 'em well, really I do. But what they have there is not a church.
Having said that, I await eagerly the hymnody sure to flourish in their midst. One could even call their central confession The Tedium. They can indulge witlessly in all manner of supposedly comforting rituals, and cultivate fake community all the live long day. It'll keep 'em off the streets at least. For me and mine, to spend time telling anyone why the whole venture is boring, stupid, and ultimately self-defeating would itself be boring, stupid, and ultimately self-defeating.
If I were an atheist, I would avoid anything modified with 'church'. I might take up table-tennis, or learn how to break into bank vaults, anything to avoid spending time with people who imagine there is such a thing as an 'atheist church'.
Peace out all, even you atheists.
They are of course wrong.
You see, my friends, there is The Church, otherwise known as One, Holy, Catholic, and Apostolic; also known as Hard To See and Shipwrecked; there is, I say again, The Church, and there are all the other gaggles we like to form and found. This gaggle in Brenglelond sounds like any other voluntary association, and I wish 'em well, really I do. But what they have there is not a church.
Having said that, I await eagerly the hymnody sure to flourish in their midst. One could even call their central confession The Tedium. They can indulge witlessly in all manner of supposedly comforting rituals, and cultivate fake community all the live long day. It'll keep 'em off the streets at least. For me and mine, to spend time telling anyone why the whole venture is boring, stupid, and ultimately self-defeating would itself be boring, stupid, and ultimately self-defeating.
If I were an atheist, I would avoid anything modified with 'church'. I might take up table-tennis, or learn how to break into bank vaults, anything to avoid spending time with people who imagine there is such a thing as an 'atheist church'.
Peace out all, even you atheists.
stunning announcement...
I have in fact resolved the Church Thing.
Really, it's true. Why are you looking at me like that?
I resolved the Church Thing this afternoon. It was remarkably simple.
No, I'm not going to tell you how I resolved it. Suffice it to say that it's done.
Now what do I do?
Really, it's true. Why are you looking at me like that?
I resolved the Church Thing this afternoon. It was remarkably simple.
No, I'm not going to tell you how I resolved it. Suffice it to say that it's done.
Now what do I do?
Monday, January 7, 2013
another bare beginning...
I don't imagine this would count as a translation, but here are the first four bars of The Odyssey:
Sing Muse, through me tell the story
of Odysseus, he of many tropes and tells,
who learned the minds of many a man in many
a city once he sacked Troy's sacral center...
Sing Muse, through me tell the story
of Odysseus, he of many tropes and tells,
who learned the minds of many a man in many
a city once he sacked Troy's sacral center...
Sunday, January 6, 2013
aristotelian reflections from another...
This, the opening of Fran O'Rourke's 'Human Nature and Destiny in Aristotle':
'Aristotle's inquiry into human nature is manifold and far-reaching. Each aspect of his philosophy discloses an understanding of man as unique - distinguished in his diversity. Aristotle's man merits the Odyssean epithet [polytropos]: of many turns, versatile and resourceful. Superficially his creative and adaptive character is confirmed by the titles of Aristotle's various treatises. A cursory review indicates that man is a living, breathing animal endowed with soul; he investigates the world and deliberates how he himself should live, pondering his actions as dramatically represented by the tragic poets. Aristotelian man sleeps, dreams, and is anxious about old age; living in a political state and fascinated by the animal world, he looks to the heavens in hope of discerning his destiny.'
That sounds about right.
'Aristotle's inquiry into human nature is manifold and far-reaching. Each aspect of his philosophy discloses an understanding of man as unique - distinguished in his diversity. Aristotle's man merits the Odyssean epithet [polytropos]: of many turns, versatile and resourceful. Superficially his creative and adaptive character is confirmed by the titles of Aristotle's various treatises. A cursory review indicates that man is a living, breathing animal endowed with soul; he investigates the world and deliberates how he himself should live, pondering his actions as dramatically represented by the tragic poets. Aristotelian man sleeps, dreams, and is anxious about old age; living in a political state and fascinated by the animal world, he looks to the heavens in hope of discerning his destiny.'
That sounds about right.
of God and the gods...
I am a weird sort of monotheist.
You see, it wouldn't surprise me if I ran into Apollo, or Athena. Of course, they would be creatures, but strange creatures all the same. It's no stunner that Milton limned his Gabriel and Michael and the other angelic powers as gods. They're embodied, albeit differently than us humans; they bleed lichor like the Olympians; they live off ambrosia. They are ultimately indestructible. The battles in heaven resemble the almost farcical combat between the gods before the gates of Troy in the Iliad.
So again, Kalypso, Athena, Apollo, Dionysius - for all I know, there are creatures out there with those names. Creatures, mind you, who for a while didn't mind making humans worship 'em. I have it on good authority that such Powers and Principalities have been defeated and subdued.
Yes, I confess the one true God, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Yet, there are no doubt strange creatures most of us now imagine, superstitious hypermoderns that we are, were drawn as fictions to while away the hours. Then again, I believe in transfigured Russian saints with fire streaming from their fingertips and all kinds of other wonders.
Sue me.
In that Spirit I am drawn to ask, when all creatures bow the knee to Jesus, will Zeus be among them?
You see, it wouldn't surprise me if I ran into Apollo, or Athena. Of course, they would be creatures, but strange creatures all the same. It's no stunner that Milton limned his Gabriel and Michael and the other angelic powers as gods. They're embodied, albeit differently than us humans; they bleed lichor like the Olympians; they live off ambrosia. They are ultimately indestructible. The battles in heaven resemble the almost farcical combat between the gods before the gates of Troy in the Iliad.
So again, Kalypso, Athena, Apollo, Dionysius - for all I know, there are creatures out there with those names. Creatures, mind you, who for a while didn't mind making humans worship 'em. I have it on good authority that such Powers and Principalities have been defeated and subdued.
Yes, I confess the one true God, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Yet, there are no doubt strange creatures most of us now imagine, superstitious hypermoderns that we are, were drawn as fictions to while away the hours. Then again, I believe in transfigured Russian saints with fire streaming from their fingertips and all kinds of other wonders.
Sue me.
In that Spirit I am drawn to ask, when all creatures bow the knee to Jesus, will Zeus be among them?
false analogies...
Have you noticed that when we make something clever, like an internal combustion engine, say, or a supercomputer, we will then turn around and say that the human person is 'like' that very clever thing?
So, our 'mind' is nothing of the sort - supposedly it's like software that orders and runs hardware. Our bodies are 'like' the machines we make with such ease.
No one seems curious about this kind of analogy.
So, our 'mind' is nothing of the sort - supposedly it's like software that orders and runs hardware. Our bodies are 'like' the machines we make with such ease.
No one seems curious about this kind of analogy.
thoughts tossed at random...
Plato is a poet in service of a peculiar dialectic. His dramaturgy is as great as Shakespeare's, his prose as peerless.
Plato and the Greek dramatists and Thucydides all have in common an obsession with argument, dialectic. 'One the one hand x, on the other hand y' in stichomythian patterns that would make Quentin Tarantino weep, that is the manifestation of the classical Greek mind.
I'm not original in saying this. Were I to offer a footnote for all who said this, the footnote would exhaust the capacity of every server on earth.
Well, it would still be a pretty damned long footnote.
It's all a wash of light and dark grey out there today. Is it day? What is 'today'? We don't have snow of course, but freezing rain.
The Church is not invisible, by the bye. She's just, well, hard to find at this particular place in space-time. A couple of hours to the north, and we'd have a whole different set of problems.
We no longer have any cats. We will therefore never be celebrities on the Internet.
Surprising discovery: the novels of Robertson Davies aren't really that good.
I've run out of things to say.
Peace out.
We no longer have any cats. We will therefore never be celebrities on the Internet.
Surprising discovery: the novels of Robertson Davies aren't really that good.
I've run out of things to say.
Peace out.
Saturday, January 5, 2013
i resolve the church thing in one sentence...
Given that, as Jaroslav Pelikan pointed out, the Luderans are now either Baptist or Methodist, those communions being honorably wrong in themselves and not at all that Luderan in any substantive way, it is clear to me that me and my house cannot eventually land in any particular parish of any Luderan gaggle, for I was and remain the kind of Luderan that can only be called Luthodox, with a strong love of Augustine built in that prevents me and my house from permanently taking up residence in any particular parish of any Orthodox gaggle, though each of those gaggles is beautiful in themselves and worthy (Axios!) of love and respect, yet I can only figure out one thing at a time, time being distended being given to a man in limited quantities and qualities for the purpose of praise embodied, such embodiment the sine qua non of human life in space-time such that, all things being equal, we would find heaven without a body to be nothing more than a sensory deprivation dimension, and that one thing at a time this past year has been what to do with the next fifteen years of my and our life, it therefore seems meet and right and salutary that I resolve to not resolve the conflict known to any and all as The Church Thing at this time (see above remarks about time, distension of being, and suchlike), because I really, like, for crying out loud how is a guy supposed to make sense of this clusterfuck in the first place?!?
property properly speaking is not proper...
It's weird, sitting here in my study at home. I personally own almost nothing here. This Macbook? Not mine. This desk, the chair, the credenza on which sits that printer/copier/fax? None of it is mine. The paperclips, rubber bands, pencils, printer/copier paper, pens, post-it notes, floor lamp belong to another, well, it's a kind of person.
That's what the Robed Supremes tell me anyway.
You see, dear reader, all of that belongs to my company. Now, of course, the company belongs to me. I alone own it. So, all of this is mine to do with as I please, but only because I own the company that bought it all. That's just bizarre. Philosophically speaking, I'm the mind moving the body made up of lamp, credenza, chair, paperclips, desk, pens, pencils, post-its, etcetera and so forth. I give form to the substance that would otherwise remain inchoate.
That's vertiginous my friends, and a little creepy. Could be the mimosas - they were enormous, 24 ounce mugs of delight. So, perhaps it's best to say that all this is mine but it isn't mine. I can take it and throw it out the window if so moved. But it's not mine in the same way that flat screen television in the living room is mine.
Then again, that's not entirely mine at all. It belongs to my wife and me.
Only the books scattered about the house really belong to me free and clear. The books and my truck. If I could store all my books in the truck [ha!], there you'd have the stuff that belongs to me simpliciter. Then again, even the books stuffed in the truck are all-in gifts from another, and don't really belong to me, or any of us for that matter.
Madness.
That's what the Robed Supremes tell me anyway.
You see, dear reader, all of that belongs to my company. Now, of course, the company belongs to me. I alone own it. So, all of this is mine to do with as I please, but only because I own the company that bought it all. That's just bizarre. Philosophically speaking, I'm the mind moving the body made up of lamp, credenza, chair, paperclips, desk, pens, pencils, post-its, etcetera and so forth. I give form to the substance that would otherwise remain inchoate.
That's vertiginous my friends, and a little creepy. Could be the mimosas - they were enormous, 24 ounce mugs of delight. So, perhaps it's best to say that all this is mine but it isn't mine. I can take it and throw it out the window if so moved. But it's not mine in the same way that flat screen television in the living room is mine.
Then again, that's not entirely mine at all. It belongs to my wife and me.
Only the books scattered about the house really belong to me free and clear. The books and my truck. If I could store all my books in the truck [ha!], there you'd have the stuff that belongs to me simpliciter. Then again, even the books stuffed in the truck are all-in gifts from another, and don't really belong to me, or any of us for that matter.
Madness.
the end the beginning...
As Twelfth Night comes to a close, let's have that great eschatological conclusion to the Fool's Song:
A great while ago the world begun,
With hey ho, the wind and the rain,
But that's all one, our play is done,
And we'll strive to please you every day.
A song for the Last Days, the Fullness of Time, that end of all ages inaugurated at the conception and birth of Jesus, the Incarnate Son. Tomorrow we celebrate the Epiphany, or more properly, the Theophany, of Jesus - his baptism in the Jordan and the revelation of the Holy Trinity in our space-time.
The play is done, and yet here we live in a kind of epilogue. Into the seemingly empty theater sounds a Voice, saying 'This is my Beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased', and the Holy Spirit is revealed to always be alight on the Son, manifesting his glory as the only-begotten of the Father. And with that, the story of Jesus has barely begun before we hear of death, resurrection, and Triune love.
Tell me there's another who saves, who loves. Tell me there is another who is Life itself. Tell me, and I will not hear you.
canon my canon...
Seems some still think it interesting to ponder the 'openness' of the canon of Scripture. This is a boring question, because the answer is obvious that one can in fact add to the list of books on offer.
The Bible is a book of books after all.
So, how to keep this from going all loopy and Episcopalian?
Measure the canon by the Canon. Simple.
Remember the fundamental principle: the Apostles read Jesus according to the Scriptures. Scripture is meant to remind us who Jesus is. This does not foreclose historical and other kinds of inerrancy, it just states the Name of the King in whose service we must always press such notions, should they prove valid.
At some point, however, it seems meet and right to say that we shall not allow this book of books to become so unwieldy that an elderly bishop might fall to his death under its weight. Thus we allow for extra-canonical works that have more or less authority depending on how closely they hew to the apostolic canon for measuring the Canon. Thus Athanasius has more authority than Arius though Arius be flush with good intentions and meek as a lamb. In suchwise, Ignatius of Antioch has more authority than Ignatius Loyola, loyal to Christ though that later knight may have been (and he was, my friends, he was).
These writings help us read the Apostolic Scriptures with greater clarity, and often with greater delight. I'm not sure the book of books should take on the dimensions of a decent seminary library. What's more, it seems to me that this question is too often floated by those who would keep the Church in a constant state of agitation. To my ear, they also call unseemly attention to themselves, as though no one has ever been such a free spirit. Certainly those of us content to simply read the Scriptures we've received lack the vision of one who must always be about the business of noodling with profundities like a list of books in a Book.
music criticism...
Why o why are waltzes associated with the New Year, as the pagans call it? There's even a Strauss festival to ring in the day. I stumbled upon it as I drove from Ohio to Florida. Now, now a waltz plays over the muzak here at the place of writing and tea. It's the Twelfth Day of Christmas, for crying out loud. Give us some Renaissance music, for the love of God. Make like it's a court in Tudor England, with lot's of hand-held drums and lutes and suchlike.
Well, now, with the illogic of muzak, even 'classical', we have, sounds like Haydn, but really now who can tell over time? This music as faint background annoys me. True, true, some pieces we admire were in their spacetime divertimenti for the famous and fatuous. All the same, dear reader, we don't recall each divertimento composed, say, at the time of Mozart, but we do remember Eine Kleine Nachtmusik, which is delightful even if the Mozart cult is a tad mannerist.
O well, it would be better for all if there were no muzak of any kind. Alas and alack the day, your factotum has not been granted the absolute power needed to make such sweeping social changes.
Well, now, with the illogic of muzak, even 'classical', we have, sounds like Haydn, but really now who can tell over time? This music as faint background annoys me. True, true, some pieces we admire were in their spacetime divertimenti for the famous and fatuous. All the same, dear reader, we don't recall each divertimento composed, say, at the time of Mozart, but we do remember Eine Kleine Nachtmusik, which is delightful even if the Mozart cult is a tad mannerist.
O well, it would be better for all if there were no muzak of any kind. Alas and alack the day, your factotum has not been granted the absolute power needed to make such sweeping social changes.
under the same management only different...
I serve at the pleasure of the Steve Jobs, who lives and walks amongst us.
Really, it's true - he's a ferret named 'Bill', and he now belongs to a ten year old boy in Westerville, Ohio.
Well.
I doubt any of that is true, but for all that I type this iddy biddy post on a new Macbook. It's so thin and light, and truth be told it's good for all the work I do, so there you go. The only annoying thing about it so far is the 'delete' key, which is in fact a backspace key. It's confusing as hell.
Details people!
As you can see, we've returned to the ER offices, and have spent a week or so cleaning the place and unpacking boxes. We came back for various reasons, not least of which is the simple fact that I missed it. Nothing else I've tried has ever felt right. So, ER it is.
Of course, I'm in a rather different place than when last ER was a going concern. I am now a small business owner; I've won awards for sales and customer service; our office occupies part of an actual house; and and and, get this dear reader (whoever may be left), I have paid off all our debts.
That's right, the once carefree amateur theologian and poet extraordinaire that you once knew so well is now cumbered with cares of every stripe. I meet payroll. I train and manage employees. I own a company. My family has, dare I say it, money. Not, you know, a lot, but lessee, before we had none, and now we have some, and my extensive math studies remind me that some > none, ergo and qed.
This has changed our lives dramatically, but I remain as ever a poet and amateur theologian with a taste for Greek and Latin. Then, well, there is the Church Thing, which remains unresolved as of this post. So, you see, there is still a mess. Not all is well in Denmark. So all is well.
I'm reminded of these lines from Warren Zevon, who could be the patron saint of ER: 'Still out here in the wind and rain/I look a little older but I feel no pain/And it stands to reason that I'm/Still looking for love, still looking for love'. Yes, that's me my only friends - a little older, a little wiser, a whole lot happier, and still still still looking almost desperately for those traces of the Love which moves the Sun and other Stars. I hope a few of my old readers who migrated with me to The Pebbled Shore will find their way back here. I hope some few newer folk will stumble on the place. I hope fake stat services will stop screwing with my numbers.
I hope, in short, to keep ER for a long time to come. There may be further changes coming, but ER will always be mine and yours.
Peace out.
Really, it's true - he's a ferret named 'Bill', and he now belongs to a ten year old boy in Westerville, Ohio.
Well.
I doubt any of that is true, but for all that I type this iddy biddy post on a new Macbook. It's so thin and light, and truth be told it's good for all the work I do, so there you go. The only annoying thing about it so far is the 'delete' key, which is in fact a backspace key. It's confusing as hell.
Details people!
As you can see, we've returned to the ER offices, and have spent a week or so cleaning the place and unpacking boxes. We came back for various reasons, not least of which is the simple fact that I missed it. Nothing else I've tried has ever felt right. So, ER it is.
Of course, I'm in a rather different place than when last ER was a going concern. I am now a small business owner; I've won awards for sales and customer service; our office occupies part of an actual house; and and and, get this dear reader (whoever may be left), I have paid off all our debts.
That's right, the once carefree amateur theologian and poet extraordinaire that you once knew so well is now cumbered with cares of every stripe. I meet payroll. I train and manage employees. I own a company. My family has, dare I say it, money. Not, you know, a lot, but lessee, before we had none, and now we have some, and my extensive math studies remind me that some > none, ergo and qed.
This has changed our lives dramatically, but I remain as ever a poet and amateur theologian with a taste for Greek and Latin. Then, well, there is the Church Thing, which remains unresolved as of this post. So, you see, there is still a mess. Not all is well in Denmark. So all is well.
I'm reminded of these lines from Warren Zevon, who could be the patron saint of ER: 'Still out here in the wind and rain/I look a little older but I feel no pain/And it stands to reason that I'm/Still looking for love, still looking for love'. Yes, that's me my only friends - a little older, a little wiser, a whole lot happier, and still still still looking almost desperately for those traces of the Love which moves the Sun and other Stars. I hope a few of my old readers who migrated with me to The Pebbled Shore will find their way back here. I hope some few newer folk will stumble on the place. I hope fake stat services will stop screwing with my numbers.
I hope, in short, to keep ER for a long time to come. There may be further changes coming, but ER will always be mine and yours.
Peace out.
Friday, January 4, 2013
Good evening all. Just trying out this here new Macbook Thingimabob. That's its official name, you know. You have the 'Air', the 'Pro', and the 'Thingimabob'. The later is ridiculously cheap due to an almost complete lack of anything you might want in a laptop.
And yes, it's still a basic laptop, which is laughable these days I know. Don't you fret none, for soon we'll have a tablet again around these parts, and the Apple Tyranny will be complete.
Now, if you'll excuse me, the test here is over, and I have to check to see if bots continue to inflate my stats.
That just sounds so wrong.
And yes, it's still a basic laptop, which is laughable these days I know. Don't you fret none, for soon we'll have a tablet again around these parts, and the Apple Tyranny will be complete.
Now, if you'll excuse me, the test here is over, and I have to check to see if bots continue to inflate my stats.
That just sounds so wrong.
poetics...
I've had five asian pear mojitos. All I can think is *Cold outside. Outside, snow*.
Alcohol is the origin of Haiku.
Alcohol is the origin of Haiku.
reading Plato...
Though he is at pains to assure all that his speech is free of satire, I cannot help dear reader but think that Aristophanes has played us in his quite outlandish speech for the *Symposium*. It would seem a whole system of belief depends upon this slender speech, at least if movies are to be believed.
Weird it all is.
Weird it all is.
Tuesday, January 1, 2013
apropos the news...
While I'm all motion ill and such, let me go on the record as a guy who wouldn't know how to hold a gun: not only should folks be free to own all the guns they can afford, they should also be able to get a hold of kevlar body armor.
While we're at it, folks should be able to read the CIA's mail, and listen in on the NSA.
You think I'm joking.
While we're at it, folks should be able to read the CIA's mail, and listen in on the NSA.
You think I'm joking.
another poem, as yet a fragment
Retreat
The shore at day’s end -
rivulets form as the tide recedes,
all creatures come, drink,
though the water kills.
Calcified fragments of a sand
dollar crumble, the sea
calm, a shimmering
lure in the slanting winter sun.
The shore at day’s end -
rivulets form as the tide recedes,
all creatures come, drink,
though the water kills.
Calcified fragments of a sand
dollar crumble, the sea
calm, a shimmering
lure in the slanting winter sun.
a poem
Birth Pangs
Hope the sun will cease
to kill and make alive after eons
of time have passed, seas
boiled away, rock worn
smooth, all that is
remade in fires of resurrection -
destined end to the pain
of a mind mad with occult desire.
Hope the sun will cease
to kill and make alive after eons
of time have passed, seas
boiled away, rock worn
smooth, all that is
remade in fires of resurrection -
destined end to the pain
of a mind mad with occult desire.
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