just a reminder...

     Intellectus intelligendo in infinitium procedit - just in case you forgot.

not a movie review...

     Just watched Escape Plan. First of all, Arnold can act when the language is German. That's interesting at least. Second, has anybody noticed that religion, of one kind or another, is crucial to the story? It's possible that this is a religious movie to the core. I don't know - this bears more thought. 

     Yes, that's what I said - I need to think more deeply about Escape Plan.

paradise...

It's called 'impending doom'.

odds and ends...

I don't trust Yvor Winters's judgment as a critic of poetry. Too little gets through the strain. 

*****

Seems I may lack Negative Capability.

*****

The Winter Olympics are upon us - Eternal Recurrence as a Nightmare in which Sisyphus is grateful for the stone.

*****

Napoleon occasionally stubbed his toe. Perhaps he drooled in his sleep. Had Hegel considered this, the Cold War might not have happened.

sorting books, selling books, damning books...

     The Book Purge continues apace. No one is safe in this State Of Terror. So far, thirteen boxes of books have been cast to the outer darkness, and beside me sit three more boxes. The books in those boxes no doubt tremble with that deep, existential horror at what awaits 'em. Such is the life of the reprobate.
     To my bemusement, LA tells me that she can't tell the difference. It's as if ten books spring up to replace one that is taken. How am I to make progress in winnowing the chafe from the wheat if there is no visible remnant left behind after I have beaten the threshing floor? Will my book collection remain for all time a corpus mixtum, will I never be free from the tares that plague my people?
     Let me tell you, sorting and selling books isn't as easy as it sounds.

weather!

     Outside it's six degrees. I know that, because the Weather Channel website tells me so. Below the temperature, they also tell me that six degrees is very cold, for which I am grateful. It's not like I froze my ass off while getting the mail or anything.

the news, the news...

     Why no, CNN, I don't need to know about Philip Seymour Hoffman's last hours, thanks all the same. 

     O, say, you wouldn't happen to know what's going on in Ukraine, or Thailand, or perhaps Washington, DC would you? 
     Didn't think so.

     No, I don't want to see Justin Bieber's mugshot. 

reconsiderations...

     As I work through the essays and stories and epigrams from the old Blog-City Endlessly Rocking, it becomes clear that some further work is required of your long-suffering factotum. It is, to tell the truth, time to reconsider everything I ever wrote.

     You see, it's not as though I would necessarily retract anything, though that may yet happen. No, I sense that something is missing, that what's there is good as far as it goes, but it needs...something. So in this as in so many things I will learn from my master Augustine, and make progress through writing - in this case, as he taught, it will be through shaking down my previous works to see how they stand.

in other news...

     Ate my last cupcake last night. Yes, it's true. In fact, I ate my last five cupcakes last night. It seemed meet and right so to do, but now, oddly enough, it feels like I've had enough. Cake of all kinds has long been my friend, and I'm not swearing off anything as though a vow were needed. No, it's weird - as I get older, it seems that I just don't care about such things as much as I did in the past. Besides, as lovely as cake of all kinds can be, it does terrible things to me now. So, perhaps wistfully, it is time to bid adieu to cake.
     Meringue, ice cream, whipped cream, mousse, and other such confections, on the other hand, are another matter. I'm not, after all, an idiot.

i swerve into thomas aquinas...

     My only friends, of late I've been drawn back into the complex world of intricate implication that is the thought of one Tomasso d'Aquino (would he have been called Tomasso in the thirteenth century?). It has been a while since I spent any time with the Angelic Doctor. I have even sought to distance myself from that way of construing history which places him at a kairos wherein he weaves his grand synthesis, only to have epigones and enemies tear it to pieces in the succeeding centuries. This genealogical method obscures much of the difficulty of relating a man like Thomas to the rapid and sometimes overwhelming changes of his time, and thus renders a caricature of the relationship between intellectual history on the one hand, and political and social history on the other. 

     Still, once you have shaken off the genealogical jitters, Thomas's works, especially the great Summa Theologiae, stand in all their beauty and danger. So, it seems time to take up the arduous effort of reading him once again. I don't promise by any means that I'll read only works by Tomasso. In fact, I will continue to read Julian of Norwich, all manner of poets and novelists, and pretty much anything I please come to think of it. Just know that accompanying it all will be the constant recourse to the Dumb Ox and his best readers. (Right now, that includes Denys Turner, Fran O'Rourke, Jean-Pierre Torrell, Gilles Emery, Thomas Gilby, and of course the venerable Etienne Gilson.) Anyway, this is happening, and only good can come from it. 

this could go on for a while...

bore
shore
snore
lore
pore
store
four
adore
core
swore
hoar
roar
tore
whore
wore
gore
nor
sore
pour
repor
shore
poor
floor
door
boar
chore
boor
moor
score 
your 
spore 
fore
corps
oar
before
war
abhor
ignore
you're
yore
restore

hilarious
miraculous
fictitious
gratuitous
luminous
dexterous
frivolous
scurrilous
ridiculous
melodious
libidinous
ferruginous
erogenous
sacculus
vacuous
fabulous
blasphemous
glorious
poisonous
scandalous
sensuous
impetuous
fortuitous
monotonous
scrupulous
crapulous
calculus
ominous
fissiparous
erroneous
querulous
deleterious

seditious
parlous
obnoxious
noxious
fractious
ambitious
tendentious
pretentious
mendacious
fallacious
salacious

still nothing...

   Have another list of words on me.

guide
mountainside
pride
betide
tide
stride
wide
slide
eventide
bestride
elide
plied
replied
side
died
cried
collide
decried
allied 
un-tried
lied
ride
bide
abide
hide
decide
beside
reside
un-tied
belied

i want to write a poem...

     ...but I've got nothing. So, for my own amusement, I offer these words. Don't say I never give you anything.

fair
lair
their
there
bare
dare
care
hair
hare
fare
affair
pair
pare
pear
swear
rare 
mare
eclair

meet
seat
meat
fleet
greet
sleet
eat
peat
beet
pleat
bleat
cleat
sweet
Pete
heat
feet
feat

weed
feed
seed
mede
lead
need
peed
read
keyed

cant
chant
plant
rant

arose
shows
grows
knows
nose
flows
pose
hose
toes
woes
slows
rows
crows

twain
slain
main
pain
bane
pane
wane
crane
cane
lane
swain
refrain
rain
grain
deign 
feign
complain
reign

post
most
coast
roast
toast
host

lost
cost
crossed
tossed
glossed
flossed
bossed

boss
moss
floss
gloss
toss
cross
loss
lacrosse
albatross

cussed
nonplussed

notes from a commonplace book...

     'We face even more directly the problem that was widely discussed throughout the fifty years before Keats was born and so throughout his lifetime: where are the Homers and Shakespeares, the "greater genres" - the epic and dramatic tragedy - or at least reasonable equivalents? How much of this is to be explained by the modern premium on originality - by the vivid awareness of what the great art of the past has achieved, and by the poet's or artist's embarrassment before that rich amplitude? The pressure of this anxiety and the variety of reactions to it constitute one of the great unexplored factors in the history of the arts since 1750. And in no major poet, near the beginning of the modern era, is this problem met more directly than it is in Keats. The question of the way in which Keats was somehow able, after the age of twenty-two, to confront this dilemma, and to transcend it, has fascinated every major poet who has used the English language since Keats's death and also every major critic since the Victorian era,' (W. Jackson Bate, John Keats, 1963: p. viii).

anglicans never fail to disappoint...

     The Anglican Church in North America has issued a new catechism. The damn thing makes my head hurt. It was put together by a task force, don't you know, and is seventy-two pages long. (That's not the extended version, which contains a vision statement.)
     Now, I have only glanced at the thing, but you can see right away that it's doomed. Among the 'guidelines for drafting' used by the task force we read, 'Everything taught should be compatible with, and acceptable to, all recognized schools of Anglican thought . . . ' (p. 4). That gives away the game before it has even started. It is that sort of latitudinarian 'comprehensiveness' that sank the Anglican Church.
     For my house, Luther's Small Catechism will do just fine. If you want something larger, he also wrote a Large Catechism, so you should have plenty to read.

     Keats and Byron are on my mind. 
     Just thought I'd mention it.

just stopping by for a moment...

     Wireless went down last night. It's back up now. Why, nobody knows. It's just one of many mysteries around here of late. 
     I'm serious - there's weirdness afoot. 

money!

     I've noticed among many of my friends a disdain for money, or rather, for the making of money. I don't mean that they are outraged at greed and the oppression of the poor, though that may also be true. No, what I see is a good, old fashioned class issue - the disdain of the academic and leisured classes for those activities that make money. They are seen as unclean and beneath contempt, and are often portrayed as essentially identical with greed and the oppression of the poor. That I would sell something and earn a commission, or earn dividends from the trading and ownership of equities; that, in short, I would work on the street to earn money, makes me a lower class of person.*
     Mind you, they really like the things money can buy them. They like endowed chairs for professors; the like concerts and mp3's; they like guitars and banjos and drums and all manner of musical instruments. They definitely want good hospitals, good clinics, and well-tended roads and bridges. A decent stadium wouldn't go amiss I should think. Perhaps the more pious among 'em would like their parish churches to be well-endowed, with good central air and heating and a copious supply of communion wine for the Eucharist which constitutes the Church. If they're not particularly 'traditional', they might need a lot of startup capital for the praise band, Powerpoint screens, lights, smoke machines, and payroll. And finally, we must fund conferences, where attendees can spend at least some of their time insulting those of us who move money around and thus earn a living making such things possible.
     So, we have the Clerks against the Merchants, as of old. As something of a combination of the two, I find the conflict foolish, and I more and more take the disdainful and moronic comments as personal insults.
     Now, if you'll excuse me, I have business to attend to before I can settle down and read Julian of Norwich.  

*Need I point out that if you've made your millions as a soulful pop star, then it's probably all right? Mind you, that money came from somewhere - the label financed your first tour, marketed the first singles, and so forth. People with jobs bought tickets to your concerts and downloaded or otherwise bought your music. Someone, somewhere signed on the line that is dotted, and collected a commission, but it's best to forget about such regrettable realities.

damn...

this just makes me happy...

a poem revised...

Invitation

How long ago it was, we cannot tell,

for time has overtaken every thought;

we must proceed as if this shanty hell

were real, and not the fancy men have sought

even as their twiddling daydreams came to nought.

Enough. Come, have another glass of wine,

down a few more since there’s not a lot

to say between us now, then see how fine

remains this fractured world we may, somehow, divine.

a poem...

Your Poem Does Not Meet Our Needs At This Time



Dear Sir,

You show your sail of greatness, as this verse

you’ve sent is nothing like the devil’s due

in rhyme (for you have joined the blessed few

among the poets he won’t deign to curse), 

so, will you think it vain that I rehearse

the virtues of your poem? Let others sue

me shirtless if I notice something true

therein, or fail to note how you inhearse

each word in an alliterative train,

a tomb for the signifieds that you disdain 

in such a way as to inspire pure dread

among those poets who conspire to wed

the sign to some real thing, that strain

you’ll never sense though every Muse complain.

Sincerely,

The Editor

hell's frozen over, and facebook still has all your data...

     'When hell freezes over!' 
     It's obvious, of course, that this means 'Never!'
     Not so fast, my friends. If Dante is right, then the heart of hell is already frozen over, and has been since Satan found himself imprisoned there.
     So the next time someone replies to you 'That'll be when hell freezes over,' you can just calmly remind 'em that hell is already frozen over, and so they are without excuse. This will, I'm sure, lead to greater understanding, friendship, and peaceful relations among all people.

Since I've got nothing for you this evening, here's some Beethoven, Op. 132 to be precise.

while we're at it...

     O, I don't do the 'New Year's Resolutions' thing. I do, however, have a business to run, and with that in mind I made a plan of sorts. My plan you see is to have no plan. It's really best that way.

is it really a new year?

     Well, Columbus has sped past the line, so it is now 2014 here. For those of you still in 2013, I can tell you that not much has changed. We still use iPhones and debit cards and spend too much time looking at cats on the interwebs. O, and there are alien ships hovering over every major city.
     So, yeah, 2014 is really more of the same.

the impending 2014 book purge...

This book purge will be the most radical yet - nothing is off limits. I am stalled, and a revolution is therefore in order. Such a move requires deliberation, but be of good cheer for I have a cunning plan...

i'm about to wield my threshing fork once again...

     You see, I am considering another book purge. This one would be even more radical than any in the past. With a few exceptions, all 'secondary' works would go, no matter the author. Even studies and monographs and suchlike by scholars I rather like would be fair game. This, I imagine, would reduce the stock by at least a third. 
     Already, the books plead with me, 'Spare me. Keep me for another day, a week, a year even, and I will prove my worth.' O foolish books, it is not your worth that I weigh. My reasons are inscrutable, my decree irrefragable. Do not try to avoid your destiny with simpering pleas. I will keep those book that I will keep - that is the end of it.

prattling on about a book...

     So, a copy of the classic text and translation of Bernard of Clairvaux's The Steps of Humility arrived today from Engelond. In addition to the essay by Bernard himself, the translator gives us an introductory study of Bernard's epistemology. It's a delightful example of old school scholarship in medieval philosophy and theology. 

Here you see the volume itself. It was published in 1940. The Latin text of De gradibus humilitatis et superbiae is that edited first by one Barton Mills and published in 1926 by Cambridge University Press in a volume entitled Selected Treatises of S. Bernard of Clairvaux. I happen to have that little volume as well.

     The volume that arrived today actually has many uncut pages. This is what they look like.

     Now, it was common for books of this vintage to have uncut pages. The reader would cut them as needed. That said, I was not expecting any in this particular book, but find 'em I did, all through the book. So, I get to cut them, which is something I haven't done in a long time. What's more, this tells me that I will be the first to read this copy since it was printed in 1940.
     

a poem...

Invitation

How long ago it was, I cannot tell,

the dreams have overtaken every thought;

we must proceed as if this boring hell

were real, and not the fancy men have sought

even as their twiddling daydreams came to nought.

Enough. Come, have another glass of wine

with me. I know, I know, there’s not a lot

to say between us now, yet see how fine

remains this fractured world we may, somehow, divine.

Armenia & Persia Music

Now, this may seem out of place on this day, but I assure you, it is not.

The Divine Liturgy of the Greek Orthodox Church in English

It's not just the liturgy of the Greek church, but that of all the Orthodox churches. Just thought I'd mention it. 

Christ is Born -Χριστός Υεννάται

2(9) - Gloria (I) Missa Solemnis (Beethoven) 2011 BBC Proms 67

Something from lovely lovely Ludwig van for the Feast.

a poem, revised...

How Fortunate the Fall



It seems a memory, not fit to amuse
us when we so desire to slip away
into a dream of all the good we may
or may not dare. For we yet hate to lose,
shambling and resentful of the news
that loss is woven into every play
we make. The sun yet burns us as we weigh
the odds that love’s an everlasting ruse.
So like a dream, this memory undone.
The hour's not as early as we thought,
yet we bear the remnant of our love
for a garden City lost, then won -
a fugitive law presses from above
that all as one might be more dearly bought.

We’re yet waiting in a silent hour,
penned down with our brand of vanity
into a little space, where we can see
only a hint of joy beyond the power
of easeful death. The promise of the flower
is enough for now. We can only be
and hope God never posts a probate fee,
for he always makes a strong man cower.
Listen to the echo now of every fall
of every one alive, the weal and woe
of time that is itself the final call
to flee our place of self-made famine, low
enough that God himself learned how to crawl -
it’s his delight to charm us from below.