Puddles glint on the edge of night tattling
on the sprinkler systemmes grinning, concrete tissues
directing the excess from the temple to
the streets, excuse me excuse
me people coming through.
Somewhere above the drains rattling
sits the navel and below that the tohu
and the bohu below our grins and ginseng tea
gushing birth-control to tables and seas
where Mr. Fishy isn't feeling so great
nor himself. I tend my own little garden, growing
vegetables for my neighbours, no longer
concerned with my own self.
Friend, resist the tap-water.
-r
24 September 2010
22 September 2010
ANATHEMA SIT
Not a prick of blood or drop,
not an iron-maiden or thumb-screw-
in this inquisition the only labelled pricks
are the crazy Bonifaces burning books
evoking the responsorial dropped:
r.'SCREW YOU.' with blessed venom.
That'll do the trick.
Fragmented in the heart in the head
a zoo of virtues is loosed upon the world
feasting in love-feasts upon each other,
charity and truth juxtaposed. Justice
prickles to war-cries,
foaming at big mouths and belching,
humility having not been seen for years.
They not we will silence heretics.
-r
not an iron-maiden or thumb-screw-
in this inquisition the only labelled pricks
are the crazy Bonifaces burning books
evoking the responsorial dropped:
r.'SCREW YOU.' with blessed venom.
That'll do the trick.
Fragmented in the heart in the head
a zoo of virtues is loosed upon the world
feasting in love-feasts upon each other,
charity and truth juxtaposed. Justice
prickles to war-cries,
foaming at big mouths and belching,
humility having not been seen for years.
They not we will silence heretics.
-r
13 September 2010
MYSTICAL EXPERIENCE
Had one recently. Have had one similar to it in the past, involving a decision to study theology instead of pursuing a career in graphic-design and/or marketing. I asked a few priests about these experiences, and they said it appears to be some form of 'contemplative prayer' experience.
In utter disregard for the prayer times in which I initiated the praying, this experience came upon me, not being consciously invited; I had a distinct feeling of something 'creeping up on me' of its own accord. What followed I can't really explain, other than it taking on some form of prayer/meditation for an extended period of time. Afterward the only way I can articulate it - not toward the actual 'It', so to speak, but with the self-referential, creaturely images to which we are often limited - is with the human self as a basin of water, the surface of which not able to be pierced by human vision. But in 'looking into the face of God' and beholding His goodness (i.e., contemplation), I could perceive ripples on the surface of myself, indicating Someone at work underneath the surface. At the end of the situation, I felt as though many things had been done, though what, I couldn't (and can't) really address clearly.
There were and are immediate and tangible side-effects, however. I could perceive things untwisted and untangled, though the articulation of what these 'things' are is not completely understood or understandable. I had been wondering about vocation, about various decisions, etc. - none of which were directly addressed in this experience - but the immediate question of whether or not I should go to CUA in the Spring is answered. An over-abundant Reality of patience has been hovering over and in me, whereas before (as was revealed) I have been being far too impatient. Even as I'd expressed to friends recently, 'I'm just ready to get started, to begin.' -whatever that's supposed to mean. I didn't hear a voice at all in this experience, but the effect of the experience anchored a notion deep inside me: Begin - begin what? What is a beginning? You have begun, even as you are beginning. You have people around you whom you can serve, you have debts you can pay. You have begun, even as you are beginning now.
This sort of experience shouldn't surprise a biblical theologian. God speaks when and as He wishes, about whatever He wishes, to whom He wishes; He is and will be who He is and will be. And what He 'revealed' to me isn't so much a revelation; it's an experience which left a simple decision about a next step: don't go to CUA this Spring. That has been clear enough.
As has been articulated on several occasions in my circles of friends, I see nothing in Church history or the history depicted in Sacred Scripture which indicates we should be feverishly running around trying to work up mystical experiences. Our Lord Jesus Christ actually remarks that such seeking is the sign of an 'adulterous' and 'faithless' generation. Partaking in the Sacraments is a mystical experience, one could argue the *most* mystical experience most of us will experience, embodying the over-abundant graces necessary for entering heaven - but typically that isn't 'exciting' enough for our fantastic and over-burdening/presumptuous expectations that we put on God. We want the flutters. Instead, we would do well to be prayerful, and meditate on God, and seek to do His [moral] will. That's difficult enough a task - one that might, incidentally, take a lifetime - without trying to have existentially-charged mystical experiences. However, with that caution and disclaimer lodged, when we are prayerful and meditating on God, we shouldn't be surprised if God decides to reveal Himself even in existentially-charged ways.
-r
In utter disregard for the prayer times in which I initiated the praying, this experience came upon me, not being consciously invited; I had a distinct feeling of something 'creeping up on me' of its own accord. What followed I can't really explain, other than it taking on some form of prayer/meditation for an extended period of time. Afterward the only way I can articulate it - not toward the actual 'It', so to speak, but with the self-referential, creaturely images to which we are often limited - is with the human self as a basin of water, the surface of which not able to be pierced by human vision. But in 'looking into the face of God' and beholding His goodness (i.e., contemplation), I could perceive ripples on the surface of myself, indicating Someone at work underneath the surface. At the end of the situation, I felt as though many things had been done, though what, I couldn't (and can't) really address clearly.
There were and are immediate and tangible side-effects, however. I could perceive things untwisted and untangled, though the articulation of what these 'things' are is not completely understood or understandable. I had been wondering about vocation, about various decisions, etc. - none of which were directly addressed in this experience - but the immediate question of whether or not I should go to CUA in the Spring is answered. An over-abundant Reality of patience has been hovering over and in me, whereas before (as was revealed) I have been being far too impatient. Even as I'd expressed to friends recently, 'I'm just ready to get started, to begin.' -whatever that's supposed to mean. I didn't hear a voice at all in this experience, but the effect of the experience anchored a notion deep inside me: Begin - begin what? What is a beginning? You have begun, even as you are beginning. You have people around you whom you can serve, you have debts you can pay. You have begun, even as you are beginning now.
This sort of experience shouldn't surprise a biblical theologian. God speaks when and as He wishes, about whatever He wishes, to whom He wishes; He is and will be who He is and will be. And what He 'revealed' to me isn't so much a revelation; it's an experience which left a simple decision about a next step: don't go to CUA this Spring. That has been clear enough.
As has been articulated on several occasions in my circles of friends, I see nothing in Church history or the history depicted in Sacred Scripture which indicates we should be feverishly running around trying to work up mystical experiences. Our Lord Jesus Christ actually remarks that such seeking is the sign of an 'adulterous' and 'faithless' generation. Partaking in the Sacraments is a mystical experience, one could argue the *most* mystical experience most of us will experience, embodying the over-abundant graces necessary for entering heaven - but typically that isn't 'exciting' enough for our fantastic and over-burdening/presumptuous expectations that we put on God. We want the flutters. Instead, we would do well to be prayerful, and meditate on God, and seek to do His [moral] will. That's difficult enough a task - one that might, incidentally, take a lifetime - without trying to have existentially-charged mystical experiences. However, with that caution and disclaimer lodged, when we are prayerful and meditating on God, we shouldn't be surprised if God decides to reveal Himself even in existentially-charged ways.
-r
31 August 2010
ALSOS
n., Greek origin: 'grove/groves'
--
This grove could be a sacred place.
This grove could be a sacred place.
This grove could be a sacred place,
a place
where an angel announces unto a Mary
where a saviour prays
where some hymns are sung.
It could be a sacred place.
It is not; nineteen centuries
after the Saviour prayed, somewhere
here a serpent has come has slunk has entered
and wormed its way around
these hallowed grounds
leaving its brittle and oozing fruit
strewn about unbridled orange-grass shoots
of clumps and trees
undone by blights and bloated by unheeded
rainy seasons.
Somehow sometime somewhere
the hunger
of Daidalos has sunk its inbred roots in ancient leaves
once turned to sunlight and cool breezes
and here the fester blooms
in forms of algae mould and heat and stink entombs
these bloated trees;
this grove is a thousand mouths to feed.
Festering for ten thousand years, this grove
(called Alsos in the tongue-of-old)
has taken on its ingrown face,
a pock-mark decimated place,
and then
as Daidalos begins to sing the sun’s own hymn,
here the Alsos hears and calls upon him.
Somehow somewhere,
says hungry Alsos, I must say something,
lest the grove beside me overgrow me.
So it calls upon its selfish members
to beget in sodomy a messenger,
finds a partridge, stuffs and covers
it in its mould, sends it off
for getting Daidalos;
and Daidalos
upon arrival coughs
himself to Groves into a bog
and thereby swallowed
is the Alsos.
-r
--
This grove could be a sacred place.
This grove could be a sacred place.
This grove could be a sacred place,
a place
where an angel announces unto a Mary
where a saviour prays
where some hymns are sung.
It could be a sacred place.
It is not; nineteen centuries
after the Saviour prayed, somewhere
here a serpent has come has slunk has entered
and wormed its way around
these hallowed grounds
leaving its brittle and oozing fruit
strewn about unbridled orange-grass shoots
of clumps and trees
undone by blights and bloated by unheeded
rainy seasons.
Somehow sometime somewhere
the hunger
of Daidalos has sunk its inbred roots in ancient leaves
once turned to sunlight and cool breezes
and here the fester blooms
in forms of algae mould and heat and stink entombs
these bloated trees;
this grove is a thousand mouths to feed.
Festering for ten thousand years, this grove
(called Alsos in the tongue-of-old)
has taken on its ingrown face,
a pock-mark decimated place,
and then
as Daidalos begins to sing the sun’s own hymn,
here the Alsos hears and calls upon him.
Somehow somewhere,
says hungry Alsos, I must say something,
lest the grove beside me overgrow me.
So it calls upon its selfish members
to beget in sodomy a messenger,
finds a partridge, stuffs and covers
it in its mould, sends it off
for getting Daidalos;
and Daidalos
upon arrival coughs
himself to Groves into a bog
and thereby swallowed
is the Alsos.
-r
28 August 2010
LIFE OF AN HVAC TECHNICIAN
Black goes to orange, orange to brown, yellow to yellow, red to red, blue to blue, brown to black, and white to green. -Unless the predecessor wired heat and cool backwards, which happens to be the case with one out of every five thermostats polled. Then it's orange to yellow and yellow to brown.
Fun, no?
-r
Fun, no?
-r
25 August 2010
Poetry, History, Daedalus
I stumbled upon a friend who'd stumbled fragments of the myths of Daidalos, Perdix, and Perdix/Talos/Calos, and during morning break I watched a special on the Manhattan Project - the people behind it, the personal objectives, all the beautiful and horrible and subjective motivations behind the fumbling with atomic energy. And the poetic/apocalyptic theologian couldn't pass up General *Groves*, whose name in Greek is Alsos, which corresponds with Operation Alsos (which fearfully sought, like Daidalos with Perdix's saw, to beat Germany to the punch). Thus, I've begun roughly plotting a mythological/poetic portrait of a snapshot in history. This means I'm setting out to do the same thing that just about every other boring apocalyptic theologian has done with fiction since Project Trinity's detonation of the atomic bomb; but the most inviting challenge has always been to do something that has been done many times, and do it well.
DAIDALOS (the prologue)
He stood in a soup-line for ten years,
for ten full years, trying to steer clear
of the flash of mustard-gas in his mind
and the smell of the trenches in August,
the rain and heat and silence and blood mixed with
rotting feet and the flesh and machine-gun-gutted howls of
the quiet portents of the maimed and blistered yet to come.
He stood in a soup-line for ten years,
for ten whole years, applying for art
in Vienna, hoping his twisted heart
and broken mind could find a central
whole in holy pre-ubermensch halls.
He stood in a soup-line for ten years,
for ten miserable years, filing patents
and working on his day-dreamed math,
when
finally
the Call flashed onto his doorstep,
YOUR HELP NEEDED like so many newspapers, his patent
and the oracles clearing the blind-eyed windows of the
circumstantial building, the building, the
building of tanks and gun manufacturing.
He's lived for ten thousand years,
ever become hunger, ever jealousy of his sister's
son with the fish jaw skill-
only, now his chains are broken-
now his hungry hands are almost on dark arts-
now he's almost found the lexicon of the Lamb's book-
now his time is come.
-r
DAIDALOS (the prologue)
He stood in a soup-line for ten years,
for ten full years, trying to steer clear
of the flash of mustard-gas in his mind
and the smell of the trenches in August,
the rain and heat and silence and blood mixed with
rotting feet and the flesh and machine-gun-gutted howls of
the quiet portents of the maimed and blistered yet to come.
He stood in a soup-line for ten years,
for ten whole years, applying for art
in Vienna, hoping his twisted heart
and broken mind could find a central
whole in holy pre-ubermensch halls.
He stood in a soup-line for ten years,
for ten miserable years, filing patents
and working on his day-dreamed math,
when
finally
the Call flashed onto his doorstep,
YOUR HELP NEEDED like so many newspapers, his patent
and the oracles clearing the blind-eyed windows of the
circumstantial building, the building, the
building of tanks and gun manufacturing.
He's lived for ten thousand years,
ever become hunger, ever jealousy of his sister's
son with the fish jaw skill-
only, now his chains are broken-
now his hungry hands are almost on dark arts-
now he's almost found the lexicon of the Lamb's book-
now his time is come.
-r
24 August 2010
TWO FROM TULSA
TULSAN, TOURIST
I like the smell of Tulsa,
the tan burn and
wrinkled forehead,
the crisp handshakes,
child of farmers and
Native Americans.
They use a certain brand
of shampoo
in the airport
on the carpet;
the old man
with the wrinkled lines
and eczema hands is boarding
to Seattle.
LANDING IN TULSA
There's a graveyard
buzzing by in its
bubble-wrap sanctuary,
butted up against
the supply docks
of a shopping centre.
They had the decency at least
to put the graves out back.
Then again, there've been no complaints
or phone calls from the tenants.
-r
I like the smell of Tulsa,
the tan burn and
wrinkled forehead,
the crisp handshakes,
child of farmers and
Native Americans.
They use a certain brand
of shampoo
in the airport
on the carpet;
the old man
with the wrinkled lines
and eczema hands is boarding
to Seattle.
LANDING IN TULSA
There's a graveyard
buzzing by in its
bubble-wrap sanctuary,
butted up against
the supply docks
of a shopping centre.
They had the decency at least
to put the graves out back.
Then again, there've been no complaints
or phone calls from the tenants.
-r
20 August 2010
HERE
It's that season of the summer
again, after the age of wander
wears off, having exhausted
the sprinkler systemmes et all the
pool parties; now, we seek for
new cardigans and bring forth
new circadian seasons in their time.
All in good time,
all in good time,
and all these things are great things-
only, now we plan our trips for Paris in the spring
around the time that Here has whispered promises to bring
the beginning of conversion of the soul,
that is, the gritty stationary first dawn of potential whole.
Wander,
wander-
Here's whispering has set our face like flint,
has sent
us wandering,
wandering,
wandering-
swinging energy, centrifugal
force, emits from all,
no centre at the centre, no
centre for the whole.
Wander,
wander,
wandering,
wandering-
in the back of our ear canals
we still scratch at the dust of it all.
-r
again, after the age of wander
wears off, having exhausted
the sprinkler systemmes et all the
pool parties; now, we seek for
new cardigans and bring forth
new circadian seasons in their time.
All in good time,
all in good time,
and all these things are great things-
only, now we plan our trips for Paris in the spring
around the time that Here has whispered promises to bring
the beginning of conversion of the soul,
that is, the gritty stationary first dawn of potential whole.
Wander,
wander-
Here's whispering has set our face like flint,
has sent
us wandering,
wandering,
wandering-
swinging energy, centrifugal
force, emits from all,
no centre at the centre, no
centre for the whole.
Wander,
wander,
wandering,
wandering-
in the back of our ear canals
we still scratch at the dust of it all.
-r
09 August 2010
HEART-BEAT (AT OLDE WORLD)
Two old men crying memories,
two lovers sparking eyes-
all the sweet smell of earth.
Brook still,
dirt squatting happily-
all the heart-beat.
-r
two lovers sparking eyes-
all the sweet smell of earth.
Brook still,
dirt squatting happily-
all the heart-beat.
-r
03 August 2010
MALE/FEMALE, WORKPLACE, GOD'S GRACE
To-day's conversation, synoptic translation:
FEMALE - 'You're late to fixing my problem.'
MALE - 'I never said I'd come in the first place. Please calm down, I'm here.'
FEMALE - 'Wow, you're a typically dumb and unfeeling brute, male. I've got a dozen guests who are without air-conditioning.'
MALE - 'Wow, you're a typically irrational squawker, female. My heart-felt desire here is to help you out, and you can't seem to see that.'
FEMALE - 'It doesn't surprise me that you're a selfish aggressor.'
MALE - 'I'm not sure I'm the only one.'
FEMALE - 'You're late to fixing my problem, and I'm pissed.'
MALE - 'I don't know why I'm the target of this inconsiderate abuse, and I'm pissed.'
[A single illuminated light-bulb enters from stage right, floats between the heads of MALE and FEMALE, and simultaneously:]
FEMALE - 'Hmm, wait - you seem like a halfway decent person, if ignorant, and I should give you the benefit of a doubt.'
MALE - 'Hmm, wait - you're stressed out, and I would be too, and I should give you the benefit of a doubt.'
MALE - 'Wow, wait, I remember that my co-worker did say we'd come around 10 o'clock. I'm so sorry.'
FEMALE - 'Wow, wait, you've been trying to be patient with my abuse. I'm so sorry.'
MALE - 'You were being irrational, but I would be, too, given your situation.'
FEMALE - 'You were being insensitive, but I would be, too, given my venting.'
MALE - 'Here, let me get started on the job at hand.'
FEMALE - 'I'll try to be patient.'
-r
FEMALE - 'You're late to fixing my problem.'
MALE - 'I never said I'd come in the first place. Please calm down, I'm here.'
FEMALE - 'Wow, you're a typically dumb and unfeeling brute, male. I've got a dozen guests who are without air-conditioning.'
MALE - 'Wow, you're a typically irrational squawker, female. My heart-felt desire here is to help you out, and you can't seem to see that.'
FEMALE - 'It doesn't surprise me that you're a selfish aggressor.'
MALE - 'I'm not sure I'm the only one.'
FEMALE - 'You're late to fixing my problem, and I'm pissed.'
MALE - 'I don't know why I'm the target of this inconsiderate abuse, and I'm pissed.'
[A single illuminated light-bulb enters from stage right, floats between the heads of MALE and FEMALE, and simultaneously:]
FEMALE - 'Hmm, wait - you seem like a halfway decent person, if ignorant, and I should give you the benefit of a doubt.'
MALE - 'Hmm, wait - you're stressed out, and I would be too, and I should give you the benefit of a doubt.'
MALE - 'Wow, wait, I remember that my co-worker did say we'd come around 10 o'clock. I'm so sorry.'
FEMALE - 'Wow, wait, you've been trying to be patient with my abuse. I'm so sorry.'
MALE - 'You were being irrational, but I would be, too, given your situation.'
FEMALE - 'You were being insensitive, but I would be, too, given my venting.'
MALE - 'Here, let me get started on the job at hand.'
FEMALE - 'I'll try to be patient.'
-r
02 August 2010
BIRTHDAY
Two women sitting at JJ's
and dust passing through the cracks in the pavement
greet me in passing through these parts
otherwise empty and barren, tumbleweeds
overrated but otherwise accurate,
all mechanisms of the ages.
In the cafes, beside gas stations
dust drifts through televisions,
lingers in the two women's posturing,
in the social standings;
dust blows back and forth
in the exchanges courtships and wisdom
of this dead town.
I'm not old, to the contrary,
but this place, this era
is wilted and barren,
and to alarms in this body
I find a young person incongruous
with this dead town.
-r
and dust passing through the cracks in the pavement
greet me in passing through these parts
otherwise empty and barren, tumbleweeds
overrated but otherwise accurate,
all mechanisms of the ages.
In the cafes, beside gas stations
dust drifts through televisions,
lingers in the two women's posturing,
in the social standings;
dust blows back and forth
in the exchanges courtships and wisdom
of this dead town.
I'm not old, to the contrary,
but this place, this era
is wilted and barren,
and to alarms in this body
I find a young person incongruous
with this dead town.
-r
30 July 2010
'It was late at night and we were secretly baptizing a baby that had been brought along by Omatsu and two men belonging to the Tossama. It was our first baptism since coming to Japan, and of course we had no candles nor music in our little hut - the only instrument for the ceremony was a broken little peasants' cup which we used for holy water. But it was more touching than the liturgy of any cathedral to see that poor little hut with the baby crying and Omatsu soothing it while one of the men stood on guard outside. I thrilled with joy as I listened to the solemn voice of Garrpe as he recited the baptismal prayers. This is a happiness that only a missionary priest in a foreign land can relish. As the water flowed over its forehead the baby wrinkled its face and yelled aloud. Its head was tiny; its eyes were narrow, this was already a peasant face that would in time grow up like its parents and grandparents to eke out a miserable existence face to face with the black sea in this cramped and desolate land; it, too, would live like a beast, and like a beast it would die. But Christ did not die for the good and beautiful. It is easy enough to die for the good and beautiful; the hard thing is to die for the miserable and corrupt - this is the realization that came home to me acutely at that time.'
-From /Silence/, by Shusaku Endo (trans. William Johnston. New York: Taplinger Publishing Co. 1969.)
-From /Silence/, by Shusaku Endo (trans. William Johnston. New York: Taplinger Publishing Co. 1969.)
28 July 2010
BACKROADS ARE OFTEN THE WAY TO HEAVEN
So I come to understand how hilariously meagre my debts are. Most persons seeking 'loan-forgiveness' for religious vocation do not owe family members a few thousand dollars. And yet in this situation, I'm ironically disadvantaged - like the reverse of seeking to bag groceries with a PhD on your resume - because the loans are all undocumented. Any vocational decision, particularly something like the monastic life, takes time in the lifestyle to 'succeed' - 'if the just man is barely saved', and so forth; and hesitance can equate to severe stumbling blocks later. Yet I may not have a choice but wait, and wait, and wait. Again, for the thousandth time, I'm at a crossroads in life in which it seems the route to meaningful-service/heaven - or, rather, what is perhaps my 'on-ramp' onto the highway - is blocked off due to my own decisions or other mitigating circumstances.
But it's encouraging to remember that Jesus Christ our Lord, our example, in the Gospel of St. Luke set His face 'like flint' toward Jerusalem, heading firmly in that direction - and then proceeded to be 'distracted' for the course of several chapters, healing sick people and helping the despondent. The 'distractions' were part of God's Revelation and His will. In this small reflection of our Saviour's journey, I see what seems to be a viable road for me, but my vision is limited; and along the long hard row ahead for me to hoe is probably some way in which I can serve Him meaningfully. The road (as the cliche goes) seems to be a part of the destination.
-r
But it's encouraging to remember that Jesus Christ our Lord, our example, in the Gospel of St. Luke set His face 'like flint' toward Jerusalem, heading firmly in that direction - and then proceeded to be 'distracted' for the course of several chapters, healing sick people and helping the despondent. The 'distractions' were part of God's Revelation and His will. In this small reflection of our Saviour's journey, I see what seems to be a viable road for me, but my vision is limited; and along the long hard row ahead for me to hoe is probably some way in which I can serve Him meaningfully. The road (as the cliche goes) seems to be a part of the destination.
-r
21 July 2010
SLOWLY, ROME GLOWS
Slowly, Rome glows
and while alight
we knock on our neighbours' doors
easing them all into breezeways
away from the danger.
In tenements
two-ply wide
they've berated the
edicts, this
flayed waste
of time ticking
next-door where one whore
reads her theses
in horoscopes;
next-door to her come more
edicts, feverish scholars
reading into these two books:
Hydrolistics, and Fire-
hydrant Maintenance and
Operation, greyed
by fire tides, sounds
of the whore's horoscope
exegesis.
We've no need for these
scholars hurry hurry hurried
fire licks and quick smiles
through the two-
ply dry-
wall.
-r
and while alight
we knock on our neighbours' doors
easing them all into breezeways
away from the danger.
In tenements
two-ply wide
they've berated the
edicts, this
flayed waste
of time ticking
next-door where one whore
reads her theses
in horoscopes;
next-door to her come more
edicts, feverish scholars
reading into these two books:
Hydrolistics, and Fire-
hydrant Maintenance and
Operation, greyed
by fire tides, sounds
of the whore's horoscope
exegesis.
We've no need for these
scholars hurry hurry hurried
fire licks and quick smiles
through the two-
ply dry-
wall.
-r
19 July 2010
Excerpt from Part III of Novel
Monday morning was a blinding white, a 45-degree-angled snowfield shooting straight into the sun. Blinding white - for the first time in a year-and-a-half, something moved me. It wasn't quite the old sense of wonder, as I'd known it; maybe it was wonder, but there was something new to it and not quite put together yet. I still felt tired in the bones. Strange old disjointed memories flickered in the back of my skull. Not quite put together yet. 'Sunburn in November' - the words came to mind, and I couldn't remember where I'd heard or read it.
'Are ya gonna stand there daydreaming all morning, Professor, or are ya gonna pass me the torch up here?'
Monday morning was a blinding white tile; I knew I'd be seeing purple upon climbing down from the roof - 'snow-blindness in August' was more like it. Already drenched in sweat, I braced for the weight of the soldering torch and climbed toward my co-worker's operation table. He sat on the edge of the white snowfield with legs dangling over a flatter surface, and he had already thoroughly gutted the 20-tonne air-conditioning unit in front of him.
He dropped the new compressor into position; he shook his head in disgust, 'College.' (I braced for his occasional liturgy) 'Yaknow, it's like I always say . . . ' (and to his credit he did always say it) '. . . too much education makes ya ign'rant.'
I had nothing to offer him - I never did, for such liturgy - and suddenly remembered the fictional images of Dr. Osterman reassembling himself from the sub-atomic level upward, fierce, analytical, self-reliant - 'sunburn in November.' That's where I'd seen it.
'Always lookin' down at the ground, stoppin', holdin' all us normal people up.' He dropped a screw into a compressor mount, 'Yaknow, I'd an ex-wife once - my first one - who had multiple doct'rates and master's degrees. She didn't have a lick of sense. Hand me the ratchet - no, no, the three-quarter-inch.' He shook his head again and dropped another screw into place, 'College.'
That morning in the meeting in the break-room, someone had turned the television onto the History Channel, and there was a show about some mediaeval scandal or another. Pointing at the screen with a smug look on his face, Bill postured, 'See, that's how the Catholics baptized, and that's how they baptized when I was growin' up, and that's how they still baptize: a little splash here and there.' He'd shaken his head as he always did, a sudden hair-pin but purposeful, 'See, I'm surprised after all that fancy studyin' the Bible at college that you didn't become more of a man like myself. I don't see how someone studies the Bible - really studies it - and still's lookin' into those Cattolics.' I was silent then as I always was.
Halfway through the soldering, Bill got a chirp on his work-phone; he was called down to the office. I sensed a storm coming. I was silent as I always was.
To say he seemed nervous would be an understatement, 'You got this now?'
'Yeah,' I said.
'Ya sure?'
'I got this. I've done it before.'
He nodded dubiously, 'Okay. Be right back. Don't screw it up, Professor.'
I nodded and got to work. The heat from the torch added an easy twenty degrees to the already smoldering environment of the roof. The flame and solder and copper and I had been brothers for several months now; that morning, my sweat had reached the point of a cool and constant film coating every fibre of me.
9:30 rolled around - break-time - and Bill still hadn't returned from the office. I sensed a storm. Throat-skin blistering and itching in the salt of my sweat, I enjoyed the notion of climbing down from the roof and going into the air-conditioned building below my feet; but for now I was transfixed: the roof had tried and seduced me.
The white snowfield fell away as I dropped down onto the flat inner roof, where the A/C units and corresponding equipment sat. It struck me as a distant memory, the rocks crunching under my feet, the desolation of tar, the shimmering heat off the flat waste. I had returned to Red Rock, if only a little piece of it, a doorway, an ikon.
After the morning break, before I'd finished soldering, my boss's boss chirped me to come down to the office. There, they told me Bill had been fired due to failing the drug-test they'd administered a week ago; I noticed the disembodied phone, keys, and clipboard lying off to the side of the desk like so much of a reposing corpse politely-enough covered.
Upon finishing the soldering job, I flushed with nitrogen, vacuumed the line, and filled with refrigerant. I was clock-work and efficient and generally in a good mood that Monday. The image of Dr. Osterman had lodged in my mind, the one of him spread-armed and hovering: sunburn in November. He had been taken apart to nothingness; he had persisted; he had lingered in the nether regions of the universe trying and trying to rebuild himself. He rebuilt himself.
I knew it was all fictional and furthermore bullshit. By then, of course, I'd long since known that there are some things sheer will-power can't fix. Hell, okay, most things. But you can't help what images lodge in your brain.
Bill called me a week later; I wished him the best and got back to work.
-r
'Are ya gonna stand there daydreaming all morning, Professor, or are ya gonna pass me the torch up here?'
Monday morning was a blinding white tile; I knew I'd be seeing purple upon climbing down from the roof - 'snow-blindness in August' was more like it. Already drenched in sweat, I braced for the weight of the soldering torch and climbed toward my co-worker's operation table. He sat on the edge of the white snowfield with legs dangling over a flatter surface, and he had already thoroughly gutted the 20-tonne air-conditioning unit in front of him.
He dropped the new compressor into position; he shook his head in disgust, 'College.' (I braced for his occasional liturgy) 'Yaknow, it's like I always say . . . ' (and to his credit he did always say it) '. . . too much education makes ya ign'rant.'
I had nothing to offer him - I never did, for such liturgy - and suddenly remembered the fictional images of Dr. Osterman reassembling himself from the sub-atomic level upward, fierce, analytical, self-reliant - 'sunburn in November.' That's where I'd seen it.
'Always lookin' down at the ground, stoppin', holdin' all us normal people up.' He dropped a screw into a compressor mount, 'Yaknow, I'd an ex-wife once - my first one - who had multiple doct'rates and master's degrees. She didn't have a lick of sense. Hand me the ratchet - no, no, the three-quarter-inch.' He shook his head again and dropped another screw into place, 'College.'
That morning in the meeting in the break-room, someone had turned the television onto the History Channel, and there was a show about some mediaeval scandal or another. Pointing at the screen with a smug look on his face, Bill postured, 'See, that's how the Catholics baptized, and that's how they baptized when I was growin' up, and that's how they still baptize: a little splash here and there.' He'd shaken his head as he always did, a sudden hair-pin but purposeful, 'See, I'm surprised after all that fancy studyin' the Bible at college that you didn't become more of a man like myself. I don't see how someone studies the Bible - really studies it - and still's lookin' into those Cattolics.' I was silent then as I always was.
Halfway through the soldering, Bill got a chirp on his work-phone; he was called down to the office. I sensed a storm coming. I was silent as I always was.
To say he seemed nervous would be an understatement, 'You got this now?'
'Yeah,' I said.
'Ya sure?'
'I got this. I've done it before.'
He nodded dubiously, 'Okay. Be right back. Don't screw it up, Professor.'
I nodded and got to work. The heat from the torch added an easy twenty degrees to the already smoldering environment of the roof. The flame and solder and copper and I had been brothers for several months now; that morning, my sweat had reached the point of a cool and constant film coating every fibre of me.
9:30 rolled around - break-time - and Bill still hadn't returned from the office. I sensed a storm. Throat-skin blistering and itching in the salt of my sweat, I enjoyed the notion of climbing down from the roof and going into the air-conditioned building below my feet; but for now I was transfixed: the roof had tried and seduced me.
The white snowfield fell away as I dropped down onto the flat inner roof, where the A/C units and corresponding equipment sat. It struck me as a distant memory, the rocks crunching under my feet, the desolation of tar, the shimmering heat off the flat waste. I had returned to Red Rock, if only a little piece of it, a doorway, an ikon.
After the morning break, before I'd finished soldering, my boss's boss chirped me to come down to the office. There, they told me Bill had been fired due to failing the drug-test they'd administered a week ago; I noticed the disembodied phone, keys, and clipboard lying off to the side of the desk like so much of a reposing corpse politely-enough covered.
Upon finishing the soldering job, I flushed with nitrogen, vacuumed the line, and filled with refrigerant. I was clock-work and efficient and generally in a good mood that Monday. The image of Dr. Osterman had lodged in my mind, the one of him spread-armed and hovering: sunburn in November. He had been taken apart to nothingness; he had persisted; he had lingered in the nether regions of the universe trying and trying to rebuild himself. He rebuilt himself.
I knew it was all fictional and furthermore bullshit. By then, of course, I'd long since known that there are some things sheer will-power can't fix. Hell, okay, most things. But you can't help what images lodge in your brain.
Bill called me a week later; I wished him the best and got back to work.
-r
NEAR SCARRITT-BENNETT AT NIGHT
Moist the tree boughs dangle
laden on the steam
cicada frog croaks,
and old oaks enshrouded lay
the cornerstone for summer,
crickets singing one last hymn
at supper.
-r
laden on the steam
cicada frog croaks,
and old oaks enshrouded lay
the cornerstone for summer,
crickets singing one last hymn
at supper.
-r
13 July 2010
VOCA (or, DESERT OF HOPE)
In the Weary Land
slow-beaten by sun and
hedged betwixt burnt twigs and
shimmers: love normalcy 'choice'
blister twist crackle as destiny of some other regions;
lips cracked, all reasons legion,
amid boiling blood and
the burning sand we here hope for the Voice
from some ancient Promised Land.
The Voice - Vox, Voca, Vocis -
is He
here? does He ever
come by here anymore?
can You hear us, hear me?
O come let us reason; O please come
to me as You've come to some,
O Gentle Breeze, O Laughter; but how
terrible You come to this region, how
terrifying these my intended brothers,
O Voice-Who-comes-in-the-burning-scrub.
-r
slow-beaten by sun and
hedged betwixt burnt twigs and
shimmers: love normalcy 'choice'
blister twist crackle as destiny of some other regions;
lips cracked, all reasons legion,
amid boiling blood and
the burning sand we here hope for the Voice
from some ancient Promised Land.
The Voice - Vox, Voca, Vocis -
is He
here? does He ever
come by here anymore?
can You hear us, hear me?
O come let us reason; O please come
to me as You've come to some,
O Gentle Breeze, O Laughter; but how
terrible You come to this region, how
terrifying these my intended brothers,
O Voice-Who-comes-in-the-burning-scrub.
-r
07 July 2010
SURELY
At the airport a
woman waits for a
someone, The Someone, grey
eyes waiting; we all faceless pass
her expectant brow, and
the sparks shoot from her
eyes to her long-awaited lover
-licking asides elsewhere, I'm ever
eternal told by others
that I'm a cistern
of sweet waters
able and dependable, and so
endless praise and cold
lonely spaces translate: you're stock photos,
an excellent extra, priceless stand-in,
worth a little a little open,
a good swig for the open
road while we all wait at airports
for our lovers.
-r
woman waits for a
someone, The Someone, grey
eyes waiting; we all faceless pass
her expectant brow, and
the sparks shoot from her
eyes to her long-awaited lover
-licking asides elsewhere, I'm ever
eternal told by others
that I'm a cistern
of sweet waters
able and dependable, and so
endless praise and cold
lonely spaces translate: you're stock photos,
an excellent extra, priceless stand-in,
worth a little a little open,
a good swig for the open
road while we all wait at airports
for our lovers.
-r
28 June 2010
KUNIKOS (reflections on numerous recent comments)
Brother Bernard
of the Order
of the Benedict,
in the crypt
he is
lighting candles
and praying for the souls
of all men,
one gland in an organ,
one small mystic in
one Mystical Reality.
Meanwhile back
at humble ranch
called the Holy Hostel
of the Goddess Beauty
in old-new cacophonic City
in the ancient-future near-East,
from one meek tower
minnaret hard-cast citadel peering down
quite ugly on
Brother Bernard
comes the edict:
'You, sir,
'are irrelevant.'
Sister Frances
in the City
wonders at the
hymn she's hearing
from the Hostel:
'I'm bringing home a baby
'bumblebee,
'won't my Mommy . . .?
'I'm bringing home a baby . . .'
Father Athanasius
opens thick oak doors to these
ancient kuniks, but these
recent smaller breeds have disavowed
the arbitrary orders
of Chihuahan border,
nipping at his heels
in all humility,
beauty, and complexity;
he meanwhile has
a Mass
to get to.
'I'm squishing up my baby
'bumblebee,
'won't my mommy be so proud of me?
'I'm squishing up my baby
'bumble-bee . . .'
-r
of the Order
of the Benedict,
in the crypt
he is
lighting candles
and praying for the souls
of all men,
one gland in an organ,
one small mystic in
one Mystical Reality.
Meanwhile back
at humble ranch
called the Holy Hostel
of the Goddess Beauty
in old-new cacophonic City
in the ancient-future near-East,
from one meek tower
minnaret hard-cast citadel peering down
quite ugly on
Brother Bernard
comes the edict:
'You, sir,
'are irrelevant.'
Sister Frances
in the City
wonders at the
hymn she's hearing
from the Hostel:
'I'm bringing home a baby
'bumblebee,
'won't my Mommy . . .?
'I'm bringing home a baby . . .'
Father Athanasius
opens thick oak doors to these
ancient kuniks, but these
recent smaller breeds have disavowed
the arbitrary orders
of Chihuahan border,
nipping at his heels
in all humility,
beauty, and complexity;
he meanwhile has
a Mass
to get to.
'I'm squishing up my baby
'bumblebee,
'won't my mommy be so proud of me?
'I'm squishing up my baby
'bumble-bee . . .'
-r
26 June 2010
INVERSIONS
We stand around bleating
about the Good Shepherd seeking
his lost little lambs, being
sweet as He is to his sheep.
Cool grit the shears
in such bleeding;
crook in the Staff greets
the Reading.
We ask whither the Wind
bloweth over, only to find
the SEEK YE inscribed
in Lamb's bone-setting bite.
-r
about the Good Shepherd seeking
his lost little lambs, being
sweet as He is to his sheep.
Cool grit the shears
in such bleeding;
crook in the Staff greets
the Reading.
We ask whither the Wind
bloweth over, only to find
the SEEK YE inscribed
in Lamb's bone-setting bite.
-r
19 June 2010
Healer-Idealist, Hmm
After nearly 26 years of living, I continue to find it shocking that the world isn't filled with 'healer-idealists', and can't name the source of this everlasting assumption. God's design? Natural inclination? Egoism? Loneliness? All of the above? There could be a dangerously and naively selfish edge to the assumption; I don't mind being naive or being perceived as naive (old hat), but the true danger is in failing to recognise the world for what it is and in doing so rendering yourself useless to the world at hand. There are many different kinds of persons in Creation, each kind with its strengths and weaknesses that we need; yet I'm everlastingly surprised at the lack of empathy and selflessness in the world. I naturally assume that we all struggle with self and pride in the same way, on the 'outwardly-focused' end of the spectrum; frankly, we do not.
The 'solution' here seems to be parsing and prayer; the items here lapse over into each other, natural and innocent inclinations mixed with egoism and the like. But then again that's the mystery of life for you.
-r
The 'solution' here seems to be parsing and prayer; the items here lapse over into each other, natural and innocent inclinations mixed with egoism and the like. But then again that's the mystery of life for you.
-r
18 June 2010
FROM BEHIND PAPER-THIN WINDOW
[or, THE DIFFERENCES]
So it would seem
freedom means my ceasing to be,
breathing means my freezing,
smiles likewise to weeping--
very well, oh yes,
it's not so strange yes
but also not so easy
never will be easy--
sadly though
this mystery of motion
(oh, for me a merely teeny-tiny ocean
(of complete destruction)
makes you think you're happy. So
let's, sure let's, grin hand-almost-hand,
not hand-in-hand
but neither never too far out of hand;
internal bleeding-out meets your relief in
fact that it
will take ten thousand lifetimes
for this burnt sand
to break down,
oh sure yes.
-r
So it would seem
freedom means my ceasing to be,
breathing means my freezing,
smiles likewise to weeping--
very well, oh yes,
it's not so strange yes
but also not so easy
never will be easy--
sadly though
this mystery of motion
(oh, for me a merely teeny-tiny ocean
(of complete destruction)
makes you think you're happy. So
let's, sure let's, grin hand-almost-hand,
not hand-in-hand
but neither never too far out of hand;
internal bleeding-out meets your relief in
fact that it
will take ten thousand lifetimes
for this burnt sand
to break down,
oh sure yes.
-r
05 June 2010
SUNBURN IN NOVEMBER
[or, The Parable of Dr. Jon Osterman]
Apotheosis has its own hidden odds,
a pothole hardly occurring to
hapless the human soul who
happens to stumble into
the courts of the gods.
Seeing the quarks
sears dumb such transformation,
oblation becoming dark,
obtuse relations:
To Mars with the one
whom apotheosis has preyed upon -
his exodus is
a dark exodus;
his inheritance is the winds
of the ubermensch, the supermen,
the disembodied, the inhuman men.
-r
Apotheosis has its own hidden odds,
a pothole hardly occurring to
hapless the human soul who
happens to stumble into
the courts of the gods.
Seeing the quarks
sears dumb such transformation,
oblation becoming dark,
obtuse relations:
To Mars with the one
whom apotheosis has preyed upon -
his exodus is
a dark exodus;
his inheritance is the winds
of the ubermensch, the supermen,
the disembodied, the inhuman men.
-r
28 May 2010
Musterion
Rock is alive, though we classify it as inorganic matter. Its lifespan is the length of the universe, so it doesn't say 'hello' because it can't perceive our brief fly-by; its day is a thousand of our years. It reproduces with other rock in sheol, in the secret guts of the earth.
Maybe, or maybe not - but maybe the poetic language offers a door for reflection about the eternal God and Man's brief sojourning. Maybe there is some truth to the wording, just as the world is a globe though it isn't.
'Aha,' says the empiricist, 'rock is inorganic, case closed. Onto- comes before theology, if there is to be such a latter. Logic judges Revelation.'
Judges? No, Revelation sets the bones of logic.
Musterion stands in one place, and we often can't find him; he often finds us. He walks a tight-rope in flip-flopped scenery, and he looks strange to us; he looks strangely at us.
The Word was made flesh; the Word was made strange, and it dwelt among us.
-r
Maybe, or maybe not - but maybe the poetic language offers a door for reflection about the eternal God and Man's brief sojourning. Maybe there is some truth to the wording, just as the world is a globe though it isn't.
'Aha,' says the empiricist, 'rock is inorganic, case closed. Onto- comes before theology, if there is to be such a latter. Logic judges Revelation.'
Judges? No, Revelation sets the bones of logic.
Musterion stands in one place, and we often can't find him; he often finds us. He walks a tight-rope in flip-flopped scenery, and he looks strange to us; he looks strangely at us.
The Word was made flesh; the Word was made strange, and it dwelt among us.
-r
26 May 2010
. . . / LIQUID LINE.
I'm reconstituted, thank you:
broken streams compressed,
broken gleams pressed
out, broken, stressed,
starched and
hardly seen;
see the gurgling stream
of conscious effort,
a glued-together smile for
saying, 'I'm okay, you're okay, we're
all okay';
does all this gurgling placate, make
you feel good enough about yourself?
-If not, there's more glue on the shelf;
I'll apply here, rinse, repeat,
reconstituted, thank you.
-r
broken streams compressed,
broken gleams pressed
out, broken, stressed,
starched and
hardly seen;
see the gurgling stream
of conscious effort,
a glued-together smile for
saying, 'I'm okay, you're okay, we're
all okay';
does all this gurgling placate, make
you feel good enough about yourself?
-If not, there's more glue on the shelf;
I'll apply here, rinse, repeat,
reconstituted, thank you.
-r
21 May 2010
DEAR VIRGINIA: Yes, there is a Santa Claus - that is what you would have me to write, is it not? If there is not and was not a Santa Claus, well, you would still revel in the story, would you not? But you would have me answer the question, would you not? Well, my young lady, this is an important lesson that you will learn now or later, and the answer to your question is as follows: hope does not die. In my own personal affairs, I have tried to kill it before it grows, attempted to spurn all love and joy that continues to bleed me (for grown-ups, hope often means everlasting misery and disappointment), but no matter how hard I myself have tried to kill that which kills me, hope won't die. You yourself might be able to kill it - I don't have this killing-of-hope to a science - but even hoping to kill hope is a distorted hope.
I will not answer your enquiry regarding Santa Claus; I will leave that for you and your papa to discuss. Hope lives, and he lives for a thousand years.
F.P. Church (remix)
I will not answer your enquiry regarding Santa Claus; I will leave that for you and your papa to discuss. Hope lives, and he lives for a thousand years.
F.P. Church (remix)
14 May 2010
[Two]
AT 3:00 AGAIN, WAKING FROM SOME DREAM
There are fragments beating
in the desk drawer: love, the painting,
lighter matches and a story
made of cries of centuries
of being
-only, one can only
mend one capillary
at a time; and hardy
Brother Benedict again grins truly
to me, 'Pax tecum, silly
'brother: here sleep freely.'
. . . / DISCHARGE LINE . . .
[a continuation on the HVAC springboard]
/
Go ahead: sow your lips
to the tune of your broken corners
in the thousand jubilant faces you see,
seeking, expecting some sort of response in mine.
Here you will find
none more
(my face isn't
(baby anymore);
oh, sure,
sodium lamps make their promises to streets
they half intend to keep to themselves,
but such sacrificial salt can burn so far
and nevermore.
Now, from here,
this time, forever
and ever after,
I will be wiser.
-r
There are fragments beating
in the desk drawer: love, the painting,
lighter matches and a story
made of cries of centuries
of being
-only, one can only
mend one capillary
at a time; and hardy
Brother Benedict again grins truly
to me, 'Pax tecum, silly
'brother: here sleep freely.'
. . . / DISCHARGE LINE . . .
[a continuation on the HVAC springboard]
/
Go ahead: sow your lips
to the tune of your broken corners
in the thousand jubilant faces you see,
seeking, expecting some sort of response in mine.
Here you will find
none more
(my face isn't
(baby anymore);
oh, sure,
sodium lamps make their promises to streets
they half intend to keep to themselves,
but such sacrificial salt can burn so far
and nevermore.
Now, from here,
this time, forever
and ever after,
I will be wiser.
-r
11 May 2010
History Channel Christianity
Over a morning break recently, I was watching a show on the History Channel about the Shroud of Turin. At one point, ominous images of people next to the Greek word for 'heretic' were shown in conjunction with the dramatic music playing, the gnostics portrayed as a group of people kicked out of the fold by the Church for arbitrary reasons; a narrator accentuated the made-mood by noting, 'The gnostics were considered heretics for beleiving there was more to the universe than meets the eye. Now, with modern science, we are able to see that they were closer to the truth than previously imagined.'
Whether because of a desire for Marxist sensationalism or otherwise legitimate ignorance, we have now just squashed layers of theological debate and historical fact. Certainly orthodox Christians have always believed there's 'more to the universe than meets the eye', just as the gnostics do. The gnostics were deemed heretics for numerous reasons, and our present first-world West could use a revisiting of those denunciations, as we have fallen into many facets of a neo-gnosticism - with our ideas of 'escaping the physical' for the 'pure spiritual', Christianity (an abstract term, replacing 'the Church' or 'the Faith') being an abstract construction or a 'special' or 'secret knowledge' instead of (or at least before being) an embodied, fleshed-out reality, etc.
There is a delicious historical poetry to the History Channel's defence of the gnostics: modern science can attribute many of its assumptions about the world to a gnostic lineage.* I love the History Channel, but I've often noticed the prideful scientism (and accompanying sensationalism) of our age - to say nothing of its antipathy toward fundamentalist protestants and the Catholic Church; and that makes me sad. Scientism, one of the lingering fragments of modernism, stands before tribal-garbed religion/theology (incense swinging and nose-ring clinking) and puzzles over it, unable to translate; eventually Scientism begins to speak, 'These primitive and ignorant people put flowers on the deceased person's grave because they believed the dead had an acute sense of smell.' Woe to you (i.e. I'm so sorry for you), because you've lost touch with humanity. Yes, you have even lost touch with the feared term: you have lost touch with primal humanity; you are afraid, because underneath the technology and coffee-shoppes we are still creatures of symbol and ritual. Your 'objective' and 'universal' framework for viewing the universe has blinded you to the universe itself.
*cf. Science, Politics, and Gnosticism by Eric Voegelin
-r
Whether because of a desire for Marxist sensationalism or otherwise legitimate ignorance, we have now just squashed layers of theological debate and historical fact. Certainly orthodox Christians have always believed there's 'more to the universe than meets the eye', just as the gnostics do. The gnostics were deemed heretics for numerous reasons, and our present first-world West could use a revisiting of those denunciations, as we have fallen into many facets of a neo-gnosticism - with our ideas of 'escaping the physical' for the 'pure spiritual', Christianity (an abstract term, replacing 'the Church' or 'the Faith') being an abstract construction or a 'special' or 'secret knowledge' instead of (or at least before being) an embodied, fleshed-out reality, etc.
There is a delicious historical poetry to the History Channel's defence of the gnostics: modern science can attribute many of its assumptions about the world to a gnostic lineage.* I love the History Channel, but I've often noticed the prideful scientism (and accompanying sensationalism) of our age - to say nothing of its antipathy toward fundamentalist protestants and the Catholic Church; and that makes me sad. Scientism, one of the lingering fragments of modernism, stands before tribal-garbed religion/theology (incense swinging and nose-ring clinking) and puzzles over it, unable to translate; eventually Scientism begins to speak, 'These primitive and ignorant people put flowers on the deceased person's grave because they believed the dead had an acute sense of smell.' Woe to you (i.e. I'm so sorry for you), because you've lost touch with humanity. Yes, you have even lost touch with the feared term: you have lost touch with primal humanity; you are afraid, because underneath the technology and coffee-shoppes we are still creatures of symbol and ritual. Your 'objective' and 'universal' framework for viewing the universe has blinded you to the universe itself.
*cf. Science, Politics, and Gnosticism by Eric Voegelin
-r
05 May 2010
Rough-Draught Snippet from the Novel
[The Sign]
It all began with war, and the war began with the wooden sign. Or, so we children were convinced. Children tend to hear news second-hand, usually from the hyperbolic talkers, and piece everything together as best they can.
Ten miles west of Reno, a traveler would long have left the empty sprawl of city behind him, passed into the hills, and come to an exit sign proclaiming "Red Rock Rd." To his right, he would have beheld the little desert basin the inhabitants called Red Rock; and should he have taken that exit, he would have passed a gas station into the middle of a loose confederacy of ranch-houses.
This valley was Red Rock, named by the pioneering forebears who had settled there a hundred years before. Though they themselves remained shrouded in the mists of unmentioned history, they had no doubt had the leather skin and bleeding lips of their descendants. Who needed the Truckee River a few valleys over? Luxury. These ancestors settled at the foot of Mount Peavine, hewn in by hills on all sides, digging wells and breeding cattle. A few of their fierce children still remained on the first ranch plots, brazen and expansive.
But the wooden sign shouted WELCOME TO GOLDEN LAKE, not able (as it were) to learn of the exciting history of Red Rock. The real estate corporation behind the wooden sign was able, incidentally, to learn of Red Rock’s exciting history, but "Red Rock" wouldn’t attract buyers – at least, buyers of the corporation’s desired sort.
We ourselves had moved into the area a few years earlier, transplants of an aircraft manufacturer out East. By then I’d developed a sense of the place. The sign amazed me.
"What does it mean?"
My dad had seen the sign on his way from work, and now in that evening we were going to church.
"What does what mean?"
"The sign, Dad."
"Oh. I think they’re renaming the subdivision."
"Who?"
"Whoever owns the subdivision."
"What lake?"
"Hm?"
"What lake is the sign talking about?"
"Oh. I’m not sure, Josh."
Two years before, Dad had built a planter-box for Mom in the backyard – not in the vast two acres of brush and sun-baked clay, but safely within the fence near the house, on the sprinkler-fed grass. My mom bought topsoil and grew tomatoes and cucumbers. While my sister and I ate cucumbers like dessert, we both shared an inability to eat tomatoes without gagging or otherwise ruining a meal. Or, at least I wasn’t able to do so; in hindsight, I think Sarah might have been following her brother’s lead, joining in. In any case, when the planter-box fell into disuse the next year, we ate store-bought cucumbers and rejoiced at the disappearance of tomatoes. The planter-box soon found itself outside the fence.
After Bible study on that day of the sign’s appearance, we returned to Red Rock and were intrigued to find it well-lit from below. The sign was planning to stay, a monument.
The coming weeks brought the sneers of the local ranchers; I enjoyed them at the gas station, the hub of the neighborhood’s pulse. I would bike over every so often to buy a candy-bar and hang around if a rancher was gossiping to the gas station owner.
"What do you make of it?" the rancher was asking.
"Of what?"
"The sign out there."
"Ah."
"My opinion, they can name this goddamn place anything they want, it’s still gonna be Red Rock. –Excuse my french, son."
"Ah, him." My legs were crossed, eyes absorbing the rancher’s burnt face, "Our private-I. Don’t worry about him."
"My great-great-great-grandfather dug the well on my land. Far as I’m concerned, this is Red Rock."
Sometimes two ranchers would intersect at the gas station, and that was always particularly fascinating. Once there was a dispute over a fence built, allegedly, on the adjacent rancher’s land. One rancher’s donkey would terrorize the neighborhood from time to time. Overall, however, it was fascinating to me simply because grown men – tough ones, at that – were talking. The topics of conversation in themselves were generally as bland as feed, fences, and water concerns; the gas station owner was the closest thing we had to a bartender or priest.
There was that one time:
"Did you hear about the McCaskell boy, detective?"
"No. What happened?"
"One of the Irvine boys stole his birthday bike. There was a scuffle, of course, but the Irvine boy’s older, and so he basically just took the bike. So then – all you got’s a ten?"
"Yes, sir. Sorry."
"So then the McCaskell boy – he’s seven, you know – he goes and gets his father’s shotgun. Ha! Your eyes – no, he did get the shotgun, but it was unloaded, of course. He got his bike back. –Here’s your change: five, one, two . . ." For some reason he found that particular story on that particular day exciting, and I didn’t know why; like most bartenders he had ears for all the anxious customers simply because he was stuck behind the counter.
The gas station buzzed for a day or so about the arrival of the sign, but then life chugged along as usual. Nothing fell out of the sky, no visitations or omens. Every so often someone would mention the sign in an effort to stir up conversation. When the owner didn’t listen attentively enough and I was around, these bored souls would bounce their wares off me.
Machinery came a few weeks after the wooden sign, and I was amazed. I wondered about some sort of magical listening device in the area: So, Joshua Baker, you question our naming of this place? You ask where the lake is? Well, we will give you a lake, young sir. No, I would have protested, it wasn’t that sort of question. I just wondered why, that’s all.
For a year, the glorified pond called Golden Lake – a nice pond, mind you, but hardly a lake – stood as a monument. Incidentally, the wooden sign with its proud golden text had already begun decomposition; Red Rock ate latex, bleached dyes, and blistered exposed wood right where it dared to show its face. Golden Lake didn’t have much of a trumpeter anymore.
Wasn’t Nevada the silver state, anyway? I often wondered.
A year later, the sign was barely legible. The real estate corporation appeared to have given up the fight. "Golden Lake," sitting half-planned on the desert basin, dried up before the next spring. My mom’s planter-box splintered and twisted around the same time, chafing against its nails, no longer of use and a cool home for various kinds of scorpions.
-r
It all began with war, and the war began with the wooden sign. Or, so we children were convinced. Children tend to hear news second-hand, usually from the hyperbolic talkers, and piece everything together as best they can.
Ten miles west of Reno, a traveler would long have left the empty sprawl of city behind him, passed into the hills, and come to an exit sign proclaiming "Red Rock Rd." To his right, he would have beheld the little desert basin the inhabitants called Red Rock; and should he have taken that exit, he would have passed a gas station into the middle of a loose confederacy of ranch-houses.
This valley was Red Rock, named by the pioneering forebears who had settled there a hundred years before. Though they themselves remained shrouded in the mists of unmentioned history, they had no doubt had the leather skin and bleeding lips of their descendants. Who needed the Truckee River a few valleys over? Luxury. These ancestors settled at the foot of Mount Peavine, hewn in by hills on all sides, digging wells and breeding cattle. A few of their fierce children still remained on the first ranch plots, brazen and expansive.
But the wooden sign shouted WELCOME TO GOLDEN LAKE, not able (as it were) to learn of the exciting history of Red Rock. The real estate corporation behind the wooden sign was able, incidentally, to learn of Red Rock’s exciting history, but "Red Rock" wouldn’t attract buyers – at least, buyers of the corporation’s desired sort.
We ourselves had moved into the area a few years earlier, transplants of an aircraft manufacturer out East. By then I’d developed a sense of the place. The sign amazed me.
"What does it mean?"
My dad had seen the sign on his way from work, and now in that evening we were going to church.
"What does what mean?"
"The sign, Dad."
"Oh. I think they’re renaming the subdivision."
"Who?"
"Whoever owns the subdivision."
"What lake?"
"Hm?"
"What lake is the sign talking about?"
"Oh. I’m not sure, Josh."
Two years before, Dad had built a planter-box for Mom in the backyard – not in the vast two acres of brush and sun-baked clay, but safely within the fence near the house, on the sprinkler-fed grass. My mom bought topsoil and grew tomatoes and cucumbers. While my sister and I ate cucumbers like dessert, we both shared an inability to eat tomatoes without gagging or otherwise ruining a meal. Or, at least I wasn’t able to do so; in hindsight, I think Sarah might have been following her brother’s lead, joining in. In any case, when the planter-box fell into disuse the next year, we ate store-bought cucumbers and rejoiced at the disappearance of tomatoes. The planter-box soon found itself outside the fence.
After Bible study on that day of the sign’s appearance, we returned to Red Rock and were intrigued to find it well-lit from below. The sign was planning to stay, a monument.
The coming weeks brought the sneers of the local ranchers; I enjoyed them at the gas station, the hub of the neighborhood’s pulse. I would bike over every so often to buy a candy-bar and hang around if a rancher was gossiping to the gas station owner.
"What do you make of it?" the rancher was asking.
"Of what?"
"The sign out there."
"Ah."
"My opinion, they can name this goddamn place anything they want, it’s still gonna be Red Rock. –Excuse my french, son."
"Ah, him." My legs were crossed, eyes absorbing the rancher’s burnt face, "Our private-I. Don’t worry about him."
"My great-great-great-grandfather dug the well on my land. Far as I’m concerned, this is Red Rock."
Sometimes two ranchers would intersect at the gas station, and that was always particularly fascinating. Once there was a dispute over a fence built, allegedly, on the adjacent rancher’s land. One rancher’s donkey would terrorize the neighborhood from time to time. Overall, however, it was fascinating to me simply because grown men – tough ones, at that – were talking. The topics of conversation in themselves were generally as bland as feed, fences, and water concerns; the gas station owner was the closest thing we had to a bartender or priest.
There was that one time:
"Did you hear about the McCaskell boy, detective?"
"No. What happened?"
"One of the Irvine boys stole his birthday bike. There was a scuffle, of course, but the Irvine boy’s older, and so he basically just took the bike. So then – all you got’s a ten?"
"Yes, sir. Sorry."
"So then the McCaskell boy – he’s seven, you know – he goes and gets his father’s shotgun. Ha! Your eyes – no, he did get the shotgun, but it was unloaded, of course. He got his bike back. –Here’s your change: five, one, two . . ." For some reason he found that particular story on that particular day exciting, and I didn’t know why; like most bartenders he had ears for all the anxious customers simply because he was stuck behind the counter.
The gas station buzzed for a day or so about the arrival of the sign, but then life chugged along as usual. Nothing fell out of the sky, no visitations or omens. Every so often someone would mention the sign in an effort to stir up conversation. When the owner didn’t listen attentively enough and I was around, these bored souls would bounce their wares off me.
Machinery came a few weeks after the wooden sign, and I was amazed. I wondered about some sort of magical listening device in the area: So, Joshua Baker, you question our naming of this place? You ask where the lake is? Well, we will give you a lake, young sir. No, I would have protested, it wasn’t that sort of question. I just wondered why, that’s all.
For a year, the glorified pond called Golden Lake – a nice pond, mind you, but hardly a lake – stood as a monument. Incidentally, the wooden sign with its proud golden text had already begun decomposition; Red Rock ate latex, bleached dyes, and blistered exposed wood right where it dared to show its face. Golden Lake didn’t have much of a trumpeter anymore.
Wasn’t Nevada the silver state, anyway? I often wondered.
A year later, the sign was barely legible. The real estate corporation appeared to have given up the fight. "Golden Lake," sitting half-planned on the desert basin, dried up before the next spring. My mom’s planter-box splintered and twisted around the same time, chafing against its nails, no longer of use and a cool home for various kinds of scorpions.
-r
02 May 2010
Floodings
Sitting behind a computer desk at my friend's house outside Nashville, I'm going to be here for awhile - that is, potentially another day or two, or perhaps even more. The rain isn't stopping; my car was originally parked in the street, that is, a raging creek. We went to a Japanese restaurant for lunch where all of us strangers sat around the grill talking about other things, and now we're watching images of history on our local news channels, pictures of abandoned cars in five feet of water and familiar landmarks/roads that have become lakes. There's a rock quarry with a waterfall into it that will most likely be abandoned and christened as a large pond. The roof of the farmer's market near my church is peeking over the top of the water; a friend is pushing water out of her basement.
Craziness.
-r
Craziness.
-r
26 April 2010
Lost Civilisation (remix)
Questions yet emerge about the disappearance of a prosperous, robust Mezoamerican civilisation; a powerful culture disappeared (almost literally) overnight. Did the plague 'get 'em'? It had to be a plague, since all pre-modern cultures were too stupid to wash their hands. Who or what killed them? Did they pack up and leave for Alaska?
Poetry rambles about in my mind. Ayamentu the potential carpenter became obsessed with his epic poems, and Yiloxeto the potential housewife owned a multi-national corporation. Talipoketxa joined a rock-band for six decades. In a burst of exhilirating passion, Utlepacho left his wife for summer in London, or else his wife left him for autumn in Paris. Farming and city-peasantry were for the common folk, who were not so common anymore; everyone lived extraordinary lives - wind rushing through the hair, scarves flying from topless convertibles, generations of sexism crumbling, notions of 9-to-5 ho-hum dissolving - which means no one lived ordinary lives.
One day, the conquistadors found extraordinary ambition awake with the crow's feet of the correspondingly ordinary ruins.
-r
Poetry rambles about in my mind. Ayamentu the potential carpenter became obsessed with his epic poems, and Yiloxeto the potential housewife owned a multi-national corporation. Talipoketxa joined a rock-band for six decades. In a burst of exhilirating passion, Utlepacho left his wife for summer in London, or else his wife left him for autumn in Paris. Farming and city-peasantry were for the common folk, who were not so common anymore; everyone lived extraordinary lives - wind rushing through the hair, scarves flying from topless convertibles, generations of sexism crumbling, notions of 9-to-5 ho-hum dissolving - which means no one lived ordinary lives.
One day, the conquistadors found extraordinary ambition awake with the crow's feet of the correspondingly ordinary ruins.
-r
18 April 2010
Fisherman's Friend - Official Lozenge of the Assumption Schola
This Mass is brought to you by Fisherman's Friend [http://www.fishermansfriend.com], the official cough-drop/throat-lozenge of the Church of the Assumption schola cantorum.
'Gee, Bob, you boys really nailed that Introit this morning!'
'To tell you the truth, Jane, half of us had allergies, the other had a cold, and Fred just sucks in general. (Can't carry a tune in a bucket. Don't understand why he sings with us. Weird.)'
'Wow! Then, how on earth did you guys flutter into those tristrophas and episemas so beautifully?'
'Well, we had a little help: Fisherman's Friend throat lozenges. They're as chock full of menthol and eucalyptus as the FDA will allow, offering cool soothing relief in the form of a nasty brown tablet.'
'Wow, Bob! Where can I get some of my own?'
'You can find Fisherman's Friend right at your local pharmacy, or on the black market.'
(Fisherman's Friend throat lozenges: If fishermen on the briny sea trust 'em, you should be able to, too, right?)
'Gee, Bob, you boys really nailed that Introit this morning!'
'To tell you the truth, Jane, half of us had allergies, the other had a cold, and Fred just sucks in general. (Can't carry a tune in a bucket. Don't understand why he sings with us. Weird.)'
'Wow! Then, how on earth did you guys flutter into those tristrophas and episemas so beautifully?'
'Well, we had a little help: Fisherman's Friend throat lozenges. They're as chock full of menthol and eucalyptus as the FDA will allow, offering cool soothing relief in the form of a nasty brown tablet.'
'Wow, Bob! Where can I get some of my own?'
'You can find Fisherman's Friend right at your local pharmacy, or on the black market.'
(Fisherman's Friend throat lozenges: If fishermen on the briny sea trust 'em, you should be able to, too, right?)
17 April 2010
Doodle Do
House-sitting for a friend, and just pulled off a 72-hr. work week (ka-ching). Wicked cool on both accounts, though all is exhausting in regard to the latter. Blogging Blogger because there's no paper nearby for scratching.
It's a blessing (and a rare one in this life, I realise) to have numerous possibilities present to one's life - HVAC, doctoral study, seminary, so on. It's even rarer to have the temporary opportunity to cultivate many of these possibilities with no immediate exclusion of the other possibilities' possibility. For the forseeable future I've got nothing to lose, and for now, I've got the delicious privilege of choice (prologue to decision). I don't mind thinking this over in these weeks.
-r
It's a blessing (and a rare one in this life, I realise) to have numerous possibilities present to one's life - HVAC, doctoral study, seminary, so on. It's even rarer to have the temporary opportunity to cultivate many of these possibilities with no immediate exclusion of the other possibilities' possibility. For the forseeable future I've got nothing to lose, and for now, I've got the delicious privilege of choice (prologue to decision). I don't mind thinking this over in these weeks.
-r
13 April 2010
Doctoral Studies
So, CUA accepted me into their Biblical Studies doctoral programme. I'm calling the dean and my advisor to-day to figure out what scholarships, if any, I received, etc. The financial edge is potentially enormous; a parking pass for the university is $400 alone.
We'll see, but it's exciting.
-r
We'll see, but it's exciting.
-r
03 April 2010
GOOD FRIDAY, or LUKE XIII.34-35
O Jerusalem, Jerusalem - how many times -
O Jerusalem - how many times I have yearned -
Nonetheless, one hasty pinky toe over the line
alongside hosanna, we Jerusalem take the twine
to our other faculties in order
to fickle fling Him to the Gov'nor
again; bloody, how You spoke naught
to our weight on Your shoulders! odd how
You came wrought to us broken-jawed, some
say like breezes or rains, but thus
we betray Thee.
The 'Crucify' doesn't overcome the 'Hosanna'
ever, no matter how loud the former!
but hell! let's call out the right hosanna to the Lover,
the right-gloried hosanna -
not hand-soap-sanitised hosannas,
the pomegranate-pecan-vanilla-
melon-banana-honey hosannas,
those preemptive peaches-and-cream hosannas.
No,
His is the true HOSANNA,
human and sweaty, full-bodied,
bloodied, triumphant, loving
with tears and the tender gestures
alongside the temple whips and tables flipped,
the exasperated hair-pull measures,
all come together in
Holy!
Holy, holy,
Hosanna in excelsis!
-r
O Jerusalem - how many times I have yearned -
Nonetheless, one hasty pinky toe over the line
alongside hosanna, we Jerusalem take the twine
to our other faculties in order
to fickle fling Him to the Gov'nor
again; bloody, how You spoke naught
to our weight on Your shoulders! odd how
You came wrought to us broken-jawed, some
say like breezes or rains, but thus
we betray Thee.
The 'Crucify' doesn't overcome the 'Hosanna'
ever, no matter how loud the former!
but hell! let's call out the right hosanna to the Lover,
the right-gloried hosanna -
not hand-soap-sanitised hosannas,
the pomegranate-pecan-vanilla-
melon-banana-honey hosannas,
those preemptive peaches-and-cream hosannas.
No,
His is the true HOSANNA,
human and sweaty, full-bodied,
bloodied, triumphant, loving
with tears and the tender gestures
alongside the temple whips and tables flipped,
the exasperated hair-pull measures,
all come together in
Holy!
Holy, holy,
Hosanna in excelsis!
-r
25 March 2010
Smithing
Passion and Life, cooled,
Distends like icycles
Reaching for the earth,
Reaching downward but thinning,
Puttering out in the outward inertia while
Descending back by the force of gravity;
Warm air, cool air, the vacuum--
It's all quite easy science, the
Inward descending, freezing up
In the atmosphere in some odd shape.
Well, but you shall become a butterfly someday;
Well, but you'll become some flowery spark,
With some titillating story to tell us,
Wonderful.
But at this one moment,
Culled -- sharp and brittle as some ice shard --
Curled over, cold, cooling to some strange shape,
I doubt butterfly or spark
But still have all intention and faith
In the steel, the anvil, the Maker.
-r
Distends like icycles
Reaching for the earth,
Reaching downward but thinning,
Puttering out in the outward inertia while
Descending back by the force of gravity;
Warm air, cool air, the vacuum--
It's all quite easy science, the
Inward descending, freezing up
In the atmosphere in some odd shape.
Well, but you shall become a butterfly someday;
Well, but you'll become some flowery spark,
With some titillating story to tell us,
Wonderful.
But at this one moment,
Culled -- sharp and brittle as some ice shard --
Curled over, cold, cooling to some strange shape,
I doubt butterfly or spark
But still have all intention and faith
In the steel, the anvil, the Maker.
-r
13 March 2010
Sacramental Meaning of Candles (a reply to Ed)
'I seem to recall that candles are a reminder of the early church gatherings underground in the catacombs, or in back rooms and cellars of homes of believers, in the days before churches were allowed in the Roman empire. As you say, this tradition has continued through the ages in all catholic churches.'
I believe you are correct: candles are most likely remnants of catacombs and early home-churchs; that is, they probably found their origination there. Candles, however (like most sacramental realities), are multi-layered. The candles do serve as a simple, primal reminder of the catacombs, but candles also have meaning in so many other ways.
For one thing, candles are sources of light - they help us see, and they are embodied reminders of Christ, who is the Light of the world, as well as a reminder of the Triune God (in general) who gave us the blessing of light, who created it in His goodness.
Also, candles embody the reality of Jesus Christ's / God's love - one could say 'the Triune love', the love at the heart of reality that defines reality and gives reality its meaning. This love - agape, in the Greek - is a love that gives sacrificially and expends itself for the absolute good of the other with no concern for itself. Candles give us light at the celebration of the Sacred Mysteries, but they 'give up' themselves to do so; the wick and wax burn away to give us light. They're a subtle but powerful reminder of God's love for us.
. . . Candles can be used by anyone and are in themselves good things. I would even go so far as to say a protestant church service is edified by the use of candles, as this is at least a step back towards the source of protestantism in the first place; that is, one of the most notably embodied realities of the loss of meaning that is in fact protestantism is the empty, lifeless nave ('sanctuary') - no Tabernacle, no Christ candle, an empty Cross, etc. My point in the entry was that we miss the point completely if we elevate the use of candles to some sort of super-religious function to the exclusion of Sacred Tradition, within which organic reality the candles find their full meaning and location, and in which context they were first originally used.
-r
I believe you are correct: candles are most likely remnants of catacombs and early home-churchs; that is, they probably found their origination there. Candles, however (like most sacramental realities), are multi-layered. The candles do serve as a simple, primal reminder of the catacombs, but candles also have meaning in so many other ways.
For one thing, candles are sources of light - they help us see, and they are embodied reminders of Christ, who is the Light of the world, as well as a reminder of the Triune God (in general) who gave us the blessing of light, who created it in His goodness.
Also, candles embody the reality of Jesus Christ's / God's love - one could say 'the Triune love', the love at the heart of reality that defines reality and gives reality its meaning. This love - agape, in the Greek - is a love that gives sacrificially and expends itself for the absolute good of the other with no concern for itself. Candles give us light at the celebration of the Sacred Mysteries, but they 'give up' themselves to do so; the wick and wax burn away to give us light. They're a subtle but powerful reminder of God's love for us.
. . . Candles can be used by anyone and are in themselves good things. I would even go so far as to say a protestant church service is edified by the use of candles, as this is at least a step back towards the source of protestantism in the first place; that is, one of the most notably embodied realities of the loss of meaning that is in fact protestantism is the empty, lifeless nave ('sanctuary') - no Tabernacle, no Christ candle, an empty Cross, etc. My point in the entry was that we miss the point completely if we elevate the use of candles to some sort of super-religious function to the exclusion of Sacred Tradition, within which organic reality the candles find their full meaning and location, and in which context they were first originally used.
-r
09 March 2010
Puella: Interpretation of Her Mental Diary Entry at Opry Mills As Inferred from a Friendly Conversation between Islands with a Similar Sense of Humour
[Note: I'm still catching this journal up from the Xanga and hope to move over here shortly]
- - -
A glob of us single persons,
We sit at our own tables
Around empty carousel horses
Far too many horses for two few occupants
Who are waiting around in the food-courts;
Our tables are battle-stations.
Carousel draws our collective glances
Like some drunk aunt making passes
At friends,
Arousing anger,
Sentimental music and revelry suggesting something
Our tables are fortified against.
It's all beneath the surface,
All despite God's given body odours;
We wouldn't mate; we negotiate
Preemptive ceasefires in our glances.
At any rate, we're waiting for others
'Maybe lovers!'
We try to waft to our neighbours
Though more likely waiting for daughters, brothers,
Or friends.
[All this ontology
[Of violence!]
Somewhere someone
No doubt is dropping
Some wayward pick-up line
Not good enough for us, cheesy-
Meaning vulgar as life,
And maybe they'll make some babies;
Meanwhile unadulterated
He mans his station
Glancing at me from there,
No danger here.
Stalemate; thank God,
Here comes my mother
For whom I've waited.
(Maybe
I'll apply to some sisterhood.)
-r
- - -
A glob of us single persons,
We sit at our own tables
Around empty carousel horses
Far too many horses for two few occupants
Who are waiting around in the food-courts;
Our tables are battle-stations.
Carousel draws our collective glances
Like some drunk aunt making passes
At friends,
Arousing anger,
Sentimental music and revelry suggesting something
Our tables are fortified against.
It's all beneath the surface,
All despite God's given body odours;
We wouldn't mate; we negotiate
Preemptive ceasefires in our glances.
At any rate, we're waiting for others
'Maybe lovers!'
We try to waft to our neighbours
Though more likely waiting for daughters, brothers,
Or friends.
[All this ontology
[Of violence!]
Somewhere someone
No doubt is dropping
Some wayward pick-up line
Not good enough for us, cheesy-
Meaning vulgar as life,
And maybe they'll make some babies;
Meanwhile unadulterated
He mans his station
Glancing at me from there,
No danger here.
Stalemate; thank God,
Here comes my mother
For whom I've waited.
(Maybe
I'll apply to some sisterhood.)
-r
05 March 2010
To Be Deep in History . . . [Part 2]
. . . or, 'I am the Water of Life . . . '
. . . of, 'Get off the Tradition Bandwagon.'
http://www.holybiblemosaic.com/
Of course, there is nothing disorderly with supplementing Holy Scripture with religious artwork/ikons, prayers, creeds, etc. - the concept has been employed quite beautifully in many cases - but this particular project strikes me as a continued attempt at sensational selectivism - that is, the dubious 'Catholic buffet' of thirsty protestantism and disembodied/confused Catholics grasping for a thrill mistaken for authoritative substance. It is quite in the same vein with my acquaintance who noted that his local Nazarene church was 'becoming more traditional', insofar as the pastor had begun the practise of having children light candles on either side of the podium before the church service. In both cases, I do recognise the hunger behind the 'traditional' actions taken, and yet at the same time I mourn this as falling short of any real remedy. The acquaintance celebrated the use of candles, as if that were a cure-all or magical elixir, hardly comprehending that candles are an organic part of the Church's historical liturgy whose meaning is wrapped up in the theological reality and affirmation of sacrament. All such ploys are not unlike someone who refuses to drink the full, dangerous reality of 'water' and then, when finally at death's door for such a choice, happily announces that he has begun drinking copious amounts of Pepsi. So close, and yet still lingering in self-imposed exile.
Tradition for tradition's sake is not the answer. What protestant denominations really thirst for is objective authority, which they cannot conjure up (no matter how hard they try) if one of their central war-cries is a sort of gnostic 'believer and Holy Spirit alone' dynamic of 'searching out' the truth. When this is the case (as we've seen), the world ends up with a billion-and-a-half protestant denominations, denominations breaking from denominations and even non-denominations, all proclaiming to have 'some bit' of the truth. Well, that's handy on paper, but these denominations often teach quite contradictory doctrines. A religious group cannot claim apostolic authority if (1) there are no apostles, and (2) they have no authority. Basically, who says so? Just because your pastor dresses up in a liturgical robe and lights some candles does not immediately prevent young people from fleeing your denomination when they begin asking the difficult questions. The Catholic Church does not claim authority because she is 'traditional'. Heaven knows (and so does any honest Catholic of our time), many of the practises in the Church of our day actually threaten the beautiful traditions we've been handed. But the Church claims authority because Christ gave His authority to her, and she goes about saying the Mass, and celebrating the Sacred Mysteries, and making a pilgrimage through history. And to live in this reality is to have traditional elements, candles and all, that we receive from the pilgrims before us and hand on to the pilgrims behind us.
Let us not separate the cart from the horse, or (if we want to separate them) at least not put the candle-cart first and expect a horse-cart reality for our ecclesial communities. If we want the Church, we must accept the Church on her terms, accept her testimony, her witness, and her responsive teachings; if we are a group of protestants simply recognising that we lack any objective claim to authoritative teaching/liturgy/lifestyle and simply want to pad our already faltering ecclesial identity with snippets of 'traditionalism', then we will almost certainly end up worshiping tradition for tradition's sake. Don't waste the money having communion every week if there is no in persona Christi priest who has received the Sacrament of Holy Orders and if there is no understanding of Sacrament or what the Eucharist actually means as the heart of the organic, embodied Church. Don't waste time or money on the candles if they are pieces of sensationalism and nothing more.
--In this case, regarding the Mosaic Bible, until we stop worshiping the Bible, it is only minimally helpful to have ikons and creeds bedecked throughout it. For the creeds and ikons are still only supplements, not gifts handed to us.
-r
. . . of, 'Get off the Tradition Bandwagon.'
http://www.holybiblemosaic.com/
Of course, there is nothing disorderly with supplementing Holy Scripture with religious artwork/ikons, prayers, creeds, etc. - the concept has been employed quite beautifully in many cases - but this particular project strikes me as a continued attempt at sensational selectivism - that is, the dubious 'Catholic buffet' of thirsty protestantism and disembodied/confused Catholics grasping for a thrill mistaken for authoritative substance. It is quite in the same vein with my acquaintance who noted that his local Nazarene church was 'becoming more traditional', insofar as the pastor had begun the practise of having children light candles on either side of the podium before the church service. In both cases, I do recognise the hunger behind the 'traditional' actions taken, and yet at the same time I mourn this as falling short of any real remedy. The acquaintance celebrated the use of candles, as if that were a cure-all or magical elixir, hardly comprehending that candles are an organic part of the Church's historical liturgy whose meaning is wrapped up in the theological reality and affirmation of sacrament. All such ploys are not unlike someone who refuses to drink the full, dangerous reality of 'water' and then, when finally at death's door for such a choice, happily announces that he has begun drinking copious amounts of Pepsi. So close, and yet still lingering in self-imposed exile.
Tradition for tradition's sake is not the answer. What protestant denominations really thirst for is objective authority, which they cannot conjure up (no matter how hard they try) if one of their central war-cries is a sort of gnostic 'believer and Holy Spirit alone' dynamic of 'searching out' the truth. When this is the case (as we've seen), the world ends up with a billion-and-a-half protestant denominations, denominations breaking from denominations and even non-denominations, all proclaiming to have 'some bit' of the truth. Well, that's handy on paper, but these denominations often teach quite contradictory doctrines. A religious group cannot claim apostolic authority if (1) there are no apostles, and (2) they have no authority. Basically, who says so? Just because your pastor dresses up in a liturgical robe and lights some candles does not immediately prevent young people from fleeing your denomination when they begin asking the difficult questions. The Catholic Church does not claim authority because she is 'traditional'. Heaven knows (and so does any honest Catholic of our time), many of the practises in the Church of our day actually threaten the beautiful traditions we've been handed. But the Church claims authority because Christ gave His authority to her, and she goes about saying the Mass, and celebrating the Sacred Mysteries, and making a pilgrimage through history. And to live in this reality is to have traditional elements, candles and all, that we receive from the pilgrims before us and hand on to the pilgrims behind us.
Let us not separate the cart from the horse, or (if we want to separate them) at least not put the candle-cart first and expect a horse-cart reality for our ecclesial communities. If we want the Church, we must accept the Church on her terms, accept her testimony, her witness, and her responsive teachings; if we are a group of protestants simply recognising that we lack any objective claim to authoritative teaching/liturgy/lifestyle and simply want to pad our already faltering ecclesial identity with snippets of 'traditionalism', then we will almost certainly end up worshiping tradition for tradition's sake. Don't waste the money having communion every week if there is no in persona Christi priest who has received the Sacrament of Holy Orders and if there is no understanding of Sacrament or what the Eucharist actually means as the heart of the organic, embodied Church. Don't waste time or money on the candles if they are pieces of sensationalism and nothing more.
--In this case, regarding the Mosaic Bible, until we stop worshiping the Bible, it is only minimally helpful to have ikons and creeds bedecked throughout it. For the creeds and ikons are still only supplements, not gifts handed to us.
-r
02 March 2010
To Be Deep in History . . . [Part 1]
[From Xanga archive, trying to return to Blogspot . . . meaning a gradual bringing-up-to-date]
There are many Nazarenes (such as the Reformed Nazarenes, see link below) who are concerned with the direction of the COTN, especially as it is embodied at denominational universities like Trevecca, where many students are either losing the Faith altogether or else becoming Catholic. The answer, according to these Reformed/Concerned Nazarenes, is to get back to the Bible-rooted, fundamentalist identity of the COTN. This is an historically amusing assertion, since the COTN was originally separate from 'Bible-rooted' fundamentalist protestantism and much later (in the Southeast U.S.) was largely subsumed within fundamentalism. It is further amusing to consider, on a larger scale, that the COTN has never had a unified identity or a unified 'direction' - which means that those evil 'emergent Nazarenes' and other groups have just as much claim to authoritative teaching as the fundamentalists do. Then again, this is what happens when you have no apostolic authority, no objective claims to authoritative teaching outside of some vague parametres: you go on archaeological expeditions to find the 'real Church' from which we have somehow departed.
Dr. Hoskins and other notable scholars have been pointing Trevecca students to historical Christianity, and many of us students went in search of the 'real Church' that we somehow lost. Some of us have found Her. Don't blame the thoroughly dyed-in-the-wool Nazarene professors for the 'damage' that a simple study of history will render.
'To be deep in history is to cease to be protestant.' -Cardinal John Henry Newman
[Links]
http://reformednazarene.wordpress.com/2010/02/08/conversation-with-a-university-president/
http://www.crivoice.org/neofundamentalism.html
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Henry_Newman
-r
There are many Nazarenes (such as the Reformed Nazarenes, see link below) who are concerned with the direction of the COTN, especially as it is embodied at denominational universities like Trevecca, where many students are either losing the Faith altogether or else becoming Catholic. The answer, according to these Reformed/Concerned Nazarenes, is to get back to the Bible-rooted, fundamentalist identity of the COTN. This is an historically amusing assertion, since the COTN was originally separate from 'Bible-rooted' fundamentalist protestantism and much later (in the Southeast U.S.) was largely subsumed within fundamentalism. It is further amusing to consider, on a larger scale, that the COTN has never had a unified identity or a unified 'direction' - which means that those evil 'emergent Nazarenes' and other groups have just as much claim to authoritative teaching as the fundamentalists do. Then again, this is what happens when you have no apostolic authority, no objective claims to authoritative teaching outside of some vague parametres: you go on archaeological expeditions to find the 'real Church' from which we have somehow departed.
Dr. Hoskins and other notable scholars have been pointing Trevecca students to historical Christianity, and many of us students went in search of the 'real Church' that we somehow lost. Some of us have found Her. Don't blame the thoroughly dyed-in-the-wool Nazarene professors for the 'damage' that a simple study of history will render.
'To be deep in history is to cease to be protestant.' -Cardinal John Henry Newman
[Links]
http://reformednazarene.wordpress.com/2010/02/08/conversation-with-a-university-president/
http://www.crivoice.org/neofundamentalism.html
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Henry_Newman
-r
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