The Sacred Order of the Spheres

The First Call of the First-Called

2011-12-01T17:09:00.000-08:00

In honor of the Feast of St. Andrew, Nov. 30th, Pan-Ecclesial

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He talks about a road like it's a thing
That I can straighten. And listening
To his voice in this wilderness of red
And white and blue, I know it's true.
I sensed no fear in anything he said,
From children to the sister of the King;
Still preaching when a platter bore his head.
He made the headline on a paper read
By breakfasters in slippers with grey hair.
The better half of them just don't care
About a thing they saw on an internet page.
And yet he asks me why the heathen rage.

The rulers of the earth have set themselves
Against somebody whom I've never seen.
And learning all their tales would cover shelves
Of boring research just to figure out
What all the deaths and wars are all about.
Are pulpits with Republican messiahs
Or holy icons of Obama our last hope?
Perhaps we need a good ol' Texan Pope.
Absit! I know too well just what they mean
When rhetoricians talk about their thing:
The seven sins are old as Augustine,
And ever He mocks our vain imagining.

In life's race forerunning fast as sand-worms,
Fed on bugs and what comes out of bees,
Aesthete ascetic baptist, bawdy, bearded,
And voted most unlikely to succeed,
He drew me. I became his first disciple.
I helped him dunk his victims in the deep.
And when the one with overworthy sandals
Arrived on Jordan's banks, sun streaming down,
I knew who I was ever meant to follow.
The Voice from heaven left me on a knee.
The waters rippled, and my doubts grew hollow:
"Beloved Son, I have begotten Thee."

Letter from a Thousand Years

2011-11-28T22:09:00.000-08:00

Dear Future,

Enclosed is all you will ever need to know. Please learn it and use it wisely.

Sincerely,
The Middle Ages
--------------------------

Apologies for my absence, bloggers, but I've been time traveling.

Solving Exegetical Problems in Gregory of Nyssa's "Life of Moses"

2011-10-11T20:41:00.000-07:00

St. Gregory of Nyssa’s contemplative treatise The Life of Moses was well-known to me even before I read it for the first time, because I had heard it referred to in both academic and non-academic circles, quoted in Sunday homilies, alluded to in philosophical debates, and listed in anthologies of patristic literature. The reasons for such universal regard for the work became more and more apparent with each chapter. It expositionally develops a well-known area of Old Testament scripture and keenly balances Greek philosophy with thoroughly Orthodox theology, while at the same time revealing a mysticism both revolutionary and deeply personal. As expected in such a comprehensive exegesis, much of Gregory’s interpretation relies heavily on spiritual, or allegorical, interpretation. In some cases, he provides such interpretations simply as options which can be beneficial for the Christian spiritual journey. However, in the case of some of these spiritual interpretations, he finds it necessary to contend that a literal interpretation would involve the imputation of wrongdoing onto the Almighty.

Normally, this would be easy to pass over as the overemphasis of a rather narrow-minded church father, while keeping an open mind to allowing for competing interpretations by other equally authoritative figures in other contexts. However, several of the sections from The Life of Moses where Gregory insisted on spiritual interpretation were important in a contemporary sense because they stuck out as the sorts of Bible passages touted today by enemies of the Christian faith seeking to “expose the great evils of the Bible” and “show Christianity’s true colors.” Most remarkably, Gregory often seemed to be in agreement with these criticisms, abandoning all narrative sense in favor of an intangible allegory which seemed to take no account of the text on its own historical terms. Hence, it is important to address a question which is twofold: first, what is to be done with the troublesome passages in the Torah, and is Gregory right to insist on solely allegorical interpretations? Second, does Gregory’s overall purpose in The Life of Moses provide any clues as to why he remains so committed to spiritual interpretations?

The first question must be answered generally, by a Christian on a personal level, to Christians in general. Anybody who has read the Bible, provided he does not just skip over troublesome details, has come upon plenty of “rough spots” which are hard to work out on one’s own. Numerous examples could be provided, but any single one could make the point: sometimes our God-given, internal notions of justice and fairness do not mesh with the account of God’s justice provided in the Old Testament. What is the Christian to believe in such a situation? Take, for example, Gregory’s complaint against the Angel of Death wiping out the Egyptian firstborn in Exodus 12: “If [the Egyptian infant] now pays the penalty of his father’s wickedness, where is justice? Where is piety? Where is holiness? Where is Ezekiel, who cries, ‘The man who has sinned is the man who must die’ and ‘A son is not to suffer for the sins of his father’? How can the history (ἱστορία) so contradict reason? Therefore, as we look for the true spiritual meaning…” (Gregory, 57). Gregory, as previously mentioned, is quick to reject the ἱστορία as “history” and instead treats it as an allegorical “story.” Is this our only option in such a passage?

Philosophically, there are of course several logical explanations. One could take any number of positions not prohibited by traditional church doctrine, and many have even taken positions which are. Perhaps, for example, God foreknew the infants’ uninstantiated yet logically necessary potential future actions, and based his actions on that knowledge. Maybe the infants, whose eternal fate is a mystery, were better off with their lives cut short. Or possibly the Angel of Death is a symbol for the Egyptians’ own child sacrifice rituals which they sinfully performed of their own free will. All these are logically possible, and indeed, have been posited as solutions of this dilemma. Yet none of these appeals need to be made! These are discussions either for pedants or for great saints and theologians. Let us not presume. Our role as Christians is primarily to know what we believe, not about the great mysteries of the faith, but about its basic tenets. One categorically precedes the other. It has always struck me as ridiculous when these problems are presented as defeaters for the Christian worldview. Place such an argument in propositional form, and you will see why I am so amused: “You claim that the Bible is God’s Word, yet here it reveals God to be a vile criminal! Why would God impugn Himself?” Why indeed! The solution “we must have something wrong” immediately becomes equally probable as “this must not be sacred scripture,” and thus the objection defeats itself, and simultaneously highlights an important and rather humorous heuristic for the reader of scripture: the Bible cannot argue away God. When it begins to, you are reading it wrong. And after that is understood, whether a spiritual interpretation is required, or some other explanation will do equally well, you will be getting on far more efficiently than you were. So much for the question of what we as Christians are to do with these troublesome passages.

The next question which must be addressed is how to best understand Gregory’s treatment of the Exodus passages as primarily spiritual. To continue with our example of the tenth plague, it is rather distressing that Gregory underemphasizes the plague’s actual historicity: “How would a concept worthy of God be preserved in the description of what happened if one looked only to the history?” (Gregory, 56). In fact, in the context of all he says about the injustice of the plague, it is reasonable to assume that if he believes God is just (which he obviously does), God could not have done this and the plague must not be historical. At this point I can feel a polemic about proper Biblical exegesis rising in my throat.

However, it may be helpful to look at this passage and the others like it in context of the whole Life and start to understand Gregory on his own terms. We should ask ourselves if this great Cappadocian father has really blundered into the unthinkable hermeneutic we are foisting upon him: “If an Old Testament act of God seems unjust, it must not have truly happened.” Did Gregory really believe that? Well, a brief foray into the study of genre may be helpful to determine Gregory’s train of thought in his seeming overemphasis of allegorical interpretation in this work. Stephen E. Fowl, in his book The Theological Interpretation of Scripture, explains: “The Life of Moses is exegetical, following the narrative portions of Exodus in the Septuagint, but it is not a commentary. It is, rather, a bios, a well-defined classical genre…which characteristically held up the life of its subject as a moral example” (Fowl, 104). Fowl goes on to explain that a bios, or biography (though the modern terminology is mildly inappropriate), is designed to place every event in its subject’s life on a pedestal, mining each detail for meta-historical significance and didactic edification of the reader. Hence, the abundance of spiritual interpretations in the Life is justifiable if it is understood that the work’s genre calls for such an emphasis.

Why, then, did Gregory consider it necessary to argue for his use of allegory through arguments about justice and God’s nature, when those arguments seem to have side effect of debunking the true historicity of the work? Well, it was certainly not because Gregory purposed to discredit the timeless story of Moses the Lawgiver. In fact, there would be no reason to write a bios if the events of the subject’s life had never taken place. The truth of Gregory’s purpose takes us with the author, one level deeper into the text, to see from his perspective. Gregory did not mean to make dogmatic assertions about the mysteries of divine decision-making. All he wanted to do, given the morally instructive purpose of the work, was to affirm the conscience of the reader which welled up in rejection at the death of innocents. Gregory means to reassure, to say “Your revulsion is appropriate. To lose that moral revulsion would be to lose your humanity. Yet,” he silently adds when we read between the lines, “your revulsion may not extend to the Divine Person. His thoughts are not our thoughts, and His ways are not our ways. All that he does is a mystery.”

We can already see this perspective in his description of God as λαμπρός γνόφος, or “luminous darkness,” impenetrable by human contemplation, yet the very source of our ability to contemplate. To put it rather ironically, it is God who gives us, through free will and the power of the intellect, the ability to doubt and accuse Him. Were he only λαμπρός, the illuminated intellect would crowd out all faith, and were he only γνόφος, there would be no other minds. Gregory of Nyssa, the great Cappadocian master, made room for both in his mystical theology and scriptural interpretation. I see no reason why we cannot follow suit as we attempt to understand his teaching.

I recommend reading this short work to any who are seeking to achieve righteousness through both contemplation of the mysteries of godliness and emulation of a holy man of faith.

The Murder of the Incarnation

2011-10-02T14:17:00.000-07:00

Asleep, an ant in a cockle shell
Slowly lets the briny rocking
Alabaster cradle
Send him dreamwards.

I have to crush him; bugs
Aren't allowed in my house.
Let this be a lesson
To the rest of you.

A god of justice, walking tall
To tend the golden ratios
Of his window-boxes;
Drink winedark power, holy mighty–

You've got the whole world in your hands.

The broken body of the ant,
Recipient of my heart's desire–
Crush. Break. Kill.
Is but a symptom.

If my crushing thumb could touch
The brothers and the sisters,
A God of Justice, looking down
Would yet sleep in his shell beneath it.

Origen on Free Will and Prayer

2011-09-29T16:47:00.000-07:00

It seemed like a very uncanny coincidence as I was reading Origen’s treatise On Prayer that no more than a week ago I was having a conversation with a believing friend of mine about prayer and why it is important. She mentioned that prayer was a topic that confused her terribly. Fortunately, this had not led her to give it up, but in her own words, she often “prayed resolutely but blindly; asking that God’s will would be done in the whole world, whatever it may be.” Still, though, she couldn’t get past the question of God’s foreknowledge and foreordination, and I felt that she was being limited, like so many in our world today, by her incomplete understanding of the philosophical context of prayer’s efficacy. It had seemed a further coincidence at the time she mentioned this to me because I had just finished reading C. S. Lewis’s Letters to Malcolm: Chiefly on Prayer, which adeptly deals with the very same topic (in a way only Lewis can). Pondering these many coincidences, it struck me that this question cannot be one that only turns up now and again in a Christian’s mind; any Christian who prays often wants to ask the question why pray?. Along with this question come assumptions about the nature of the spiritual, some of which need to be discarded, and others which may need to be expanded. I was certainly surprised to find that such an early and often controversial writer as Origen, though his solutions did not explore every permutation of the question, bore the earmarks of orthodoxy and clarity throughout.

The question appears in Origen’s treatise On Prayer in section B of the Introduction, entitled “Objections to Prayer” in Greer’s translation. I will briefly outline his discussion as it appears in the treatise:

Some say we ought not to pray.

Some of these are atheists.
Some are "impious men" who believe in God.

Those who believe in God's providence, but whose belief is twisted to overemphasize it, argue as follows:

God knows all, and therefore prayer cannot change the future.
God is wiser than men, and therefore prayer is unnecessary because it will never be done wisely enough.
God foreordains all, and therefore prayer is not efficacious; only God is efficacious.
The elect will receive all they have been elected to, regardless of prayer.
Prayers for salvation are unnecessary, because salvation is a thing predetermined. God's dispensation never changes through prayer.

Origen counter-argues:

Things are caused in different ways, whether“externally” (inanimate objects), “out of” themselves (plants), “from”themselves (animals), and “through” themselves (rational creatures).
Free will (or rather, self-caused action) is self-evident (this argument is rather weak, but is unnecessary to his conclusion).
Each free choice we make, including the choice to pray, is foreknown by God, and he foreordains with this knowledge taken into account.
Therefore, prayer is efficacious "from" ourselves and "through" God (he seems to be saying, though not explicitly).
Christians should feel free to pray both for those who seem to have free will (i.e., people and angels) and those who seem not to (i.e., the weather).

Origen’s treatise is certainly not the earliest to deny a deterministic perspective in favor of the orthodox principle of free will−many Greek philosophers had held this perspective−however, his enumeration of the argument to include God’s action based on foreknowledge of free actions is certainly among the earliest formulations of an argument which strengthened this church doctrine. Surprisingly enough, nobody who has ever asked me this question about the reason for prayer has ever read this argument in any form, nor has it ever occurred to them spontaneously. Too bad, because vastly more important than the argument’s place in the philosophical dialectic are its implications for the Christian’s practical prayer life.

Origen includes in his treatise three entire sections on practicalities in prayer: one on physical postures and rituals, one on the Lord’s exemplary prayer, and one on the appropriate spiritual thoughts which should coincide with prayer. However, I feel that Origen’s brief disputational apologetic is even more useful than any of these. In my personal experience, whether asking for physical goods for myself or others in supplication, exposing my sins in confession, or seeking the wisdom of God in contemplation, prayer is made difficult by my broken human will and its lack of control over the spirit. Philosophical questions about prayer only serve to compound these difficulties. A few examples: I am praying for the salvation of a friend, but allow my flawed human conception of election to cause despair at his ever accepting the gospel. Or, if times are hard and prayer has not seemed to change my circumstances, I become angry with God for commanding me to pray when clearly my efforts are in vain. Even more chilling, at other times, is the sudden sense that as I pray I am truly alone; an idiot flapping his jaw in an empty room. Origen, as if exclusively for the benefit of me and my doubts, propounds this argument to destroy the effects of bad theology, the impatience of carnal Christians like myself, and the fears brought on by modern naturalism. He makes much of God’s gift, human freedom, pointing out its massive significance and import, and thereby bringing a gravity to life and a victory to prayer. The importance of “praying as we ought” is immediately visible, even before he begins to expound on it in the next chapter. In this context, he upholds God’s command as rational and His presence as realistic.

Even as I recommended Origen’s treatise on prayer to my friend, I reflected on how its clarity and conciseness would bolster my own prayer life. To feel synergia, the union of deific and human will, as it occurs, to daily claim its operation for myself, is an ethical revolution. God’s voice through Origen’s about the apostle Paul begged me to insert my own name: “I know what will happen and how strenuously [Andrew] will strive for true religion. Therefore…I will choose him and will supply him at the moment of his birth with powers that cooperate for the salvation of men…” (Origen, 96). A worldview of freedom used rightly is so full of color and life. We truly live a prayer and create a work of art as we exist. A far cry from the life of a robotic drone suggested by the impious men Origen argues against (and who still exist in our time), the life of free will is its own apologetic for God’s own free choice to create us thus.

New Blog

2011-09-21T19:09:00.000-07:00

I'm starting up a new blog, the purpose of which is to 1) provide graduate students and hopefuls with some inside information which can help them get started and 2) to provide current graduate students with little-known information I've picked up along my way which I wished I could've found on the internet beforehand.

It's called "NSFU" and the link is here.

Enjoy, if it's the sort of thing you care about.

--S.O.S. Webmaster

“Make his paths straight”: The Lost Call to Poverty in the 21st Century

2011-09-15T17:05:00.000-07:00

Modern society, not only Western but everywhere that civilization has become thoroughly modernized, the common citizen turns his gaze inward to observe his own style of life, possessions, thoughts, priorities, interactions, and mores, and finds a complete lack of asceticism. The culture is utterly bankrupt of any notion of self-denial, silence, purification, and community, and the very idea of a monk has become ridiculous. Materialism, that new god of green and silver born from the incestuous union of insatiable greed and fear of poverty, has set up his throne in every place, from Wall Street to the Ivy League, and even, to some extent, within the church herself. More than ever, humanity needs the austere renunciations, the bold proclamations, the servile self-humiliation of the Desert Fathers. Christ’s people need to hear the voice of one crying in the wilderness: “Prepare the way of the Lord: make his paths straight.” Drowning in our never-ending quest for more goods and possessions, the human race in this 21^st century has blinded itself to treasure in heaven. The cure is the admonition of St. Paphnutius: “With renunciation we can reach perfection. Bound to worldly riches we are visited with everlasting death."

Why does Paphnutius, according to John Cassian’s Conferences, refer to worldly riches as death? Don’t riches allow for the opposite of death in almost every way- rejuvenating health through medical care, safeguarding against crime through law and security, and protecting from such detriments as hunger, exposure, and discomfort? Indeed they do. We have all at some stressful moment in our lives mused, “how infuriating that all these irksome little problems could be wiped away with judicious application of a mere million dollars.” The compiling bills faced month-to-month, the poor unhelped due to a struggling economy, the studies foregone for lack of funding- all these would vanish if the green pieces of paper flowed freely in our control. What else, though, would vanish? What else would become obsolete? Hard work would no longer be necessary; that same hard work that St. Paul exhorted the Thessalonians to do “quietly and thereby earn their own living.” Reliance upon God to fulfill our every need “according to His riches in Christ Jesus” (Philippians 4:19) would no longer be necessary; why trust a God we cannot see when we can trust in Benjamin Franklin, who we can? Also, the denial of self and quiet security of poverty could never be ours. In other words, riches in themselves, or lack thereof, are not the yardstick of perfection. “More exalted and more valuable,” says Paphnutius, “is the asceticism of the heart.”

For the edification of St. John Cassian and our own, Paphnutius delineates between three kinds of riches: one which it is always wrong to have, one which can be either wrong or right, and one which is always right. The scriptures speak of all three, so he follows suit. One is evil, and to the possessors of these the Lord says “Woe to you, the rich.” It can be assumed that among these are ill-gotten gain, hoards, blood money, and other tainted currency. A 4th century Anchorite monk named Abraham told his niece Maria, whom he had redeemed out of prostitution, to “leave behind [her money and possessions], for it came from evil. " The love of evil riches is the root of all kinds of evil (I Timothy 6:10). Another type, the neutral riches, are acceptable if used rightly, but abstained from by the monks lest they “put their hope in the uncertainty of riches” (I Timothy 6:17). Finally, riches praised by the Psalmist and St. John the Theologian are classified as “good riches” and are indeed described by him as necessary to salvation! A fitting parable which springs to mind for this good sort of riches is from the very end of Frank Capra’s beloved film It’s a Wonderful Life. The story concludes with the bedraggled George Bailey, deep in monetary troubles, yet having just learned that the importance of money pales in comparison with the joy of friends, children, and a warm community. After seemingly everyone in town bands together to donate to his cause, his guardian angel leaves him a note in his worn-out copy of Tom Sawyer which reads, “Dear George: remember, no man is a failure who has friends.” The wealth of money which George compiled through his neighbors’ generosity was weightless in the balance with his wealth of ἀγάπη, which Paphnutius is quite right in calling a prerequisite to salvation. After all, the greatest commandment is twofold: to love God and to love one’s neighbor. And as an old Russian proverb states, “Blessed be he with a thousand rubles, but more blessed he with a thousand friends.”

Sometimes it seems that the 21^st century is only concerned with the first riches Paphnutius mentions, the evil kind of riches. These are the riches which keep us safe and comfortable, building habits within us which turn comfort into a virtue. They are the riches we gather greedily and clutch in both fists because we are afraid of the uncertain future of poverty. These riches and the security they bring are our defense as to who we stepped on to obtain them, and this inordinate love of money causes all kinds of evil. We ought, as Abba Isaiah counsels, to “detest comfort and train ourselves in hardship.” We ought to let God be concerned with the future, but we have no faith. We ought to forego paper and coins for the currency of heaven and thereby “make his paths straight”: that is, live our lives in virtue rather than vice. I am a child of the 21^st century. The call to poverty of heart starts with me.

Water in the Air

2011-09-07T22:38:00.000-07:00

I've heard it said there's water in the air,
Though for my life I've never once beheld it.
If it were true there's water everywhere,
You'd think I would've tasted, felt, or smelled it.

I told Professor Sartre once before,
And I'd be glad to tell him once again:
Aether, paper knives, love's inner war...
Toutes vos croyances stupides, elles sont tiennes.

This morning when I looked around for love,
And opened up my door to ask it in,
A rainstorm fell. A deluge from above
Embraced me whole and soaked me to the skin.

Now trapped inside, my daydreams travel West
As only books unfetter them to do
To hearths and homes that I remember best
To fire, perched and chirping: yes, you too.

For now I know there's water in the air,
A metaphor for love that's literal;
No hemisphere division's burning prayer,
But transcendentally comissural.

MISSIVE TO THE FLEET

2011-08-25T13:12:00.000-07:00

S. VASQUEZ stop

FIND A WAY TO CONTACT ASAP stop

HQ HAS HEARD NOTHING FOR 17 DAYS 9 HOURS stop

PLEASE ADVISE AS TO YOUR TRAJECTORY/WELFARE/ETC. AND AS TO A WAY TO RE-ESTABLISH COMM. stop

YOU HAVE MY COORDINATES OVER AND OUT

Space Story, Chapter 1

2011-08-24T13:24:00.000-07:00

When a storyteller begins his tale with “once upon a time,” it is not often because there was a real time when the next half of his sentence took place. It is probably not because the teller saw some events happened and wants to tell about them, heard about some events and wants to pass them on, or even made up a nifty yarn that he thinks will tickle the ears or admonish the soul. “Once upon a time” is so commonly found at the beginning of story hour because it fits so well. Time is a comfortable sofa of scientific reality to relax in; it is common to us all, and we neither love nor fear it. “There will be a time” creates foreboding; “in our very times,” discomforting closeness. “Once upon a time” is the realm of all good stories, our pillow of history which, good or ill, took place in the past and is therefore something we can experience in two safe dimensions. We trust our storytellers when they begin this way, and this opening can create a relationship, a subtle human bond that allows us to relax and enjoy the story of “then” being told without having to worry about the fickle “here” and the bothersome “now”. Any story that begins any other way simply shouldn’t be bothered with. It shouldn’t be read by young or old- nothing can be gained from it, and certainly the reader risks great loss.

So I suppose this isn’t going to be a very good story.

Godefridus was a soldier. Well, he wanted to be. Ever since he was six space-years old, he had been in awe of the military champions that protected his home, the space colony of Frannen. Riding gallantly to and fro on their space-horses, brandishing space-swords in the defense of Frannen’s Space-Duke, Lord Arthur the Red, these knights were the flower of Frannic chivalry, serving as a noble example of honor and justice to those of less gentle birth. Lord Arthur was feared and respected among the other colonial space-duchies, as he had never lost a battle. Fearless in the space-assault, staunch at the space-defense, and noble in space-war as well as space-peace, he was everything that Godefridus, now sixteen, had ever dreamed of becoming. This was only natural; after all, Lord Arthur was Godefridus’ father.

Before you react to this statement, before your perceptions of our young Godefridus change indelibly, it should be explained that Godefridus was no different in this than any other boy in the colony. According to a time-honored space-custom in Frannen, it was the right of the space-duke to ensure, through the vigorous laboratory work of Frannen’s brightest and most alluring female scientists, that only his own male offspring were created. This being the case, every young man born under the same space-duke’s reign was technically a brother to every other, and their fraternal space-bond was thereby strengthened. If you are wondering how girls came to be, how this practice affected social incest mores, genetic mutations and diseases, etc., just remember…space.

The space-date was planet cycle 43 of the Juptilinarian calendar, in the base-11 isosceles year segment under the old .8857 atomic counterlength measurement, exactly 181 parallel arcseconds from the alignment of Faid and Zarptatid, in the year of our Lord. It wouldn’t be long now before young Godefridus would no longer be young Godefridus, and would be allowed to fight in the colonial army; to begin training on his way to become a knight. Just a few more- short…ish…units of time that are sort of like weeks…just trust me, it wouldn’t be long now. At 17, he would be allowed to carry a weapon, eat, drink, inhale and inject mortally harmful substances, relieve himself without permission, and best of all- enter the Forbidden Zone. As in, the actual Forbidden Zone. As in the actual Forbidden Zone that’s not inside anybody’s space-pants. It was all a young Frannie could ask.

“God!” said Alexa without warning. “How could you be so idiotic? So naïve? So…intellectually weak?” Alexa and Godefridus were best friends, and they were seated in the lush space-garden tucked away between the officious-looking government structures near Lord Alfred’s palace. The pastel hues of blue and yellow flowers smattering the abundance of hanging vines and eager shrubs was a welcome respite from the cold, dark red color which adorned every building and outdoor area in Frannen. Lord Arthur had ordered everything painted that color to match his nickname, so Godefridus and Alexa often found themselves coming to the garden to relax their eyes. Today they were playing space-chess, and Godefridus was losing to Alexa as usual. When she was disappointed in him, as she was today, she often called him “God.” He liked it, but wasn’t quite sure why. It made him feel unique and powerful- like Lord Arthur the Red, his father. He imagined himself as duke of the colony, with everybody calling him Lord God…Lord God the what? Lord God the Red? That didn’t really make sense. There was nothing red about him. Not that there was anything red about his father, but still- Godefridus didn’t even like red. He sighed. He knew he had no chance at becoming duke. He wasn’t the best at anything; wasn’t the quickest, wasn’t the strongest, wasn’t the bravest out of his thousands of brothers. He certainly wasn’t the smartest. Here he was being beaten in space-chess, and embarrassingly, by a girl. Godefridus snapped back into focus just in time for another diatribe.

“God, you take so long! Just choose between your space-rook or your space-knight and be done with it! It’s easy…the space-rook is worth five points, and the space-knight only three. You should be able to figure this out, even if your math is as bad as your talent for space-chess.”

“Alright, alright, half a space-second.” He was considering resigning, but he knew this would frustrate her most of all. Maybe that was a good reason to do it. He shrugged and tipped his space-king. “That’s it, you win,” he mumbled.

Alexa looked shocked. “You…you just gave up.” Her mind seemed to be having trouble grasping the concept.

“Yeah, I gave up, ok? It was a foregone conclusion. My skills at this game are equivalent to your skills at dressing yourself.”

It wasn’t awful, what she was wearing. Well, not lethally awful. Red metal space-boots, green rubber shorts with a belt made from the synthesized skin of some exotic reptile, a fur-lined overcoat, sparkly gold gloves and a paper hat…and none of it fit quite right. She wasn’t sensitive about it, and Godefridus had never been able to figure out if she did it on purpose.

“So anyway…what are we doing for your seventeenth?” Changing the subject was another of Alexa’s champion skills that allowed her to dominate a conversation.

“Actually? I’m going down to the space-palace to enlist. Space-knight training is only five years…I could have my own space-horse by the age of 22.”

Alexa gave him a “you’re space-retarded” look. “Five years? You want to go train every day in some offworld, ultra-gravity space-facility, no contact with the outside world for five whole years? Are you out of your mind?”

Godefridus shrugged. “Alexa, I’ve told you about four million times that this is what I’ve wanted to do, ever since I was-”

“Seven space-years old, yes I know. It’s just that-”

“Yeah, I know. You’re going to miss having somebody to beat at this stupid game all the time.”

She looked away. “Nah. I’m just worried you’ll catch one of those space-diseases. The ones with the rabid worms that gnaw on your intestines, and synthesize you into a pile of goo from the inside out, slowly, over the course of-”

"Yeah, I’m pretty sure I’ll be fine. You know my brothers and I are all equipped with more than your basic immunity.”

“Worms.”

“Immunity.”

She scampered to the garden gate. “Well, I’d better get back to my space-responsibilities.”

“Alright, I’ll get back to mine.”

She glided through the gate, but turned and stuck her head back through before she closed it, adding as a parting shot, “Worms.”

When the day came, its arrival felt to Godefridus like the anticlimax of a space-party that is built up to be something special, but is overall a little lame. What Godefridus perceived as the vast expanse of time, seventeen space-years that had led up to this day, seemed to blot out the day’s significance by overshadowing it with pure numerical weight. Yet he was still excited as he walked to the palace for enlistment- he hadn’t seen Alexa all day, but he figured she was still sore about his decision to enlist. Oh well- she’d known he was going to do it for years, so it shouldn’t come as a surprise. Still…he didn’t know when they were going to ship him off for training, but he hoped she could get over it before then. The way he perceived girls, they were constantly changing their minds and emotions about every little thing, so how could he be expected to keep up? He admitted that this attitude could be interpreted as dismissive in every possible way, but they were totally asking for it.

The palace shot up dramatically, outlining the red streaks and elegant golden trim which were arrayed in vertical lines to emphasize the monstrous height of the building. Walking in, Godefridus felt as though he were an explorer entering some untouched cavern. He had to heave open a pair of adamantine space-doors which he couldn’t have budged three years ago. Were the doors part of his space-assessment? He knew that he had to be ready for anything. The interior of the building was rather spacious; except for the few knights-in-training strolling the grounds and some administrative desks, the whole thing was like a big, decadent tomb. A red line asserted itself just space-inches from the entrance. Crossing this line, it read, is a legally binding decision to enlist in the Frannen cavalry. Godefridus thought of his great-great-grandfather, Space Julius Caesar, for whom the trumpeters sounded a victorious crossing of the Space-Rubicon. Imagining a triumphal chorus to herald his recruitment, he headed for the line.

“Without even saying goodbye, eh?” Alexa’s voice came from behind him. She had pried the heavy metal door open with a space-broom handle, and wedged one of her gaudy shoes underneath to prop it open. “I just thought that, you know, since we’re not going to see each other for the next 5 years…”

Godefridus felt a little guilty. Though mostly annoyed. Visions of the Space Rubicon vanished. He shrugged. “I wouldn’t have really known what to say, I guess.”

“Bless me, God, you do realize what kind of decision you’re making, don’t you?”

“Yeah, it’s what I’ve always wanted. How could you understand what it’s like to be a knight like my brothers? You’re not a child of Arthur. You’re just a child. With horrible fashion sense.”

Even though their argument had become louder and louder, nobody in the courtyard seemed to notice. Apparently, this sort of thing happened all the time on the brink of recruitment.

“Godefridus! Listen to me! Straddling a space horse and riding around star systems intimidating space-peasants may sound like fun, but you’re throwing your life away! You could do so much more- be so much more! Have you ever actually met any of these heroes of yours? Do you know what this life does to a person? Well, I have. And anybody stupid enough to walk over that God-awful red line deserves whatever happens to them after that. In fact-”

Alexa did not get to finish her rant. Although her flip-flops went great with her orange-striped jeans, they were not of sufficient quality to act as doorstops for the 2800 cubic space-foot, reinforced ferric mass bearing down on them. The door clanged shut, slamming into Alexa and propelling her forward. She did the same to Godefridus, and they both tumbled over the line. Almost immediately, a rough-looking man stood over them.

“On your feet, soldiers! Training starts yesterday! MOVE MOVE MOVE MOVE MOVE!!!”

Kawasaki Ninja 250R Road Trip Review 3- The Last Ride

2011-08-10T22:53:00.000-07:00

After two trip reviews of my 2009 Ninja, one to San Francisco and one to Portland, many of you may be wondering how little Bagra is faring these days. I'll conclude my trip review series with this review of my most recent (and final) trip to the tiny rural town of Pioneer, CA (the vicinity of Sacramento). Along the way, I broke 30K miles, and many of you are probably wondering how a 250 holds up after that much punishment. The surprising answer? Better than ever.

The trip was grand. I took the 99 hwy from the Grapevine all the way up North, stopping for gas about 4 times, getting lost in Jackson (ref. Johnny Cash) and stuck in Lodi (ref. Credence). There's not much to say except that the pain was lessened by this trip's taking place in August, providing warmth for my extremities.

I had one problem along the way- Bagra overheated about 100 miles into the trip because I was pushing 95 on an 1/8 tank. I let it cool and fired it up again. In my experience, if there's not much gas in the tank, it causes undue stress on the engine, especially when it's hot. Since I'm not mechanically adept at all, to me this is magical ritual, but my advice would be to fill up at the halfway point on long trips in the heat. That's what I did the rest of the trip and didn't have any further problems.

Congratulations to Michael and Breanna Jewell on their wedding (which is why I was in that one-horse town in the first place). I wish them a long and eventful union.

There is one further note to make about the return trip: there was a heavy crosswind on the grapevine headed south. The 250 unfortunately doesn't stand very well against a side wind, so not only was I forced to slow to about 60 mph in a traffic flow that often exceeded 90 mph, I was being blown all over my lane: a harrowing experience at midnight to say the least. This was my first grapevine experience at night on the bike, and it's going to be my last. I recommend you do the same.

Unlike previous reviews, I'll rate this trip on more practical grounds.

Speed: 8. Pushing 90 the entire trip ended the monotony a bit sooner than most 4-wheeled vehicles could sustain. On the other hand, the sound barrier isn't too ambitious...

Cost: 10. A friend of mine took his suburban and paid over 500 dollars in gas. I purchased about 16 gallons at a rate of 4$ a gallon. Thank God for motorcycles. This trip couldn't be done any more cheaply if you walked.

Comfort: 3. "I'm getting too old for this nonsense." I'm not going to lie, taking a sport bike long distance is not the easiest thing you've ever done. Be sure you have the stamina before attempting. I will say this: I've built up considerable durability with other trips and total riding distance, and that made the whole thing a lot easier. Also, earbuds with loud music.

Overall (not an average): 9. There's nothing quite like the wind rushing by as you swerve and weave around slower vacationers on a long trip up California's major freight highway. Bakersfield, Fresno, Stockton...the pain is intense, the time and miles stretch and drag on, but the rewards are incredibly worthwhile. If you haven't yet ventured a trip on your 250R, it can be done. Even when she's at that "midlife crisis" age. She can do more than just separate the hogs. Pull back your throttle and crouch down over that gas tank one last time- you won't regret it.

---------------------------------------------------------------

Dear Bagra,

I'll miss you.

Sincerely,

Andrew

To Thee, O Lord

2011-07-18T01:32:00.000-07:00

Lord of salvation, light undefiled,
Adonai Roi, virgin-born child,
Author of wisdom, Word become man,
Keep now Thy servant safe in Thine hand.

Thine hand is for good on all those who seek;
It succours the poor and strengthens the weak.
It safeguards the just without and within
From plots of the wicked and mine own sin.

Master of mercy, Jesus divine,
Anointed messiah, rescuer mine,
Pardoner perfect, conqueror sure,
Oh, may Thy Spirit make my soul pure.

Let every creature, spirits sublime
Worship the King for now and all time
Angels and saints from transience freed
Pray unto God for me, intercede.

As did the earth where Thou lay’st entombed
Shrouded in graveclothes, pale, unperfumed
As did the womb of Mary the Blessed
So quakes the heart Thy Spirit possessed

God resurrected, man sanctified
Natures in union, dying defied
Serpent’s head crushed and humans made free
He without sin was made sin for me.

Better than the Real Thing

2011-06-19T02:40:00.000-07:00

U2's 360 tour, Anaheim Stadium.
Yes, that's a giant disco ball.

"After silence, that which comes nearest to expressing the inexpressible is music."

-Aldous Huxley

Chaucer's "Julius Caesar"

2011-06-16T04:02:00.000-07:00

The following clip is a selection from Geoffrey Chaucer's The Canterbury Tales. (Perhaps you've read his book, The Book of the Duchess?) This selection comes from "The Monk's Tale" and is part of a 17-part exposition by the monk, a series of miniature biographies depicting the rise and fall of history's most recognizable heroes and villains. Like the other great generals whom the monk depicts, Caesar's story is here depicted as being governed by Fortuna, who can bring triumphant success as swiftly as crushing failure.

The text of my reading can be found at http://classiclit.about.com/library/bl-etexts/gchaucer/bl-gchau-can-monk-m.htm ... make sure to scroll down to the section about Julius Caesar.

If you're looking to hear more examples of Middle English read aloud, click the "Middle English" label at the bottom of this post.

Open Theism vs. Dr. Norman Geisler

2011-06-08T18:06:00.000-07:00

As many of my readers may know, I like to discuss philosophy of religion a lot (some of it happens at demateria.org), and one topic that isn't often mentioned is Open Theism. Open Theism is the idea that God does not know the future (nor does it exist to be known by anyone), and is contrary to the classical theistic idea that God is timeless and immutable. Proponents of this view include Orthodox Theologian Richard Swinburne (Oxford), Nicholas Wolterstorff (Yale), Greg Boyd (Bethel), and, humorously, Craig Boyd (formerly APU).

So one night, we had our feet up and our pipes out, and talk moved around to the idea of Open Theism. One of my friends had been a student of Craig Boyd at APU, and mentioned that he was an Open Theist who often posted Open Humor on his facebook page, i.e. "Hmmm...what will I have for lunch today? I don't know. And neither does God!"

"You know," another of my friends commented, "Open Theism is kind of a big deal at the Evangelical Theological Society (a major evangelical scholarly society and journal). I heard that Norman Geisler left the society because they didn't get rid of Clark Pinnock, that Open Theist guy."

Really? He left ETS for not expelling a member? Sure enough, after a brief internet search, it was revealed that Geisler, a former ETS president (!) left the society in 2003, and lists his reasons why in this letter. I am not an open theist myself, but I (in my infinite maturity and wisdom) deemed this a little harsh...a little cantankerous. I looked at my friends. "Gentlemen," I said, "it sounds like we may need to pay the fastidious Dr. Geisler a little visit. Do you think he'd be...open to the idea?"

"INTERNET! FIND ME NORMAN GEISLER!!!"

(Click here to witness the dramatization.)

A few clicks later, it was revealed that he would be less than 30 miles away from us in a matter of weeks. Well, there wasn't much time to waste. Soon, plans all fell into place...and, well, the rest is history. And just look at his smile! He still has no idea.

Zachary Porcu left, Andrew Cuff right, and together with Dr. Geisler, we make an Open Theism sandwich.

------------------------

I would like to dedicate our feat to Dr. Craig Boyd, whose fantastic Bob Dylan impression served as an inspiration to us all.

To purchase an Open Theism T-Shirt or Hoodie...you can't. There's only two and we've got them.

Zachary Porcu's blog, Truth is a Snare

Better than Demerits

2011-06-06T17:09:00.000-07:00

I warned him before the battle I'd kill him. I'd grabbed him by the shirt and growled it into his face. He just laughed. Of course I'd taught him in class before. Identifying predicates, drilling vocabulary, reciting poetry, discusing the five-paragraph persuasive essay- these were our usual engagements. He was a fine student, working hard even when he didn't have to, and paying respectful attention in class. He has his moments of behavioral missteps, but for the most part, I had to admit that his work ethic was excellent.

But now, everything was different. He wore a red armband and I wore a blue. So when I saw his fuzzy black head of hair pop up from that trench, his weather eyes carefully scanning the terrain for hostiles, I charged over no man's land, my finger squeezed down on my trigger, with no concern for life or limb. I gave a hearty rebel yell and watched my ammunition make contact. I must have shot him fifty times. I leaped down into his trench where he had fallen, rifle ready for more blood. Hm. No other red armbands. They'd left him all alone to guard their right flank. I looked back down at my fallen former student. He opened his hand, and a grenade, pin pulled, rolled out. I froze, unable to react as pellets sprayed everywhere with a loud pop. Dead rag.

Ride in Righteousness: Motorcycles and the Christian Life

2011-05-23T03:57:00.000-07:00

It's been a while since I wrote anything about motorcycles. That may be because over the last two years or so, riding has slowly become more and more a part of me and less and less a novelty. My bike is a 2009 Kawasaki Ninja 250R, and we've been over almost 30,000 miles of road together. I trust her wheels more than my legs; her mirrors more than my eyes. I count on her maneuverability in traffic more than my own reflexes. One could not exist without the other, of course, but I find it proper to give credit where credit is due. And now I have to give her up as I plan to move to a place where the sun doesn't shine all year round. She just won't roll in the snow. In any case, looking back at the time I've spent growing closer to Bagra (yes, I named her Bagra), I thought I would offer some thoughts and reflections on the time we've had- and we have had a time. Mostly, I'd like to share the ways in which motorcycle riding can be a metaphor for the Christian life.

Ride Circumspectly

A metaphor for the Christian life? The idea might seem preposterous to some...but hear it out. I'll start with the aspect of riding that first got me thinking in this direction. Whether riding in the street, tooling through a parking lot, or cruising long-distance, the key to motorcycle safety is paying attention and maintaining 360 degree observation. "See then," says St. Paul in his letter to the Ephesians, "that ye walk circumspectly, not as fools, but wise." In the Christian life, people and events beyond our control can often threaten to throw us off-balance and encumber our spiritual walk. Walking circumspectly, like riding circumspectly, can allow us to sense danger from any angle; whether the driver to your right opens his door in traffic, or a friend and spiritual mentor loses his temper: the circumspect will not be thrown. They are sober; they are vigilant. They know that the Christian life is often a rush hour, and danger is on every side. Staying alert and close to God's Word is the only way to survive.

Maintenance

Making sure that a bike undergoes proper maintenance is paramount to rider safety. Cables, brakes, tires, electrical, mirrors, oil, chain, handlebars, lights- everything needs to be constantly checked. In the same way, scripture admonishes the Christian to maintain every aspect of life in peak condition. "Know ye not that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit?" asks St. Paul, who elsewhere in his epistle to the Phillipians reminds them that "the peace of God will guard their hearts and minds in Christ Jesus." Paul is quite concerned about the condition of the body, the emotions, and the intellect, all aspects of the human person which influence the choices we make and the life we lead. I remember a stretch of time, a couple weeks, when I was riding with brakes in poor condition because I hadn't found the time to have them serviced. This fact had a clear influence on my choices while riding, causing me to begin slowing down much earlier than normal, and determined which lane I stayed in on the freeway. The same would be true for an impaired body, an illogical mind, or uncontrollable emotions: the non-spiritual can affect the spiritual. Hence, good maintenance of the heart, soul, mind, and strength is really the only way to love God with them.

Armor

One reality that all riders accept is that accidents do happen on the road, and the rider and the seat are not always one. Getting thrown or laying the bike down is not much fun, but we have all done it at least once, and the unpleasantness of the experience was certainly determined by how well we were attired. Fortunately, both times I've met pavement I had a helmet on with a kevlar jacket, jeans, gloves, and over-the-ankle shoes. Sound familiar? In Ephesians 6, St. Paul offers a list of Christian armor which is meant to protect from the attacks of the enemy; the Helmet, Shield, Breastplate, Sword, Belt, and Shoes are all included- salvation, faith, righteousness, the Word, truth, and peace, respectively. Is it always easy to go clunking around in this getup? Is righteousness always expedient? Does truth win friends? Is faith comfortable? Is peace natural? Negative on all counts, yet continuing to wear the armor daily is paramount nonetheless. It hasn't always been easy to carry such attire to every locale and occasion, but for the few times I've slid on the road, I've been glad to deal with the difficulty of suiting up. The armor is important. Riders, Christians: don't leave home without it.

Take Up Your Bike and Follow Me

I've known and met so very many people who tell me something to the extent of, "That's a nice bike. You know, I've been wanting to get one of those. It looks like a lot of fun." I can obviously relate to that desire: the speed, the glamour, the status, the freedom of a motorcyclist seem so attractive. I've even had a random guy come up to me at a gas station and tell me excitedly, "You know I want get one of bike! You get many girls with, no?" And it's true. Yet in many ways, the glamour of a two-wheeler can, for the uninitiated, overshadow the sacrifices that come with riding. Nobody thinks about the DMV licensing and registration hassle, the maintenance and service hassle, the expense, the weather and road conditions. Not until trying to get home at midnight in the rain do you understand the value of a vehicle with a roof. Not until having coffee tossed at you as you carpool-lane past stop and go traffic do you understand what it means to be truly hated for your mode of transit. In many ways, riding a motorcycle can be something of a burden. What of the Christian life? Do not many, like the seeds planted in shallow ground of Christ's parable, come to the faith because of emotional, practical, or fickle reasons? There is a sickness in the family, or morality becomes attractive, or the church offers free programs for the kids? Yet the Christian life is a footrace, not a jaunt through the botanical gardens. Soon the truth comes out: the faith requires sacrifice, it requires commitment, it requires deep and abiding change. And, well, the family member has since gotten well, or the kids have grown up, or the pseudophilosophical winds of change blow in another direction. The cross is left behind; dying to self on its rugged timbers does not seem as attractive as it once did. Faith grasped for the wrong reasons is faith soon lost. The change must be holistic- from death to life. Otherwise, I'm sure you can sell your bike on Craigslist. Maybe even for more than you paid for it. You'll do much better with a vehicle that better suits your lifestyle. Prius?

True Freedom

I once knew a grizzled old biker who kept a rough-looking Harley and rode it everywhere, rain or shine. TwinCam engine, chain drive, faded black paint job, old school. "Four wheels move the body," he used to say, "but two wheels move the soul." Once he told me that there was one thing that helped him deal with everything that goes on out there on his beloved road- angry drivers, potholes, weather. "It's the dogs," he said. "I'm the only one out there who knows why those dogs stick their heads out the window. All these other drivers, they don't get it, see. But I know." My friend was right: there was something about riding a motorcycle that bred true freedom in the heart. Sure, I was always checking around me in 360 degrees, stressing out about maintenance and costs, dealing with the hassle of suiting up, feeling the hatred of other drivers- but none of those things mattered with my knees in the breeze. The Christian life is the exact same way, only the freedom it brings isn't just a freedom of the heart, feeling the wind in my face and the smell of sea air, with a favorite passenger on the seat behind me. Its freedom is complete and total rescue from the degrading, depraved daily existence mankind has sunk to. It is freedom from ourselves.

Does this mean the analogy's broken down? Not likely. Breaking down isn't something we bikers take lightly. There's wisdom to be had in spokes and tires, throttles and clutches. Consider the above a parable, and may it help you remember to remain upright as you ride your path to its end. Fix your gaze on Christ alone, our only hope and refuge, because as any basic rider course will teach you, the motorcycle always follows the eyes of the rider.

Have my Heart

2011-05-20T23:47:00.000-07:00

The wind is cold but I've got no regrets.
I'm riding home, a lover's sillhouette.
There's something warm inside my frozen chest.
Because you have my heart.

I know I'll see you smile again one day.
It couldn't happen any other way.
When I'm with you I know we'll be okay
Because you have my heart.

Don't hold too tight now, or you're sure to break
This thing I've given you through no mistake.
Then I was dreaming, now I'm wide awake
Because you have my heart.

Do hearts grow cold like any other bit?
To you this sacred thing I dare commit;
Grow old with me and please look after it:
You'll always have my heart.

Self-Creation

2011-05-18T00:11:00.000-07:00

Hope once held fades fast in fall,
When spring's last leaf is painted on the wall,
And winter winds are whispering of death.
Am I alive? I cannot see my breath.

Traipsing through the starry southern sky,
Orion sings a lover's lullaby.
He bends his bow and fires without a sound,
Casts one last longing look upon the ground.

His shot a season's greeting straight and true,
Dismisses frost and heralds green and blue,
The roots and branches shake their wintry bonds
While high above, the date palms drop their fronds.

I stand alone, the center of my earth,
Soul lost, what gained but sanity and worth?
Storm-tossed by tumult naturally inspired,
I stand no longer ill, no longer tired.

St. Theresa on Truth

2011-05-06T13:55:00.000-07:00

"It may also happen that, very suddenly and in a way which cannot be described, God will reveal a truth that is in Himself and that makes any truth to be found in the creatures seem like thick darkness; He will also manifest very clearly that He alone is truth and cannot lie. This is a very good explanation of David's meaning in that Psalm where he says that every man is a liar. One would never take those words in that sense of one's own accord, however many times one heard them, but they express a truth which is infallible. I remember that story about Pilate, who asked Our Lord so many questions, and at the time of His Passion said to Him: '"What is truth?" And then I reflect how little we understand of this Sovereign Truth here on earth.

I should like to be able to say more about this matter, but it is impossible. Let us learn from this, sisters, that if we are in any way to grow like our God and Spouse, we shall do well always to study earnestly to walk in this truth. I do not mean simply that we must not tell falsehoods, for as far as that is concerned -- glory be to God! -- I know that in these convents of ours you take very great care never to lie about anything for any reason whatsoever. I mean that we must walk in truth, in the presence of God and man, in every way possible to us. In particular we must not desire to be reputed better than we are and in all we do we must attribute to God what is His, and to ourselves what is ours, and try to seek after truth in everything. If we do that, we shall make small account of this world, for it is all lying and falsehood and for that reason cannot endure.

I was wondering once why Our Lord so dearly loved this virtue of humility; and all of a sudden -- without, I believe, my having previously thought of it -- the following reason came into my mind: that it is because God is Sovereign Truth and to be humble is to walk in truth, for it is absolutely true to say that we have no good thing in ourselves, but only misery and nothingness; and anyone who fails to understand this is walking in falsehood. He who best understands it is most pleasing to Sovereign Truth because he is walking in truth. May it please God, sisters, to grant us grace never to fail to have this knowledge of ourselves. Amen."

St. Theresa, The Interior Castle, Sixth Mansions, Ch. X

That Guy...

2011-04-30T00:57:00.001-07:00

“Are you not thirsty?” said the Lion.
“I'm dying of thirst,” said Jill.
“Then drink,” said the Lion.
“May I - could I - would you mind going away while I do?” said Jill.
The Lion answered this only by a look and a very low growl. And as Jill gazed at its motionless bulk, she realized that she might as well have asked the whole mountain to move aside for her convenience.
The delicious rippling noise of the stream was driving her nearly frantic.
“Will you promise not to - do anything to me, if I do come?” said Jill.
“I make no promise,” said the Lion.
Jill was so thirsty now that, without noticing it, she had come a step nearer.
“Do you eat girls?” she said.
“I have swallowed up girls and boys, women and men, kings and emperors, cities and realms,” said the Lion. It didn't say this as if it were boasting, nor as if it were sorry, nor as if it were angry. It just said it.
"I daren't come and drink," said Jill.
"Then you will die of thirst," said the Lion.
"Oh dear!" said Jill, coming another step nearer. "I suppose I must go and look for another stream then."
"There is no other stream," said the Lion.

When I'm Gone

2011-04-30T00:40:00.000-07:00

Don't cry for me when I'm gone
Because the last thing that I ever wanted
Was to get even a little water on your cheeks.

Don't cry for me when I'm gone
Because I hate it when you do that.

Don't cry for me when I'm gone
Because admit it- I was never all that great anyway.

Don't cry for me when I'm gone,
Or I'll come back and make you stop.

The Fatal Effort

2011-04-27T23:28:00.000-07:00

Priorities: everyone has them. Gather to yourself any assortment of us rational animals, young or old, male or female, rich or poor, and observe their commitments and actions unfolding over the course of their lives. The things that are valuable to them are obvious by the amount of energy they devote to each one. It is most unfortunate that we are only blessed with a limited amount of time and energy; otherwise, we could wander about at will, bestowing at random the blessing of our attention and efforts. Wonders would be meditated on that are too often bypassed, and the light of each person would not be limited to one or two of his personal circles. All would be open to a single-minded intention, and nothing would be lost to the river of change which demands we pick and choose what to watch as it floats by. As we fondly imagine such a scheduler's Shangri-la, the important truth that leaps out at us is our inevitable application of the Utility Principle.

The Utility Principle, as I am defining it, represents a mode of reasoning that determines the merit of all actions to depend on the total amount of utility, or in this case, benefit, that one can produce by performing them. For some, the only benefit that matters is personal benefit; for others, overall benefit is taken into account as well. Many other intermediate positions exist on the meaning of utility and benefit, and this largely accounts for the wide scope of views on ethical systems and variations within those systems. All seek after the good, but not all know exactly what it entails. I would like to put forward that today, even those who seek to accomplish noble acts and improve the welfare of all seem to have lost sight of ends which are slightly less tangible. That which is immediately apparent, such as the succour of the poor or spread of truth to those who do not know it, worthy ends to be sure, unfortunately seem to be the only ends for which good people are willing to strive anymore.

I write to remind those who would accomplish good of another, less visible kind which was known well in times past. It was known to the Beowulf poet, at least, of whom J. R. R. Tolkien writes:

He is concerned primarily with man on earth, rehandling in a new perspective an ancient theme: that man, each man and all men, and all their works shall die. A theme no Christian need despise...He could view from without, but still feel immediately and from within, the old dogma: despair of the event, combined with faith in the value of doomed resistance. (From "Beowulf: the Monsters and the Critics")

Is it not true that the tragedian author, in whatever genre his tragedy may lie, possesses the sense that his fable will end in catastrophe? That no good will come to his characters, that circumstances will arise which, in the end, defeat the best hopes of the happy few? Does not the bard weep when he sings the heroic death of Hector at the end of his final footrace? He does. Yet he still writes the story down, still performs it at the banquet and in the mead-hall. Is this because our storyteller has lost sight of that guiding star, the Utility Principle?

Well, because the Utility Principle ought not in fact be done away with, but rather should be thought of as the natural axiom of human choice, the storyteller has not somehow thrown off its yoke. He has, though, glimpsed deeper into the heart of his character and seen the benefit of this glorious charge, of this fatal effort. The benefit is the improvement of his own character, his own virtue. "My doom has come upon me," cries Hector in his final battle, "let me not then die ingloriously and without a struggle, but first let me do some great thing that shall be told among men hereafter." Hector calls the deed great even though it represents what, to modern sensibilities, is the worst thing that has ever happened to him. Failure, pain, loss...all these are complicit with the fatal effort, and there is nothing even that makes the effort worthwhile. The doom of man is complete. Yet still, the existence of the literary tragedy as a genre assumes such a deed is worth doing, and especially that it is worth reading about and emulating.

I suppose my point is that today, people give up too soon. They pull out before the battle is half over, they resign at the first loss of a rook, they buy a new one instead of fixing the old. The Utility Principle has been twisted to reflect only those benefits which are obvious, ignoring those which are not. In some ways, the Utility Principle has become the Pleasure Principle, and for most there is nothing pleasurable in a glorious death. Yet great good can come from a glorious death, and we of a certain cross-eyed worldview, who tend to see things a bit backward at times, know that at the final moment of doom, when we least expect it, dawn may break, the trumpets may sound, the trolls might turn to stone, the tower could crumble to dust, and the catastrophe may be reverted into marvelous eucatastrophe, beyond our wildest hopes and imaginations. How many of the holy martyrs weighed the pros and cons of their death with all the good they could do if they recanted, all the people they could reach with the gospel, all the money they could raise, all the brethren they could encourage? Yet Justin Martyr says, "We desire nothing more than to suffer for the name of our Lord Jesus Christ." They have no regrets who expend the last shred of themselves for a chance at witnessing that timely redemption.

Is Discipline So Important? Why Christians "Do Hard Things"

2011-04-14T04:25:00.000-07:00

The Christian life, as long as it has existed down here on our little earth, has been described in many ways through various analogies. It is sometimes a journey, sometimes a marriage, sometimes a war, sometimes an athletic event, sometimes a game. One very important aspect of all these analogies is the unifying idea of effort. Although the concept of “difficulty” is not necessarily treated to completeness by any New Testament author, it is obvious from any Christian virtue that discipline and the expenditure of effort are critical. “Do hard things,” one might hear Peter or Paul, or the Holy Hierarchs say, and not only hard things, but earth-shattering, truth-spreading things.

The Seven Cardinal Virtues, as enumerated by Prudentius and eventually Aquinas, serve as an excellent perspective on the importance of discipline for those who wish to be like Christ. Chastity and Temperance (Castitas et Temperantia), firstly, partner virtues which involve abstinence from sexual sin and general excess, respectively, demand the discipline of the body through the pure effort of the mind. Of course, all discipline and the possibility of partaking in discipline are only viable through the grace of God our Father through our Lord Jesus Christ and the Holy Spirit, but on a personal level, we experience the supreme effort required of us for discipline. Chastity is made difficult by the very anatomy and physiology of human beings, which can weigh heavily on the soul. This virtue is made more difficult by the ease with which the enemy can tempt us through these channels. C.S. Lewis, in his apologetic work Mere Christianity, writes “The devils who tempt us, and all the contemporary propaganda for lust, combine to make us feel that the desires we are resisting are so ‘natural,’ so ‘healthy,’ and so reasonable, that it is almost perverse and abnormal to resist them. Poster after poster, film after film, novel after novel, associate the idea of sexual indulgence with the ideas of health, normality, youth, frankness, and good humour. Now this association is a lie. Like all powerful lies, it is based on a truth — the truth, acknowledged above, that sex in itself (apart from the excesses and obsessions that have grown round it) is ‘normal’ and ‘healthy,’ and all the rest of it. The lie consists in the suggestion that any sexual act to which you are tempted at the moment is also healthy and normal.” Our generation has latched onto unhealthy psychotherapeutic beliefs which are truly detrimental to living a fulfilled life, especially in the regard that Chastity is looked upon as unhealthy, which anyone suffering from an STD or looking forlornly back on a lost youth can tell you is the opposite of true. There is quite a different argument given against Temperance, which is based less on the Freudian house of cards and more on our generation’s general sense of hopelessness. This is the argument of Hedonism: and not the robust, glorious hedonism of the ancient world, which, though wrong in substance, represented a sincere search for truth (though perhaps I give them too much credit on the mere basis that they defended their position in Greek and Latin). Today’s Hedonism, on the contrary, is absolutely self-destructive, and those who partake in it do so only out of the sheer rebellion felt when any act is done to excess. It is a rebellion based on fear of death and anger at what seems like the injustice done through the miraculous gift of life. Though utterly unreasonable, this Hedonism is not incomprehensible. Have not we all had our moments of gluttony, our moments of comforting self-destruction, our depressed drunkenness, our suicidal thoughts, our “pity parties” and quitter mentalities? The roots of Hedonism stretch far and wide, affecting all, and find at their stem the human aversion to that which is difficult. When things become too difficult, the desire for pleasure kicks in. Whatever one may say about the Puritans, they certainly saw the danger of this lust for pleasure, taking whatever measures necessary to avoid the ruin that it leaves in its wake. Instead of only avoiding pleasure, though, let us instead strive to accomplish great tasks for the kingdom, and find our pleasure there by pleasing God.

Charity, next, or Caritas as it is called in Latin, is the virtue which is named in almost every case that the New Testament Vulgate includes the word “love.” It goes by many synonyms: liberality, self-sacrifice, and compassion, to name a few. What is so disciplined about Charity? What if Charity is not difficult? The truth is, some Charity is inspired by reciprocity, beauty, or affection, and is a natural response involving little effort, but the Charity held in the highest esteem in the New Testament is that of self-sacrifice. When something is given up, deep and abiding Charity is able to show itself. “Greater love has no man than this,” said Christ, “than he lay down his life for his friends.” Does this sound difficult? It is even more difficult than it sounds! Even those who feel ready and willing to die for others, such as parents for their children (I know my own Dad told me many times growing up that he would do this), need to understand that “laying down one’s life” is not only embracing death on somebody’s behalf, but also using the life that they have been given in service of the other. Christ did not only come to earth to be sacrificed on the cross- he spent 33 years working on tables and chairs with Joseph, and washing his disciples’ feet. Would that we were able to follow His perfect example and live with consistency in our charity toward others, esteeming them better than ourselves in all things.

The Diligence born of this Charity, next on the list of the seven great virtues, ought to arise from Christian love for others. Diligence, or Persistence, refers mostly to our love for others and willingness to serve them. Like all the virtues, this one requires that the Christian take command of himself and exercise great effort for the cause of Industria. Taking up arms manfully for the cause of Christ is the duty of a Christian, and our militant living should be directed in the form of sharing the gospel by service to others. Furthermore, we must do all our works to the glory of God. The most damaging thing to one’s character, it has been said, is the job half-finished. It is a natural human tendency to begin something out of halfhearted interest, or the slight desire to try something for the benefits which it can provide us. However, finishing strong is just as important to any task as beginning well. Finishing partly does for the character the opposite of finishing well- it builds habits that make future discipline more difficult.

One virtue which is rarely exercised, but which requires great amounts of discipline, is the virtue of Patience. Patience (Patientia) is more than the simple “waiting” which it is usually described as. Patience is at its core a predominantly interpersonal trait which allows humans who are, according to modern psychoanalytical diagnosis, “incompatible,” to become one in the unity of the faith. There is nobody who is incapable of driving us mad, nobody of whom it can be said that they can do no wrong. In fact, so self-centered are we solipsistic animals, that we imagine every offense to be purposed against us, and indeed interpret every action as a personal attack. Patience is, at its core, merely honesty about the world and its woes, and the hope of our future glory. How much more patient we would be with others were we to see them as Christ sees them! Even to view them as we will one day see them, glorified in the company of the saints, would make our daily hurts a mere nothing. In order to bring about this perspective within ourselves it is necessary to observe the patience with which Christ treated his disciples. He was tempted as we are, and tried, and his patience especially. Thank God for His holy example to show us how we can endure the rough spots, the as-of-yet unglorified traits of our friends and brothers, and similarly can be thankful for the patience they have for us.

It is fitting that the sixth virtue, Kindness, be arrayed with its Latin equivalent Humanitas, for the study of all things theological and philosophical, such as this treatment of discipline and the virtues, is today categorized under that academic branch known as the humanities. We call such studies the humanities, as opposed to the sciences, because they represent a fundamental sympathy, a compassion for mankind that inspires us to learn their ways and understand our fellow man. Compassion is typically seen as an emotion that wells up inside a person upon seeing the condition of another person; however, as it pertains to discipline, compassion is in fact encompassed by the “discipline” of the humanities (another linguistic connection!). It is not enough to feel the emotion of connectedness with those who suffer. Discipline demands that the Christian go so much deeper, into the soul of humanity past and present. The humanities allow Christians to become emotionally invested in the human condition, and thereby inspire us to spread the gospel as far as it will go. And it will go far, as evidenced by the obvious need for Christ in any aspect of the humanities which it is possible to study. As Dante found the yearning for Christ in Virgil’s poetry, and Tolkien the eucatastrophe in Ragnarok, so should we become humanitarians, and fill our hearts with the love that Christ himself bore toward our race.

The final virtue, Humility, requires discipline primarily because of our human nature. This is true for the discipline of each virtue, but especially true for Humilitas because we humans are so strongly influenced by the Pride of Life, which puffs up each one until he has no place in any community or hierarchy, but must always be seen as the best in everything. Where is true servanthood? Where is the peace born of obedience, and the great inheritance of the meek? Humility is all that stands between man and unbridled chaos, in which the übermensch revels in his superiority, but goes mad because he ends up ultimately alone. Jean-Paul Sartre famously wrote in No Exit that “L’enfer, c’est les autres,” (hell is other people), but in reality, hell is the total absence of other people and the Lord. Of course man has the capacity to “rise above” morality, community, hierarchy, and all the social principles that allow us to live together as humans, but such transcendence will require the sort of isolation that Zarathustra himself experienced in his mountain cave. Pride effectively renders a man incompatible with society. Pride pushes people apart from each other through the idea of superiority; humility draws them together. However, because pride is a human default, humility requires constant spiritual discipline. Christ, nailed to a cross for your sins, is your picture of extreme humility. Let your life mirror His as you discipline yourself to serve others.

"Do hard things” is a fitting battle-cry for the victorious Christian, as is evidenced by the need for discipline in each of the Seven Cardinal Virtues. This journey through the virtues and Christian ethics has revealed just what kind of difficulty human nature poses to righteous living. Our future home in heaven will be a place where virtue is no longer a struggle, but a natural choice. Until then, let us be disciplined to strive for the virtues in our daily lives. To quote C. S. Lewis a second time, “Courage is not simply one of the virtues but the form of every virtue at the testing point, which means at the point of highest reality.” If courage acts as the extreme altitude of each virtue, discipline is their strong foundation, providing the basis and possibility for virtuous living. Most importantly, it is the only true way of being like Christ, the paradigm of discipline, and therefore it must be the way in which we should walk.

On Sin Nature.

2011-04-05T21:34:00.000-07:00

"True nature being lost, everything becomes its own nature; as the true good being lost, everything becomes its own true good."

-Blaise Pascal, Pensées

When Truth Knocked on the Door- an Easter Homily

2011-03-31T14:51:00.000-07:00

The legends know a faithful man
Who lived in Antioch.
A priest he was, with piety
And saintly countenance.
A right confessor, daily he
Absolved his sheep through due penance
And weekly, sounding bells, he ran
The ordered service on the clock.
One day, before the hour of prayer,
Each numen with its place prepared,
The people knew their usual pew-
When suddenly he heard a knock.

A member of the laity stood,
A man who tithed, in standing good
Before the altar, bowing low
And kissing Peter's worn-out toe
Whose name was Falsehood, but
Who claimed his name was a
Mistake at birth, his mother
Meant to call him what
His ancestors had all been named
Though nobody believed him, he
Insisted that they call him Shane.

He flung apart the oaken doors
A tired traveler to reveal
The priest approached, and blessed him
With the gesture of the seraphim.
"Be welcome here," he said, "The poor
Shall never lack a hearty meal,
For prayer is righteousness divine,
But weary men want food and wine."

Falsehood held him in contempt
And said, "A beggar man- how droll!"
With tattered clothes and hair unkempt
His eyes alight with fire and geist
His right hand made the sign of Christ
And in his left he held a scroll.

Nonplussed, the wanderer made his way
To where the priest was wont to preach.
The people hung on what he'd say.
These were the words that prophet said
With reverence, as he swift unrolled
The ancient, enigmatic scroll
A faint aurora round his head.

"If any devoutly lovest God,
Let him enjoy the victory feast.
If any be wise, and serving all,
Let Christ's reward his joy increase.
To those who fast in blessed hope,
Upon them be His sweet, glad peace.
As He shows mercy on the last,
Forgetting sins of now and past,
Giving gifts and caring cares,
Accepting wheat though choked by tares,
Welcoming intentions just,
And offerings of slightest trust,
Enter the joy of Christ our Lord
And so receive his great reward."

And like that, he was gone.

The Priest, Falsehood, and everyone
Who heard those words stood very still.
Frozen in time, remembrance
Of such a Sunday, with a chill
Would strike their calloused hearts undone
And set in stone resemblance
A killer born, if looks could kill
For low he brought them with a stare
Searing their very souls aware.
And so they'd speak forevermore
Of the day when Truth knocked on the door.

Sigillum Dei Aemeth

2011-03-07T02:09:00.000-08:00

I am alive under a beautiful shadow. True life, and the shivers of metallic dischord.

To me, lovers of the light. For now I call you. He is mad, he is faceless...he howls blindly to the piping of two amorphous idiot flute players. He eternally loves power.

The Heart's Journey

2011-03-03T03:40:00.000-08:00

Requiem

How fierce the heart, how tyrannous,
A dragon of desire!
With no finesse, no tactfulness
But lusty breath of fire.

A rudder on a living ship
Ignoring helm’s instruction,
So poor equipped for life’s long trip
A-scudding for destruction.

“Listen to your heart,” they say,
“And never break its dictum.”
And fools obey. No surer way
To end up fortune’s victim.

And yet my spirit’s depths abhor
This principle, and though I groan-
How to ignore my heart which for
A moment, once, was not alone?

Rejection

If Greek is silver, Latin gold
And every later tongue a gem
If summed their writings add to but
Our storied treasures overtold
If everything is tales on tales, then what
Have I to do with them?

If thought is fire, science ice
And academic subjects earth
If water is the artist’s touch
And song a pearl of greatest price
If all be elemental such and such
Why care I for illusive worth?

If hope is hogwash, passion vain
And purity at best a sin
If holding fast to wisdom fails
Then let us shed what truths remain
And relegate to tales on tales
The beauty blooming strong within.

Return

When all hope fades and light is low
Believe me, just believe me.
When the road dead ends, no place to go-
My son, my friend, believe me.
Your life’s like a train without a track
And those who’ve gone aren’t coming back
And every breath’s a heart attack
I beg you, please, believe me.

Your Way, your Truth, your Life, your Lord
I am, so please believe me.
To walk by faith its own reward
For those who just believe me.
A million proofed apologies
Of supernatural qualities
From Justin to Maimonides
Are trifles: just believe me.

Possible all will become
O Man of God, believe me.
And never fear the fears of some,
She only sleeps- believe me.
And I will lay me down and rise
When third day’s light breaks eastern sky
And break the curse; Death, thou shalt die,
All this and more, believe me.

Tales from the Blue Book

2011-02-21T12:38:00.001-08:00

We guide by calling to mind men and women in whom the great vision becomes visible, people with whom we can identify, yet people who have broken out of the constraints of their time and place and moved into unknown fields with great courage and confidence. The rabbis guide their people with stories; ministers usually guide with ideas and theories. We need to become storytellers again, and so multiply our ministry by calling around us the great witnesses who in different ways offer guidance to doubting hearts. A story that guides is a story that opens a door and offers us space in which to search boundaries to help find what we seek, but it does not tell us what to do or how to do it. The story brings us into touch with the vision and so guides us. As long as we can remind each other of the lives of men and women in whom the love of God becomes manifest, there is reason to move forward to new land in which new stories are hidden.

-From The Living Reminder by Henri Nouwen

De Oratione

2011-02-15T09:48:00.000-08:00

"To be a Christian without prayer is no more possible than to be alive without breathing."
-Martin Luther King Jr.

This morning I wanted to thank the Lord for everything that is unique in our world. I was listening to some music, and thinking about the physical manner of how sound is created and heard: the tiny vibrations of objects constantly swimming around us and giving the universe shivers, the way that the human ear picks up on these vibrations and the brain translates them into speech or musical notes. It's incredible.

Or what about dirt? Dirt is almost everywhere, and it's packed full of interesting chemicals called "minerals" which provide energy and growth, but have limited use for humans. Plants, on the other hand, love these, and are enabled to entrench themselves in "dirt" anywhere on the planet in astounding variety.

I also love the way everything is so different and foreign under a magnifying glass, and even more different under a microscope. My pillow has tiny threads and fibers, my skin has epithelial cells, an ant is a monster. God made all things great and small, and the closer you look, the deeper it goes.

The more I meditated on these unique parts of our world, wondering how God came up with them, the more I remembered: flowing water, birdsongs, outer space, chemical reactions, animal intelligence and interaction, electricity. How many could there be? I wondered. Then I laughed at the answer: all of them. Everything in our world, no matter how mundane, is completely unimaginable outside the imagination of God. Jeremiah 23:24b says "Do I not fill heaven and earth, says the Lord?" God is reflected, not only in nature through the original creation, but in the creativity, the τέχνη of his servants. From the pyramids to the grand skylines of modern cities, the city of God is in some way reflected. His creation of time is mirrored in human ways of keeping it, His words by ours. All of it is beautiful; all of it is unique.

St. Paul wrote in I Thessalonians 5, "Rejoice always, pray without ceasing, in all things giving thanks: for this is the will of God in Jesus Christ for you." Most read this verse and deem such a life of prayer impossible. "There must be a different interpretation," I heard a certain preacher say recently, "because this is an ideal nobody can live up to." Such a plaintive approach represents a fundamental misunderstanding of prayer. Is prayer only a conversation? Is it a shopping list? Is it a liturgical formula?

None of the above. In fact, every single action that one takes is some form of communication with God. Some actions communicate with Him properly and with intention. What is traditionally called "prayer," such as that which Christ showed us, is well-pleasing to God. Some prayers, though, are sinful: yelling at the neighbor children for letting their dog run on your lawn is a communication to God of anger with his creation. Lazily shirking responsibilities communicates ungratefulness for his plan and provision.

For these reasons the healed blind man reviled the pharisees in John 9:31, saying "Now we know that God does not hear sinners; but if anyone is a worshiper of God and does His will, He willl hear him." The prophet echoes this sentiment in Isaiah 59:1-2, when he writes: "Behold, the Lord's hand is not shortened, that it cannot save; neither his ear heavy, that it cannot hear: But your iniquities have separated between you and your God, and your sins have hid his face from you, that he will not hear." From these passages it is clear that certain prayers are more effective than others. James is in agreement, claiming that "The prayer of a righteous man availeth much." (James 5:16) Hence, the practice of praying without ceasing is simply the practice of living a righteous life. Of course, intentional verbal prayer is an important part of this righteous life. However, giving alms to the poor or calling a lonely friend are important to constant prayer as well. For this reason did Christ say, "Truly I say unto you, whatever you did unto the least of these my brothers and sisters, you did unto me." (Matthew 25:40)

Pray to God today. Pray in your speech, both directly to Him and to others. Pray through your thoughts, taking each one captive. Pray in your actions- make them righteous! Offer, as Psalm 4:5 commands, the "sacrifice of righteousness" to God. Do not communicate sins to God in thought, word, or deed; and when you do, ask for His mercy and forgiveness. Then will His Holy Spirit be upon you. "Then," says Psalm 51, "Will He be pleased with the sacrifice of righteousness."

To end with prayer:
Praise God from whom all blessings flow,
Praise Him all creatures here below,
Praise Him above ye heavenly host,
Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.

On the Use of Icons in Prayer- an Apology

2011-02-09T13:46:00.000-08:00

In America, a strongly Protestant country, the use of icons in prayer, popular among liturgical branches of Christianity, is often challenged as unbiblical and ungodly. Similar to the iconoclast heresy which was stamped out by the church in the 8th century, American protestants feel uncomfortable with the use of images in worship because they consider it to be a violation of the second Mosaic commandment: "Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image." Also, the idea of communion with the dead, as well as placing another mediator or intercessor between man and God, makes them uncomfortable in accordance with Deuteronomy 18:10-11 and I Timothy 2:5. Being a Protestant, I strongly sympathize with these objections, as well as with the general unease that comes from prayers offered up in a different style than the American Protestant one. However, I believe that these objections are ultimately groundless. I will address them one at a time in an attempt to show that a view which considers it a sin to ask dead saints for prayer is highly unbiblical.

First, many iconoclasts cite I Timothy 2:5, which states that "there is one God, and one mediator between God and men, the Man Christ Jesus." However, it is obvious prima facie that this does not mean it is wrong to ask others for prayer. Requests for prayer are made countless times in the New Testament, and these requests are directed toward human beings. It is far more likely, therefore, in accordance with the three major rules of Biblical exegesis (context, context, context) that this verse is intended to combat the Greek polytheism of the time, and not intercession of the saints.

A typical Protestant would probably respond to these basic facts by saying something like, "Obviously it is alright to ask the living for prayer, but it is not alright to ask the dead. First of all, the dead can't even hear us, and second of all, it is wrong to magically hold conference with them (Deuteronomy 18:10-11)." I will first deal with the charge that the saints in heaven cannot hear the requests of Christians. Apocalypse/Revelation 5:8 describes the twenty-four presbyters (from the Greek presbuteros which means "elder, priest") praying and singing songs before the throne of God, holding "golden bowls full of incense, which are the prayers of the saints." Here John explicitly tells us that the saints offer up our prayers to God- intercede for us to God, just like the saints on earth intercede for each other. A prayer is not a physical thing which is Fed-Exed to heaven and placed in a bowl; therefore it follows that the saints hear what we have said and bring it before God. How exactly does this hearing work? Well, Hebrews 12 informs us that "we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses." Who are these witnesses? Read Hebrews 11! They are the saints and patriarchs who have gone before. They are with us, and they are watching and listening to us. The church is one and whole, living here or in heaven.

Next, I will deal with the charge that it is improper to commune with the dead. Without going into too much detail about exegesis in the Hebrew scriptures (I am not a Semitic language scholar), I can certainly say that these verses seem to forbid contact that invokes pagan magic spells and sorceries. The rites of modern witch cults and other Satanic groups would be represented among these. Obviously, though, the verses do not forbid all contact with those who have passed on, because Moses and Elijah appeared at the transfiguration of Christ our example on the Mount of Olives. It seems therefore, that it is not the "deadness" of the dead that makes contacting them wrong, but rather the way in which one contacts them. There is a clear difference between holding a seance and asking our brothers and sisters in Christ who are in heaven to pray to Jesus for us.

James 5:16 says that "the prayer of a righteous man availeth much." Those righteous ones in heaven who are close to the throne of God, waiting for the last resurrection, are cleansed from all sin and have powerful prayers. The same is true for the angels, such as Sts. Michael and Gabriel, who are iconized and asked for prayer. Some examples of the Biblical command for such intercession are in Psalm 103:20-21, "Bless the LORD, all you His angels, mighty in strength, who do His word...Bless the LORD, all you His hosts, His ministers who do His will." In this passage the Psalmist speaks to angels, so that they might pray unto the Lord.

From the above evidence, it is clear that there is no sin in the communion of the saints, living and dead. However, the use of icons to affect this communion is still up for discussion. There are many conflicting ideas on the use and style of icons, even in traditions that accept them, and the discussion is a larger one than I should like to discuss here. At the very lowest common denominator, however, Protestants who keep pictures of loved ones as reminders for prayer should accept the use of icons in prayer as well. We've all had the friend or relative doing mission work in a foreign country, distributing pictures to Christian brothers and sisters to pray for them. They do this because they will no longer be among us. Looking at their picture and praying for them is not wrong; it's the whole point. In the same way, the saints who are no longer here have left their images behind in our hearts and minds to provide a connection between the church militant (us) and the church triumphant (them). The icon is a window into heaven.

In conclusion, I would welcome discussion on this topic through the comments tool below. I understand that many Americans would disagree with me, because this is something they are not used to, but I would like to hear disagreement on the basis of scripture, not on the basis of personal comfort. Also, the above is not intended as a general apology for all the beliefs of those who believe in the reverence of saints and their icons. Those are all beside the point. This is only a discussion about icons in prayer.

As for me, I'll conclude by asking for intercession from my patron saint, Andrew:

Andrew first-called of the apostles,
Brother of Peter the first-enthroned,
Intercede with the Master of all our lives,
To grant peace to the world
And great mercy to our souls.

There...was that so bad?

Body and Soul

2011-02-07T10:28:00.000-08:00

A face is just
Contours and lines,
The hand a grabbing claw;

The heart a pump
For oxygen,
A structure beam the jaw.

The voice vibration,
Cameras eyes,
Long hair a winter coat.

I learned in grade school
This and more.
The ears, the nose, the throat…

Your face reflects
God’s artistry,
Your hand’s a thing to hold.

Your heartbeat why
You stand so warm-
I shiver though not cold.

Love has a voice
(It sounds like yours)
And hair a sunrise hue,

I’m grown up now,
But learning still.
Though not in class; from you.

Pass Patterns

2011-02-03T01:15:00.000-08:00

Dear Dad,

Because I never really made you any macaroni art when it still would have been cute...this is you and me at the park playing pass patterns. Good times. Anyway, happy Super Bowl Sunday; eat a chili dog for me.

Your Son,

Andrew

To Sophia, For When I Loved Thee

2011-01-11T02:28:00.000-08:00

Wisdom, somber wisdom, crying loudly in the streets,
Once more you sound the bell and sound again:
I spring awake.
Your words, a sharp-dressed warning, proudly meet
My ears with fire, dreadful fiends and foes of men
Beset the gate.
Wisdom, happy wisdom, woman loved by all the wise,
I meet with you each day to make amends,
And you with me.
To rectify the wasted years, the meeting of our eyes,
When we could tell that we were going to be friends
And enemies.
Wisdom, wretched wisdom, O! To see you sunk so low!
Casting in the moonlight hopeful pebbles at my pane,
But I, asleep.
Eyes closed and still, “asleep” until I peek to watch you go;
You’ll not, awake, by guile take what of this man remains-
My heart I’ll keep.

The Star

2011-01-09T02:00:00.000-08:00

"For by a star those who adored stars were taught to worship you, the Sun of Justice..."

-Hymn of the Nativity Feast

"With the voices singing in our ears,
Saying
This was all folly."
-"Journey of the Magi" by T. S. Eliot

A cold wind blew outside the gates of the secluded manor where three friends kept a vigil over all which moved in silence, invisible and unlooked-for by the mundane eye. From the turning of the earth to the winds of magic, Caspar, Melchior, and Balthasar could perceive from the many rooms or spires of their mountain retreat that to which even the mightiest prophets of Samabêthôr or the fabled Boutian oracles were blind. Lately, each of them had fixed his eye on the mirrored pool through which they could observe the heavens, searching ceaselessly for a sign whose foreshadowing was as old as their order itself. All their calculations, all their poring over ancient scrolls and tablets, all their prayers- such were about to come to fruition right here, in a recessed room of their sanctum, a private study carved right out of the rock where Melchior and Caspar knelt over the gold basin as it spread its light over the ceiling. Though the room was dark, the reflection in the water was that of a starry night sky, the seclusion and warmth of their astronomical theater belying the frozen chill which the stars overlooked. Eyes closed, Caspar spoke a string of words and the image began to shift, moving from a large grouping of stars to an area of the sky that was mostly black as ink, but held one star that outshone all the rest.

"That's it," Melchior breathed. "It's finally come."

Caspar released the basin and stood to his feet. "O happy man, that you should live to see the end of your life." He strode to the far side of the room and gazed up at the ornate, story-laden tapestry that stretched over the sloping wall. He was moved anew by the familiar patterns and iconic faces of the great men of his order: their call into the wilderness, their brotherhood and rule, their sacred gifts and tragic struggles. Submerging himself in this chronicle, feeling the joy of finding a place in the saga of his predecessors, the weariness of years began to fall away from his face, but a measure of doubt still remained. "Tell me, Melchior- after all our long lives, are we ready? Could we ever truly be ready?"

Balthasar, entering from the hall, pushed his way through the curtained doorway, and upon seeing his two friends his usually solemn face lit up with a smile. "You've already seen it. The mirror?"

Caspar nodded. "Melchior has forgotten more incantations than you or I have ever bothered to memorize, old friend. Though it doesn't take a magus to spot a sign like that. Tonight the heavens themselves break out in song, the song that was prophesied- Peace on earth, goodwill toward men!"

They each stood in silence for a moment, sharing together in their reverie of anticipation. At that moment, in the manner that can only be described as that of those skilled in the arcane, all three cocked their heads simultaneously in the direction of their manor's front entrance.

"Somebody at the main gate," said Balthasar, his brow furrowed.

Melchior narrowed his eyes. "Not exactly a customary time for visitors. Even if we were ever to have visitors."

Caspar held up a hand and whispered a few strange utterances as the others waited. "Two of them," he said after a moment. "And not...quite what one would expect. Each bound to the other, but not by friendship. I cannot say what this portends. Let us bring them in."

The two travelers, dressed in dark cloaks, were waiting behind the metal gate in silence, and said as little as possible to the magi until they were seated in front of the warm fire. When they removed their hoods, they revealed faces strikingly different in countenance, though both were perfect in complexion, without a topical blemish, and topped with an otherworldly gaze. Caspar noted the strange marking that each carried on his forehead, racking the vast archive of his memory for some pertinence to the magic arts, but finding none. It reminded him of some primal triquetra formed by woven grooves- serpents, or possibly vines- well, the mark of the one on the left certainly reminded him of serpents. It seemed to glow a faint green to match the intense, unblinking eyes below it. The one who bore it was also considerably taller, and had a sallow pigment. The other's mark and eyes were both blue. He seemed more reserved and withdrawn; if his companion was fire, he was certainly water. Both men sipped their tea in uncanny unison. Finally, Melchior broke the silence.

"As travelers, you are welcome to our home. We can offer you lodging and provisions, for though the road has been harsh, you have found a haven of peace and solitude." His greeting was warm but generic, couched in the traditions of their order's hospitality.

The traveler on the right looked up. "We are most grateful," he said, enunciating each word with clear sincerity, the inflection almost an accent flavored with amiability and grace.

The one on the left expelled a snort that sounded like a stunted laugh. "Don't speak for me, brother. Your headstrong ways are your least charming quality." His poignant disdain as he said the word brother, along with the dark look that he shot his companion, dispelled any thoughts among the three friends that the visitor’s similarities implied in any way a harmony between them.

The other paid him no attention, continuing: “However, we are not here for your hospitality. We are here because we bring a message. I myself am filled with another message, one not meant for you, so you must hear this one from my brother, in the way that he wishes to tell it. Yet his words carry with them a choice, so I am here to ensure that your choice is fair and equitable, and you are not led astray.”

The three wise men looked at each other. Melchior remembered what Caspar had asked him, about whether they would be ready for this night. All his years of dedication and study, and now the test. Was he ready? He set his jaw. What had he learned as a young child in training? A magus is ready for anything. Why else had they been chosen?

"That's right, a choice," said the one on the left. "Though it doesn't seem like much of a choice to me. It’s very simple, and I assure you that my brother’s notion of so-called equity isn’t going to take your eyes off what is right in front of them."

His companion sighed and continued. "The choice must be yours alone. As the finders of the star, you must know your destiny before you choose it. Now- speak the words. Bring sight to our eyes. Repeat: damis forresh eevahn mael..."

Without thinking, all three magi spoke the words in unison. A hazy image, much like the one in the gold basin, sprang to life on the wall. The man on the right bowed his head while his taller companion leapt to his feet.

"Gentlemen," he said provocatively, and the mark on his forehead glowed a pale green. "Often have you looked into the Jaam-e Djam, and often have you seen mystic shadows of the past, present, and future, peeling back each of the seven heavens to catch a glimpse of purest truth."

"Not purest," the seated visitor muttered quietly.

The taller man ignored him and continued. "Tonight I will show you that which you have already brought to pass, that which may soon come to pass, and that which, altered in the present, may alter the past or future. For is it not written: Wahalaku umalakim lenogah zarhek; "magi will come to your rising." And the star has risen. So the question is...will you go?"

Balthasar cleared his throat. "We have seen the star in the East. We know the prophecies, our roles in them. Peace on earth, goodwill toward men." He turned to the seated visitor on his right. Why should we not go? What could such...rebellion possibly accomplish?"

The seated man fixed his deep gaze intently on all three of them. "I suppose the same thing would happen as if the star had never appeared at all."

Melchior was confused. "You mean...it would change..."

"Aranu ula othe ashurnu ula qrub durk kukb m'Iacob..." the other intoned. He looked at Melchior and smiled wryly. "Shall there come a star out of Jacob? One prophecy is as important as another."

"As I said," the seated visitor replied, "who can know these things but He who knows all things?"

"Of course it would," said the taller man, rising to his full height and gesticulating violently, pounding his fist into his upturned palm. "A prophecy is a determination. It is absolute. It is our opportunity to arm ourselves with knowledge of the future and thereby change it!"

"Change what?" Caspar interrupted.

"Behold!" Closing his eyes and touching his fingers to his forehead, the mysterious visitor muttered a few words while his seated companion looked on, eyes cold as steel. The image on the wall began to change.

First appeared the star, plain as it had been in Caspar's little basin, but swollen larger and taking up almost the entire wall. Then it went dark. The sillhouette of three men on a journey at night flashed across the screen; then images of gold, frankincense, and myrrh. Some empty hills with sheep wandering about and a throne room for a king all passed by. Then there was blood and horrible images that cannot be recorded here. Death became the dominating image in the moving tapestry. There were disputes and murders, violent wars, and all kinds of debauchery and deceit through age after age of human existence. The spectacle was awful, but none of the magi looked away. There was more- shapes of things to come which they did not understand; people in strange attire; green trees behind glass windows while snow fell in winter, trees with the likeness of the star, their star, on top; bells and mistletoe and glitter framing heavy hearts, hearts of men infested with pride, selfishness, and the love of money. Crowds of the festive, long since drunk, clapped along and slurred the songs of their time; families sat in awkward silence to celebrate their togetherness. Kindness became a reluctant requirement, and mutual affection a drudgery. Age after age, century after century, every race and nation, repeated over and over ad infinitum.

"All this, the future here depicted, depends on you," the stranger said. "These are the kingdoms of the world. They shall rise and fall, and the blood of man shall be spilt for a symbol. Thousands shall die for the sign in the heavens which you have seen tonight. A sign which, as I have shown you, is to one day become meaningless. It is in your hands to take a stand against chaos- peace on earth, goodwill among men."

"Toward men," the seated visitor quietly corrected.

Caspar became indignant. "I don't care what comes of the star. Do you know what it portends? Do you know how important this is for- for everybody? This is the advent, the fulfillment." His normally tranquil tone shook slightly. "This is what we have given our whole lives for!"

The taller man folded his hands. "Perhaps you're looking at this the wrong way." His eyes traveled from Caspar, to Balthasar, to Melchior, and back to Caspar. "Perhaps it is your destiny to protect mankind from the doom of the star. To prevent the turmoil it will cause. A high and lonely destiny, to be sure- but a noble one. Did you see the confusion? The strife between brothers? The mindless fanaticism and hate?" For the briefest moment, his eyes betrayed a faint glow.

Caspar was not put off so easily. “On what shall a man stand except on what is right? Shall every man guess at the future, conjecture about the outcome of his each and every action, and so determine for himself what is right and what is wrong?”

The stranger dismissed his reply with a gesture. “And you can be so sure about the right? Such mindless adherence to ancient self-deception may be the only choice when the future is clouded, but hark! I have shown it to you as clearly as the present. To conjure is quite a different thing than to conjecture.”

The three magi, as they often did, slipped into a long silence full of their own thought. By nature philosophers of the highest order, they rarely exercised their tongues before their thoughts were set.

Balthasar cut in. "A virgin shall conceive, and bear a son: and shall call his name God with us. I will see that child." Caspar nodded and looked at Melchior, who still looked pensive.

With a wave of his hand, the tall stranger gave a wry grin and, banishing the images on the wall, took his seat. The other arose. "There is no time to waste," he said. "You have seen the star, and must leave quickly to the city of David. Follow the star, and make haste in your journey."

"Stop!" Melchior demanded as his friends moved toward the door. With the light from the wall gone, the room had filled with shadows that framed him imposingly in the doorframe. "None of us is going anywhere."

Caspar and Balthasar turned to face him. "Melchior!" Caspar said, a question in his voice. "What are you-"

Melchior interrupted him. "Who is this child? What is this great joy? What joy could a newborn, a lowly creature like ourselves, have to offer that the Almighty has not already given us in abundance? He, the giver of all good gifts! Remember the rules upon which this holy order was founded! To us was given mankind, and the power to protect them. Here are the kingdoms of the world! If what our visitor has shown us tonight is true, I have no choice but to stop it.”

Balthasar scowled. “Do you mean to tell me that you believe an image that this charlatan conjured in the specula? Are you so easily taken in, my brother?”

“I can tell the difference between a spell on my mind and a picture of a thing to come. I believe what I see with my own two eyes,” Melchior replied.

The taller visitor agreed, and the faint green glow of his mark flickered in the dark. “In the end, what more does a man have?” he added. “I only seek to help you return to what you have believed all along.”

Caspar cut in. “Friends, end this dischord. Let us have silence.” His voice was as deep and grave as a war-horn, and brought the room to stillness. The taller visitor tried to interject another invective, but Caspar was no fool, and no stranger to deceit. Whether it spoke mostly truth or mostly falsehood, its intent was ever to lead the listener down a path of destruction long before he knew where the path would lead. He held up a hand and repeated, “Be silent,” adding a small incantation of force behind his command. The stream of words returned to the stranger’s throat and stuck there, darkening his face with a foul expression. Caspar turned to the other, who had stood patiently waiting for the dispute to end. “Esteemed guest, can you not resolve our quarrel? Are the prophecies not to give us a future and a hope? Does not this advent bring water to a dry and thirsty land? Shall not those who have walked in darkness see a great light? So we have been told, and so we have believed. Is this true?”

The blue-eyed gaze did not change. “Yes,” was all he said.

“But what of the images? What of the pain…the bloodshed? The hatred and death? Why should we unleash such evil on the world?” Caspar looked uncertain. “Perhaps Melchior is right. Perhaps if we can truly prevent such things…we should.”

For a few minutes, nobody spoke. The sitting-room where all now stood was of traditional Persian architecture, though not decadent like the imperial palaces or temples. It had five walls, with a marble pillar in each corner flanking the magi and their two visitors. The taller visitor glared across at his counterpart, who in turn looked at Caspar and his friends. The tension crackled in the air like the static energy of one of Melchior’s incantations. Finally, the blue-eyed stranger did something entirely unexpected: he began to sing. His voice was clear as fresh spring water, joining and conjoining a hundred keys and melodies with words stranger and more familiar than the ghost of a loved one, or the foreign temple where, after a lifetime of searching, one finds that God truly sits. The resonance of his rich, resounding song wove between and around the three companions, uplifting their spirits and unlocking the passion and awe deep inside their souls. The language of his verse was full of structure and order, yet free and unbound like a running river. It flowed like a pond-shoal calm that anticipated the waterfall. His song was both question and answer; a command and at the same time a desperate plea. It was kingly yet childlike. The utter joy of it sprung to the attention in a fit of gleeful surprise, and it was strikingly beautiful.

The taller visitor strode forward and a shadow passed over his face, his brow furrowed and his eyes angrily luminescent. He reached beneath his cloak and drew a terrible battle-sword, polished as a mirror, that glowed a reddish hue. “You were warned, Gabriel,” he spat. “Now pay the price.” He advanced upon the singer and raised his weapon, but his way was barred by the three magi themselves, moving suddenly to stand, shoulder to shoulder, in front of him. “Out of my way,” he hissed, “Or I shall cut you down as well!”

“I will seek the Lord, and His strength,” said Caspar. “I will seek His face forevermore.”

“He hath remembered His covenant forever, the Word which He commanded to a thousand generations,” Melchior continued.

Balthasar carried on: “He suffered no man to do them wrong: yea, even kings he humbled for the sake of those who bear His Word.”

The voice of the singer behind them persisted strongly and clearly. All in unison, they ended: “Thou shalt not touch mine anointed, neither shall you do them harm.” Closing their eyes, the three gestured in unison. The room lit up with a flash, and they were left alone.

When their eyes had adjusted from the light, Caspar, Melchior, and Balthasar looked around them. All was as they had left it: the events of the past few hours seemed like nothing more than an unearthly dream.

“Perhaps it is not being ready, Caspar, but being always willing to obey that is important,” Melchior mused.

“I could have read a thousand books, and practiced a thousand charms and words of power,” Caspar replied, “but there is only one power in all this world that makes any true difference.”

“Let us pack the camels for a long journey,” said Balthasar. "With gifts for the young king as well. We’ve a star to follow.”

---------------------------------------------------

Strewn across the dull Palestinian hillside on a night which hardly proclaimed itself auspicious, some shepherds lounged on the grass and watched their sheep doze, huddled together in the midnight chill. Some stars lit up the black sky, but were partially obscured by the wispy gloom. From above, two blue eyes betrayed excitement from a heavenly viewpoint above the clouds. A clear, melodic voice spoke questioningly.

“You arrived a little behind schedule, Gabriel. Did everything go as planned?”

He turned to survey the heavenly host which had gathered for the long-awaited announcement. Excitement filled every face, and fluttering wings could barely contain their anticipation. His own heart was filled with the purest emotion that he had ever felt. He smiled in his reply.

“By His Grace. Things were a bit tight in some places. I had to cheat a bit, and there was a conflict…in any case, everything seems to have gone according to His plan as always. They returned the Deceiver to his proper place all on their own, and they embark this night for the city of Bethlehem. Glory to He who was, and is, and is now to come.”

The other Seraph spread his wings. “In His Name. From the top, just as we rehearsed?” He beat his wings to clear away the layer of clouds, revealing an astonished group of sheepherders, scrambling to their feet and rubbing their eyes in disbelief. Gabriel raised his hands and the chorus began.

I Know Why the Caged Bird Calls 911

2010-12-10T21:14:00.000-08:00

Desius built a strong birdcage
As pretty as can be.
With water-spout and wild sage
He set it in a tree.
A bird he heard to flit along
And chirp a cheery, chatty song;
He trapped her leg with a fowler’s thong
And called her Nelope.
He cared for her and fed her well
And never did she roam.
Her song grew strong as she did dwell
Inside his oaken dome.
The two became the “best” of friends,
And this is where the story ends.
Desius, poor fool, still pretends
She loves her prison home.
For when he journeyed over sea,
She sang her song each day.
Though far away his ship may be
His keen ears came halfway.
And on the wind he heard the tune,
Arranged in mournful Clair de Lune,
“Desius, darling, come home soon,
And safe, my love, I pray…”
The man of skill sortied and searched
To book a homeward flight.
When he arrived, he found her perched
(He thought) filled with delight.
“After ten long years, my sweet,
At last your eyes and mine may meet
Your music, winged, shod my feet,
O Nelope, angelic light.”
She spoke. “Cruel man, you heard me wrong!
My voice on the wind was not a song.
You jerk! Jail me in a lockaway
A dismal decade and a day?
I called for the ASPCA
To save me from my plight.”

VOTE- YouTube Symphony Orchestra

2010-12-10T10:30:00.000-08:00

Dear Readers:

A friend of mine, Alex DeGuzman, is a participant in the internet's recent "YTSO" Competition to select promising musicians from around the world for a new global orchestra. The winners (out of millions of participants) will be flown to Sydney, Australia for a week of musical events culminating in a Grand Finale concert showcasing the You Tube Symphony Orchestra 2011, conducted by Michael Tilson Thomas (Founder of the San Francisco Symphony and current guest conductor of the London Symphony Orchestra), at the Sydney Opera House (!).

In brief, between the dates of December 10th and December17th, the public is being given a chance to show their opinion of the TYSO finalists. Alex has made it into the top 400 in his category, Lyrical Improvisation. The music provided by the TYSO for accompaniment was technically difficult, and Alex's saxophone piece is a true work of art. Please view several of the competing videos before you accept that his is the best, and vote for it.

Here's how to vote:
1) Visit www.youtube.com/symphony
2) Click the "Vote" tab.
3) Above the section with several thumbnails of videos, click the "Lyrical Improvisation" tab
4) Click on the video of a little Asian kid in a red shirt playing sax (1:30). You may need to click the purple arrow beneath the thumbnails to find it.
5) Watch the video and click the "Vote for this video" button (it has a thumbs-up symbol on it).
6) You can vote daily from each IP address. See to it that you do, as often as you remember.

Also Sprach

2010-12-02T02:24:00.000-08:00

What made the madman mad?
Who said
"We have killed Him, you and I!"
Who heard
The noise of gravediggers at their work
Who smelled
The divine putrefaction
Who sang
The requiem among those tombs and monuments?
To his madman's satisfaction.

What lantern over mankind, over manhood
Has gone out, that human vision
Be reduced to human self-deception?
In becoming gods, we all un-become men,
And thereby lose chest, fist, and intellect.

In the end, our madman stands alone.
He strays, as through infinite nothingness;
A would-be killer, but with no more heart
For killing than a goat (or seat cushion),
His Credo droning on from the cathedral.

In the end, he makes himself alone.
Far from man ascending, he has fallen
Deeply, past the point of no return;
Building a wall to keep the darkness
Safe inside, wrapped round him like a blanket.

Yes...I have heard the story of the madman.
Who could not see
The bright sky on the morning of His death
Who could not hear
The bustle of the market or the beauty of a laugh
Who could not recall
Lighting, thunder, starlight overhead
Who could not grasp
The naked, fearsome truth-
That he, not God, was actually dead.

If...

2010-11-22T00:10:00.000-08:00

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you...
You're not drunk enough.
--Rudyard Kipling

If you can't feed a hundred people, you're not drunk enough.
--Mother Teresa

If we could first know where we are, and wither we are tending, then we're not drunk enough.
--Abraham Lincoln

If physical death is the price that I must pay to free my white brothers and sisters from a permanent death of the spirit, then I'm not drunk enough.
--Martin Luther King Jr.

If everyone demanded peace instead of another television set, then it would be because they were not drunk enough.
--John Lennon

If you're not making mistakes, then you're not drunk enough.
--John Wooden

If advertisers spent the same amount of money on improving their products as they do on advertising, they wouldn't be drunk enough.
--Will Rogers

"If you have a garden and a library, you're not drunk enough."
--Cicero

"If forgers and malefactors are put to death by the secular power, they are not drunk enough."
--Thomas Aquinas

"If we do discover a unified theory, we're not drunk enough."
--Stephen Hawking

Morning Prayer of Thanks

2010-11-18T01:58:00.000-08:00

STOP! Before you read any further on this site, pause for a minute, breathe deeply, and prepare your heart before the Lord God. Reflect upon His mercy and goodness. Pray this prayer along with your brothers and sisters in Christ:

"We bless Thee, O God in the highest and Lord of mercies, Who ever workest great and mysterious deeds for us, glorious, wonderful and countless, Who providest us with sleep as a rest from our infirmities, and as a repose for our bodies tired by labor. We thank Thee that Thou hast not destroyed us in our transgressions, but in Thy love toward mankind, Thou hast raised us up that we might glorify Thy Majesty. We entreat Thine infinite goodness, enlighten the eyes of our understanding and raise up our minds from the heavy sleep of indolence; open our mouths and fill them with Thy praise, that we may unceasingly sing and confess Thee, Who art God glorified in all and by all, the eternal Father, the Only- Begotten Son, and the All-Holy and Good and Life-Giving Spirit, now and ever, and unto ages of ages. Amen."

Change

2010-11-16T11:31:00.001-08:00

Every flower dies,
And every cool breeze too.
Yes, all that’s bright goes pale and cold;
The weeks of spring, once young, grow old;
The leaves of autumn turn to dust,
Once rich, dark soil to dry brown crust,
Drying, changing, passing through,
All things most transient, age most true
Blame nature not, let time renew-
Know you not all things must pass?
And pass they do.
All except my dreams of you.

The Floating Entwife

2010-11-09T01:34:00.000-08:00

Call to me, my Willow dear,
With river roots so deep!
I float along
And sing the song
Of gardens, fields, and sheep.

An Entwife...oh, my tired mind,
I'm ever more a tree.
The younger day
Has passed away
It's never more to be.

Willow, weeping Willow, wake!
The river drags me by!
I till the stream
And as you dream
Bemoan your barkened eyes.

O Yavanna, mercy, speak!
Please make my lips to move-
The river breeze
That shakes her leaves
Declares her vernal love.

From Hithaiglir to Tolfalas
The river bears me south.
Though you've a crown
Of stately brown
My love- have you no mouth?

She passes and my spirit breathes
A gust of pure relief.
I let her go;
She'll never know
I hate her, trunk and leaf.

My Roommate, the Anti-Muse

2010-11-02T02:33:00.000-07:00

Lost souls, lost souls, swiftly turning in the meted void of space
Unearthed before my eyes as hallowed players, entertainers for the king
Of dreams, the realm in which I walked. And walked.

Spacewalk.

I call out to them. Where are you? Where have you been? Where are you going?
And still they’re turning, turning
I cast my gaze upon their shepherds, herding them in tight and muted rings
‘Round infernal blaze, and foregone spaces full of empty light
And still they’re burning, burning

I drift out from my womb inside the mother, see light, take my first breath
...
I wonder if my laugh would ever scare a small child?
Just remember to leave the door open
That’s the most important part.
And then I also hate my job because they stole my stapler
And then they made me move my desk back three inches,
And then they moved me down to the basement
And then they had me just kill bugs and try to catch mice
And then that was the last straw
Because they kept on running me between payroll and my boss’s office
I really like my Swingline stapler…it’s my stapler.

No Matt…you are the demons

Sigillum Dei Aemeth

2010-10-21T14:19:00.000-07:00

The silence fills me, oozing through the pores rubbed raw by scratchy sheets and shaken to their foundations by the rumbling earthquake of my pounding heart. It has happened; at last dreams and reality bear no separation. The world outside has become as macabre and dangerous as the one inside my head, and if the effects of either world can touch me just the same, are they really two separate worlds? I think not. I am so far gone, I cannot even say if I am truly writing this now, or just imagining it, or whether there is a difference. If you are reading this, of course, you know.

As I lay here (or perhaps did not) I began to imagine this sleepy town as a great cavern, a mouth for some living mountain of antediluvian and arcane flesh, without eyes but not sightless, horrible as the sun it hid us from. Clouds have been in the skies for days; weeks. In fact, I cannot remember the last time I was warmed by the sun. I huddle alone in the chill, blankets a second skin, my knees drawn up to my chin, and one pale and shriveled arm poking through the cotton hide to write, and write, and write. The journal used to keep me sane; the riddles were a welcome respite. But now life is a riddle- my perception of reality and the web of shadows where I crouch cocooned is slowly being drained of any meaning. I am amazed at how long I have survived here, on my own, in this empty house; family long gone and never a friend, never a friend.

I am settled. I have no motivation, either to end my life or continue to live it. Yet I am still a man, not a beast, or a shade. This Saturday, October the twenty-third, I will challenge the great evil that has been my bane for so long. I do not hope that I can defeat it; I am still not convinced that there is anything to it, or even that there is anything to anything. But I know it lives in here, in these pages, and that the book is the battleground, words weapons. And it is here that we shall meet, once and for all, and see what each is truly made of. I only pray that the pen is truly mightier than the sword, and that through it I may conquer.

Dear Sleep

2010-10-21T01:54:00.000-07:00

I began a letter which said, "Dear Sleep,
You've always come for me.
A friend, sometimes surface, sometimes deep,
But always fancy-free.
Granting gifts like glorious dreams
And nightmares of horrific themes.
Our time is full of laughs and screams
In my hazy memory."

The clouds of rest arrest my eyes,
A journey homeward bound.
I'm clueless whether, when I rise
I'm still on solid ground.
Has my sun set? My evening star?
What dreamworld flood has borne me far?
I'm dead and gone beyond the bar-
The hope of death I've found.

"Sleep, my friend," the letter read,
"It's not that you're a bore.
Just...things I do instead of bed,
They please me so much more.
A midnight drive, the sunrise hill,
To look out when the world is still
And relish, nevermind the chill,
Those hours I adore."

Reluctant, I sense your embrace
Wrap 'round my inhibition.
Your sordid bed my coffin-case,
O nature's great mortician!
Don't take it wrong, sleep, oldest friend,
I fear your person to offend;
My life and strength on you depend,
O moonlight home physician.

"You ease my mind and calm my heart
And lie so warm beside me.
Yet I resent your witch's art
And gifts that you provide me.
Outside, the light of the harvest moon
Illumines the owl's afternoon;
Adventures are soon and very soon
With a sleepless horse to guide me.

My will is strong
But vict'ry's yours
The day was long
And full of chores
And now I'm nodding, plodding off to see you.

But never think
This is the end
For though I wink,
My oldest friend
You'll never take me aliv

Another Crack at That Hole

2010-10-10T04:04:00.000-07:00

Holes seem unavoidable in description of human reference. A newborn baby emerges from a hole; food and waste enter and exit the human body through various holes; need is often described as a hole, and is often fulfilled through the skilled or unskilled use of various holes; almost every piece of human technology is riddled with holes; holes in the barriers we place around ourselves through life are what allow us to interact with other hole-dwellers; death sends us to our final six-foot hole in the ground. What is a hole, though, really? Is it a real thing? A hole in a cup could just as easily be described in terms of the cup itself, thus making the hole's existence merely a property of said cup that causes undue waste of precious, precious booze. Seeing through a hole would be impossible without the hole's actual, real existence; however, perhaps it is the physically present parts of the barrier which block a more full scope of vision. Would not the hole then become a mere negative? Holes' actual physical existence, though, is what causes our perception of holes- is it therefore possible to claim that they are merely illusory?

A materialist would probably deny that a hole could be the cause of perception. As a non-physical object, a hole could only serve, in a Lockeian sort of sense, as a systematic illusion. This separates the responses to holes into two categories: holes either exist, or they do not (Aristotle's first principle). In order for holes not to exist, every apparent existence of a hole would have to be described in terms of a property of the object which it seems to exist in: for example, a hula hoop does not have a hole in the center, it is merely in the shape of a ring. Similarly, a metal washer does not have a hole in the center, but it was simply made to undergo a "holing" process by which a solid physical cylinder passed through its center at high speeds, eliminating a part of its metal body, and leaving it "holed"...but not leaving a hole. On the other hand, holes could exist physically as parts of other objects. A good way to explain this phenomenon would be a pencil drawing of a circle. Is the pencil lead (or graphite) on the paper part of the circle? Is it the circle itself? Is it completely unrelated to the circle? The relationship between borders of physical objects, where one thing ends and another begins, is very important to the way we understand physical extension.

The second explanation, that holes exist, seems to be more acceptable according to the common perception of what a hole is and how it is to be explained. If one were to take two pieces of macaroni and put them together to form a (slightly distorted) hole, common sense epistemology suggests that this hole is not an illusion, but rather sprang into existence through the creative human act of combining one piece of macaroni with another. In order to evidence, or at least allow for, its nonexistence, one would have to describe it as a property of a single object, which would be impossible in this case. Nothing was "holed" to create this hole; in fact, the only active process was constructive. The explanation of a hole as a physical object is much more helpful in this case. One macaroni contained half a hole, as did the other. When added together, a whole hole was created. The macaroni forms the bounds of this hole, and serves as a liason between the seemingly non-physical hole and the physical realm.

Of course, to answer this thought experiment with option 2, that holes exist as parts of other objects, requires that one believe in the existence of half a hole. Half a hole is obviously an impossible concept, just based on the definition and nature of holes in general. Half a hole would, of course, just be a hole. However, the problem then arises within the macaroni thought experiment of two non-existent objects being placed together to create an existent object, which only causes more and more logical impossibilities.

Is there any answer to the mystery of the hole? I suppose the only option left to the philosopher (or riftonaut) is to journey through the hole and find out.

The Mysterious Case of Jonathan Clark

2010-09-23T14:47:00.000-07:00

BANG! BANG! Judge Terence’s gavel hitting the wooden sounding block brought order to the busy room. He had never seen his little Indiana courthouse packed so full. Of course, today’s case was certainly special. Today’s case was like nothing he had seen before.

The legal battle had dragged on for months until today. Judge Terence remembered the case’s main subject, Jonathan Clark, now deceased. He had been Indiana’s finest criminal defense lawyer; a man in every sense of the word, who excelled at everything he did. Judge Terence fondly recalled the many rousing orations he would regale juries with, and the success with which he pursued the legal and civil rights of the accused. Jonathan never married, but was well-loved by his extended family, who had put aside their bereavement in the pursuit of justice in what they considered to be a clear-cut case. Jonathan had been crossing the street in a crosswalk, careful to observe all safety protocols, when a car driven by an inebriated individual had run him down at high speeds, killing him instantly. The driver had later been pulled over by a local sheriff, and when blood was discovered on the hood of his car, the arrest had been made and the evidence compiled. The Clark family, his brother and two sisters, had demanded punishment to the maximum penalty allowable by law. Today the final decision would be made. First, though, the defense had submitted a change of legal counsel. This is what had caused all the hubbub. Some rumors had been spreading…something unnatural…something exciting.

Even after the gavel came down to signify the start of proceedings, murmurs could be heard all across the courtroom, peppered with popping flashbulbs and the occasional throat being cleared. The crowd was restless.

“Indiana Supreme Court, City of South Bend v. Franklin Pickard, case number 42356,” droned the Circuit Clerk. “Saturday October 9th, Judge Colby Terence presiding.”

Judge Terence nodded. “Will the defendant please stand. The court file indicates your name as Franklin Pickard, is this correct?”

Pickard, a short, balding man, stood from his seat, where he was positioned with a woman who stood out by being the only person not in the audience attired informally. Well, that was even putting it lightly. She wore an old, faded blue skirt and blouse that looked too big for her. Her wrists and ankles were loaded down with gaudy jewelry of every kind: charm bracelets, religious symbols, a watch or two. Her hair flowed down unhampered and unrestricted past her smooth skin and bright blue eyes, framing her visage in a mysterious and enchanting light.

“That is correct,” he said.

Terence glanced at the woman seated next to him. “And it has come to my attention that you’ve undertaken new legal counsel? Why is that, exactly?”

“Your court lawyer was a sham. He showed no concern in helping me prove my innocence of the charges.”

The crowd buzzed slightly.

“And the woman seated next to you is the new legal counsel? Is she the attorney at case?”

Pickard shook his head. “No, in fact, Miss Ivanovna is an assistant to my replacement attorney.”

“An assistant?” Judge Terence was confused. “Of what nature? And where is your attorney?”

“My attorney has-” Pickard turned to glance at the prosecution's side of the room, where the family of Jonathan Clark was seated with their lawyer. “My attorney is not here yet. Please excuse him, he has a disability.”

“What is his name, for the court’s records? And what is this disability, Mr. Pickard, if I may be so bold?”

“His name is Jonathan Clark. And his disability is…rigor mortis. He’s dead.”

No amount of gavel pounding could have silenced the uproar that the crowd burst into. For six straight minutes, Judge Terence tried to bring order, but to no avail. Finally, more for curiosity as to what would happen next than out of respect for the bench, the crowd grew silent.

Judge Terence was the first to speak. “Your attorney is legally dead? Mr. Clark, I’m afraid that further discussions of this nature will place you in contempt of court.”

Pickard waved his hands. “Now, your honor, just hear me out. First of all, based on legal counsel I received from the court’s attorney provided by this very bench, the only bit of useful information Mr. Stevens was able to provide, there is no law, state or federal, that prevents a dead man from either giving testimony or providing legal counsel. Second of all, the stakes in these proceedings are very high for me, and I don’t think that could be said by any other person in this courtroom. Now, I’m sure you have your reasons to doubt my claim, but I propose a fair investigation of this opportunity, and the ability to select an admissible attorney of my own free will.”

Judge Terence stared him down, deep in his own thoughts. If he denied Pickard the opportunity to plead his case in any way possible, justice would not be done. It would always hang over his head, over his conscience- not to mention the packed courtroom, in which the news would spread like wildfire that Pickard was convicted when there was still evidence left to hear, truths to be presented. What to do? Suddenly, he saw a solution. He could remove the responsibility from himself by letting the Clark family and their lawyer decide.

“Does the bench hear any objections from the prosecution?”

Clark’s brother and two sisters turned to each other, whispering silently. Their attorney, a thin, older man turned to advise them. On the other side of the room, Miss Ivanovna stood to her feet and spoke in a strange accent. “I can bring back,” she said. “You talk to him again. He miss you.”

A shocked, dead silence hung over the courtroom. Even Judge Terence was so bewildered, he forgot to silence her. The only sound was Clark’s youngest sister bursting into tears. After the family had conferred for a moment, their attorney stood.

“Your honor, the Clark family has decided that they maintain no objection to the change of legal counsel for the defense. However, they would like to warn Mr. Pickard that the courtroom is no place for games. If he-”

“Thank you, Mr. Ferguson,” Judge Terence interrupted, “I’ll provide the warnings.”

He turned to the defense. “Mr. Pickard, your motion to replace your attorney has been sustained. However, this action, as I mentioned before, comes dangerously close to contempt of court.”

“I understand.” This time Miss Ivanovna spoke up. She walked to the center of the courtroom turning to face the Clark family as the crowd watched breathlessly. She crouched down and began to sway back and forth, removing one of her charms from a bracelet, placing it in her mouth, and gulping it down. The crowd watched, fascinated. She continued to sway, muttering unintelligible phrases and making guttural noises that did not sound like they came from her mouth at all. Small flashes of light sparked around her, and an eerie pink mist began to envelop the place where she crouched. Suddenly she stood.

“Emergo.” She spoke as if with two voices, her own, faintly, in the background, overlaid with that of a man. The Clark sisters gasped and his brother swayed, and almost fell.

“That’s…that sounds like…” one of the sisters gaped.

“Briana. It’s me. It’s Jonathan.” His words from the young lady’s lips held the entire courtroom, Judge Terence included, captivated in silent terror.

The other sister, Laura, screamed and burst into tears. “Ugh, stop it, you’re disgusting! You’re not my brother! You’re not him…are you?”

He continued. “Laura, Laura. You’re just like we were as children. Don’t you remember? Christmas eve? Sneaking into Mom and Dad’s closet? We peeked at every present- swore we’d never tell anybody.”

She fell to her knees, sobbing, as he continued. “And Briana. We had our own name for the postman- Ha ha! Gay Britches.” He burst into a fit of uncontrollable laughter as he tried to continue. “We knew if that ever got out, we’d be in so much trouble. So we never told anybody.”

His gaze traveled to the brother, who stood, arms folded, behind the desk. “And David…it is truly a miracle to see you again, my brother, my friend. You look well. I fear we’ll have to miss out on our yearly fishing trip when June rolls around this year- I’m so sorry. I’m sorry I never got a chance to say goodbye.”

The three siblings took their seats in stunned silence. Miss Ivanovna turned to Judge Terence, startling him out of his surrealist reverie. “Your honor, if you would please ask the jury come in and find their seats, I would like to address them.”

Judge Terence motioned to an officer standing by. “Bring in the jury, and have a clerk notify them of the situation.”

The jury filed in, one after another; calloused, skeptical faces turned on Miss Ivanovna like flashlights on the paranormal. They took their seats and she looked at Judge Terence. “Your permission to begin, your honor,” spoke the voice of Jonathan Clark.

“Granted,” was all he could say.

“Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury,” he began, “I have called you together today to hear what, in my opinion, is a truth extremely relevant to this case. Now I know that you have been led to believe by the prosecution, and poor defense of Mr. Pickard here, that Mr. Pickard is a negligent individual, a menace to our streets, and deserving of a life behind bars. I cannot deny that this is at least partly true. It would go against my grain as a staunch supporter of justice to say that Mr. Pickard does not deserve some penalty for what he has done, driving a vehicle under the influence of alcohol, speeding, and ignoring a signal light. However, Mr. Pickard is not alone in these crimes. These crimes are committed every day by American citizens just like yourselves. Yet Mr. Pickard has been asked to pay the penalty of life in prison. Why? Because his crimes caused the death of an innocent, law-abiding pedestrian. Because his crimes were the end of my life.

Yet this is an accusation I do not hold to. Ladies and gentlemen, the truth I have come to present to you today is the truth that my death was no accident. In truth, ladies and gentlemen, I leaped in front of Mr. Pickard’s car to bring about my own death.” The crowd began to stir, but he continued. “Yes, my death was a suicide, and as we all know, suicide is a felony in the state of Indiana. For this reason I press no charges on Mr. Pickard for my death beyond the charges which the court sees fit to administer as pertinent to his other crimes. Now my time is short, but I swear this to you under oath as my own witness. Mr. Pickard is not to blame. Thank you- that is all.” Miss Ivanovna began to return to her seat.

“Jonathan!” Laura wailed from the other side of the courtroom. “Why? Why did you do it?”

Miss Ivanovna turned. “I’m sorry,” she said in her own voice, “he’s gone.”

------------------------------------------------------

Three weeks had passed. Frank Pickard sat at his dining room table, munching on a bowl of frosted flakes while the woman known to the court as "Miss Ivanovna" finished her eggs in the seat across from him. The evidence had been examined by the jury, and he had been acquitted. The prosecution did not press the case further, and Pickard was sentenced to a fine for his DUI, as well as some other court fees and charges. He had offered to let Miss Ivanovna stay as long as she would like on his couch, and the young woman had taken his offer, not having any wealth of her own that would enable her to refuse his generosity. Pickard looked at her as she ate demurely.

“Greta,” he began. “There’s been something I’ve been meaning to ask you. About the court hearing.”

She raised her eyes from her food and spoke in her thick, startling accent. “Yes?”

“I know how you pulled it off. Four years of voice acting lessons, your past employment as a performing magician, your three semesters of law school. And I’m grateful. But I don’t understand how you convinced his family. How did you know all those secrets? How could you have?”

She sighed and returned to her eggs. She didn’t say anything for a few minutes. He sat patiently, waiting.

“We were lovers, Jonathan and I,” she finally replied. “We told each other everything. Sometimes we stay up all night, look into each other’s eyes and trying to think of the secrets we could tell, secrets from past, that nobody else knew.” She sighed. “He was amazing man. Bold, honest, handsome, unselfish, caring, strong…even when he cheat on me with other woman. In fact, with two other women. At same time. He was perfectly honest about it.” She lowered her eyes, then raised them up to stare at Frank head-on. “When he confessed, I made him feel so guilty, so terrible, that next day he jump in front of your car.”

Frank was astonished. “Greta…I’m sorry. I didn’t know. It’s all just too incredible. I’m still very grateful to you for helping me win my court case. But…why did you do it? I mean, if the two of you were lovers, wouldn’t the first thing you want be me behind bars? Why protect me like you did?”

Greta Ivanovna’s eyes, her luminescent blue eyes, were still locked on Frank’s. She waited a moment before breaking her gaze, then dug in her pocket for a cigarette. She lit it and took a long drag, blowing smoke to the side and holding it between her index and middle fingers.

“Love is game,” she said. “It give…take, win or lose. It dressing up, looking good for man, for woman. It flirting wink or dinner with candle. I not like. Justice…justice no wink. Justice blind. Truth with mixture of action. It is vital…important. It is life, beyond life also. I not like it either. Not very much at all.”

Love Song of the Willow Huorn

2010-09-10T02:51:00.000-07:00

A tree with eyes by a singing brook
Said "No more walkers dare
To brave the wintry wind that shook
My branches and your hair.
Your eyes are the first to smile my way,
Your mouth the first to laugh.
I've sat alone, less wood than stone,
A driftwood log, a graft.
Bereft I've hung, so out of place
Above a frozen shore
I would have much preferred this space
If I'd known it'd be yours.
So here we meet, and here we part,
The river bears you south.
Alas! For the love of a silent heart,
I've eyes but not a mouth."

The Sacred Order of the Spheres

2010-09-09T01:49:00.000-07:00

order
v. to arrange, destine, or ordain; to command
n. the state of peace, freedom from confused or unruly behavior; a regular or harmonious arrangement; a group of people united in a formal way; a specific rule, regulation, or authoritative direction

What are the spheres? What is so sacred about them? What order are they in, and who or what orders them?

It's a good question if you've visited this website to read about motorcycles, or were trying to find the proper utterances comported with the ancient ritual Sigillum Dei Aemeth. It's a good question after you've survived the insanity of most of what's written here, and the inanity of the rest- be it poetry, prose, or the boring posts where I pretend to be some sort of thinker. It's an especially good question if you're a longtime reader whose interest has been to solve the great riddle interwoven into these pages, an incomplete riddle born from an unsolvable mind, not unsolvable, as Kurt Gödel would insist, because of its loftiness or superiority, but because of its inherent imperfection. Yes, there is a person behind the white-lettered script, and he is more flawed than your most predictable villains, and equally as flawed as your boldest and most whitewashed heroes. "No need for catastrophic depravity/I am man, and 'tis sufficient tragedy."

Life is made up of spheres. We can hardly help it; as humans, the fact is that our brains can more easily conceive of a shape made up of points which are the same distance from their center than points which are not. Try it as a thought experiment; try to conceive in your head of a perfect square, or a perfect equilateral triangle. Can you feel the creeping doubts that your square is, by a few infinitesimal units of measurement, actually a rectangle, or that your triangle is in fact an acute or obtuse isoceles or scalene? Yet you never feel similar doubts that your mind's circle is elliptical; creating it was as clear as creating the thought itself. Uniformity, the great equalizer, haunts creativity like a plague, fastening viral tendrils upon it and pompously stomping it out wherever it is born. Uniformity requires no additional energy; it is quite simple to avoid change, to copy what already exists, and to walk the path of normalcy toward which the tide of humanity is bound to tend . This is not necessarily a bad thing; after all, what value would creativity hold for us if it were just as effortless as uniformity? It would be next to meaningless. This distinction in difficulty between creativity and uniformity is so universal that spheres have found their way into every aspect of our subconscious. For this reason, we tend to conceive of life's great vastnesses as spherical: the sphere of earth, no account given for its abysmal trenches and stratospheric peaks; the spherical electron cloud- which isn't; socio-political "spheres of influence" which often turn out to be nothing more than pyramids of power; and finally, the great Spheres, those hanging heavenly wanderers who, when the feast-days are right and the heavens align, dance upon the black marble dance floor, empty except for the epicyclical gyrations of their joyous, shining bodies.

They are the Spheres. Perfectly, uniquely ordered, lifting our gaze upwards "from whence comes our help" (Psalm 121). Yet the spheres above are not the only spheres; they have long served as the archetypes of the spheres below. Like all good myths, they have worked their way into the language, and they have entered the human consciousness as our governors, and as those infallible, unthinking mathematicians whose rightness means our survival and safe perpetuation. They are indeed an order in every sense of the word. They are a command, and this I know by my very use of such a being verb, which arose from that first being verb, which was part action verb, which set the universe in motion, and which God saw, and called good. They represent a harmonious arrangement, even a symbol to our formal group of people who believes they are more than a random failure of nothing to continue in its nonexistence- we are an order, just as they are. They represent a state of peace and freedom from chaos; from them can be derived the principles of science and mathematics upon which the pillars of civilization now rest. Finally, they represent an authoritative direction, a destiny. Because of them I, man, can perceive the clock as it ticks, and still find peace in my foreknowledge of its midnight. The Spheres are the first order, they are my order, and they are so beautifully and wonderfully sacred.

The paths they travel are the stairway to the second heaven, and they are inspiring...almost worshipful. It is good that we should stand in awe of them, and good that we should desire them, but it is best that they remain to us sacred as once was the virgin earth in the Garden of Eden. As C. S. Lewis wrote in his poem "Science-Fiction Cradlesong",

Points of light with black between
Hang like a painted scene
Motionless, no nearer there
Than on Earth, everywhere
Equidistant from our ship.
Heaven has given us the slip.

Hush, be still. Outer space
Is a concept, not a place.
Try no more. Where we are
Never can be sky or star.
From prison, in a prison, we fly;
There's no way into the sky.

More importantly, though, than the sanctity of the actual, physical bodies of earth, ice, or gas is the sanctity of that order which surrounds and arises from them. In fact, it warms my heart rather than chills my bones to think that my country's flag is planted in the pale, soft earth of Luna's plains. However, it is my hope that we as a human race may never lose that which once made us great- the reverence and respect for those elements of creation which are beyond us and which will always be beyond us. Even when human colonies cover Mars and a dozen moons, and exploration takes us past the Andromeda Galaxy to stare into the abysses and discover the ominous other who will redefine all we know, it is my hope that mankind will still be able to lay on our backs at night, look up into the star-studded black, and see not just a collection of destinations or doomed balls of flame, but a beautiful painting, such a divine gift that it overcomes our senses with rapture. Thus may the sacrity be born out of order, and the order reborn out of the sacrity. And so may some things always remain a mystery.

Sincerely Yours

2010-08-20T01:19:00.000-07:00

God of Gods and Lord of Lords
I feel like we just don’t talk anymore
Yeah, sometimes I feel like that
And I don’t like to feel like that

So I thought I’d sit and write you a letter
To make this dumb situation better
And tell you how I feel about you
Tell you I just can’t live without you

You know those waterfalls you made?
Those butterflies in the forest glade?
That’s nature declaring your glory, Lord
With one voice, your glory, Lord

You spun the vast infinity of space
And somehow, Lord, you hold it in one place
For me- because you know I like to look at the stars
I've told you how I love your garden of stars

To watch a soul twice rise to life from death
A mystery, a miracle, a breath
It’s your way. It shouldn’t shock me but it does
By now I should be used to what my Father does

You could’ve made our world so boring, flat
But You invented color- who does that?
Only you knew the color blue before it existed
I’m so glad you knew me too, before I existed

Lord, if I ever seem to drift away
It’s just my nature getting in the way
No matter where I am I know you’ll find me
I know you’d leave the ninety-nine to find me

So in Your very name, O Lord, I pray
Veni Iesus et noli tardere
End my earthly journey with your rest
Omnis gloria et virtus Tibi est

You know you like to read if...

2010-08-18T12:20:00.000-07:00

1) You read a lot

2) You have some books in your house

3) You read kind of fast

4) You remember what you read sometimes

5) Reading is basically one of your favorite things

6) That's all

O Domine Deus

2010-08-13T18:53:00.000-07:00

Behold the ears of my heart before you, O Lord. Open them and say to my soul, "I AM your salvation (Ps. 35:3)." I will run after that voice, and I will overtake you. Do not hide your face from me: let me die, so that I may see it- and thereby not die.

--Augustine, Confessions I.5.5

Of Roots and Wings

2010-08-11T23:10:00.000-07:00

"There are but two lasting bequests we can give our children: one is roots, the other wings."
-Anonymous

As thoughts foreshadow the vastness of time
Our souls become lost in meterless rhyme,
And meaning is mind when being has been
On a break while the doctor is in.

Don't tell me to walk in your neat little rows-
The heart is a falcon and goes where it goes;
Whether finding firsthand what it means to be free
Or wakening under a tree.

Beginning to faint in the light that she loves,
The rose queen dons flip-flops and lily-white gloves;
Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls
Prize bloom in a garden of girls.

Dig deep, find purchase in the earthy home
Where floral folk make niches in the gloam;
Your roots are how you travel, moving not
Adventure in a shallow pot.

The sublime antithesis of roots and wings
Is- only a tree with roots good branches brings
Where those with wings can settle down and rest
To stay and build a nest.

I Thought I Saw a Madman

2010-08-03T00:23:00.000-07:00

When I was crossing crosswalks between Main and Ettinsmoor,
Passing stone pedestrians and Shribble-fish galore,
I looked into the window of Forever Thirty-Three,
And thought I saw a madman looking, staring back at me.

Startled, I immediately coughed and turned around,
But out he slipped and oozed into a shadow on the ground;
A Wendy-bird with crazy eyes appeared to chirp and tweet,
And with a bloody needle sewed the shadow to my feet.

I staggered to the bus stop, each small step a world of pain,
But crowds of ghosts pushed past me and the moon began to rain.
The bus rolled on and left me as the milk fell from the sky,
To hell with what my mother told me...I began to cry.

I cried for what those men had done at Belzek and Dachau,
For how they hurt the helpless then, and how we hurt them now.
I wished that "End the Torment" was a switch on my remote,
That killing off the guiltless didn't have to be a vote.

So lock me in a padded room and throw away the key
For every grinning Wendy-bird and Shribble-fish I see,
But all I feel as I sit and enjoy my three-barred view
Is pity for the helpless people locked out there with you.

Ave Fortuna, Blind at the Helm

2010-07-27T01:41:00.000-07:00

It's getting too late for the liquid tocks
And the muffled ticks of slowing clocks;
Each minute stretches like a drip
Of wave left on the frigid docks
Of Northernesse in wintertime,
A cold berth for a lonely ship
And a colder rhyme.

Those final minutes running down
Become eternities and sound
Within a timepiece like a drum,
A fatal, throbbing, piercing pound;
And I, aboard the ship remind
Myself the place from whence I come
I left behind.

A father kneels beside a stone,
Below, his daughter lies alone.
He'd asked me what he wouldn't give
To have her back, somehow atone
The sin of time that's slipped away;
He sighs. It's too late to forgive,
Too late to pray.

Two men, once the best of friends
Were both too proud to make amends,
And cold, cruel Destiny closed in.
Despite the moments Time extends
Before the final ship departs,
Pride would set and dry within
Their hardened hearts.

Two dreamers, long each other's truth,
Embodiments of foolish youth,
The wind caught sail and blew apart.
For them Time strove to alter sooth
But set adrift they were, to dream no more;
Too late to say "I love you." Hark!
My ship's at shore.

Kawasaki Ninja 250R Road Trip Review 2-- Not Your Grandma's Road Trip

2010-07-21T01:52:00.000-07:00

Taking a bike 900 miles up the West Coast's "scenic" I-5, though not a trip for the faint of heart (or the squishy of buttocks), is certainly an unforgettable experience. You wouldn't expect Kawasaki's 2009 Ninja 250R to exactly be the cruising kind...after all, we're clearly looking at a street bike. However, because we're looking at the best bike for the money in its own and any other class, it should be able to top out in almost any category: even on a road trip.

I had taken the first leg of my trip before, the 400 miles to San Francisco. My first time, as you read in the earlier post about it, was during the winter. Things were a little different this time around. The San Fernando Valley was clocking 107 degrees when I left. I had just had the bike serviced, and just had my chain replaced. I'm going to be doing a much better job of lubricating this chain (ladies) every 300 miles, because my failure to do that resulted in damage to the last one, and it only lasted about 15,000 miles. Hopefully this one will last longer. One modification that I did have done was to the new sprockets. I replaced the rear sprocket with one that was a size smaller, in order to provide a higher maximum velocity. It now gives about 15 miles per hour faster on the high end, with the RPM's still remaining at a copacetic level. Also, instead of my trusty backpack this time around, I strapped a sportbike saddlebag to the passenger seat. It worked out well, so I'll plug their product- made by Cortech. Give them a look. The trip was great- with the added speed, the just-serviced engine, the lube, and some tunes in the ol' headphones, it seemed to be over in no time. San Francisco was sporting comfy 75-degree weather, and I only had about 575 miles left to ride. Next stop? Sweet Home, Oregon.

What can you do when you're 100 miles in, and one of your front headlights goes out? This happens from time to time as we all know, depending on how often you have your brights on. There is nothing wrong with losing a headlight, and night riding is still possible, though not preferable. So that was that. It was on this leg of the trip that I experienced some of the most dangerous winds I could imagine. The Ninja handles wind fairly well, but often I had to lean at ridiculous angles just to ride straight. And don't get me started on the hellish vortex that surrounds semi trucks. Passing them is a nightmare, and a 60mph wind can suddenly switch from an easterly to a westerly instantly, and you have to adjust your lean or be swept over. I never thought I'd hear myself say this, but my best advice when confronted with very heavy winds is to slow down. At one point I slowed to 45 mph in a 65 zone just to make sure I didn't become a shuffleboard puck.

One of the other elements that made this trip slightly dangerous is that the very end of it- Oregon itself- is full of twisted mountain paths. That's both the Mt. Shasta range and the I-5 in Oregon; just a bunch of paths carved through some serious elevated forests. This wouldn't usually be a problem, except by the end of 575 miles, you're just about ready to keel over and die. My advice? Take lots of rest stops. In Oregon, getting gas requires no energy...state law requires that all pumps perform full service at all times. So resting every, say, half a tank couldn't hurt. While I'm on the topic of gas, something else that is cool about Oregon gas is that their high octane level is 92, as compared with California's 91. So you can eke a little extra speed out of that too.

Oregon is great, there are trees and mountains and waterfalls and llamas and camels, some stuff happened while I was there, etc.

Coming home: one final mechanical note that I would like to point out is that I had some stalling issues coming back home. I am no mechanic, but I think that these recurring stalls had something to do with prolonged periods during which I was pushing 11,000 RPMs, with varying speeds (all in the vicinity of fast to highly illegal). One stall also happened in the middle of an extremely heavy headwind which kept the bike under 6,000 RPMs at full throttle. Did that have something to do with it? Dammit man, I'm a doctor, not a bike whisperer!

Final Score

Speed: 7. About as fast as a light cruiser, but I would love to get the 147 mph dished out by the ZX-14! At least sometimes. On the other hand, as most 250 riders say, how much fast does a man need?

Comfort: 7. This is probably the Ninja's weakest area, and understandably so. You may ask, why not a 1? It's a street bike. Well first of all, it's not a dirt bike. 'Nuff said, 5 points gained. Second of all, it beats CBR's and all those other street bikes in that the Ninja is designed with more of a traditional style, so you don't have to do as much leaning as you do with those bikes (that would be super hard on your back for a ride like this, especially with a backpack). The seat is a little hard and narrow, which is why I won't give it the 8 that I would a Nighthawk or Rebel, nor the 9 or 10 I would give a Road King or VTX (the thing's got a freakin' air conditioner. Don't ask me how that works.).

Gas mileage: 10. I made it to Eugene, Oregon with a San Francisco detour on 25 gallons of gas. Find me a bike with better mileage (Schwinn?). I will modify mine to beat it or your mattress is free.

Maintenance: 10. The 250 has long been declared the cheapest newer street bike to maintain. Lube it every 300 miles. Service it every 3000. Difficult?

Coolness: 9. It doesn't have guns on it like Judge Dredd. Otherwise, 11.

Cargo: 7. The saddlebag allowed me to carry 90 liters worth of storage. If I had wanted to, I could've taken a backpack as well with an additional 50 liters. Not bad for a street bike. Of course, if I'd had a sidecar, I could've carried C. S. Lewis.

Overall (not an average): 8.5. The greatest thing about this bike is that it totally rocks as a road trip bike, but I can take it home and use it for almost anything else afterwards. It's great on curves, fine in any weather, easy to navigate, easy to maintain, very fast, and lots of fun. You can get the '09 used now for peanuts, so what are you waiting for?

Tucked In

2010-07-10T15:52:00.000-07:00

My sweet only child, lay down your head
Sleep in the warmth of your downy-soft bed
Relax and close your eyes, and hear a rhyme:
For there's only one snowflake in summertime
And one sunbeam in winter. Only one
Bird that can fly in the rain and the sun.
And the cold winter wind when it blows
Is a breeze to the dreamer who knows
That you're fast asleep in your downy-soft bed
Doors to green faerie your eyelids of lead
To your own little self being true...
Very you.

Ghost Story

2010-07-10T15:07:00.000-07:00

WARNING: The following story contains graphic images, violence, and psychological perturbation. Not intended for children under 18, or those not disposed toward such things.

It had been thirty years since the last time I saw those marble pillars, since the last time I'd walked through those great double doors whose solid oak had been a door longer than it had been a tree. The old library was still solid, overgrown with ivy and covered with a layer of unkind years though it was. No mere climbing vine could overthrow its sturdy architecture, no weather wear could stain its smooth exterior. The building begged personification; a veteran Roman legionary, perhaps, or a grey-eyed sea captain. Nothing, though, could fully describe the story that was apparent in every stone, written on the undersides of dilapidated benches and scrawled on yellowed paper stuffed between cracks in the brick. History had been made here, the history of lives and legends, which nobody knew but me and the ones who were now dead. A story which I was here to finish.

There were only four front steps, none of them very high, and they crouched beneath the shade of a flowering Hawthorne tree which rained down plump red berries to stain the ground and keep the birds full and chirping. I could still see, though, whether only in my memory or in living color on the ground before me, the red stain on the steps that no amount of berries could cover over, and which no amount of scrubbing could ever wash out of the absorbent stone. I could still see his face, still hear the cry on his lips as the life was torn from his body. His cry brought back the war zone, the shouts and roars and eerie whine wafting from the library's lower chambers. I took forceful hold of my memory and wrenched it away from that unhappy morning- I clutched to a self-induced amnesia and did not let go. The amnesiac loses his memory, his name, his very identity...I realized that the massacre had become so integral to my identity that I would have to give up myself to forget it.

I kept walking. Past the columns, through the creaking double doors. Over that very threshhold which now served as the birthplace of so many ghosts, so many creaking floors and eerie moaning in the night. The library was full of them now, trapped in the memory of one man, one man whose journey to the source was now their only hope of escape from their tortured existence, but whose journey they would try their damnedest to impede because it was simply in the nature of the poltergeist not to suffer the living to pass. The amnesiac who now passed through them like a thick and heavy fog could feel them tugging at his heart, pulling at his soul...the children begged him, crying, while the others only stared at him in silence with empty eyes. You killed us, they seemed to say, you let us die. Moans and weeping and angry hisses through spectral teeth. I finally made it through the door.

The spiral staircase central to the old building's design stretched up and up, through floor after floor of books and reference materials, all uninteresting to me now. Not that I had ever been truly interested in them. Books of facts, no semblance of legend or story. I had, of course, given the illusion of interest, in order to fool the teachers and other academically bent taskmasters of my educational career, but had I ever really derived any enjoyment from those dull arts and sciences? Could playing and chatting with my classmates ever come close to a good book in the solitude of my own company? Was there every any part of a schoolday which had been better than its being over, or anything about homework or classwork or group projects or testing or speeches or papers that had come close to the sound, the beautiful sound of that bell ringing?

The bells had not rung that morning. Nothing seemed the same. Even the sun had turned a dark orange hue from the thick smoke that rose up from the fires all around campus. They all knew that something had gone wrong at the library, that the tiny cage where they held it imprisoned was grossly insufficient for such a feral power- that they could not just go home and hope everything would work itself out. They had to face it, had to finish what they had started. Laurence had sneaked his Dad's old soviet rifle to school in his backpack, planning on finishing the job during study hall. He would ask to go to the bathroom, put a few rounds in the creature as it sat helpless behind steel bars, dispose of the gun in the filthy duck pond next to the cafeteria, and return to class as if nothing had happened, return to list his linking verbs and diagram his sentences. It would be over, it would be cleaned up.

It had all been Arno's fault. Why did anyone listen to him? Why did they always listen to him? He was sure that the experiment would never result in anything more than an exciting incident at the lab, and he convinced all us boys of the fact. The so-called "Crucible of Life" we all knew to be the insane babblings of alchemists hundreds of years dead, desperate for the secret to immortality and some credence to their swiftly-disappearing art. How many of "history's mysteries" did Mr. Turisman describe with his breathless excitement to the hungry ears of his students? Shouldn't we have been immune to his mystic charms by now? Apparently not. Arno was the ringleader, the genius at research and charismatic sparkplug who would let no archaic tale of top-shelf mysterium pass him by. And they loved him for it. I passed his skeleton behind the front desk. His twisted spine, untouched in three decades, brought to my mind the sickening crunch when he was torn limb from limb. It was all fun and games, our mothers had told us, until somebody loses an arm. For Lake Forest Elementary, though, the fun and games had ended long before.

At last I stood before the locked and chained iron door which was all that stood between me and the basement where it still dwelt. The tiny glass window had long been darkened, and the smell of death had by now permeated the whole underground basement, sneaking under the door in a putrid cloud which warned all who dared approach. It could sense me by now, I was sure; a warm body in its domain of cold darkness and decay. A voice from time past echoed in my head.

"What about Fullman? He's already a freak. Nobody'll notice if he's a little...different."

It was Jeff Jobes, Arno's right-hand man. He was right, of course...I was a freak by their standards, because anybody that knew how to read and spoke comprehensibly in complete sentences must be a freak. Before I knew what was happening, Tim and Alex, Lake Forest football's offensive line, had grabbed my arms and dragged me toward the table where Arno had assembled the materials. Where any coercion was to go on, you could be sure that Tim and Alex would be there to carry it out. I should have seen this coming- shouldn't have let my curiosity get the best of me. Damn that Arno for his inexplicable oratory seduction! They pushed my head toward the table, and I felt a gauze pad rub something cold on the back of my neck. Arno spoke soothingly.

"Take it easy, Fullman. Isn't this something you've always wanted? Immortality...it's what man has always wanted."

Since when were twelve-year-olds capable of this kind of evil? I felt something prick the skin and I blacked out almost immediately. I awoke inside a small steel cage that used to confine the library cats after hours. I was groggy and my head felt hot. Jeff leaned in close and knocked on the bars.

"Tip-top shape, Fullman! How do you feel? Like a million bucks?"

I felt sick. Looking at his taunting face, I felt vomit rising in my chest. I could not restrain it, did not even want to...but when it came out, it was all black and solid, pouring out of my mouth and forming into a horrible appendage that leaped toward Jobes' face and seized it in a grip of wiry, slimy strength. His screams were cut off and muffled as blood began to trickle from his ears. What was it doing? It finally released him, and I felt no pain as it slithered back down into my throat, leaving the faint taste of human blood on my tongue. His face was gone, whether burned, melted, or chewed away- it was hard to tell. He fell backward stone dead, and the rest of the boys bolted for the door without a second look back, slamming it and locking it behind them.

The concussive sound of iron upon iron in my memory brought me back to the present. I placed one hand on the chain wrapped around the door handle and closed my eyes, feeling it melt into a puddle of ore on the floor. I had lived thirty years with these powers...this curse. It had to end now. There was only one way to end this tyranny of immortality so innocently conjured by a group of schoolboys. Innocently? Even boyhood games can go too far. It's all fun and games until somebody loses their conscience...loses their soul.

The syringe lay on the table. This was the antidote, the "failsafe" Arno had been so sure of. If anything actually goes wrong, he had said, we just use this, and it's all over. Little did he know. For thirty years, I had not wanted it to be over. I had enjoyed my powers, enjoyed the pain I could cause other people, other innocents- my revenge upon humanity. Until I had killed her, that is...the only thing I had ever loved. Dissolved, rent in two by the uncontrollable rage of an all-powerful madman. Would I live on forever to satisfy my own evil lusts? To wreak as much devastation as I could before the universe was a testament to my unholy addiction?

Not while I still had control of myself. I held the syringe in one hand, the gun in the other, and thought about right and wrong. Whatever I had done, the choice was now clear. I stuck the needle in my neck and felt the rush of mortality return to my cold bones. I was a little 42-year-old child, strong as steel, faster than death and more powerful than a thunderstorm. I was evil incarnate, and I had to be destroyed, now, before the serum wore off. I could feel it waning already, feel myself burning through it. I didn't have the courage. I couldn't end it, and the serum was all but gone. The evil inside me had defeated me at last.

No, it hadn't. I put the gun in my mouth and pulled the trigger.

------------------------------------------------

I awoke almost instantly, feeling cool as spring, cooler than I had felt since...I didn't even remember when. My body was light, so light that I could leap ten feet in the air. I looked around and realized that I was still in the old library, but it was somehow...different. There were different books on the shelves, and light streaming in through the old windows. Some birds were singing outside. I stumbled down the aisle in a daze, stopping to pick up an old favorite, Treasure Island, and turn to my favorite chapter. It had been so long...so long. Was I to finally be allowed to sit and read, to be a child unmolested?

I heard a voice behind me. "Well, look who it is." I wheeled around.

There he stood. Arno, my old enemy, reborn to walk in terrible unflesh, the chief phantom of Lake Forest's old library. And the whole sixth-grade posse. They all looked ephemeral, like they could be blown away by a gust of wind. I looked down at my own limbs and realized for the first time that I looked the same.

Arno continued. "You've got a body downstairs, Fullman. A right proper mess, all strewn about. What should we do about that?"

"Take him down there!" "Rub his nose in it so he knows what he did!" The boys shouted out their replies. The old fear began to rise in me again. They approached me and encircled me, gathering around me and chanting their threats and insults. I was in a panic, fearing an eternity of being bullied, regretting everything I had just done. But then one of them brushed me. His elbow, right in my face. But I didn't even feel it. It just went through me. And then it hit me. They couldn't touch me in here, couldn't bother me ghost-to-ghost. Like this, I was safe.

So I turned back to Robert Louis Stevenson and began to practice a skill that I had honed since early childhood. Eventually all the sounds, the ghostly chants and moans, even the sight of my old classmates faded away, and the library too, while only the story remained. I was aboard the Hispaniola, chatting with Long John Silver. And I would be there for a good, long time- as long as I wanted. Though there were a lot of books in this library.

Kids Say the Darndest Things

2010-06-21T00:22:00.000-07:00

Alright, folks, here are my top ten favorite quotes by the nameless and faceless young man in the above photo (George). He also happens to be the finest 11-year-old author of our time.

1) "Hi. I am Eros the God of Love. They call me Eros because I shoot out arrows."

2) "I don't want to write a story about lizards! Lizards scare me."

3) "Andrew, have you ever committed suicide?"

4) "I hate the Egyptians, they're always showing their nipples."

5) "My mom says that sometimes tutors take knives and kill the kids they are teaching. Would you ever do that?"

6) "Is George Washington dead already?"

7) "I used the money to buy three lightsabers so me and my friends could cut down the basketball hoop."

8) "I don't want to do my homework. Why don't you just use your nerdish head to do it for me?"

9) "Could you beat up my dad? How about the whole American Army?"

10) "If you're Jewish, why don't you go make out with Moses?"

Wormhole Exploration Team Missing, Suspected Dead

2010-06-17T01:36:00.000-07:00

[Transcript from a global news network report on bizarre happenings in the scientific world]

As many of you know, the team designated to begin exploration of the newly discovered wormhole over three cycles ago has vanished without a trace. Although under specific orders to return as soon as possible with information and a broadcast message of peace and strength, neither ship nor crew has returned. More optimistic experts on wormhole physics have postulated that their disappearance may be due to fluctuations in the ST continuum, but this does little to enhearten any Imperial Units to volunteer for a search and rescue op.

After all, as you will recall, the wormhole exploration team is not affiliated with the Enn Military. Technically athletes, the winners of the 14792 UCSE, they were selected for wormhole exploration based on their exemplary performance in a policing action concerning the dubious and much-debated defense of the upper-class suburban area surrounding the wormhole from being savaged by what most experts consider the wormhole's mysterious and deadly radiation. Now these heroes have gone missing, and nobody is willing to go in after them, to the place from which none return.

None, that is, except the runners-up in the team selection process: Space Hoax and his Sunstrike Commandos. With three hundred cycles of freelancing special operations for the government, Space Hoax and his team are the best of the best. Their recruitment and training process ensure that the team remains small and elite. Says Hoax in comment on his team's possible selection for a follow-up mission, "I want another crack at that hole." With interstellar tensions still unsteady, however, nobody can say whether their opportunity will arise.

I'm Jiffy Morgens, and this has been the evening news.

[Well boys...we're back.]

What a Friend We Have in Jesus

2010-06-08T10:02:00.000-07:00

What does it mean to have a personal relationship with Jesus Christ? Should this concept really seem so natural to we who have heard it so many times? Should it really seem so foreign to those who have not? We have personal relationships with many people in our lives; husbands and wives, close friends and family members, coworkers and intimates. Yet Christ is not one of these: in fact Christ is all of these. Practically speaking, how does having a personal relationship with Him work out?

"Relationship" is one of those concepts, spinning in our spheres of reality, that operates at different levels of purity. There are a host of analogies for this in the physical universe; one may take his pick: gold, wine, musical notes, etc. However, the best analogies are concepts similar to it, such as truth. Truth, like relationship, operates at different levels of purity, the best being closest to that purest level of truth. I will give you an example.

"Andrew Cuff is a good chess player." True statement. Yet not the purest of all truths...I could conceive of a better. "Bobby Fischer was a good chess player." This is a more pure truth, and comes closer to what is meant by the term "good."

Have another. "This book has quite a few pages." True, but more pure truth to say that "This book has 364 pages." Truths are allowed to exist in this way at many different stages of purity, always enclining upwards toward the mountain of purest truth. The purest of truths, we Christians say, is God himself. I John 1:5 declares, "This then is the message we have heard from him and declare to you, that God is light, and in him is no darkness at all." God is full of light, representative of the illuminated truth that makes up his very being. In Him is no darkness, no lies, no deception, not even any omission, at all.

Relationships, similarly, possess a purity (or impurity) which depends solely on two aspects: intention and facility, that is to say, will and ability. These two in concert, and neither one alone, is able to bring about the purest of relationships. Some people possess a greater facility, or ability, than others at managing a relationship. Remembering birthdays, crying together in times of sadness, showing genuine interest in things that interest the other person, providing encouragement or prayer where needed, but never flattery; we all know people like these because they stand out in our minds, and probably in everybody's mind. Such is the skill that is being a friend.

Now imagine a person having all of these skills in the spades, yet possessing no intention at all to employ them in daily living! Nobody would get along with a person like that, especially after they saw the calendar up on the person's wall upon which their birthday was clearly marked, but did not remember receiving a card, a phone call, or even so much as a pat on the back. The intention is just not there. So it can be seen that ability is not all that is neccessary to conduct a relationship; it must go hand in hand with intention. Intention, similarly, cannot operate alone, "I meant to take you out to dinner tonight," or "I really want to love you..." are the fast track path to a hearty slap across the face.

Does this twofold concept hold true in a relationship with Jesus Christ? The truth is, none of us have the facility, the ability, the skill to have a relationship with Jesus Christ. To be friends with him, we would have to at least show him that we were willing to live one day without betraying him, one day without slandering him, one day without completely ignoring him, one day without devaluing him, one day without nailing him to the cross and killing him. We have neither the skill nor the willpower to refrain from these horrendous acts. How many friends do you have who allow you to mistreat them so? No, we cannot be friends with Jesus.

Not on our own. The first thing that must be done in order for us to have a relationship with Christ, is we must be given the intention to seek that close relationship. The spiritus sanctus must replace our animus pravus: our wicked hearts must be filled with the Christ's Holy Spirit. Only then can we even begin to relate to Christ in the way that is proper. After that is done, we still grossly lack the ability to carry out this relationship in any just or even sensible manner: we have no skills at all. We go days forgetting to talk to God, who lives in our very hearts; we throw up our hands in laziness when we cannot understand his scripture; we let our minds grow dull and complacent in blind and meaningless faith; we look at the poor and needy and do not see the face of Christ, but the pompous grin of our own prejudice. What the hell? Rightly said; these tendencies are straight from this infernal place.

Thank God, thank God, thank God, for the grace of Jesus Christ. Poor, pathetic humans, unskilled, unlovely- but not unloved. Along with this theology of relationship we have come to understand descends from on high a measure of grace: I say a measure only in jest, for it is poured from a measuring cup in which each line marks another ocean. By this grace we are moved to do right, as the rich young ruler repeated by rote to Christ in Luke 10:27, to "Love the Lord God with all your heart, soul, mind, and strength, and to love your neighbor as yourself." There you have it, the law of the universe, and the purpose for which we were created. Taught us every day by the spirit inside us that we may be more committed to the possibility and reality of a pure and holy relationship with Jesus Christ.

LORD, we believe that we, as the apostles while You walked the earth, can have a personal relationship with You. For this reason we read your written word, for this reason we walk about in Your beautifully created world, for this reason we have fellowship with Your people, for this reason we share Your good news to those who know it not, for this reason You and I are having this very conversation. As Moses in the desert, LORD, meet with us as friends of the Most High, have communion with us as we have communion with You. Show us that the intention toward our salvation is all Yours, Holy One, and show us that the ability to live in this world as Your friend must come from you as well. Show us these things, burn our hearts with them, and be our friend which "sticks closer than a brother" (Proverbs 18:24). May your love and grace bridge the gap of our insufficiency. Amen.

Oh, and Jesus? We should get together sometime. I'm free whenever.

Sigillum Dei Aemeth

2010-06-07T22:53:00.000-07:00

I have just returned from a rather interesting experience I believe it is your right, as my final (and possibly posthumous) friend, to know about. It was about the third hour past midnight, and I was embattled by a rather nasty piece of insomnia. Insomnia is in no way atypical to my condition, although it is an infinitely more benign travail than sleep itself, and therefore can run anywhere on the welcomeness scale from annoyance to respite. Frustrated by my exhaustion combined with my inability to slip into unconsciousness, I leapt out of bed, hurriedly thrust myself into some suitable attire, and slipped outside, silent as the night itself. There was a rather charming air mass surrounding the manor, though somehow charged, whether through barometric anomaly or static buildup, with the taste of foreboding: it impended...something.

My mind immediately went to my dreams. Of course, the distractions that I busied myself with, as you remember, held back phantoms and fears for a while...but my creativity soon flagged, and my ilness returned. I could not reckon why they sprang so quickly to my mind in this, an otherwise unassuming and certainly pleasant outdoor jaunt. All I knew was there they were.

I walked several blocks. My small coastal village does not possess any landmarks that could be deemed horrible, though tonight they were all. The cheery park was a dark wood of malicious sorcery and hungry shadows...the town church frowned down upon me as I passed, its gaudy belltower glinting in the moonlight, as if inviting me to climb it and ring the bell like a madman, to awaken the town to my lunacy.

As I crossed a dark alleyway that seemed a dead end, a pile of clothing my eye had passed over suddenly leaped up beside me; there was a man in the pile, indeed wearing the pile, and he clung to my jacket. He leaned close to me with his weary, pitted face, and I knew him as the old man I had met on the street several weeks earlier. In his eyes was earnest supplication.

"I know," he said breathlessly, "I know all the secrets. I know why the moon is off-schedule. I know why there are no birds about tonight. I know why you can't sleep. And I know where the devil lives."

I immediately wished that he had accosted me a bit further from the ghastly sight of the old church. Terrified, I shook him loose and raced away, eyes wide and heart pounding. I made several turns, never slowing, always weaving through the streets and hiding from the madness. The moonbeams burned down, lighting up the town almost as bright as daylight and making me feel like try as I might, I could never conceal myself. This did not, of course, help me to see any better, and shadows seemed ubiquitous. As I passed one of the larger shadows in my flight, something leaped out of it and collided with me. It was the old man. He sprawled on the concrete, covered in blood, for which I felt somehow responsible. He cackled.

"You'll never escape from them, try as you might! You might escape them for a while, you might put them out of your mind...hell, you can run from me all night long, but our paths will cross again and again and again until they aren't two separate paths, but one! You and me, together forever...heehee!"

I recovered my balance and wheeled around. "Who are you?" I demanded. "What do you want with me?"

The old man clapped his hands to his cheeks, widening his eyes and taking on a mocking tone: "Who am I? Maybe I'm your conscience! Maybe I'm death, here to claim your soul after a good chess match! Maybe I'm just in your imagination...madman."

I think he thought he would provoke me with this word, but I have already long since resigned myself to such a label. What else could I be, to have such dreams and waking visions?

He held his arms wide and advanced closer. "Listen...why don't we take it easy for a bit and talk this through like two sensible, non-imaginary individuals. I have a riddle for you."

I shudder even now to recall our conversation (and with such detail; I amaze even myself sometimes) and even more so to retell his riddle; but I feel that in the interest of full disclosure to you, my now captive audience, I should tell it word for word as he said it, insomuch as I can.

"A devout man in a small town, faithful for many years to his religion," he began, "walked sombrely into an empty church. He greeted the minister with a nod, and kneeled before the altar to pray. The silent reverie echoed around him and reminded him where he was and with Whom he spoke. His mouth moved in silent and fervent supplication, until he seemed satisfied that heaven had heard enough. Then, he got up and left. Within moments, the minister fell dead, along with five other church members in silent prayer. Outside, the man looked on grimly as death fastened its jaws on each and every person in that small town, and pedestrians began to litter their corpses upon the street. Before long, every person in that town was dead, and the devout man walked the streets silently to survey the carnage. He nodded toward heaven. 'Thy will be done,' was all he said."

I tried to awake, but to no avail. I had thought I could escape this horror, this riddle, this prophecy, by simply shaking myself from the dream, but the true horror clutched me and, drooling, screamed in my face that this was no dream. I ran like never before, flecks of the old man's blood still staining my clothes. I crawled into bed and thrust myself under the covers like a child. Writing would have to wait until tomorrow. But how could it?

Sigillum Dei Aemeth

2010-06-07T22:42:00.000-07:00

I find my bedroom to be a comfortable place. In the summer, my double-width window allows the sunlight to gently warm me awake, and chirping springtime birds to perch and serenade me with the tunes they wrote in the night, each competing for my approval and hopping to and fro excitedly. In the winter, I bundle up before my fireplace with a book and don slippers to pad over the cold floorboards. Although my bedroom was and is the epicenter of my infirmity, I have transformed it into the nursery of my recovery.

Given the positive direction that the past few days have taken towards soundness and lucidity, today I was able, sitting at my large Victorian writing desk, to ponder over the happenings of the last year and try to piece together some sort of distinguishable pattern by which I could root out the source of my perturbation. The whole affair seems to have started with that first dream; the one about the book which returned recently in my sleep, alone intriguing me out of a library of classics. What was the significance of the book? Was it real? Who had written it? Had they been responsible for its contents?

No, it did not seem likely. Their method of communication was wholly other, and yet the words and aura of the book had their stench all about it. I then recalled my memories of the girl in the highrise garden. I knew that she could have no part in this- she was far too pure, too innocent to be in any way connected to the bizzareté that my mind had stumbled into. To think that any of this existed outside my mind was a stretch in itself; at least, this is what my doctors had caused me to believe during my long stay at McLean. Then there was the old man on the street's chilling words...

Alright, very well, I'll tell you. After all, it does not make sense to keep secrets from one's own personal journal. It would certainly defeat the purpose- besides, all of this reasoning and detective work is getting me nowhere.

There was another dream last night. I stood on my roof, enjoying the cool night air and looking out over the lights of the city. The moon was full, and huge and white and round, and it hypnotized me with its loveliness as I stared at it endlessly. That is, until a shape passed in front of it. Hidden by the night until it eclipsed my moongazing, I followed it with my eyes, barely able to make out its shape as it passed into the night. I heard the beat of its wings; not light, rustling feathers as though it were a giant bird, but dull, throbbing wingbeats which seemed muffled and covered in fur. I lost sight of the creature as it passed into the night.

When I turned to resume my admiration for the moon's voluptuous surface, it had disappeared. That is to say, the moon had gone dark. I glanced upwards just in time to see the last ray of moonlight quashed by a creeping, smothering blanket of crimson- something- which blotted out its reflective aura. The city, in turn, became a swirling swamp of dark shadows and blotchy shapes, all hued red by the moon's new color scheme.

My dream-self became sick, vomiting profusely, and swaying back and forth from dizziness. I swooned in my dream, but realized before I did that I had vomited out a litter of kittens. I concluded that they must derive their humour from such bizarreté. I was too tired to sleep.

Dawn brought with it a desperate attempt to suppress madness with intellectual artistry. Here is the riddle, take it for what it is, and do not blame me, a sick and wretched man, for what I cannot prevent; nor hope from me what it is altogether illogical to expect:

Henry III lost four dozen good men while attempting a Channel crossing in stormy weather. The four ships that sank were loaded to capacity and the men in them had just eaten a hearty last meal of steaming meat pies. Though the depths rejoiced at the demise of Henry's men, and desperate waves, driven on by hunger, eagerly gobbled them in their hapless misfortune, these four dozen would have their revenge. As one, sunken beneath the waves, despairing of life, they uttered a single curse, which lasts until the present day: "Sedrath meairmine, alcotul brimtereburd." May your shores not be touched by it.

Over the next 45 years, 9 different coastal metropoleis were destroyed by tidal monstrosities. None of them were on our planet, if you believe in that sort of thing.

Though he was almost killed in the catastrophes, humanity's last hope managed to survive and return to his hometown for the beginning of the greatest story ever told. But who would be left to tell it?

(I am mad, I am mad...I am finally mad.)

Days of the Week

2010-05-29T02:37:00.000-07:00

Sunday

In that early sunrise of our gladness, light,
Enclining from the heavenly bodies down
Which crest horizon’s peak and morning sight
To glimmer and ennoble it as a crown,
And wipe away earth’s shadow town by town
Does testify a new annunciation:
Our blue-framed sun, the new day’s confirmation.

Sunday, by tradition our beginning
To the ancient, constant, festival of week
The Sabbath, for cessation of our sinning
And holy consecration for to seek.
The sacred veneration of the martyrs meek
And ritual of praise and right instruction,
Lord lead us not toward vanity’s seduction.

The Word, our wisdom and illumination,
Risen anon that Sunday us to save
And show us that His death was our salvation,
His rising glorious victory o’er the grave,
This myth that captures soul and looses slave,
Is light by which we know Him and are known:
May soft and fertile be soil where truths are sown.

Monday

Despised by all, a dull day, a day of weary bones,
Blots out proud sunshine and keeps Phoebus from the races.
It seems a day of naught but night, its queen the Lady Moon,
That suspect orb who, never turning, earthward always faces,
And gathers the tides unto herself to leave the salt-washed stones.

Monday, our moon day, a synonym for dread,
What Monday has there ever been from whence a plague sprang not?
Did not Eve fall prey to serpent’s tongue, and Adam too in its purview?
Did Cain not Abel’s murder hide and Abram break from Lot?
On this unholiest of days to evil man is led.

Toil and tread and bloodshot eyes mark Luna’s namesake day,
A better excuse you’ll never find for shirking duty’s call;
Despair, despondency, and naps…they seem to go together.
“It’s Monday,” most consider this the best excuse of all.
So from the grey we wail away and homage pay to the disarray-

Oh, Monday, in the week-queue stay,
And when you’re here go, go away.
And drag not on, and drag not us,
Out of our beds and into the bus,
To jobs inane and bosses petty,
To make us wish it were already

Tuesday

Raw and red and full and strong
Arma virque stride along,
Now ready and fitted for fire and death
With glittering steel and liquorish breath.

Tuesday’s alarm is a battle-horn
To shake off yesterday’s forlorn
Discomfiture and sleepy eyes,
And rouse for the fight and the battle cries.

And charge headlong, we know not why,
It’s Tuesday; need I make reply?
The day that queen of cities fell
And Tyr made secret pacts with Hel.

Have we forgotten two days past?
Has Monday erased the Word so fast?
We trust our strength and loose the bands
Fast bound upon our heads and hands.

And mindlessly to war we go,
And spend our effort just to sow
Dissent and fight our fellow man
In conflict since the world began.

Wednesday

Today I awoke with my eyes aglow, my body lightened;
Though it was but dawn, my gaze was quicked, my imaginings heightened
And happily I thought on tales of thieves and pirate sailors,
A mix of lost adventurers allkind; from rogues to whalers,
And heard the strokes of the minstrel harp,
And the fife-notes dancing in between them,
A hearty meal in the mead-hall of the mind.
Wednesday, a silver day, a day for flights of fancy
A day to bet on fours at Iactus if you’re feeling chancy.
The weather is good, and knives are sharp,
And fairies blow a kiss to those who’ve seen them,
Such a day to seek that you may find.
For when the Maker’s creative door is opened unto you,
You’ll find at last that you can be a merry maker too.

Thursday

Rock giants crumble at one blow from fell Mjolnir!
The cloudy, angry, storming heaven thunders in my ears.
My little life-ship, sails wrapped, pitches madly on the swells;
My little forethought, dauntless mast-lashed captain bravely steers.
My home besieged by darkness grim, my person hemmed by goblin spells,
And the sky seems out to strike me down, and the world to ever and always end me,
“Peace, be still!” a voice says, silence-
'Twas the Word I heard defend me.

Friday

Intoxicated by the scent of wine,
Cool as it glistens red in the cup to tempt me,
And seated across from Helene divine,
Her gaze breaks my horizon with half-lidded eyes,
And sultry posturings which full exempt me
From temperance oft commended to the wise,
And continence imparted from above.
Not for me- it’s Friday, I’m in love.

Hymen o Hymenaee, Hymen ades o Hymenaee!
My midday meal seems overfraught with Venereal crisis,
“Mortal man,” she chuckles, “did you think you could deny me?”
Black Friday, Casual Friday, Friday the thirteenth this is not.
It’s Frigge’s Friday, Freyr freed, the feral, fertile feast of Isis,
Bewitched by beauty, all moral virtue in the dance forgot.
Let go, and don’t be bogged down in life’s tiny didascalia;
Live each day like Friday, like tomorrow’s Saturnalia.

Saturday

There’s nothing to say
About Saturday
That can’t be said
Or elsewhere read.
No legend or
Mythology
Of Trojan War
Astrology
Captures the feel
Of time’s surreal
And bold appeal
To full arrest:
And finding best
A pillow rest
To make critique
Upon my week,
I think upon
In seven dawns,
The week in sum.
What have I done?
A million ways
In seven days
All metered out
For fair exchange
I’ve tossed about
Like spending change.
The week’s a gift
I’ve thrown away,
It passes swift
To Saturday.
For time crawls on
Without our nod
A devolution
From our God.
Though hot we were
At first inception,
Time deters
Us from discretion.
So the verse
At last can end
In sunny June
And pray come soon
Sunday again.

De Materia

2010-05-19T20:52:00.000-07:00

Dear Readers:

A new discussion-centered blog has opened up, run by some friends of mine, at demateria.org.

It contains a forum for open registration and discussion, as well as a main page for posting and commenting on lengthier treatises. The purview of the site extends to philosophy, literature, science, mathematics, theology, and many other topics. I recommend visiting and signing up to the forums.

The site is still under construction, but all main facets are operational.

Looking Beyond the Shadow: A Defense of Creativity

2010-05-16T00:46:00.000-07:00

...Though now long estranged,
Man is not wholly lost nor wholly changed.
Dis-graced he may be, yet is not dethroned,
and keeps the rags of lordship once he owned,
his world-dominion by creative act...

--J. R. R. Tolkien, Mythopoeia

A good writer is somebody who can put something to paper which people want to hear, and still have its final purpose, its τέλοϛ, obtain in a way that supersedes the approval of its audience. A good writer neither panders to nor snubs an earnest reader, but rather creates good writing and thereby pleases the right kind of reader. The essence of it goes beyond making fitting words work in concert, or achieving some kind of delicate technical balance; if this were the goal of good writing, its efficacy would be almost negligible. Instead something must be said, a piece must respond to the great conversation which has been taking place since man adopted language as his sharpest tool and mightiest weapon. Hence, we writers are constantly looking both at and beyond each other. These are facts about good writing that I, as a writer, feel justified in stating frankly and honestly and which, unless I miss my guess (I am no sculptor or interpretive dancer), can easily be applied to any creative discipline.

All this is done in pursuit of that which has been named the "Universal Truth," that intangible something, the power of which could stop a hate crime in its tracks, or obviate convoluted mathematical paradoxes. It could reasonably be hoped that the words of god himself, which some believe to be found in the Bible, and others in the Q'uran, while still others seek it in nature, and others in the stars, would bring about such an effect- and they do. The practical effect of the truths found in these various sources, to name just a few, have truly altered the landscape of the world we live in. However, something seems to be lacking. There is a bizarre greyness, the shadowy stomping ground of the entire human intellectual and analytical impulse, which surrounds and defines the words that man is supposed to have received from beyond. Where is the sudden apprehension, where the transcendent simplicity? Why are His ways not our ways? It may be because our great conversation, our growth as a human race, has not yet reached fulfillment. Every step that we take, every work of art or literature we create, is a small piece of a journey which is still incomplete. The very enterprise of building something larger out of smaller pieces that is more than the sum of its parts, be it the work of a visual artist, a virtuoso musician, a dramatic performer, a scientific or mathematical theorist, an architect of walls, wars, or words- all of these are works which strive to acheive that Universal Truth, yet are all doomed to failure.

The different ways we humans fail at our creative tasks are the palette of paints from which the body of literature, art, architecture, music, science, history, and every other permutation of trivia and quadrivia are colored. Every "school of thought" and "artistic genre" is really just a divergence from the Universal Truth, which is wholly ineffable and yet ubiquitously and thoroughly well-known. When Beethoven poured his heart and soul into immortal symphonies, through his genius every note so kindly enclined toward, yet came just short of reaching that überton, the rapture of which music in its totality is not able to sufficiently express. When Louis Sullivan designed the reconstruction of Chicago, though he captured the importance of function by pioneering the intensely modern skyscraper trend, even he would surely never claim that any of his buildings was the perfect building, the flawless, ageless, and all-purpose artifice. Yet we do not consider his works any the less for it.

It seems clear that there is something which exists, or possibly unexists in a negative capacity as a universal lack, which prevents mankind from utilizing what would otherwise be a philosophically limitless creative potential. The very fact that nobody has ever written, performed, or painted a work at the sight of which all come to the realization that this is it, this is what we have all been waiting for; should serve at least as a proof by common acknowledgement that mankind is currently engaged in an uphill battle against something, we know not what. Is it each other? Is our divided world to blame for our divided worldview? If so, what was it, deep in the recesses of time; what spell was woven over mankind which impelled us to fight, rather than to work together?

Art, the product of the creative impulse, is mankind's communicating with mankind, while at the same time looking beyond the great interpersonal conversation to the ideal, the subject which that conversation is about. In some ways, the art which comes closest to communicating Universal Truth is that art which provokes emotions best serving those ideals: emotions of justice, of love, of chivalric honor and purity, and of joy. And when we humans look into the eyes of Rembrandt's St. Bartholomew, or stare up in awe at Notre Dame de Paris while her bells peal Vespers over the city, or travel page-by-page with Ransom to exotic interplanetary locales from the comfort of a cushioned chair by a fireplace, the ones who created these works speak to us; not directly, for direct communication would not be as complete as a communication that passes through and beyond us to an ideal which we both look at, as music which comes from behind to describe a scene which is laid out in front.

There is one artistic genre, and one particular piece within this genre, which stands out as an anomaly for its superior ability to represent the Universal Truth. It is superior to all other genres of creative pursuit in that it is not as disappointingly bogged down by the shadows of narrative and interpretation, the layers upon layers of tiresome analysis often required to make our way down to the chocolate center of artistic communication. This genre is pure communication, and the closest to the ideal, ontologically-centered perfect communication. This genre is the life; and we are all in the process of creating one right now. Every thought, every action, every outward show and inward battle; these are the gradients and textures of our masterpiece, the diction and syntax of our magnum opus, the key and tempo of our opera. Through the artistic subtlety that is living, we communicate purely, without deception or ostentation, a message. I mentioned that one particular piece in this genre came closest to representing that Universal Truth, and indeed as close as was, is, or will ever be possible among the human race. Many beautiful works of art emerged from the larger work, his life, but one in particular, an epigram containing more profundity than the complete works of Dostoevsky, as much for the words themselves as the life that framed them. "Love one another," he said, "as I have loved you."

I may write this bit, and you may read it. I may be trying to explain the truth, and you may think you are enjoying beauty, and vice versa; but in the end, we are participating in nothing more than a discourse of corruption and lies, the "filthy rags" which arise from the inherent limitedness of our own capacity. And so the Universal Truth remains elusive, and with it peace, hope, and understanding. And so- maybe I should just delete this right now. Why write anything ever again? Why bother going to museums, walking through gardens, listening to the hearty strings of a fiddle or the steady roar of a motorcycle engine? Why continue this most doomed of all art pieces called life, rather than drop out early and leave the canvas unfinished?

Death did not stop the artist from completing that masterpiece, from placing that cornerstone atop the temple he had constructed and lived. No grave could hold him; and upon his return from the other side he left his friends with still more words to live by. "Travel to all the world," he commanded them, "and tell my story to every living creature." They listened because they wanted to be pioneers in that new strain of the great conversation which was to take the world by storm. Why do I write? Why do any of us participate in a struggle that is doomed to failure?

His life, that artwork before the audience of all who knew him was it, the word from beyond that is both understood and brings understanding. I am one who has been and am his friend and conversation partner in the great conversation. All the inspiration I have comes from him. And though fate ensures that the world holds nothing but a bitter end, there is a noble heroism in trying despite. For the world is bitter, and its end more so; but there is something I look to, past it and past you, something that lies beyond which is not.

De Profundis

2010-05-13T01:05:00.000-07:00

It wasn't my goal
To get stuck in this hole
But now that I'm in it
I'll take just a minute
To think about why
I should never have tried
To hurtle a cesspit:
I'd be covered in less shit.

To Be Read at My Funeral

2010-05-11T01:06:00.000-07:00

Here are some lines to read when I am dead,
When flowers adorn the dirt upon my head;
Here are some words to think upon me by,
About my smile and the life I led,
And then to cry.

What sort of boy was this, what sort of fool,
To write a eulogy for himself- how cruel!
Whose habit was to scribble the bizarre
Poseidon, elves, a little bird, a jewel-
An evening star?

Here's a poem to decorate my time
Upon the green and rambly earth, a rhyme
By which I may my secrets all explain
To you who were the pitons in my climb
And still remain.

He never understood before the end,
A eulogy should be written by a friend
Or lover with some oratorial skill
Who all his life's decisions could defend
And hopes fulfill.

But who was I to charge with such a mission?
With such a loving labor's composition?
Who knew me well enough to represent me,
Yet still could play a passing rhetorician;
And thus lament me?

Before I wrote this eulogy I pondered;
My mind among my necessaries wandered,
Seeking whom to ask to write about me,
And thought of my precious final dictum squandered-
My words without me.

So here you have the best words I could render
The saddest words emotion could engender
Be very glad I did, though, you're in luck-
You didn't have to be my life's defender
Because you suck.

Two Guestbooks

2010-05-08T22:43:00.000-07:00

matthaeus amicus frater requiescat in pace

One poor creature of suffering sure
Dressed all in black
Hands hidden in pockets, walks slowly through the door.
Years lie behind
His purpose for being there that fateful evening,
Years of friendship; laughter, tears, the blest binding tie
That not even the river of death can separate.
Years now concluded.

Another, body shed, spirit lighter than air
Soars as an eagle
With aerial maneuvers through the radiant gates.
Years lie behind
Full of pain and man's curse and sufffering,
Years now over; for what are years to eternity
With the One who swam that river and bridged it?
Death's sting eluded.

The black-clothed creature sees the book
That lies just to his right upon the table.

The shining soul with the faithful stands
While the Book of Life is opened by their Maker.

Suppressing tears he takes a look,
Wanting to sign but not sure he is able.

His new mind finally understands
The Α Giver and Ω Taker.

Why him? Why now? Prays the one in black,
Face dark and blank with hidden supplication.

"WELL DONE, SERVANT GOOD AND FAITHFUL,
The King reads, "COME AND ENTER REST."

Can it be You've turned your back
And left us here to mournful contemplation?

"YOUR WORK IS DONE, YOUR LORD IS GRATEFUL.
STAND WITH JOB AND FRANCIS AND BE BLESSED."

The shadow that lies upon our world
Our separation
Means that we can never see but dimly through a glass.
The guestbooks
That we sign (or don't) to grasp at memory
Are footprints of how we care for those we're given.
Sign lives with love, for so poured upon others
Is your name's ink in the Book of Life.

The Holy, Perfect Light reflected in his eyes
His exultation
Is the mote which illuminates his understanding.
The guestbook,
Signed by his life and his faith in Christ
Represents just how he loved the least of these (me).
And though his home-sped spirit's exultation is my joy,
My black of mourning is my heartfelt grief.

For he is there, not here.

Limerica de Consolatione Philosophiae

2010-05-07T11:12:00.000-07:00

A philosophre cleped Boece
Was cunned as grette obese
Made right glotonie
With his Ledi Sophie
Biforen hie taken hir pese

Free to Wander

2010-05-06T03:16:00.000-07:00

by Eardstapa

The stars themselves observe his tired two-step promenade;
A midnight beach in sandy empty footprints where he trod,
A partnerless dancer on an almost empty dance floor.

He's coming home.

Borne in a trusty vessel over tempests and deadly stills,
The sorry wreck now carpeting the gaping tidepool chills
His bones to see the too-familiar bodies on the shore.

Blood in the gloam.

An arm, bodiless, rejected on the sand, renews his memory
Of silken sleeves and greedy underbundled ivory,
Its shoulder, chest, and head lie far away-

Separated.

A visage, piece to a man, eyes covered by a beam
Of wood (thank God!) whose parted lips now silent scream,
Which once upon a fife could shanties play.

O songs ill-fated!

Like unto this, an elegiac written by that sole survivor
Of the wreck, the happy bereaved and dutiful contriver
Of obituaries for his fallen masters.

A slave escapes.

That man was I, and his pen now mine to do with as I please,
So may I, watchful, prudent, such a slender moment seize
To escape my life as he did by disaster.

For still I traipse.

Aye, my home I never found and ever still I yearn for,
The fire of a fair-bought hearth to sit by still I burn for,
And every day become a bit more tired.

When will it end?

Although I walk alone, to my back a load tied,
Each island a stepping-stone, each realm a roadside,
Freedom to wander is what I first desired.

And still intend.

A Defense of Make-Believe

2010-04-26T15:37:00.000-07:00

I remember when I could play
One game in my head all Saturday,
In better, younger years could be
A better, younger, simpler me.

Crickets chirped, the day would end,
My "land ho" crow's nest I'd descend.
I'd put my mariner's gear away
And know it'd be waiting the very next day.

But I also remember, eventually
Growing too old for my house in the tree;
I felt a sadness, knowing then
I'd never play those games again.

All life is play, though serious,
The future's so mysterious
And delightful, but when we outgrow
Some games we just can't let them go.

Is it bad faith to make-believe?
Are we, the players, self-deceived,
Like addicts wanting one more hit?
Storing up pain for when we quit?

Well, that's one way to look at it.

But why did we ever play those games?
Why did we take on fancy names,
And fight with Jabberwocks underground,
And save fair maids from hungry hounds?

From Pinocchio and his Fairy Queen
To the rabbit's worn out velveteen
Lie words your "real life" can't conceal:
'Twas love that made the rabbit real.

Despite your insistence that I ought
To quit these games, I just cannot
Your self-refuting claim conceive;
That love itself is make-believe.

So at times I'll go to that other place
And pretend- if you'll but have the grace
To come along, I promise you
That love can make the dream come true.

Chaucer's "Temple of Venus"

2010-04-22T20:25:00.000-07:00

Though a some-time lover of Mars the Red, Venus is his polar opposite. Soft and sweet where he is tough and abrasive, flattering and beguiling where he is offensive and direct, her temple is described by Chaucer in a very similar fashion to Mars' as one of his visio narratives, but there is subtlety in his vocabulary usage which induces a very different feel. My audio is provided along with the following link to the text, in which my reading will begin on line 1060.

http://www.librarius.com/cantales/knigttl3.htm

Eulogy for Gaybob

2010-04-18T15:45:00.000-07:00

Zero to ninety in twenty point-five,
Clocked while we drifted that orange grove drive,
Surpassing in spirit the liveliest 'Vette,
In comfort a leathered up six-door sedan,
In storage the Jacobs' econoline van,
More classy by far than an Olds' Silhouette.

Born in September 1989,
90K miles and still doing fine.
Wove like a fish through a school of commuters,
Twisted the treacherous Malibu canyon,
Ever a friend and a faithful companion,
Didn't need bluetooth or engine computers.

Better than Ford or a souped-up Dodge Viper,
The best power windows and one windshield wiper.
And just in case somebody needed some air,
They could just pull the lever for instant eject;
Though nothing much happened that we could detect,
We were mostly just glad that the option was there.

Gaybob, we rode you with little repairing,
Always to the sound of a jar of ballbearings,
And the chatter of young academics debating.
You bore us on so many fool expeditions,
Whenever I heard you protest your ignition,
I knew that a reckless adventure was waiting.

At the bell-toll of midnight that ill-fated day,
Those stone-drunken street racers took you away.
Your sudden death totaled your life of foreboding,
Cut short 'ere it tasted 2011.
Last request: please, when we all meet in heaven,
Don't tell Matt about when I took you off-roading.

R.I.P. (1989-2010)

Sigillum Dei Aemeth

2010-04-16T21:19:00.000-07:00

Ha! No dream last night. No horrid baptism of cold sweat, no ghastly moaning, screeching voices in and around my head, no decrepit secrets that tear the sinews of my mind like tissue paper. No rude awakening to a life whose reality ever fades to black and white; and then to grey. For all death, they have informed me, is grey at first, and then yellow, in its final moments.

But none of this! Rapt by my newfound hobby, my little puzzles, my mind is ever fascinated with insignificant scholia and circuitous reference upon reference which tantalize the mind with infinite possibilities and discipline it with a finite solution. Alchemy and monsters be damned, or jailed in story-books! Freud be frustrated! Sleep be sweet once more! For I have another:

----------------------------------------------

This is a puzzle which I have not solved, nor designed a solution for, nor may ever decide to sit down and struggle through. If you wish to try, that is your choice to make. To me it is just a random assortment of the ideas that were cooling in the kilns as I sat down to write. I will not brook complaint on this subject; as I said earlier, you, O reader, must be responsible for yourself and your choices.

The problem is simple: a learned man was standing in the front of an auditorium, gripping his podium with authority and expounding on a favorite text of his from one of the more well-known Scottish thinkers. It said:

Thus, for instance, in the human body, when the usual symptoms of health or sickness disappoint our expectation; when medicines operate not with their wonted powers; when irregular events follow from any particular cause; the philosopher and physician are not surprised at the matter, nor are ever tempted to deny, in general, the necessity and uniformity of those principles by which the animal economy is conducted. They know that a human body is a mighty complicated machine: That many secret powers lurk in it, which are altogether beyond our comprehension: That to us it must often appear very uncertain in its operations: And that therefore the irregular events, which outwardly discover themselves, can be no proof that the laws of nature are not observed with the greatest regularity in its internal operations and government.

This speaker was in love with a fair young lady, to whom he paid a visit at intervals throughout his week (she lived at a slightly inconvenient distance for the two to be always visiting, nor did the scholar think it healthy or within the realm of statistical propriety to call on her more than he did). The young lady was more mathematically inclined than was he (for his specialization, as you know, was in Enlightenment Philosophy), though both were scholars, and for that reason she often, in a labyrinthine reference to her research, referred to theirs as a "recurring relationship" (drawing puzzled silences from family and friends). More for paramour than for interest the young lady had attended his lecture, and as she sat (slightly bored, if truth be told) she glanced to her right and noticed a photocopy print in the portfolio of the portly academic who sat beside her. The name on the tabbed folder caught her eye; apparently the photocopy was a fragment of a 12th century provender requisition from the household of one Leonardo of Pisa. Though she could barely make out the hastily scrawled parchment lettering, she had nothing better to do, bored by the lecture, and soon deciphered it. She was pleased by Leonardo's precision and double-layered facetiousness, even in such a mundane and "functional" piece of literature:

Sal. Serge

In nomine scientis, velim ut pares, amabo te:

I principem

I mensa

II ornamenti

CCXXXIII panes

CCCLXXVII pisces

IƆCX lintii

CCIƆLXXXVII uvae

CCIƆƆƆƆCIIƆƆCCXI pili cameli

CCIIƆƆCVIIIƆƆCLVII grani florum

CCIVƆƆCVIƆCCCLXVIII verbi digni

CCCCCIIƆƆƆƆƆCCCCIVƆƆƆƆCCCIƆƆƆCCLƆƆCVIIƆƆCCCXVII guttae vini

CCCCCVIƆƆƆƆƆCCCCIIIƆƆƆƆCCCIIƆƆƆCCIVƆƆCVƆCCIƆVXXXVI litterae

V equi alieni (mutui)

CCCCCCCCCCIIƆƆƆƆƆƆƆƆƆƆCCCCCCCCCCVƆƆƆƆƆƆƆƆƆCCCCCCCIVƆƆƆƆƆƆƆCCCCCCVIIƆƆƆƆƆƆCCCCCIIIƆƆƆƆƆCCCVIIƆƆƆCCVIIIƆƆCIƆCCIƆLXI tempores momenti alieni (mutui)

CCCCCCIƆƆƆƆƆƆCCCCCVIƆƆƆƆƆCCCCVƆƆƆƆCCCVƆƆƆCCVIIIƆƆCXLI cogitates (alieni, cogitates tibi non facio pili)

CCCCCCCCCIIƆƆƆƆƆƆƆƆƆCCCCCCCCIIƆƆƆƆƆƆƆƆCCCCCCCVƆƆƆƆƆƆƆCCCCCCVIIIƆƆƆƆƆƆCCCCCVƆƆƆƆƆCCCCIƆƆƆƆCCCIVƆƆƆCCIIIƆƆCIIIƆƆCCXVII puncti lineae

CCCCCCCCCIIIƆƆƆƆƆƆƆƆƆCCCCCCCCVIƆƆƆƆƆƆƆƆCCCCCCCVƆƆƆƆƆƆƆCCCCCCIVƆƆƆƆƆƆCCCCCIIIƆƆƆƆƆCCCCVƆƆƆƆCCCIIƆƆƆCCIXƆƆCVIƆCLXII radii solis
CCCCCCCCCCIIƆƆƆƆƆƆƆƆƆƆCCCCCCCCCVƆƆƆƆƆƆƆƆƆCCCCCCCIVƆƆƆƆƆƆƆCCCCCCVIIƆƆƆƆƆƆCCCCCIIIƆƆƆƆƆCCCVIIƆƆƆCCVIIIƆƆCIƆCCIƆLXI felicitates

Ben. Facis
Leo. Fi. Bon.

Upon reading the letter, a change came over the countenance of the young lady, and she immediately rose and excused herself. After his lecture, when the young man called on her to inquire as to the reason for her sudden departure, she would not answer him, nor would she even come to the door. Finally, after a host of letters and entreaties, she simply responded that they could not see each other anymore, and requested that he please leave her alone. When he went to her parents to find out what was wrong, they told several bizarre and even conflicting stories about her state as of late, and the strange symptoms of disease she had been exhibiting, when the doctors could find nothing wrong with her. Some vague mention of nightmares was made, but this was quickly overlooked.

The young scholar puzzled over the reasons for her sudden withdrawal; and he did not hit upon the answer until, after much research, he stumbled into a coffee-shop, bleary-eyed and deep in thought, carrying some pocket-money left over from the change of various expenditures during the day- four dollars and eighty-two cents, to be exact. After he absently ordered some food, he found that his total came to exactly four dollars and eighty-two cents. With that he knew what had happened. He knew why she had left him, and he knew (or so he thought) exactly what he needed to do to win her back.

Do you?

-------------------------------------------------

Post-Script: I am sure that, if there is an answer to this puzzle, it does not lie in the realm of "understanding women." A woman is not a checkerboard, her moves are not set in rigid patterns, and her thoughts are not made in advance toward the goal of her master strategy. She cannot be solved, like the leaf nodes of a tic-tac-toe game tree. Although if I were to venture a guess at why...no, I do not think I shall do that.

Sigillum Dei Aemeth

2010-04-16T01:16:00.000-07:00

Reality looks different. For that matter, it smells different, it tastes different, it feels different, and it sounds different. How can a sound be yellow? How can a smell be rough? Why would porridge taste like fear? These are questions that I cannot explain, and that I feel a fool for even recording; for you will surely mock me before the end. I am sure it is humorous, this madness of mine, or at least it will be to the armchair psychoanalyst's haughty retrospect. I am stuck here, in the moment, and it is of this moment that I purpose to tell you before it slides from the greasy pan of my mind.

More dreams, more weary, waking walks through dismal days deprived of any shred of joy. Depression, only blank and bleak depression fills my mind and even my sight as I soldier on from dream to dream, from incident to incident. Even those things which once brought me joy; a clear blue sky, a chattering jay, a rare morning when the cold water turns to hot uncharacteristically swiftly; these are dulled and shuffled about in my senses along with the rest of my world. When I dream, I arise to walk in fear. When I do not dream, I feel a sense of longing, an emptiness that tells me my dreams have become the central feature of this existence I am still nostalgically calling a life.

Since I, sleeping, reopened the book, They have not kept themselves from coming to me. Where they once appeared to me subtly, creeping from the invisible ways and undermind spaces in between, emerging as terrors, yet withholding their beholdment; now they come to me openly, as old friends who leech and manipulate, yet one still trusts through familiarity. They speak of knowledge unknowable, and I, their thrall, respond. Though I cannot describe them, they are as familiar as my own Mother and Father...used to be.

How long can this go on? I live for my next dream. Perhaps I have, in a twisted way, grown to love what I have become. Perhaps in some still sane corner of my mind I fight on because I retain some hope that I will get the better of them, that this is a battle and I can still win. Yet the safely insane majority that rules my acts mocks such folly. For how can an insect defy the stars? How can man fight himself? If I fight, I fight a similarly mismatched battle.

Secretly (from whom?), in my lucid moments of writing to you, my beloved future Freud, I have decided to take up the designing of some puzzling oddities which will, if you will bear with them, become apparent only to the most perceptive of eyes. It is said that devotion to an intellectual pursuit can keep men at least from exhibiting the symptoms of madness; so, perhaps, our little puzzles will keep me from leaping upon the dinner-table and bathing in the cranberry sauce. Then again, that most ingenious of thinkers, Friedrich Nietzsche, was wont to show no such restraint. Mozart himself was surely driven to the most extreme limits of social propriety, playing with customs as unihibitedly as he played with notes. Well that and alas. Puzzle this, Freud, if you can:

----------------------------------------

Jonathan Swift describes a scene-

"When the works of Scotus first came out, they were carried to a certain library, and had lodgings appointed them; but this author was no sooner settled than he went to visit his master Plato, and there both concerted together to seize Aristotle by main force, and turn him out from his ancient station among the divines, where he had peaceably dwelt near eight hundred years."

Atticus reacted to this with an even temperament, as it was his custom to do. Though no Platonist, he was not concerned with joining in the political affairs of men, but helped men that were in need as often as he could.

And thus when history recorded in three learned and laborious volumes that

"Either the Academy or the Lyceum were burned to the ground, there is some confusion as to which; but the Stoa remained intact"

It is extremely surprising that the man who studied in this illustrious hall survived to defend Robinson inside a written sin- 2400 years later!

Just as this Robinson is not to be confused with a resourceful survivor, so the founder of this hall is not to be confused with the founder of those principles on which we dare not base our understanding of how all this became possible- for did not that latter one say that there can be no such progression? 2400 years is but a moment, and the extension of the problem in space is insignificant. The matter comes down to a large vs. a small island, Elea vs. Citium (or indeed Reykjavik vs. Nuuk).

Thus we arrive at your major clue, and your major problem. If we are to accept such a philosophy (namely, the one of whom we have been discussing), then a question must be asked concerning the relationship of the author to his work- and an ethical question about books, and haunted spirits, and chains, and caves, and cave, whence is right and wrong.

And so the question rests: is Swift wrong, or am I right?

----------------------------------

I feel better already.

Chaucer's "Temple of Mars"

2010-04-11T16:53:00.000-07:00

Here follows a description of Mars' Temple from "The Knight's Tale" in Chaucer's Canterbury Tales, where the knight's affinity causes him to switch to first person. Though horrible, the temple is depicted beautifully. I have included my own audio and linked to the text:

http://www.librarius.com/canttran/knighttr/knight1109-1192.htm

Through Nature

2010-04-11T05:20:00.000-07:00

At night when nature comes alive
And all the watchers go to sleep
The hundred voices which survive
Drown out the drumming in the deep

All as one, the songs of many echo in metallic chorus:
"Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream!"
The gongish trappings crash and clang, the cymbals shine and gleam
Roaring foam and rapid shoals, the river's treacherous thesaurus-
Each word a current opening a hundred tributaric themes

This pilgrim makes his journey home
No time to tarry in the gloam
And watch the river flowing free
Just like the miles under me

In a way, the gurgling naiad water-walkers wet reply:
"Down, down, down into the depths, O sailors gaze!"
The boat is small, and full of fools whose every movement sways
With joyous dance, as eager waters tug and pull and naiads try
To tip the tipsy party part and parcel from their platform dry

Across the bridge without a thought
Ignoring twilight symphony
A boat went by but I could not
A moment pause for pleasantry

With wine a-wasted, giddy captain of the midnight coracle
Drifting by, all unawares of his pixie-perpetrated peril sings
The lilting shanty (ballad? lay?) of drunken dreams and liquor-things
Made prophet by his red-eyed haze, the psychadelphic oracle
Foretells the rise and fall of all from fuddled friends to crowned kings

But stop! No vain continuance
On phony transient pretense
To play the nomad's vagrant game
For (could it be?) I heard my name

Not in his song, which drifted, dreamlike, down the winding watercourse
Escorted and cavorting with complaints from his companions
And jumbled in a boisterous ball that bounced along the canyons
Fell on my unlistening ears bound up in separate intercourse-
Nature, discovered, full lamenting her and Father Time's divorce

Naturally, Nature kept the child
Of her youthful squandering
Who grew to oldness in the wild
And met me in my wandering

"Winter is my name," breathes he, beard white and wispy as can be,
"And all who walk in my domain must first a frozen tariff pay!"
My frozen body twitched at every windy word I heard him say,
The chill his voice engendered zero celsius degrees.
"Winter, truly?" I replied. "In this, the merry month of May?"

(For summer is a pretty maid
To temper his choleric wrath
She bears his ire unafraid
And melts his hoarfrost with a laugh)

"Ha ha!" he, windy, whooped and chortled. "Indeed!" his frozen laughter mocked.
(He either didn't know or care that I stood shivering in his breath).
"Mine is the snowdrift on the tree branch, mine the hailstorm cold as death!
Only by my hand alone is the arctic treasure-trove unlocked!
I can alone, of Nature's young, the powerful blizzard-blast concoct!"

Tirade done, his haughty air
Assuaged, his eye let fall a tear
(A snowflake) "Gone away," Said he,
"And with her viviality."

"I placed a laurel on her tresses, evergreen and sweet.
I held her hand and cooled its feverish temperature (or so I thought).
To her sweating citizens the cooling gift of mountain snow I brought.
I froze her turbulent rippled lakes and ponds into a tidy sheet.
I built her a crystal palace she was sure to love- but she did not."

'Begone,' she said, 'Forevermore,
I'll take the hand of Spring, perchance,
Or Autumn, sure, but never yours.
Futile and cold is this romance.'

"I thought of the glorious storms and winter wonders I'd bestowed
In the heat of April, to her beleaguered, sweltering, sorry lands,
And the ice-capped Californian mountain peaks with my own hands
Made clean and white and beautiful where each cold night it snowed
And every morning crowned in sunlit purity it glowed.

And yet she turned and walked away
That maiden of the month of May
Spurning my handsome, cold advances
For the warmth of her daisy chains and dances."

Though, listening, I shivered, winced, and duly was offended
By his breath, I bore it and for story's sake did not depart
But stood before him, awed that such a frozen tale could melt my heart.
And though I was most thankful when his blustery yarn had ended
I felt for Winter, and for his sake, was glad I had attended.

And thus did Nature call my name
In discourse with her season
My tale had often been the same
And now I knew the reason

Sigillum Dei Aemeth

2010-04-05T23:22:00.000-07:00

It has happened again. I do not know what to write or if I can write; but I must, I must! write. Dear friends, a portent of doom, that same doom which struck me exactly one year ago, has returned to claim my mind its prize. A year ago I was naive; a year ago I was fascinated and excited by the prospect of infernal adventure through the catacombs of derangement. Now I want only to be left alone. Not by you (please, desert me not!) my reader, but by them. That unholy living pattern, be they flesh or mind or both or neither, that evil brood of fear's children personified into perverse and wicked shapes, the sin of reality, the father, being visited on us, his children. The dream has come again.

I was walking the carpeted floors of a stately library of the humanities, passing the thoughts and brilliant writings of an age at every step. My fingers lovingly touched my favorites; the archaic vivacity of my Greeks and Latins, the passion and beauty of my dear medievals, the fervently inquisitive seeking of the Enlightenment, the confusion of our present age I knew so well. The holiest of holies I would pull from the shelf and read through in bits and pieces. I was in bliss. The petals of my mind's flower opened to receive the familiar literature anew, and derive new truth from it with every reading.

As my fingers felt the smooth covers down endless rows, they brushed against one which was somehow cold to the touch. Curious (to a fault), I stopped and removed it. The string that bound its wound cover brought to mind a sudden familiarity, and a sensation that I could not quite place. The moment I placed it on the table and undid the twine, it fell open. This is what it said:

The nethermost caverns are not for the fathoming of eyes that see; for their marvels are strange and terrific. Cursed the ground where dead thoughts live new and oddly bodied, and evil the mind that is held by no head. Wisely did Ibn Schacabao say, that happy is the tomb where no wizard hath lain, and happy the town at night whose wizards are all ashes. For it is of old rumour that the soul of the devil-bought hastes not from his charnel clay, but fats and instructs the very worm that gnaws; till out of corruption horrid life springs, and the dull scavengers of earth wax crafty to vex it and swell monstrous to plague it. Great holes are digged where earth's pores ought to suffice, and things have learnt to walk that ought to crawl.

Have you ever fainted in a dream? I fainted into awakeness. I was surprised to find no blood, no vomit, no uncontrollable shaking. Had I finally made myself master of my infirmity? Was there any infirmity at all? The power of the book, its fascinating horror, was strangely beautiful to me. I think I want the trials to end, I think I hate the power of my mind to create this minutely detailed reality. Yet in a way, as I write here to you now, I am struck by the feeling that I do not want it to go away. Perhaps I enjoy this madness. And then, of course, there is you for whom I write. How can I cut you off, leave you guessing? No: I will continue to dream and continue to write.

Sigillum Dei Aemeth

2010-04-04T09:01:00.000-07:00

Considering the dreadful affair of my disturbing series of episodes almost a year past now, it is surprising that I have been allowed out of the mental facility wherein my family had me hastily confined. I am sure the most unpleasant portions of what I experienced now lie well behind me- the terrifying dreams, the otherworldly sensations, the visceral attacks- after all, I would not have been released were I still affected. Although the hopsital insisted that I relinquish all personal belongings and paraphernalia of my treatment, I managed to smuggle out the small notebook in which I had begun to record the the horrific storm that raged inside me as part of a scientific enquiry into its roots and cause. The advice of my doctors and my own skepticism have led me to conclude that my ailment was entirely psychological: there was no "other world," and I was not a unique and chosen vessel that they had selected as a link between our world and theirs. There was no "they," there was only me.

I have decided to continue these notes as an act of defiance against what is merely an aberration in nature. Through some unknown force: perhaps the crushing weight of my genius, perhaps the compiled stresses of life, perhaps some ill-treated humour wreaking cholic with the fluids of my brain, I was effected by fantastic imaginings and irrational fear. Although the electric madness which seized my mind and body as I slept felt more real than anything I had ever known, this served only to demonstrate the true power of the human mind over the body, and caused me to imagine a future in this area of medical research never before imagined. I was careful not to imagine too heavily; they had taught me at the hospital to reign in such mental excercise too soon after my therapy. The last thing I wanted was to begin the cycle again.

I met a man on a street corner today who gave me the strangest look. He nearly passed me by, but suddenly whirled about and seized me by the wrist. He pulled me toward him and looked me dead in the eyes. Astonished and a bit nervous that I was being robbed, I freed my wrist and took a few steps backward, then turned to walk briskly away.

"They're still in there," he called after me.

I stopped and slowly turned to face him. He still stood just as he had, feet firmly planted, eyes narrowed into slits. His face, to me, had become more elongated and terrifying.

"Yog south otheee..." he continued in a low voice.

I broke into a run, my frightened mind working overtime. There were only three options.

One: this could all be coincidence. Though unlikely, it was still a possibility, and in the case of such alien happenings as those of the last year, it must be considered as earnestly as any other.

Two: I could be imagining the scene in its entirety. Granted, I had never experienced such vivid daytime visions in my life before, but if they could happen at night, why not in the daytime?

The third option I did not dare entertain. I hurried home and sat at my desk, where, hands shaking, I removed the notebook from its place in the top drawer and began to write what you are reading now. I will continue to record any such incidents until I can divine a pattern. You, the reader of my feverish notes, are the reason that I write. I hereby protect and preserve you through the power of knowledge; that armed therewith, you may avoid the penetrating arrows and cold knives of madness. Stay close beside, and do not even now desert me, for you are all I have.