The Madman, the Cynic, and the Lover

The Gods of Independence

2010-07-04T21:15:00.000-07:00

Caveat Lector: vulgar language.

It gets harder and harder to be emotional about my country. I mean, all the patriotic drivel gets old, and I can only hold on to the nostalgia for so long. "God shed His grace on thee..." Seriously, how presumptuous can you get? Twice the whole lawn stood up for some old people playing dress up and carrying flags. I felt like an Irishman asked to stand for the Union Jack when the civil war reenactors marched up. So I stayed sitting. Think about it, what if a Eucharistic procession came through there. How many people would drop on their knees? Yet we'll stand out of respect for a flag that symbolizes... what exactly? Freedom, I guess... yeah, horse shit.

And then they played a song with lyrics about how good it is to be American, and serve America, and share your blessings (a clever euphemism for dropping bombs on civilians) and how when the writer died, he hoped they said of him he gave his best to America, or some such tripe.

Sure, share your blessings, but only if they don't go "boom!" Serve God, and pray that when you die, people say "he loved greatly" and then proceed to pray your soul through purgatory as fast as they can. That's what I want said of and done for me. I wouldn't give two Centimes for the sentiments in that song.

It strikes me that America is just a replacement for the Church. The president is the Pope, and Abraham Lincoln was Jesus, the founding fathers were the patriarchs. It's sick, but we are happy this way. So we continue to worship the gods of independence, we stand for their banner and cry at their hymns, and we kill in their name, and our crusades are good, because, you know, it is for us the living.... Because we are the people chosen by God to... I don't know, be... America... fuck yeah.

Reflections on Intelligence and Emotion

2010-04-14T07:08:00.000-07:00

The speaker at Frassati last night, sort of in passing, mentioned that girls are usually smarter than men give them credit for, because girls tend to react with emotion and that confuses men who over time begin to assume the girl isn't as intelligent.

It is interesting to note that just because men react to a situation with pragmatism and reason does not mean they are devoid of emotion. We are not cold, heartless bastards, we are merely more inclined to analyze a situation than feel about it.

If not taken to an extreme, these traits are not faults. Over-emotionalism and over-analysis both create problems in human interaction, but the default first reaction, if moderate and devoid neither of thought nor of care, is a good way in which men and women counterpoint (it's a verb, I say so) one another.

Violence as Pornography

2010-04-14T05:24:00.000-07:00

It occurs to me that relations are sometimes symmetric. Sometime after this post, while I was watching the film Crank, I realized that violence can be pornographic, and I don't mean in the sense of a strange fetish. Of course this has been said before, and may be nothing new to you. It was new to me, to really understand what was meant by the phrase. The stripping away of all meaning, of any spiritual dimension, from death and gore and reducing them to mere spectacles of animal behavior. There is no redemption, there is no Charity, there is only hatred and blackness. It is as if they are trying to undo the St. John's Gospel.

In other news, this is going to be a shitty day, hence why I'm posting reflections on sin when I should be reading header files. I need a break. And prayers, those are good, too.

Ab hoste maligno, defende me.

The Joy of the Cross

2010-04-03T10:47:00.000-07:00

The following piece appeared in The Catholic Moment, the newspaper of the Diocese of Lafayette in Indiana.

As Lent draws to a close, the beauty of these early spring days may hide the sorrow that we are celebrating. Yes, we are celebrating sorrow; we are rejoicing in suffering and burning in love.

There is a song by the band Shinedown called “Walk Through Fire.” The song, as far as I know, is not meant to have a Christian message, but I have always been struck by the lyric, “I dare you to tell me to walk through fire.” Whenever I hear this song, my mind fills with images of Hananiah, Azariah, and Mishael as they walk about in the Babylonian furnaces, and of the poor souls being purified in the fires of purgatory, and of the martyrs who walked through fire and blood, and in the midst of this my Lenten penance seems so small, so insignificant. I am not burning in flames, nor swimming in blood; I suffer only the papercuts that I choose for myself. They remind me of my weakness, and in the midst of Lent they sting, but only a little. Is it enough?

Lenten penance is not about giving up chocolate because we have to (though often it may feel that way). It is not about making ourselves better people through our efforts and self-denial. We do penance, we engage in voluntary suffering, we endure the papercuts, so that in some small way we may unite ourselves to the suffering of Our Blessed Lord on the Cross, for it is in this way, by uniting ourselves to the sufferings of the crucified Christ, that we hope to share also in the glory of the risen Christ.

As Easter draws near we anticipate the glory of Christ risen. We anxiously await the splendor of his triumph. Until then we may experience the joy and consolation of looking forward to the resurrection. Even in suffering, indeed perhaps especially in suffering, we find joy in drawing closer to Him Whom we love, Who first loved us.

This season of Lent is not merely a pause in our worldly lives, though so often it becomes no more than that (if we even do pause at all). It is also a reminder of what our entire life on this earth is, as strangers and sojourners, a season of sorrow, trial, and loving sacrifice marked by the joy of hope. As we celebrate this Easter season, let us look forward with hope to the glory of the Resurrection, but let us never forget our Lenten life.

We may not die martyrs, but we can die to ourselves each day, even when the priest is not wearing violet. We can love, and sacrifice ourselves in love and for Love. In these little martyrdoms we make our way forward, striving for holiness, begging for purification, sharing in the fire and the blood.

Rejoice in the glory of Easter, for therein we find a small taste of the glory to come. Rejoice in the sacrifice of the Mass, for here we encounter heaven on earth. Remember always that we are strangers and sojourners in this land, and in this life let us struggle, each in our own small way, to become holy. Let us dare to walk through fire.

No, We Can't

2010-03-10T20:10:00.000-08:00

A conversation today raised the topic of asking forgiveness versus asking permission. The old proposition "it is easier to ask forgiveness than permission" was trotted out in defense of preventive action by the state, the situation under consideration being Child Protective Services in general and the incident with the FLDS kids back in 2008 in particular. This logic encompasses also the preemptive military strike, for if the primary consideration is, "bad might happen, let us do bad first," then as Rodion Romanovich might say, "all is permitted."

I say, however, that this is exactly the wrong attitude for government to have. I say that, insofar as our Constitution has value, it's value is in telling the government that it can't do anything without permission. I say, therefore, that the operative principle of our government ought to be, "no, we can't." To say that it is easier to ask forgiveness than for permission is the defense of one who wishes to do that which violates another's rights. Indeed, the moment that we pass from this default response (no we can't) to the other (it is easier to ask forgiveness than for permission) we have passed from freedom to tyranny.

Can you take children away from their parents without evidence of a crime and due process of law?

No, we can't.

Can you fight a war against a nation that, as a nation, offers no possible danger to your country?

No, we can't.

Can you take money from citizens at the point of a gun in order to give it over to those things that are intrinsically evil?

No, we can't.

Can you take money from citizens at the point of a gun in order to better kill women and children in foreign countries because they are foreigners, and "hate America"? (Let me ask you, if a foreign nation, say Russia, had predator drones dropping bombs on American civilians in the name of killing some Americans that killed their citizens, would you hate Russia? Damn right you would. Just sayin'.)

No, we can't.

Imagine a world where "Yes, we can," is forgotten, a world where the government's default respons to a question is, "No, we can't do that, Dave."

I like saying no, so I'll volunteer for that job. I'll vet any proposed legislation before it comes before congress. I'll sit there with a copy of the constitution in my hand, and if the constitution doesn't say they can do it, I'll send that proposition back with "No, we can't!" written in bright, red ink, because I don't give a rat's chocolate-covered hindquarters whether people who want the government to butt in have high self esteem or not.

Something New

2010-02-10T20:32:00.000-08:00

I've started a new project. There is still some work to do on the sight, but I've at least been adding content. It's a story blog, a place where I can focus on more literary and less random, philosophical, religious, political pursuits. I will still keep this one going, at least until I run out of things to say (probably never) or find a way to say everything through short fiction (still not likely).

Check it out. Crosses and Cradles is the blog, and the most recent posting is inspired a little bit by the story of Benedict and Scholastica: Prayers Without Words. I hope you like it.

You Are not as Strong as You Think You Are

2010-01-27T19:37:00.000-08:00

'Tis the off-season for battle, or so it seems. Perhaps I am merely weakened too much to fight, and don't know it. Maybe I'm just being a REMF.

Remember, if you go toe to toe with the evil one, he will beat you every time. You think you're strong; you think you're cunning; you think you're wise; he is stronger, more cunning, and his deceit will match your wisdom and more.

When it all comes crashing down, what will you do?

Eloquence is not my thing tonight, but a warning is. Take care, because when you play heads up with him, he'll switch the cards on you. You can't beat him on your own. All you can do is offer yourself to Our Blessed Lord; cast yourself upon His strength and His grace, and there you will find refuge.

*****
Video bonus:

Pornography as Violence

2010-01-19T14:43:00.000-08:00

Sin is NP-Complete. For those who don't care to read Wikipedia's article, NP is a space of problems in mathematics that are very difficult to solve. For a problem to be NP-Complete, it must be shown to be equivalent to another NP-Complete problem (the Travelling Salesman Problem is an example).

So what I'm saying, really, is that a given sin, or at least a given mortal sin, can in someway be traced back to another mortal sin. Of course, the root sin is Pride, and all others can be linked through this, if we were actually interested in Mathematical Sin Space, which we aren't. I'm merely giving an example of how my mind works... mathematics is a disease that infects everything.

Briefly considered, lest we dwell too long on this darkness: violence is about power and destruction, it is about incinerating the beautiful, beating it beyond recognition. People like to quote John Paul II, who said that the problem with pornography is not that it shows too much, but rather that it shows too little, that it is merely a hollow shell of the love that should be present in the sexual act. This is fine as far as it goes, but something is missing, and that is an understanding of the way evil works. One would think, from the way this is quoted, that satan's one desire is to replace the Beauty and Love God gives us with a counterfeit. I think this is a distortion in its own right. It credits the devil's insidiousness without making clear his maliciousness.

Much like our current government, which has replaced real money with its own counterfeit and then, by distorting it beyond any resemblance to the original, has, through perversion and violence, gained power of life and death over us, so does the evil one seek, not merely the replacement of the good, but its destruction.

The counterfeit is not the goal; it is the initial means to the goal; it is the deception. The goal is power; the goal is the rape of beauty, the bloody murder of innocence. The goal is unspeakable violence. I am not speaking here of snuff, though that is clearly an example of the most perverse depths. No, I am speaking here of the mere desire to see innocence lost, to see the pure defiled. In this, pornography is the bedmate of violence, for both seek the desecration of the sacred. The power to take, the power to destroy, the both are different manifestations of the same oily sickness with which the evil one would poison all, a sickness that reeks with the stench of damnation.

The Enemy of My Enemy Is not My Friend

2010-01-19T14:23:00.001-08:00

The demons quarrel. They argue amongst themselves, how best to effect the damnation of a soul. Or at least, so it would seem, for evil never presents a consistent face. We feed on power: the power to destroy, the power of life and death, whether it be held over a foreigner, a child, a Jew, a Christian, a criminal suspect, this is what nourishes us; this is what poisons us. In one sentence you may earn my respect by denouncing the needless deaths of women and children killed by remote control, and in the next you tell me that a woman has power of life and death over her child. You say the government has no business sticking its nose into healthcare, or taxing private citizens (directly or, through inflation, indirectly) to bail out large corporations, but you will accept those same taxes as long as the revenue is paid out to large corporations that make implements of destruction in order that the government that took your money may bomb some weddings and birthday parties on the other side of the world.

Yes, indeed, throw rocks at the nest and see if you are not stung. But never mind, they're brown, they're Muslim, they haven't been born yet, they're a future drain on society and the environment, hence they are not worthy of life.

The enemy of my enemy is very often my enemy. We denounce the crimes of those who hold power over us, then we are given the Gift of power, and the wrongs we mean to right are forgotten for the wrongs we mean to do.

The People Who Wear Jeans

2010-01-14T19:33:00.000-08:00

Some of the other people in our building actually refer to us that way.

Standing in the elevator

Cursing those who wake up later

Than you do

Wishing your clothes were as comfortable

Wishing your life was as manageable

As those people who wear jeans

Yeah, they live on the eighth floor

And it's a cave up there

Life's just not fair

You wish you were one of

The people who wear jeans

When Friday finally rolls around

You think at last you can dress down

So do they

And you hate that they wear t-shirts

And you wish that you could play with dirt

Isn't that what they do up there?

Yeah, they live on the eighth floor

And it's a cave up there

Life's just not fair

You wish you were one of

The people who wear jeans

'Cause your job's not as cool as theirs

You'll never get to wrestle bears

You don't really like your coworkers

You just want to drink a few beers

With those people who wear jeans

You Keep Saying That Word... Part II

2010-01-14T19:01:00.000-08:00

More linguistic commentary. For Part I, go here.

To beg the question is to assume what you are trying to prove. A rudimentary and somewhat silly example is the following mathematical argument:

Prove:
Pi is not an irrational number

Proof:
Since Pi can be written as p/q with p and q integers, Pi is clearly a rational number. Therefore, Pi is not an irrational number.

Of course, the assumption that Pi can be written as the quotient of integers p and q is the same as assuming that Pi is not an irrational number. This is begging the question. Begging the question =/= raising the question.

Communicate is overused. It sounds corporate. Don't communicate something; tell me something, e-mail me something, or call me. Communicate is best left to its intransitive meaning. That is, two people communicate well with one another when each is capable of telling the other whatever is on his mind (and yes, the masculine pronoun is correct).

Invest your money. Spend time with friends, learn to know them, rejoice with them, weep with them, but for heaven's sake do not invest in them - unless they are a bank.

Calling women "females" makes animals of them. Proper words would be girls, ladies, women, matrons, lasses, dames - depending on the situation in which one finds himself.

Avoid rhetoric; say what you mean; know what you are saying. Remember, businessmen and politicians are professional liars.

This will perhaps be an ongoing series, and yes, I will continue to pick on my friends without calling them out :).

Christmastide

2009-12-27T15:24:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I question the efficacy of prayer. Not that I'm especially worthy of having my prayers answered, but often feel as if I am. And why not? Why delay? Why must everything be submitted, not only to God's will and time, but also to the caprice of mankind? Of course I am thinking of things I've asked for myself, but also of things I've asked for others, whether it be the conversion of a soul, or the finding of a job, or some other request. I'm impatient. Why can't the conversion happen within a few days or weeks after I start praying... or will it ever happen? Why must we suffer loneliness, or bad jobs, or fear?

I know the answers. I know about St. Monica. I know all the examples. Still I wonder, will anything I have asked ever be granted, or am I perhaps asking wrongly? But I do not ask for a Porsche, or a movie-star bride, or for my friend to be made King of Europe. So does what I ask ever mean anything?

December 26th, the Feast of St. Stephen, who, dying, prayed for his murderers - prayed for Saul. And God heard his prayer. From the Office of Readings for Dec. 26th:

Love led [Stephen] to pray for those who stoned him, to save them from punishment. Strengthened by the power of his love, he overcame the raging cruelty of Saul and won his persecutor on earth as his companion in heaven. In his holy and tireless love he longed to gain by prayer those whom he could not convert by admonition.

I'm no Stephen, but it's comforting to know that even the most seemingly hopeless of prayers can have an effect. I just need to learn patience, even to the end of time.

Tomorrow, the Holy Innocents. Two thousand years have passed, and time has folded upon itself, and in the quest to destroy Christ, the State has blood on its hands once more. We idolize the unknown soldier, whose lifeblood is spilled for the preservation of the State. Sad that his life is claimed by others, that it is not his own to give, but the State's to take, that the State may live. Sadder still that that unknown soldier's blood was spillt for those whose devouring maw we worship, we who have forgotten the unknown children, though we remember the soldiers who defend the State that takes their lives. Blood, oh such blood, that the blood of innocents and the blood of the simple should flow rivers, all in the name of the holy State, whose power we must not question. Blood, oh such blood.

Tomorrow, the Holy Innocents. Yesterday, St. Stephen. Martyrs and blood, the cradle and the cross.

And today, the Holy Family, a ray of hope, if we accept the sacrifice. Mary, mother of God and mother of the Church, pray for us. St. Joseph, terror of demons, intercede for us.

St. Stephen and St. Paul...

...pray for us.

The Poet's Gone from Me

2009-12-25T19:19:00.000-08:00

Welcome back, I say to myself. I apologize for my absence. I have enjoyed not having constant access to a computer, though I really do intend to fix mine when I return from vacation. I'm setting out with the goal of writing a poem or a song lyric. I have doubts about my ability. Mainly, I find all my ideas to be ripoffs of Hendrix, Fogelberg, Van Gogh/Don McClain, Dickens and (worst of all) myself.

So what do I write about on Christmas Night? Do I slip precariously into attempts at beauty, at awe with a theological bent to it? Or should I let the nostalgia wash over me and consume me? Nostalgia's so tiresome. I've been here before, yada-yada. I can't convince myself to feel the deep welling up of memories. Perhaps I have learned not to grasp too firmly the ghost of Christmas past, but to let him slide between my fingers, elusive, fading in and out, and then suddenly all there, as clear as ever. Perhaps I am now content to observe. Or at least, I am more content.

Of course, I still enjoy the glimpses: old faces at midnight Mass, seeing A Christmas Carol and replacing faces with the ones I know, seeing Belle and Little Fan and Martha and Old Joe and Young Scrooge as I remember them. The kids that played Want and Ignorance are in highschool now. How weird is that? They were just little sprats bouncing on the couch, faces dirtied by the makeup artists... only yesterday. Martha's in college now. She was only eleven the night she auditioned the first year. That was for a different role, and we all knew she had it, right off the bat, but she'll always be my Martha (sorry Caylyn).

Right... I was gonna skip the nostalgia, sorry.

...

...No, I can't skip it. It's not a sad nostalgia anymore, unless it's sorrow to see a childhood friend turned roughly away from the way I knew him, or sorrow that one of the girls, who will in my mind always be a sweet child, might ever make the mistakes I don't want her to. I hope my Cratchit children turn out all right. I haven't seen any of them in so long...

If you've made it this far, then I owe you a good ending, don't I? If you've put up with me all this time, I owe you my best. Sometimes I think I spent it all. Other times, I think that's not such a bad thing. If I've spent my best, then the only way to go is to ask for help. I can't believe the year I've had. I'm excited, and a little anxious, about the one ahead. Though so many old faces have passed into ghosts that pop up now and again when I am home, I have those around me who are not ghosts, those whom I see more than once a year for a memory trip, those who pray for me, or read what I write, or share a drink with me, or dance with me.

We drink and dance and live and love together, 'cause that's what life is. Now, with the hope of new life born into the world, we grab our partners and lift our glasses. With a whispered prayer on our lips and a word of thanks in our hearts, we turn to our families and friends, hand in hand as the curtain rises on a new year. We bow to the past that was kind to us. We bow to the King who was humbled for us. We bow to the cast of our life. And when we slip on the ice... well, we get up and do it again.

A Poem and a Story

2009-11-18T14:37:00.000-08:00

Just what it sounds like. From the annals:

Misty Nights, Ghost of Love

The cool and misty autumn night
Has fallen close around me
The mists and breezes brush my face
And I think of her beside me
A ghost that never was nor will
My lover come to be

The eerie lamps along the street
Pour dirty yellow through the dark
The pureness of the night defiled
By a smould’ring, dampened spark
Of dreams shared over scotch and pipe
Of an empty, selfish lark

Thoughts of other damp, cool days
Flit about inside my mind
As if the mists had brought with them
Pictures I could not rewind
And images of pain and joy
And memories of being blind

Oh ghost of love, my pretty lass
Leave me, run and hide
Let me remember misty nights
Walking with you by my side
And if nostalgia threatens, please
Don’t dare to wish we’d tried

The Cathedral

By David Korff

“You play beautifully.”

Startled, the young novice turned on the piano bench. “Bitte?” she said when she had recovered.

“You play beautifully.” She looked confused. He tried again, this time in broken German.

She smiled and dropped her eyes. A strand of golden hair fell from under her wimple. “Danke,” she said.

They were alone in the old Cathedral. The old stone walls did little to keep out the cold, but at least they weren’t out in the driving wind and the blinding snow. The young American had sat listening to her play for some time. The delicate music reminded him of warm firesides and the comfort of home. Then he thought of Kerri. A knot of pain formed in his chest, and his hand went to the letter that he had received that day. He didn’t read it; he didn’t need to, not anymore.

After he had received the letter he had begged his CO for leave to walk around town. Nobody would be moving in this storm anyway. Sometime later, and well after dark, he had found himself standing on the front steps of the old Cathedral. Carefully he had stepped inside, and there she had been, her eyes closed as she listened to the music she was playing, her face glowing with a peace he had not seen since coming to Europe.

He sat down and lost himself in the music, watching as the light from a hundred candles flickered across her face. He marveled that the girl could play in this cold.

After their initial exchange they sat silent for a long while. Finally she ventured upon her limited English. “What are you doing here?”

He thought about the question. What was he doing here? He wasn’t the kind to just walk into churches at night. Had he been running from something? No, if he had been running he would have stolen a pint from the Lieutenant’s stash and gotten drunk. He had wanted to think. Not wanting to give a long explanation that she wouldn’t understand, he fell back on the obvious. “Ich bin Soldat.”

She looked at his uniform and nodded. “Natürlich, aber ich habe gemeint…” she stopped, confused. She could not figure out how to say it in English. He nodded in understanding. Walking over toward the piano bench he pulled the letter from his shirt pocket. Handing it to her, he said, “Meine Frau…” but he didn’t know how to explain the rest.

She took the letter and looked at it, as if trying to read what it said. When she looked back at him she saw that he was trying not to let his pain show. She did not know what had happened. She did not know what he had seen and suffered or what terrible news this letter held for him, but she pitied him. She forgot for a moment her own miseries, and the pain that had led her to where she was now. She turned and set the letter on the piano. Then she began to play the song that her mother had taught her years ago. She knew it had no meaning for him, but she hoped that somehow he would know what it meant to her, and understand.

As he stood listening to her play, a ghost flitted through his mind. He knew that song…his grandmother hand sung it to him when he was a child, and he remembered hearing his mother humming it the night that his little sister lay dying. He didn’t remember any of the words, but it was a peaceful melody. She began to sing in German, and the language that had always sounded so harsh to him before did not sound so now. He fell back into a nearby pew and listened. The long months spent fighting their way across France had taken their toll. He was tired, weary of war, and now he was broken and homeless in a way that the war could never have made him. He leaned forward and rested his head on the bench in front of him, losing himself in memories.

When she stopped playing he looked up to see her watching him. He suddenly realized that she was very young, maybe sixteen or seventeen. It had only been a few years since he himself was that old, but those few years seemed like ages now. He wondered why she was here, wearing the habit of a novice and playing the piano at night in a frozen old cathedral. She should be at home, by a warm fireside, telling her mother about the cute new boy at school or sleeping peacefully and dreaming of whatever girls dream of. This war had turned both their lives upside down. Her parents were probably dead, he decided, and the poor girl had nowhere to go so she had run to the church that she had known from earliest childhood.

He thought about Kerri again and his throat tightened. Life was not fair. He had gone off to fight, to give his life if necessary. He did not want to die; he wanted to live and return to her arms, but he knew also that soldiers die. Yes, soldiers die…but here he was – cold and tired, but alive. There was almost an irony in it, but it was a tearful, sickening irony that he could not smile at.

He looked back up at her, and in the dim light of the candles she could see the tears glistening in his eyes. She saw his face tighten as he tried to hold them back, and then she knew what had happened to his wife. She knew without being told that the pain in his face and eyes was the pain she had felt when her parents died. The soldier was alone now. He had nothing to return to when the war was over. For him, she knew, the end of the war meant a return to a cold, empty house, and to a grave somewhere in a lonely cemetery. He wept then, silently.

Quietly she arose and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I come back,” she whispered. She left him there and went to the small apartment at the back of the cathedral where her uncle slept. She touched his shoulder gently and he awakened. She did not have to say anything; she had called him often in the months since coming to the cathedral and he knew what she wanted. Without a word he dressed and prepared the monstrance.

When he walked out into the sanctuary they were there before the altar – his niece and a young American soldier. He started when he saw the soldier, but he said nothing. If she trusted the American, that was all he needed. Reverently he set the monstrance on the altar and took up the incense. When he was finished he returned to his room. She would keep watch until he awoke in the morning; she always did.

When she had first taken his hand to lead him closer to the altar, the American did not know what to do, but he followed her slowly. They stood there until the priest came out with the monstrance. Then she knelt, and he knelt beside her, ignoring the hard stone floor. He was not sure what was happening, but he felt at peace. The smell of the incense, though not unpleasant, was strange to him. When the old man had left he heard her begin praying. A glow seemed to come from the cross on the altar – a peaceful warmth that almost made him forget his grief. He began to pray for her. He had not prayed in a long time, and the thing was strange at first. He did not care. He prayed for her. He knew nothing about her, except that she had been kind to him, and that she seemed so alone. He could not imagine the fears and horrors that had chased her through the last few years. For a moment he forgot himself, and wished only that she had not suffered as she must have. The words came easily now, and he began to pray for Kerri, and for his little sister, and then again for her…

After a while he drifted off to sleep, facedown on the cold stone floor, and he was not cold. She stayed beside him all night, praying for him, for her parents, and for his wife. She cried softly from time to time – cried for the strange man that lay sleeping on the floor beside her, who would never see his wife again.

When he awoke in the morning the sun was just peeking above the horizon. The golden cross with the radiant white circle was gone from the altar, and she was sitting at the piano again, playing softly so as not to wake him. He lay there, trying to sort out what had happened during the night, hoping it had not been a dream. Then he looked over and saw her at the piano and heard the sweet music, and he knew it was real.

Slowly he stood and walked over to her. He smiled when she turned around. The letter was still there where the music should be, but somehow it did not hurt anymore to think about what it held. He knew he was not finished grieving, but he felt a peace about it all that he could not understand. She took the letter and held it up to him.

“Nein,” he said, shaking his head. “You keep it.”

He stood there for a minute, not knowing what to do. Finally he only said, “Danke.”

She smiled, “Gott sei mit dir,” she said.

He nodded and smiled. “Und mit dir,” he said, and then he turned to go.

As he stepped out onto the steps in front of the cathedral he could still hear her playing, and he marveled at what had happened. Then the great door banged shut behind him, cutting off the ethereal music. Somewhere in the distance the rattle of gunfire reminded him of what he was. “Gott mit uns,” he thought, and smiled sadly as he started down the street toward headquarters, his back to the blood red sunrise.

My Laptop Has teh Pig Aidz!!!1!!!

2009-10-30T11:49:00.001-07:00

Right, so my laptop is infected, and I haven't had time to do a complete re-install of the OS or try to figure out another way around it, so I can't post except from work, which I obviously am not getting paid to do. I've got some ideas, promise! If you've been following and like any of my ramblings, I'll be back soon with more of 'em.

(Right, and please forgive the title... I work surrounded by people just as horribly toolish as I... if not worse... so yeah, memes abound)

A Response to Domestication

2009-10-16T12:08:00.000-07:00

My brother is trying to tell me something...

"More goes in the damn refrigerator than just beer and good cheese and snack packs..."

Go comment bomb him, my dear friends, especially if you have enjoyed a beer in my magnificent Schloss. If you are just a dear reader, and have never had the chance to share in the wonderful experience that is beer-communism, then go comment bomb him and tell him that I'm living a bachelor lifestyle, and although I am certainly graduated from college, I am not yet bound by marriage to purchase and keep anything remotely resembling real food in my apartment. Chef Boyardee, pudding, chips, cheese, frozen dinners, beer... these all seem wonderful to me.

Musical bonus, one of the best sax parts of all time, and by far my favorite song on the album: Your Latest Trick.

A Helpless Dancer

2009-10-13T19:15:00.000-07:00

"When you dance with the devil, the devil don't change. The devil changes you." - 8 MM

I hear all this talk about finding common ground. When you stare evil in the face, don't you dare dance with it. No, you stare evil in the face and you stare hard, and you don't give up your ground. Don't ever think you can make a deal. Call evil evil, and fight it to its face. To paraphrase Hunter Thompson, You can turn your back on a person, but don't you ever turn your back on a devil.

Of course, the Notre Dame speech is just one example. It is the one in the front of my mind. It is the one that inspired this post, even though I've taken so long to get around to writing it (besides, 40 Days for Life is a fitting time to reintroduce it). Remember, when the devil offeres his hand and whispers sweetly in your ear, "Just one dance," you stop dancing. The title of the post? That's what you'll be if you take his hand. Say goodbye, as you dance with the devil tonight, don't you dare look at him in the eye...

Ab hoste maligno defende me.

You Keep Saying That Word...

2009-10-09T12:47:00.000-07:00

...I do not think it means what you think it means.

So tell me, what makes "social justice" different from regular ol' justice. Remember, I'm just a simple sort of man who spent too long in the south, but it seems to me that there's justice and injustice, and we oughta talk about what they are, and we oughta say, "This is just; that is unjust. Let us do this and not that." So tell me, what do you mean by social justice? Is it just, or are you employing not-so-cleverly deceptive language?

(N.B. I am not ranting against the Catholic Church's social teachings. I am ranting against the overuse of an undefined or ill-defined word in support of governmental policies. Remember, the Church's social teaching is founded in Charity for our neighbors. I have more thoughts on this, but the rant was mostly linguistic, so I'll lay off for now.)

*****

Remember: proscribe != prescribe. A doctor prescribes medicine; a tyrant proscribes persons or actions.

*****

"Use" is not always the best word. You do not use a hammer; you drive a nail. If you must write or say "use" never replace it with "utilize".

*****

If you are writing a column for struggling writers, do not write "try and".

*****

24-Hour Plays this weekend. Wish me well.

St. Ephrem and St. Francis de Sales, pray for me.

More on War

2009-10-05T17:23:00.000-07:00

The lust for battle can get you into trouble. It is easy to laugh at Major Powers when he says, "This is it. We're going to war."

Fr. Roberts once told us the story of the time he decided to work on humility, even though he "didn't really need to". He prayed for humiliations, and got enough of them that he hasn't prayed for them since. They don't stop coming (and sometimes I wonder if I'm catching the overflow, but that's another story...).

I'm not a warrior. The Saints were warriors. I fight because I don't know what else to do. Perhaps that is what it is about. Spiritual warfare is like the Sheewash Drive... "Takes it out of you."

We went down to 86th and Georgetown tonight. I was in the thick of things, and yet apart. The sun was setting behind the Planned Parenthood, and we stood watching it go down. A peaceful fall sunset, the air cool and the breeze gentle, the place was not open. People honked as they passed, some approving, some mocking, a few yelled from their cars. "You're not making a difference," and, "You're insane." Maybe we are insane. In the quiet there was no battle cry, but we stood and struggled, because we had no choice. We fought for breath. We fought in silence. And yet the violence that raged drained the inside of me. Persevere in prayer. Finish the race.

Take care. If you ask for discernment to know evil, if you ask for strength to fight, God just might give it to you. He will give you the grace you need, but sometimes... sometimes it hurts... sometimes it takes everything out of you, and leaves you with nothing to do but whisper, "Help." And then, in your weakness and emptiness, He does...

Peace, Maybe

2009-09-27T19:26:00.000-07:00

I have trod the upward and the downward slope;
I have endured and done in days before;
I have longed for all, and bid farewell to hope;
And I have lived and loved, and closed the door.

No reason, I just like that poem. Well, maybe there is a reason, but don't go fussing about specifics, 'cause specific it ain't. If I'd written that, maybe you could pin deep meanings on me, but I didn't.

Remember, if you keep your chin up you're liable to get knocked out, but if you keep your head down you're sure going to miss something beautiful along the way. Temptations and oppressions are a grace, for they drive us closer to God. We cannot withstand without his aid, and in the dying fire of strength he blows on a smoldering flame and gives us the courage to carry on... but first we must open our hands and cry, "It is enough, I have nothing more. Help."

Papercuts

2009-09-20T09:23:00.000-07:00

You said, you said that you would die for me
You must live for me too

I never thought bridge day would result in reflections on love, but here they are.

A man we met on the porch behind the restaurant was telling us that he would sky-dive in a heartbeat, but that base jumping was too much for him. It seemed a silly notion, but he explained that when you're in the airplane, thousands of feet above the ground, your mind cannot process the height, you cannot comprehend the distance you will fall, and so you simply jump. In base jumping it is different. You see the ground a few hundred feet below you, and you know very well that jumping from that height is not at all a natural act. Your mind is able to comprehend the distance, and the impending pain. So... do you jump?

Fuer dich, wuerde ich mich gerne vor einem Zug hinlegen.

I'm not sure if a German would ever say that. It is a saying I developed myself. Translated, it says: For you, I would gladly lay myself down before a train.

Funny notion, isn't it? Perhaps it is not as poetic as I like to think. Perhaps it is merely a morbidly explicit way of saying that I would die for you. That is love, is it not? To die? I never doubt the veracity of a man's claim that he would lay down his life for the woman he loves. To die for my faith, for my God, for my wife (hypothetical, you understand), for my son and my daughter, for my friend - this is a high and precious calling. I hope I will be able to, and I hope the same for you. To be able to make such a sacrifice is an extraordinary grace.

I wonder, though, how much we comprehend what we say, when we say we would die for another. Death is remote and shadowy, its sting is shrouded in mist, and it happens only once. You would leap from the plane; would you jump off of the bridge? You would die; would you take a papercut, or let your toes be crushed with a hammer? This is pain we know. This is pain we can comprehend. This is dying daily, to take a papercut every day of the week, every week of the year, to sting for another and smile. Remember, Christ died for us, but first He suffered for us.

So would you do it? Would you take a papercut for another? How big is your love, and how small? And if someone sliced your finger without meaning to, what would you do? Tit for tat, slice them back. Or bite your tongue until it bleeds. Why should you sin in your anger? Yes, perhaps it is good to say, "You cut me; it stings." Then again, perhaps it is good to pray, "Lord, this stings; have mercy on me, a sinner."

Too many today would die for another, not enough would live for another. The ugly spectre of selfishness and jealousy no longer lurks in the mist, but parades down the street and calls itself virtue. And we, we suffer for believing it. Papercuts? You deserve better. See, over here, no more pain, no sliced fingers, no smashed toes. But you'd die for her, you say, but only if in some grand display of pride, not in the daily battle of life. And the spectre's spawn curls round your feet, and whispers that the holy bond is unholy, that the tie that binds is already severed. And you believe and you follow.

Or, you could take the papercuts and pray. The beauty of life is found in the little pain, and the little love, and these become great grace.

Anima Christi, sanctifica me.

Functional Pacifism and the Lust for Battle

2009-09-10T18:52:00.000-07:00

Truly sons are a gift from the Lord,
a blessing, the fruit of the womb.
Indeed the sons of youth
are like arrows in the hand of a warrior.

O the happiness of the man
who has filled his quiver with these arrows!
He will have no cause for shame
when he disputes with his foes in the gateways.

It occurs to me that the family is the basic unit of the Church, what one might call a platoon. The hierarchy of the Church can in this way be compared to military hierarchy. The comparison is apt, for although we think little on the war that surrounds us, we are indeed fighting - every day, every hour, all our life long we struggle. We have Hope of final victory, because we have Faith. Yet the battle is hard fought. With good reason is the Church on earth called Militant.

In simpler, rougher times, when men were men, women were women, and families were families, in a simpler age the family truly was the ultimate thing. A man had a need of a woman and children for whom to care. A man without cause, a man useless to any but himself, is lost indeed. There is, I believe, an inborn desire in a man to be necessary, to be gallant, heroic, and virile. He needs a woman not just for what she can give him - for her softness, beauty, grace, and kindness; he needs her also for what he can give her - his life.

Husbands, love your wives, even as Christ has loved us.

This is an extraordinary burden. I hesitate to speak much on marriage, for I am utterly lacking in direct experience, but I can observe others, and I know the desire in me. The family, in these simpler times of which I was speaking, was an army in miniature. A man with sons stood proud, a force to conquer the unknown, the foe both human and animal... and spiritual. Perhaps I idealize.

There is a real spiritual war, with casualties, victories and defeats along the way. We may rest at times in the consolation of a small battle won. We may suffer to see our Lord in those times when we have failed. We pour out our efforts for the salvation of souls, never seeing the whole, never seeing aught but that which entangles us at the present. We fight on, because we know the end, because we have no choice but to strive in love. We fight on, remembering that by uniting our sufferings to Christ on the cross, we may hope also to be united in the glory of Christ risen. In this fight, the family is paramount. Each father is a little Lieutenant, each mother a little Sergeant. And the children, ah the children. With what pain must a father send his children forth into the fray. With what agony must a mother wait for her little soldier's return from a perilous mission. Our weapons are unique. The sacraments sustain us, nourish us, and give us strength for battle.

I've been a functional pacifist for only a short time. I say functional, because while I am not opposed to war in an absolute sense, I yet abhor it in an immediate sense. I abhor the dehumanization of the enemy, be they japs, krauts, gooks, ragheads, hajis, or what have you. I abhor the making of war on civilians. My country has not fought a true defensive war (say what you will) in over one hundred and fifty years. It has not fought a constitutional war in fifty years.

So why am I talking about this, about my pacifist instincts (which will likely rile up a few people). This is why: there is in me, and I think in all men, a lust for battle. There is a desire to fight, to contend, to achieve a great victory - yes, to be heroic. But how to fight? Find a battle worth fighting.

This is the battle. Well did Dickens call his tale "The Battle of Life". This lust for battle exists for a reason. When we direct our desire to wage war away from nameless, faceless enemies whom we kill without knowing why, and to a named, twisted villain, truly the great Satan, then our war becomes holy. Then, in the silence, in the quiet of our hearts, we press on. At times we must rage against him. At times he will beat us down. At times we cry out in desperation. At all times we fight together. The family, the Church, we are brothers in arms. And so we stand.

Hope in God, I will praise him still.

St. Christopher, Pray for Us

2009-09-04T11:22:00.000-07:00

Amidst the crowd of travelers this weekend we will be but tiny specs. Like particles of radiation being spit from a split atom, we are cast in all directions: one to Michigan, one to Georgia, one to South Carolina, six to various corners of Indiana... visiting family, going on retreat, entering the convent.

One will not return. I trust she will be with us in prayer. For the rest of us, Tuesday will find us once again in our familiar places. Through the intercession of St. Christopher, may we be kept safe on our sojourn. When I return, I shall try to return to posting some more interesting ideas, and not just old fiction and Latin prayers. Speaking of Latin prayers...

Domine, exaudi orationem meam
Et clamor meus ad te veniat

A Prayer After the Eucharist

2009-09-02T12:49:00.000-07:00

I found this some time ago in the 1962 Missal. You may recognize the first line from being appended to some of my posts (a practice I have neglected lately). If you were ever curious where that line came from, now you know.

Anima Christi, sanctifica me
Corpus Christi, salva me
Sanguis Christi, inebria me
Aqua lateris Christi, lava me
Passio Christi, conforta me
O bone Jesu, exaudi me
Intra tua vulnera absconde me
Ne permittas me separari a te
Ab hoste maligno defende me
In hora mortis meae voca me
Et jube me venire ad te
Ut cum sanctis tuis laudem te
In saecula saeculorum
Amen

(Soul of Christ, sanctify me
Body of Christ, save me
Blood of Christ, inebriate me
Water from the side of Christ, wash me
Passion of Christ, strengthen me
Oh good Jesus hear me
Within your wounds hide me
Do not let me be separated from thee
From the malignant enemy defend me
In the hour of my death call me
And bid me come unto thee
With thy saints to praise thee
For ever and ever
Amen)

Go to the Hills

2009-08-31T20:52:00.000-07:00

Leanne asked for fiction; here's fiction. It's simple, really, nothing fancy or striking, but I like it. Maybe you will, too.

Somewhere on the side of the road in the north Georgia mountains he stopped the car. He reached behind the seat to grab the last beer out of the cooler, being careful not to wake Ashley. Quietly he opened the door and stepped out of the car into the night. The crickets and tree frogs chirped their discordant symphony from the darkness as he walked over to the lookout point. A sliver of moon cast an eerie glow on the gorge that stretched out before him. The trees around him waved their leafy arms in the breeze and whispered frightening words in his ear. In the distance he could make out vague, black shapes. The warm spring breeze found its way under his shirt and he threw his head back to drink in the beauty and the eeriness of the night. His thoughts tangled together as he remembered the first time his parents had taken him up into these hills. He had been in love with them ever since. He had seen the Rockies and the Alps. He had seen the green hills of Ireland and the creamy beaches of Hawaii, but his heart always brought him back here, to the rolling blue hills of his youth.

He glanced down at the can of beer in his hand and wondered why he had brought it out here. He certainly wasn’t going to drink it. His mind wandered again, wandered to his childhood. How long ago it seemed. He tried to separate the faces in his mind, but they blurred together, melting and fading, fleeing from his grasp. And then, everything was sharp and clear, like a camera snapping into focus. He saw them all – even the ones that he had not thought of in years. He saw them all just as they had been when he knew them. One face jumped out at him and he tried to place it. He knew her… “What was her name?” he wondered aloud. He could see her face clearly but couldn’t remember her name. Funny, that, he thought. He shouldn’t have forgotten her name so easily. He let the faces fade into the background, and they took with them a part of his life so far.

He wanted to drive. He wanted to drive all through the long night and watch the sun rise somewhere in these blue hills. He wanted to forget about work and life and the cares of the world, and just get away for a little while, with Ashley by his side. But Ashley wouldn’t like that, he thought.

He popped the can of beer open and stared at it. He almost poured it over the side of the overlook, but some strange urge grasped him, and he stopped. Slowly, without really thinking about it, he tilted the can back and let the cool liquid pour down on his head. It ran over his face and down inside his shirt, soaking him. When the can was empty he stared at it, trying to figure out why he had done that. Well, it didn’t matter; he was soaked and smelled of beer, now.

Behind him he heard a step on the gravel. A hand slipped into his – a small, gentle hand that he knew well.

“I thought you were asleep,” he said.

“I was.”

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

“It’s eerie,” she said. “And…yes, and beautiful, too.” She laid her head on his shoulder and felt the dampness of the beer. “Are you okay?” she asked.

“Yes, I just…well,” he smiled, “I guess I just needed a little shower.”

“Of beer?” He knew the quizzical look in her eyes without having to see it.

“Yeah, I guess so.” He shrugged and slipped his arm around her waist. They stood like that for some time, saying nothing.

Finally, he squeezed her waist and walked back toward the car. She followed.

“Are you tired?” he asked.

“Why?”

“I thought we could drive off into the night and watch the sun rise somewhere in these hills.”

“Why not?”

He smiled, turned the key, and – with the windows down and the wind in their hair – they did just that.

Overheard Between Two Guardians

2009-08-25T20:13:00.000-07:00

The two angels watched from above as the canoe drifted closer to the outside of the bend. The current grew swifter and sucked the canoe toward the rock overhang, where the flowing water cut deep. The man in back paddled furiously, trying to turn the canoe towards open water and propel it forward, away from the low hanging wall that threatened to clothesline them. In the front of the canoe a redheaded girl was screaming "Rocks! Rocks! Rocks!" In light of the impending crush of the rock wall, her screams were reasonable. Above them, Stephen and Marie laughed.

Stephen: Ha, look at this idiot*, letting the canoe get sucked in towards those rocks. Should we get them out of this one?
Marie: Well, this girl's mom is praying pretty hard right now. Anyhow it's not her fault. I'll bet if I push her out of the canoe right now she'll be all right.
Stephen: Good idea.
Marie (shoving the redhead into the water just before the rocks could strike): What are you going to do?
Stephen: Well... he is kinda dumb. Look, he's trying to keep the canoe from getting sucked further under the rocks...
Marie: Yeah, shoulda bailed out when the girl did. But he's not a bad guy, y'know.
Stephen: I suppose not. Maybe I'll just get him out with a little reminder that he failed pretty epically on this one.
Marie: Flip the canoe on him?
Stephen: Why not? He's too stupid to jump out when he should. Maybe smashing his leg up would teach him some humility.
Marie (sounding very much like her ward): Ha, good luck with that.
Stephen: It's worth a shot anyway. At least he'll remember that he managed to find the only conceivably dangerous spot on this creek to screw up in.
Marie: Not really surprising, I suppose.
Stephen (sighing): No, I guess not.

As the canoe flipped over the right side smashed wickedly into the young man's leg. He plunged into the cold water only a few seconds behind his companion and, probably with Stephen's help, managed to swim down stream and into the open, away from the current and the rocks, where he suffered a brief attack of Limited Vocabulary Syndrome, before finally recovering with some help from the rest of the group.

*"This idiot" is, of course, your humbled, bruised author, who really does owe some thanks to that redhead's mom for her prayers, even if they were mostly for her, and only for me in a sort of incidental, or even accidental, way.

After the Deluge

2009-08-19T18:05:00.000-07:00

The streetlight glows a melancholy yellow through the downpour, just like that night so many years ago when I walked in the rain with a friend. Time dulls the memories. The joys and sorrows seem to me like ghosts floating through the dense gray of the storm. I said goodbye again last night. Not forever, no we never say forever. She said she'd have to come visit, had to keep an eye on me, keep me out of trouble. I reckon she might.

The threads of life twist and dance, a woven chord of black and silver, blue and gold. And red. We danced a little closer, we few. The grace of friendship gave us strength and joy. For a time our lives touched, our stories tangled into one.

We dance on, reminded anew of the grace of a memory. A friend to be honest with you, to put up with your bitching or your drunken phone call. A sister to love you. She was not the first to leave. No, the little one left first, the one that moved far away. Like a cat she was there, and then she was gone. I don't think cats get all teared up when they hug you. Generally, cats aren't much good for a hug.

We dance on. Everything is a grace. The chord may have changed, but the strength is still there. Across the miles we are together in faith. The things that I remember seem so distant, though it hasn't really been that long a time. The shades of a year drift into the fog that has swallowed others before them, but I can still make them out. Many years ago I watched in the mirror as the ghost of Christmas past waved at me under a gray December sky. Through the years that have passed we have changed, we have grown, but when I go home she lets me visit her; she lets me be her friend. I hope I do the same when others come to me.

The Red Headed Colleen

2009-08-19T17:29:00.000-07:00

1 part Irish cream.
1 part Irish whiskey. (I'd recommend Powers Gold or, if you must, Jameson. The original was made with Black Bush.)
Top it off with a thin layer of cinnamon.

Sip it, chug it, warm or over ice (well, I drank it warm, I imagine it'd be good over ice).

This is the first in what will hopefully be a series of new drinks. My friend Suzanne, who is one of my circle of beer friends, helped with the creation of the drink. We have another idea in the works which we haven't had a chance to try yet.

Education: Principles

2009-08-12T17:21:00.000-07:00

What is it that constitutes education? What ought the focus to be? We have lost sight of the foundations we once saw so clearly, and our thoughts have turned to shallow, egalitarian pursuits, which should on their very face be contradictory to good education. Education, in its nature, is discriminatory. It is based upon the idea that the better is preferable to the worse, that knowledge and understanding are goods to be pursued. Now, though, we see more than anything a desire for sameness. The structure of the school system is geared towards achieving equality among the students. Rather than pushing each student to excel as much as possible, we push each student to reach the same goal. To make this possible, we set that goal so low that the very worst students may reach it, and then require the bright minds in the classroom to slog along drearily through topics that they mastered upon hearing. This problem exists in private schools as well as public; it is structural. The best intentioned of teachers, the most Catholic of schools, still struggle to overcome this basic egalitarian structure. And so those inquiring minds, who could swallow algebra and geometry whole, who read classical literature for fun because it is intelligent, literate, and substantive, these minds are stifled by boredom and left to rot on the wayside of the highway to sameness.

A properly educated child is a dangerous weapon. A boy, once taught to read, will soon discover worlds of adventure laid at his doorstep – if, that is, he can escape the hatred of reading instilled in him by the politically correct, empty hogwash forced down his gullet by a system that does not want him to be a man. Tales of adventures, of heroism and fair maids, of treasures and scoundrels, will inspire him to be a man to match his heroes. Indeed he runs the risk of misbehaving horribly and turning into something not at all effeminate. Worse, this love of reading may wax non-discriminate, and his wandering eye may fall on some volume that contains more profound ideas and fewer adventures. He might perhaps read it without proper supervision by an amateur expert in interpretation, and he might, just might, form his own ideas without regard to what everyone else in the class is told to think!

Likewise a girl might discover that there is beauty in being feminine. She will perhaps find in Mary the ultimate model of a mother. She may read Jane Austen without being told how horridly sexist her novels were. She may expect men to be men, rather than wishing they were girls. She runs the risk, terrible indeed, of wanting to conform to traditional gender roles, because she recognizes that in being a woman she is fulfilling a unique and precious place in the world, one which will earn her the respect, admiration, and love of every man worthy of the name.

Words are dangerous, for they convey ideas. There is a reason that education once centered around Reading, Writing, and Arithmetic. Language is the means by which ideas are exchanged. A word written speaks through time. The dead cry out to the living, saying, “Look, here is truth, here is beauty, here is wisdom.” Through reading we learn to think about meanings. Reading alone is not sufficient, though, for many of the dead and living lie. We must learn to discriminate between truth and falsehood. We must learn to take the good because it is good, and to leave the bad because it is bad. Usually, we take the bad because we are told it is good, and leave the good because we are told it is bad. Arithmetic (and ultimately higher mathematics) is vital to education because it teaches one to think with discrimination, to discern proof from sophistry, to know that begging the question is not a valid argument, and to reason about truth from first principles. A mind that devours inputs as a child’s will must be well-ordered. A well-ordered mind is capable, not only of absorbing old ideas, but of forming new ones; not only of reasoning about truth, but of expressing that truth to others in words. A child who reads and thinks clearly can, in turn, cry out to future generations, “See, here is the truth, here are beauty and goodness.”

Anima Christi, sanctifica me.

Transfiguration Thursday

2009-08-06T21:16:00.000-07:00

Funny, that the Solemnity of the Transfiguration should fall on the same day of the dropping of The Bomb on Hiroshima. We celebrate God's glory revealed; we remember hell unleashed.

Thinking about the Transfiguration and what it means for us, I am reminded of something the Cheshire Cat once told me, back when I first knew her, oh, seven years ago. She said, “It would not be good for this world to be perfect, because then what joys could heaven hold?” The Transfiguration, like the Sacraments, especially the Eucharist, is a glimpse of Heavenly Glory. I’ve heard said that on that mountain, when Christ revealed Himself in His Divine Splendor to the three apostles, they missed the point – they were thinking of worldly things, of setting up tents and ministering. Given the propensity of the apostles towards density (a propensity that we all have) I would not be surprised. Still, I think there is something else at work here. They glimpsed Christ glorified, they heard the voice of God, they tasted Heaven, yet they could not retain it. The moment passed. I wonder if, in the moment of splendor, they were merely reaching for a way to hold on to this revelation. Yet the moment passed. There was work to be done, both by Christ in his immediacy, and later through the apostles. I wonder if Peter and John and James ever reached out, longing to regain that moment on the mountain top.

How often are our lives like that? When we experience moments of extraordinary Grace and consolation, what do we do with them? Do we listen to Jesus speaking to us in silence and love, do we abandon ourselves to Him, or do we grasp at it, trying to keep it for ourselves, and miss the point? And what, pray tell, do we do when the outpouring of Grace has faded and we are cast back into the world, to struggle every day with the forces of evil? We truly are blessed in the Eucharist, for each day, if we so desire, we can be present when heaven and earth kiss, and the veil is parted ever so slightly, giving a foretaste of what is to come.

May we experience the Transfiguration in our lives each day, to be reminded of God’s love, glory, power, majesty, and grace. Let us strive to work diligently in service to the Lord, seeking His guidance, imploring His mercy, and begging that our lives may be pleasing in His sight. When those outpourings of Grace come, let us rest in Him. When we are troubled, let us rest in Him. Let us cast ourselves always at His feet.

Anima Christi, sanctifica me.

Anyone Know What Day It Is?

2009-08-06T05:21:00.000-07:00

It's Hiroshima Day! Time to stir the shit. Strategic bombing is, well... very strategic. "Hey, our soldiers and your soldiers are killing each other, but it's taking too long, so we're gonna start bombing your wives, children, fathers and mothers. Suck it bad guys!" And so we have Dresden, Tokyo, and finally Hiroshima, 64 years ago. Then again, we've been making war on civilians since Sherman burned, looted, and raped his way through Georgia.

If you can find it, I recommend this book, and also this article ... and this one.

From Will Grigg on the tazing of a pregnant woman, and other insignificant behaviors.

Also, I love hummingbirds.

That's all I've got for now. There's a post on education coming up that I'm nearly finished with, as well as some half-remembered ideas creeping around inside the cobwebs of my brain.

Anima Christi, sanctifica me

Dark Eyed Cajun Woman

2009-07-29T19:38:00.000-07:00

I set out to prove a point, and I did; the point I proved, and the one I set out to prove, may have differed slightly.

Staring down at my cup of sweet tea and rum, the song Dark Eyed Cajun woman comes to mind. I think that’s what I’ll call this drink. Anyway, to the point.

Her name was Andrea, with the snooty pronunciation, Ahn-dray-a. She was wearing a white dress that fit her dark slender form well, if not elegantly. She and her friend sat down at a table about twenty feet away from us. I asked Greg if I should go ask them to join us – after all, we’d been bachelors in New Orleans for a week and some feminine company seemed like a pleasant interruption to our manly pursuits of music, food, and booze. Greg’s attitude towards life is summed up by his saying “I don’t give a rat’s ass,” which is what he said when I mentioned the girls. Chuck also didn’t care. I suppose for all my posturing, their heads may be screwed on more squarely than my own.

I posited a plan of attack, not the best pickup line ever, but at least it was original. Greg called me out, said I wouldn’t do it. I responded with that elegant little phrase I so often used in college to dismiss homework assignments in favor of more worthy pursuits like Super Smash Bros, beer, sleep, and spending time with my girlfriend.

Original or not, my opening line fell a trifle flat. It turned out the two girls were not alone as I had hoped, but were waiting for friends to show up. This was a bad start. They did invite us to join them, and so, not losing hope (though what I hoped for is unclear… more on that later), I waved Greg and Chuck to come join us.

We made small talk for a bit. The girls had met at LSU before Andrea transferred to Tulane. They were from New Orleans, and we were not. Now, foreign guys may be exotic or cool, but being from Indiana is neither when you are in New Orleans. The band began to play and conversation became more difficult. Andrea lit a cigarette and the five of us took in the strange music. The girls knew this band and vouched for them – they vouched correctly, and our streak of good music continued for the rest of the night. That was about all that did continue.

What I had thought would be two more girls turned out to be maybe three or four girls and a couple of guys as well. Now, at this point if I’d had any sense I’d have ditched the lot of them, grabbed another Jockamo IPA and bathed in the wondrous electric cello. Being devoid of good sense I made an effort to continue conversation with a few of the girls. Most of them just wanted to dance and talk to each other and the guys. The one girl who was there with Andrea at the beginning was standing off to the side, so I went over and talked to her for a few minutes. She seemed the best of the lot – quieter, a little heavy but still quite cute, and somehow radiating a real personality. Maybe the others weren’t bad girls. It’s not fair to judge them just because they weren’t taken by a couple of guys from Indiana in jeans and t-shirts. Maybe we were the ones who looked worthless and hopeless, and maybe we were.

After an hour or so the adventures of the day began to show, and we decided to ditch the place and head for home. I doubt if Andrea and her friends even gave us a second thought.

I proved something that night. I proved that I had the testicular fortitude to go up and talk to a couple of random girls in a bar. I found doing so to be one of the more worthless ways of meeting women. For some men it works. Usually there is a definite aim in mind. Most guys probably aren’t just looking for a change of company and conversation. What had I hoped for? Had I really hoped they’d join us in back and that we’d have a good ol’ time, jesting like old friends? I don’t think so. I don’t think I hoped for or expected anything. I think I just decided to do it (in retrospect probably not a reliably wise mode of operation). Maybe I just had to try it once, fall on my face and realize that good music, good food, good beer, and good friends is more than I could ask for, and I don’t need to go around making pathetic, half-assed and poorly executed attempts at playing the world’s game.

The dark eyed Cajun woman is gone, a pleasant memory tainted with acrid smoke. I’ll stick to making drinks – I’m better at it.

Home and Homeland

2009-07-20T18:16:00.000-07:00

Independence Day was cold. Temperatures in Indiana during the summer run towards an abbreviated version of temperatures in Georgia. It gets nearly as hot, but only for about a month. Not this year. This year the 4^th of July was hoodie weather – sixty degrees and rainy – not that I wore a hoodie; it wouldn’t have been manly. I blame global warming – *ahem* climate change, excuse me – for the bawdy weather (I don’t think weather can be bawdy, but I’m writing what comes to mind tonight).

Anyway, Brian, Diane, Scott and I went out to Tipton for a cookout and some good, wholesome, ill-considered fun. Nothing burned (probably because of the rain) and no one got sent to the hospital. After a good American dinner of hamburgers and bratwursts… err… right, at least the beer was American (which may not be a recommendation, come to think of it), we stomped out into the cloudy, misty evening to commence our own mini-revolution. There were a few burns but nothing glorious enough to impress any ladies with our military courage – the worse luck for us, though as you can see from the picture we certainly weren’t trying to exercise good judgment (yeah, that's a lit bottle rocket in my hand).

The obligatory patriotic radio program accompanied the fireworks display, stirring within me long dormant feelings of awe and majesty and love of the fatherland. Scenes from my childhood, singing “My Country ‘Tis of Thee” in my cub scout den, being reminded at the Stone Mountain show that “at least I know I’m free” sprang to mind and I joined in the silent reverence for my heimat. Things may not be perfect here, but here is where I am, and for all its shortcomings I’ll give America this: it has some beautiful land. I’ve a new project in mind: whenever I see an American flag, I’m gonna close my eyes and imagine for just an instant that it’s the bonnie blue. Let that lone white star forever stand for freedom amidst a field of pure blue.

On the drive home I turned on “Georgia on My Mind.” I suppose it’s as good a national anthem as any. That lone evening star glows softly over the rolling blue hills in the land that I’ve called home.

Other arms reach out to me
Other eyes smile tenderly
Still in peaceful dreams I see
The road leads back to you

My country? I was born of my mother; I follow in my father’s steps; I love my brothers; I live by the Grace of God. In the Eucharist I am united in Love to my God and His Church. What better country could I ask for?

Anima Christi, sanctifica me.

The Socialization Fallacy

2009-07-20T16:45:00.000-07:00

Some reflections on the most common and frustrating objection to homeschooling...

I’m growing weary of hearing people say, “wow, I never would’ve guessed you were homeschooled.” They don’t mean it the way I’m hearing it. They aren’t trying to sound condescending. I think they don’t know any better.

I really don't feel like repeating the same old defenses of homeschooling that I have been forced time and again to trot out in answer to cliches like "what about socialization"... really that's the only argument anyone uses anymore, as any intelligent person can see the utter failure of the public school system to provide anything more than indoctrination. The last argument I heard was that, if your children are homeschooled, you have to spend *gasp* every minute that they aren't in school trying to get them the socialization they miss by not being in school. Fine, I'll go around looking for bullies and tattle-tales and skanks and other unpleasant characters of my child's age for them to associate with. I believe a boy would be better educated by spending his days with Tom Sawyer. At least Tom could read all those adventure stories that got him into trouble by filling his young head with dreams of... well... something other than a sissified, emasculated, PC regimen, wherein the girls are not girls and the boys are not boys, there are no ladies worth saving nor battles worth fighting, and the ultimate purpose of life is to achieve, not wisdom or excellence or holiness or any other worthy mark, but sameness with your fellow persons. (Yeah, it's a long sentence, read it again and deal with it).

I got socialization out my ass as a homeschooler, and no, we didn't spend every hour seeking it out. Spring and fall I played baseball; summers I went to the pool for swimming lessons and, later, to work; winters I played basketball or did theater. In highschool I spent some time in youth group. I played outside with the neighbor kids, who didn't seem to mind in the least that I was homeschooled, as I was still good at baseball and roller hockey and getting dirty just to annoy our mothers. I did things with homeschoolers, and I did things with public schoolers, and y'know what, I did things just with my family, too. By far the norm growing up was an evening at home, and if we went out, we went as a family, usually. My friends' parents were my parents' friends, and vice versa. I learned to speak politely and well to my elders, to tolerate (occasionally with great annoyance) my juniors, and to enjoy the company of my peers. I dealt with bullies (not well, but what kid does). I liked girls and flirted with them in the same incompetent way that all boys do (by annoying them to get their attention). I had friends and enemies. Sometimes I was a little brat. I'm sure I caused my parents no end of trouble. Isn't this what every kid does? My parents were not slaves to my social life. Indeed, they had the ability to guide it and observe, occasionally with more interference than I'd have liked, but never being tyrannical. If you asked me what I did of an evening as a kid, I'd tell you my family played games and listened to my dad read classic literature aloud. As I grew older the games changed and the reading abated. I rarely was bored, anymore than any other kid.

So was I cheated, or were my parents placed under unnecessary strain to see I got my proper "socialization" (a word, by the way, which makes me cringe)? I doubt it. Were my parents perfect? I doubt it, but then again neither was I (nor will I be when, God willing, I have kids of my own), and neither are any parents, regardless of where their children are educated (or socialized). Am I an exception, a shining example of homeschooling gone miraculously sort of maybe not terribly wrong? I don't know. I know plenty of kids in public and private schools that came out sort of okay, and plenty who went horribly wrong. (See how it sounds... sounds arrogant, don't it?) Some of the ones who went horribly wrong early got their shit straightened out, and some didn't, and some of the ones who went pristinely correct are in for a tough time of it when they find out that life is not full of teachers who can inflict sameness on everyone, and protect you from problems and challenges and hard stuff. Was I sheltered? Maybe. And maybe what most people call sheltered isn't a bad thing. Maybe there's just some shit that kids aren't supposed to deal with at certain ages, and maybe it's worth it to let boys pull the occasional stupid escapade, and leave off the detailed description of the reproductive act until they're, I don't know, capable of dealing with it. And maybe rather than letting the schools teach our children that sex is a game and cap guns are WMDs, just maybe we ought to let the parents have some say in raising their children to be men, and gentlemen, and ladies, rather than persons. And maybe it's time that parents remember that children are a responsibility, that being a parent means growing the hell up and acting like an adult, and loving your child the best you know how. Maybe homeschooling ain't the way to do that. I'm just a simple southern boy, and not too bright about some things, but I think it's a fair start.

So You Wanna Go Back To Egypt?

2009-07-19T08:57:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I wonder if I'm looking back on Sodom. I hope I don't get turned into a pillar of salt. Most of my life I've had different groups of friends, but they usually mesh well enough together. At my graduation party there were friends from church and the theater and my next door neighbors and others, and all was marvelous. Now... now I have my college friends and my church friends, and they don't mix. I know they're very different people, but often very different people still get along perfectly well. I know I've changed a good bit in the past year. Are some of the old faces no longer friends worth having? I don't think so. Then why am I never comfortable mixing? I suspect, but I don't know the solution.

Incoherent Reminiscences of a Night on Bourbon Street

2009-07-01T19:28:00.000-07:00

Bourbon Street on Wednesday night is far from quiet, though the beads do not fly, the streams of flesh are not seething from one side to the other in a drunken, lustful frenzy. Most people, it seems, are there for what is there, for the mystique and the bars and the drinks and the cabarets. It is a strange mix – tourists wandering curiously back and forth, friends laughing as they drink one too many hand grenades or hurricanes, eighteen year old boys trying to sneak into the strip clubs. The calls of “no cover” and the quieter, more vulgar descriptions of what is to be found inside some of the buildings blend into the flood of noise, but are not lost. The missionaries stopping people in the streets, passing out pamphlets and trying valiantly to reach out to souls in need, they seem so naïve, and I wonder if anyone ever listens to them or takes them seriously. My friend wants to flip them off… sometimes he’s an asshole.

I don’t remember the oppression in the air being there before. Everything looks at once so innocent and so horrible. Few of the people walking the street tonight are depraved, yet most are lost and troubled. They are having a gay time, reveling in the moment, in the sensual numbness that envelopes them. A war seems to be building around me and within me. Too easily I stare, hollow-eyed, at those around me – the girls, the drunks, the skirts, the strippers in the doorways, the sleezy fifty year old man telling you about what’s inside his building. His daughter, if he had one, could be working there, I think. Not all of the places are that sleezy, though. Many of them affect a genteel air, with young, well-dressed doormen standing in the street and pretty girls in modest, professional clothes working the front desk.

The bars are your standard. There are sports bars, a karaoke joint, stands selling beer or fruity drinks. Pat O’Brien’s and Tropical Isle are there, and people are sucking down sweet concoctions that they might later regret.

Everything seems so heavy. The summer air is close, but there is more. I want to enjoy myself. I want to have a couple of drinks and relax. But there’s a darkness there that won’t let me be. I want to laugh at the proselytes in the street and what seem to my mind to be their too strong words. But I can’t, because I think they’re right.

Finally we turned our feet toward Canal and the direction of our cars. A little in front of us a girl walked alone in jeans and a black t-shirt. My eyes followed her out of the club she had left. She was cute, darned cute. Maybe she was a real sweet kid; I’ll never know. Strange, I thought, how this girl who almost certainly had spent the night taking off her clothes for drunken adolescents of whatever age, was showing a fraction of the skin of any of the girls walking down the street. I wish I could have talked to her – I’d have told her she was pretty, and maybe tried to give her a Miraculous Medal, if only I’d had one. Maybe she wouldn’t have taken it, but I wish I could have offered.

For some reason that girl has stayed with me over the weeks. I think maybe she always will. I don’t know her name. Sometimes I pray for her and call her Lisa for no particular reason. Lisa’s a pretty name, and it’s as good as any. Even now, weeks later, I can still feel the oppression that surrounded me that night, the spiritual violence, a battle far greater than Thermopylae. Writing these words brought it down upon me again, and writing the end, the turning of our weary steps homeward and thinking about Lisa, I could feel some of the cloud lift.

Swan Songs

2009-03-24T19:32:00.000-07:00

Among my favorite bands of all time (I have 7 albums and six hours worth of their music, and aim to acquire at least two more in the next year) is the Marshall Tucker Band. Led Zeppelin may have started Swan Song records, but if there is any band that epitomizes the ramblin', road hungry, yondering impulse that burns in a man, it was the MTB. From classics like Can't Ya See, Heard It in a Love Song, Take the Highway, and Running Like the Wind, to less well known greats like Anyway the Wind Blows Rider and Ramblin' (which they performed both as a burning gateway to adventure and a weary longing for freedom), to newer songs like Rider of Your Life and Beyond the Horizon, these guys knew the wanderlust, the yondering, what I sometimes refer to simply as "the itch".

The urge to get away - from responsibilities, ties, the familiar, the past - is there. Sometimes even simply the urge just to go somewhere takes hold of me. My dad pointed out that women vacation for the destination, while men (or at least, men in my family) vacation for the going. I don't completely buy into the notion of the journey being the goal, rather than the destination being the goal... it strikes me as too buddhist, and I am reminded that the journey to heaven is not nearly as important or awesome as heaven itself. Indeed, journeys can hurt, and it is in the hurt that we grow.

Despite all this talk of moving, of going, of rambling on my mind, there is a quiet, a contentment, a desire to find a place to call home. So that when I sing "if I ever settled down, you'd be my kind..." I could settle down, instead of going on to say "but I guess it's time to head on down the line..."

There is beauty in responsibility. Duty is a sublime word. There is grace in the simple life. Always moving, always going, always running, tossed about by every wind - to live this way is to hide from life and from the great beauty and grace that come with contentment. Life on the road can be just as much of an escape mechanism as sex and booze and drugs. The urge to be always moving, always doing, always busy, never stopping, never slowing, never looking around to breathe - that urge is a subtle temptation. It tells us that if we just keep going we'll never have to look back, never have to remember, never have to hurt. But that's bullshit, and we know it, just as we know that when we wake up in the morning, sober and alone, we will still be empty.

Don't run from life, from responsibilities and memories and struggles. Stand and fight, submit in humility, trust in grace. When you can't run, you crawl, and when you can't do that, you find someone to carry you. Be a simple kind of man.

On the Cutting Away

2009-03-05T17:57:00.000-08:00

Lent is, among other things, a time when we recall our mistakes and (hopefully, and more importantly) repent and return to God. Recalling some of my mistakes, and digging through some old writings, I thought I might share some of my past reflections.

"Say not that to err is human. Say rather that you forgive, as God does. There is this difference: the first is to ignore, even justify, while the second is to accept, and to love. Though we are imperfect, we must never look past our mistakes, but face them, accept them, and strive to change.

Do not seek to be called a gentleman. Only do what is right by those you meet, be kind, love, serve, respect, in sum, be worthy of the name, without arrogating to yourself the title, lest in your arrogance you forget that a good man does not seek notice, but only to serve and love. The obsession with, the mystique of the chivalrous and the gentleman, are misplaced. I do not wish to be a gentleman, but only to be a man, imperfect yet honorable, weak yet deserving of the trust of those whom I love, and all those whom I meet. "

"On the cutting away
Of the sin and the pain
There's peace to be found
Through the fear and the shame
A little voice inside
Says don't screw up again
But there's another place
A comforting thought
On the cutting away"

Now that I no longer have graduation to work for, I often wonder what it is that lies ahead. There is no demarcation, no target... so I walk on, plagued by fear and doubt, but secure in the knowledge that whatever lies before me is better than anything I can imagine right now. I have friends walking beside me, and Easter is my goal. And for now, that is sufficient.

The Curious Case of the Loveless Sacrament

2009-03-02T16:00:00.000-08:00

Forgive my absence, I've been short on time and desire, but with the approaching of spring I suspect that the reflective bug will bite more frequently.

About a week ago Zach, Scott, Justice and I went to see The Curious Case of Benjamin Button at a local dinner cinema. I enjoyed the movie... well, most of it anyway. For one thing, the Scott Joplin tune Bethena (one of only two pieces he wrote in waltz time) makes three appearances during the film. I love that song, and it holds pleasant memories of youth for me as well, because I performed it at a statewide piano competition my senior year of highschool (and didn't even get an honorable mention thankyouverymuch, but I enjoyed it nonetheless).

The movie is picturesque, sweeping, filled with all the joys and sorrows of life. It reminded me of Big Fish, except that in Benjamin Button, the frame story really added very little to the larger tale, whereas in Big Fish the two are woven together so beautifully that you forget that there even is a frame story. In that respect, CCBB was more like The Princess Bride.

I tried, I really tried, to love the movie. I tried not to be critical. I tried not to parse its every subtlety and flaw. I tried, and I failed. Thinking back now I am finally able to put into words what bothered me when I saw it. I can forgive immoral characters. We are imperfect, sinful people, and art should reflect life. What I cannot abide is the portrayal of marriage as a hindrance to love. With the exception of Benjamin's parents, there are two married couples in the movie. Both relationships hint at a cold, loveless, convenient formality. Love, on the other hand, is expressed solely through sex, regardless of marital status and, in many instances, in the face of it, as an escape for Benjamin's two lovers from the confines to which they must restrict themselves out of necessity.

At no point in the film did I find myself feeling the character's pain as I watched them make the right decision, even though it hurt. There seemed to be no effort to even attempt moral action. The guiding star of both protagonists was self-satisfaction disguised as love. Real love involves sacrifice, pain, hardship, and devotion; it is not a beautiful, passing fling. To divorce marriage and love, marriage and sex, is to strip all three of their meaning. And in this the film left me empty, longing with an unsatisfied desire to see a depiction of real love, rather than this empty fraud, sneaking about and following our passions, giving no thought to our duties or spouses, who are merely a convenience to be discarded at will.

Save Us From Ourselves

2009-01-27T18:47:00.000-08:00

I was really bitter and cynical last week during the inauguration. Of course, I'd have been bitter and cynical regardless of who got elected. To my shame be it said that I let my bitterness get the better of my charity, and to the person who had to put up with it that afternoon, I apologize.

As Diane pointed out to me at the time, politics is marketing, and people buy into the brands. I like people. I like being around people, knowing their stories, and just watching their behavior. It's a curiosity with me, a fascination. This is why I like cities. Sure, I prefer the open air, the peace of a blue sky and a spring breeze, but there is something to be said for spending time with your fellow man, for they are also beloved by God. What hurts and saddens me is when I see people whom I genuinely like led astray, either by smooth talk, or selfishness, or power, or what have you. I cannot worship a country, or an idea, or a word or emotion or politicians, and to me that is what politics is all about. Ideals - they are beautiful - hope and change and prosperity are lovely notions. Yet I have learned to much history to forget that ideals are what inspire men to kill without thought. Passion, resting upon the ideal of some higher good, and ending in the use of violent force to deprive another child of God of life or liberty, this is what has driven so many of the atrocities of the last century.

I am not willing to believe that the majority of people are completely and totally given over to evil. No, I am convinced that we have let ourselves be led astray and deceived. We allow ourselves to be whipped into a frenzy, hungry for power, hungry for blood, blinded from seeing the crimes done in our name, the innocents who suffer as a result of our passion for choice, for change, for freedom and democracy. Most Americans seem to me to be guilty of this blindness, and on occasion it infuriates me. Mostly, though, it merely saddens me. Indeed, it behooves us all to remember that we are none of us perfect, we have all, at one time in our lives, offended another child of God, and in so doing we have broken the heart of Him who loves us. It breaks my heart to see the blind cheer thoughtlessly for an ideology.

I have long leaned towards the libertarian thought pattern. A distrust of the state, of government of any sort, seems to me to be a rational approach, for to give someone power and then trust them not to be corrupted by it is foolish. At the same time, there seems to be something missing in libertarian thought, and I think I have finally begun to understand what that is. It is a misunderstanding of man himself, and of the spiritual nature of the world in which we live. One cannot operate on the assumption that by acting selfishly in all things we may achieve perfect harmony, with no government, no laws, but only our own selfish interests and the mores of society to restrain us. This presupposes, first, complete knowledge of our own interests, and, second, a lack of malicious influences in our world (or at least the assumption that they will balance each other out). It is this arrogance that has finally brought me to disenchantment with so many of the libertarian ideals.

Intellectual arrogance is another stumbling block, perhaps as harmful spiritually as unbridled passion. What is gained? True, we ought to oppose evil, by naming it, by fighting it, but too often we fail to name the evil and only name ourselves superior, and then what good have we done? Selfishness rears its ugly head once more, and the struggle never ends, until the end of time.

So what is the point? Fight on, fight for right, for truth, for truth is there. Fight for the innocent who cannot defend themselves, fight passionately, but wisely, with discretion and never in blind devotion. And always, always, fight with charity, for to fight evil with hatred and pride is counterproductive.

Lord, teach me always my own insignificance and failings, lest I think myself better than others, and remind me always of your Love, lest I despair that my life be worthless.

Another Auld Lang Syne

2009-01-01T14:20:00.000-08:00

Living like a gypsy, and dreaming like a kid
Can make you old before your time

There comes a time in every man's life when he must, as a friend once told my brother, "sack up." Or, as K-Bo was fond of saying, "don't be a b****, man up." There's more of K-Bo in me than I used to think, and there's more of my brother in me than he ever knew. There is a constant, biting itch, a longing to escape, to get up and go, as God told Abraham to do. Yet I feel that the itch is less of God's call then my own refusal to face life. How happy I am and have been. Why, then is there the desire to pack and leave, to tell my friends they can do without me, that I'm for another time and another place? Responsibility is what separates a man from a child. Boyishness has its delight. Responsibility brings cares and troubles. Yet, viewed another way, when we answer God's call and take responsibility for our own lives and our own actions, is that not the only way to find joy in life? For, to be sure, one cannot run forever. We spend our lives searching for a way out. We run from God, from Truth, and from Holiness. We seek our comfort in sex and booze and money, in people, in things, in work (aye, for the constant drive to always be doing is an escape as well).

Antti once told me I have at least ten years before I have to settle down, and that I should live it up and enjoy life while I'm young. There is a protest in my mind and in my heart, though. For if I live the so-called good life now, will I not have to face up to the real world later, and perhaps with regrets for the time I wasted? It is one thing to experience life and the world, to go places, to try things, to learn people and gain friends and memories. And indeed, what is there for me to leave behind in my childhood? Certainly, I should leave behind the foolishness, the selfishness, the ego. Should I also run from the people who have shaped my life? After this Christmas, I think I cannot.

And it was Christmas that showed me the folly of the old saying "you have to grow old, you don't have to grow up." Too many people never grow up, and so much pain and darkness is the result. Too many never face their God and answer his call. Too many live their lives for themselves. Even a dear friend of mine once told me that, in the end, I should do whatever made me happy, never understanding that those who follow their own will are rebelling against the natural order, and demonstrating a profound lack of care for their brothers and sisters, strangers and sojourners together on this earth.

Six friends and two brothers made my Christmas what it was. One, older than I by six or seven years, just began working as a missionary. She was an assistant youth leader when I was in highschool, and was one of a few that I have always respected tremendously. I saw her joy with life, and I was happy for her.

Another, a girl only in the eighth grade, comported herself like a fine young lady almost twice her age. I have known her since she was seven, and it brought me a smile to see her growing up so well, though she is no child of mine. Thinking of her, and of the other younger kids I know from the times I was in A Christmas Carol, I can only hope that as they grow older, as they face the turning points in their lives, that they face them well, stand tall, and never fall away. To see my friends grow up beside me, or perhaps behind me, and to see some of them fall astray, it hurts. I cannot imagine the care that a father must have to see his own children grow old, to see their mistakes, their triumphs, their failings and their graces. Could I someday bear that burden? If so, I hope I bear it well.

And then four more, much closer to my own age, though indeed Emily Sue is yet in highschool, and Shane is but a freshman in college. To see them and know the changes we have all been through in our lives, to know even a tiny bit of their stories, and to know that still, through it all, we are friends, though our roads are different and we often bear our troubles alone, there is still a care there.

And my brothers, one facing his own trials as a man, another standing on the verge of becoming a man whom I would have proud to walk with his older brothers, that we three, separate but always together, may face the world out there. I hope he is the best of us. He is certainly no longer the baby. I find it strange to think that he will finish growing up without me there, but I look forward to seeing him a better man than his elders.

All this has given me pause to reflect, and to find in the road ahead some joy at the thought of taking responsibility, of being a man - not of making my mark on the world, but of making some small mark in the hearts of those I meet. I stood at midnight last night with my new friends, and though I've known them but a short time, they, too, mean so much to me. In my head and in my heart I drank with them, with Chad Hillhouse, with Katherine Heil, with Nancy and Rachel and Doy, with all the old faces from my childhood, here and gone, I raised a glass and drank a toast to innocence, a toast to time, and a toast - to old times and new times, first times and last times, and the times we've never had.

Pro Choice?

2008-12-16T15:58:00.000-08:00

"There's a difference between like and love, because I like my Sketchers, but I love my Prada backpack."
"But... I love my sketchers..."
"That's because you don't have a Prada backpack." - Ten Things I Hate About You

"Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why do you want to marry her?"
"I love her, sir."
"But do ya like her?... When her mother and I were married, I didn't love her. I liked her well enough. Then, one day I realized I loved her." - Shenandoah

"Love is not an emotion; it is a choice." - Unknown (to me, at least... first heard it from Kathleen)

Ah, and that is the choice of which I speak. You thought I was talking about abortion, didn't you?

I apologize in advance: I'm delirious with fever and, though I have yet to take my Nyquil, I am also nursing a hot cider and brandy (and may nurse another one before I finish... I could use a maid to make these for me right about now... sometimes, a man just needs a maid).

As you can see, I'm liable to wander and wax poetic. Again, I apologize.

I think those quotes up there sum up some things quite nicely. There are, of course, different kinds of love. English has done a horrendous job of preserving these differences. Charity, which once meant Divine love (from Caritas), has come now to mean a corporal work of mercy, which is indeed an act of Divinely inspired love (or perhaps of human-inspired quest for reputation), but the word no longer describes the thing itself. Likewise, there has been a debasement of the difference between physical love and emotional love (indeed, the lines have blurred to the point where we could say that in many cases people assume the following: lust = love), and like Brick, we often find ourselves throwing the word "love" around without ever giving thought to its meaning.

Let me first talk about like, then. To like someone is to feel an emotional attraction to them. When we find joy in someone's presence, we like them. Sometimes this means that our own happiness comes to depend on the happiness of another, and we are natural friends in the Aristotelian sense. (I say natural, here, because in the Divine sense our happiness ought to depend always on the Divine Happiness of others, but more on that later).

One must not like another person, however, in order to love that person. Christ, certainly, loved the entire world, including the money-changers in the temple, enough to sacrifice His life. Yet certainly he did not display a liking for them when he drove them from the temple and overturned their tables. He did not need to desire their company in order to love them.

This is why, as Jimmy Stewart said in Shenandoah, it is important to like someone before you marry them. I can say I love someone, but in what way am I speaking? There are many people whom I love (I hope). They are family and friends, some of them are merely acquaintances, some are brothers and sisters in the faith and some are not. Certainly, I ought to love all men and women, but I am imperfect (again, more on this in a moment). Marriage requires not merely that one love another person, but ideally that you also like that person. You need not like that person all the time, but if you marry someone that you don't like from the outset, are you not playing the part of a fool?

That brings me to something Fr. Rick said at Theology on Tap in November. When asking his mother about her relationship with his then dead father, she told him, "You know, son, there were times I didn't even like your father, and there were times when I'm sure he didn't like me." The point being that, while it may be important to like someone, marriage certainly involves much more. Marriage requires Charity, in the original sense.

Charity is twofold. First, one must make a choice to love. Love is not first an emotion one feels, but rather a choice to do always what is in the best interest of another. Charity is also a grace. God loves us with his Divine Love, and he asks us, calls us, indeed begs us and requires us, to act with the same love towards others, and if we make the Choice to love as we are called, then God grants us the grace to do so with purity of heart and goodwill. We might be charitable without liking a person. Yet look into the eyes, and see the grace of God standing before you. You have been given an opportunity to sacrifice yourself for God - to lay yourself down, in however small a way - just as Christ laid himself down for you. Therefore swallow your pride and revulsion, and Love, as God has loved you.

It is a blessing to be with those whom we like, to find joy in their presence and to know that we are children of God. It is an even greater blessing to receive the grace to love when we do not like, to swallow our resentment, anger, and prejudice, and to do God's will.

There is one choice to make. To fail is to submerge yourself in selfishness. Do not succumb to the lie that what you want is the ultimate good. Sacrifice your life, whether it be for a child you did not want, for a person you do not like, for an enemy, for a friend. Lieg sich, gerne, vor einem Zug hin.

Then you will begin to understand the words:

True love will never fade
True love will never fade
True love will never fade

Potpourri

2008-11-20T15:02:00.000-08:00

Open to Suggestions

I have few enough readers as it is, and so, in the interest of keeping them happy, I shall always remain open to topic suggestions. I like seeing comments, it feeds my vanity and makes me want to continue posting, so I might as well post on topics that you will find interesting enough to reply to. I have a few old xanga posts and facebook notes that I might recycle and update, but I'd like to put down some new thoughts. Help me with ideas.

Mood Music

All music is mood music, really. I don't mean that sort of mood music. What I mean is that music suits a mood, just as many other things do. There's happy music, break-up music, chill music, angry music, self-loathing music, party music, love music... I have rarely found myself in a mood where some sort of music did not appeal to me. This is why I have a hard time understanding people who rarely go outside of a specific genre. True, there is variation within each genre. I tend to prefer rock music - blues rock, folk rock, prog/art rock, hard rock, psychedelic rock, country/southern rock, post-grunge - they all have their place. Sometimes I want the blues of Layla, sometimes I want Linkin' Park, sometimes I want to lose myself in the swirling layers of Yes or Moody Blues, sometimes I want psychedelic lyrics of Cream, or the country twang and beautiful flute of Marshall Tucker Band, or the stripped down, roots rock of Tom Petty, or... okay you get the point.

Beyond rock, I often find myself relishing the calm beauty of classical. I like jazz, though I don't know much about it. I can listen to country, techno, and hip hop (though I'd rarely suggest them or spend money on them.

Coming Up (Whether You Like it or Not)

Reflections on why Obama won, the media bias, the uninformed voter, and the evils of informed voting.

Reflections on "like" and "love". Comments on the notion of a gentleman.

My generation: bad statistics, revivals, secularization, and hope.

And of course, suggested topics will be taken at my own whim.

November Rain

2008-11-12T19:43:00.000-08:00

I actually set out to write this post with a purpose in mind. I was preparing some thought-provoking reflections on cultural trends in my generation and the uselessness of statistics when your sample set is rotten. Well, forget it, the night is too peaceful, and I am too mellow to be direct and serious. I feel poetical.

I'm sitting on my apartment patio, listening to the cold November rain as it falls softly around me. It's a peaceful night, not nearly as dismal as it could be. With a sweatshirt and slippers to keep me warm, my laptop in front of me, and a beer by my side, I find that I have nothing more to wish for. I have to look past my screen to see the halos that ring the yellow streetlamps. There are no stars out tonight... of course there aren't; it's raining; they are all hiding behind a dark curtain, guarding their modesty from the prying eyes of the falling drops.

Strange that the changing of the seasons brings a rush of nostalgia with it. Is it always so? Or is it merely that I have no memories of winter in this new town, and so the gray and rainy nights recall other years and other places. This is not the torturous nostalgia I have had before. The itch to get up and go is not there. A warmth and contentment fills me. Perhaps it is only the beer. Perhaps it is the grace of peace. Perhaps it is the time I have spent with friends, especially this past week.... it's probably the beer, but I hope those others each have a part in it as well.

Some pleasant reflections of times gone by float through my mind, and I think of the toast we created so long ago...

"To first times, last times, and the times we never had."

From the recesses of my mind comes a strange mix of poetry:

Nothing lasts forever
Even cold November rain

Where you lead, I will follow
Anywhere, that you tell me to

We drank a toast to innocence
We drank a toast to time
Reliving in our eloquence
Another Auld Lang Syne

Fortunate Son

2008-11-06T18:07:00.000-08:00

"Some folks are born made to wave the flag,
Ooh, they're red, white and blue.
And when the band plays hail to the chief,
Ooh, they point the cannon at you, lord
...
Some folks inherit star spangled eyes,
Ooh, they send you down to war, lord,
And when you ask them, how much should we give?
Ooh, they only answer more! more! more!"

I know, I know, everyone is talking about the election. Well, I'm gonna get my tuppence in the old man's hat, so deal with it.

A lot of my Catholic friends are just appalled that Obama won. They're angry, and with good reason. Obama's stance on abortion goes against an issue that they hold to be of paramount importance (and rightly so, I might add - I certainly do not mean to equivocate on the issue of abortion). What mildly frustrates me is that most of them think McCain would have been better. Of course we can't know for sure, but in all my admittedly limited understanding, I cannot imagine that McCain would have done anything to stop or even curtail abortion in this country. He was for embryonic stem cell research, which is no more justifiable than abortion. Bush threw the pro-life movement a bone by signing the partial birth abortion ban the year before he was up for re-election, but we would have been lucky to get even such a gesture from McCain. McCain, like almost every other Republican politician (at least at the national level) merely pays lip-service to being pro-life in order to hold onto his "constitchency". He might - might - have nominated supreme court justices who opposed Roe, but I find it hard to believe. The Republican party, on the pro-life issue, has a history of doing just enough to fail, while still convincing people that they actually want to make a difference. You see, they need the pro-life votes to stay in power.

Both candidates were war-mongers. Both candidates were wrong for the pro-life movement. Both candidates supported the bailout. Both candidates were statists of the highest ilk. Both candidates held to the fundamental belief that The State is the thing. Therefore, while I am appalled at Obama's election, I would have been barely less appalled by McCain's. Abortion will remain an issue that comes out only at election time when politicians are scampering for votes, and the American people continue to lose whatever remnants of liberty they hold, while our brothers and sisters die in wars started by our government, for our government's benefit.

Now, devotion to the state and patriotism are two entirely different things, though politicians like to pass off devotion to the state as if it were patriotism. They've done it so successfully for so long that I am half-inclined to let them have their word, and simply to declare myself no patriot. If patriotism means a love of one's country, a love of one's home, a love of one's countrymen, then you might call me a patriot... you might. Then again, you might not. I've no special love for Americans over other nationalities. I mistrust all people equally, and love meeting people regardless of where they are from. If my countrymen are unjust to those who are not my countrymen, it pisses me off, just as it pisses me off when Europeans thumb their nose at Americans and spit on my countrymen, and spew their endless crap about American "cultural imperialism" (please, quit bitching about America - you're the one who decided to wear blue jeans and sandals, we didn't make you, so shut up, wear your blue jeans, stop wearing socks with your sandals, and MYOFB). Therefore, if you must call me a patriot or not-a-patriot, please call me not-a-patriot, to avoid any possible confusion. (Note: I like Europe; I like the Europeans I've met; some Europeans complain not about "cultural imperialism" but about America's tendency to not MIOFB and instead go around playing world police; I have no beef (dead or otherwise) with those complaints).

I have said this before, my loyalties are threefold: God and Church, family and friends, neighbors and the innocent. Beyond this, as Talia said, "This is not our home." And as Riddick said, "Me? I'm just passing through."

And so my reaction to the election is this - I voted my conscience, not the lesser of two evils, therefore my conscience is clear. I pray for God's mercy on myself, my family, my friends, my country, and the world, regardless of who is president. And I know that, regardless of who is president, of what oppression, violence, or horror we face, my duty is to serve God, and in that I find joy.

On the cynical side of things:

A politician's job is to convince you that you are going to like it when he screws you. Because power is about "who does what to whom." People in government like very much to be the "who", but they must first convince you that being the "whom" is a good thing. They do convince you, and so you vote for them, and then they screw you, and like a good scientist, you wonder "will they screw me every time?" And so you vote... again.

The Difference

Runaway Train

2008-11-01T10:42:00.000-07:00

"Wisst ihr? Ich wuerde, fuer euch, mich gerne vor einem zug hinlegen."

This week has been strange in so many little ways. Beauty, sorrow, love, uncertainty, are all closing in around me. The swirling about of my life has not stopped, it has merely moved below the surface. I am surrounded by good things, yet the joys seem darker, more sinister, or at least more fleeting, as if I am standing on the verge of something awful. Danny Torrence is in the hedge maze again, but the bright, daytime sun is growing faint, and there are whispers of a coming storm, of darkness, and of fear. The maze is losing its appeal. I would like very much to be standing in the open again.

But what is real? Is the clear, open path flooded with sunshine and birds and pleasant breezes merely seduction? Is the enclosing forest that pricks our sides with thorns, that wraps itself around us and tries to suck us down into its foul stench merely fighting to keep us from the end? There are two ways out of here... the great escape is merely an illusion - it is the wrong way out.

"...um mich gerne vor einem zug hinzulegen."

Last night I went with my friends to a Latin Mass on the eve of All Saints Day. The solemnity and the reverence of the Extraordinary Form are always overwhelming, but were particularly so last night, with the dark outside the windows, the small congregation in the large church, and the small choir singing the ethereal notes. And I loved those around me. As we filed out of our pew to go forward and receive the Eucharist, I stepped aside to let the four girls who were with me go ahead. It is not much. I do not place much importance on what I did as anything gentlemanly or chivalrous. Only, as I watched my four sisters in Christ go past me, and as I stood behind them, I felt proud - proud to call them my friends, proud to call them my sisters, proud to be able to love them, imperfect as I am. And in that moment the world seemed right. And in that moment
the path I am on seemed light, if only I could walk it with my brothers and sisters, with my blood family and family in Christ. And in that moment I felt that for them, for these four and for so many others whose lives have touched mine, I would gladly lay myself down.

"Seems like I should be getting somewhere/ Somehow I'm neither here nor there."

I don't know where I'm going. I don't know what this year will bring me. My wildest imagination had never predicted what the past month has brought me. So I'll place my right hand on the wall and find my way through the maze. It will take time, but that's life, isn't it?

Hello, World

2008-10-23T17:25:00.000-07:00

It is entirely possible that the distorted musings of my mind are not worth the time you are about to spend reading them. Then again, perhaps they are.

I am a cynic. I have not seen so much of life, but in my time I have seen evil, pain, ugliness, blackness, and hatred. There are many people whom I trust, but I do not trust people. We live in a chaotic and screwed up world, and if we do not recognize that then we run the risk of being sucked into the dark, whirling mass of ungood that surrounds us.

I am a lover. Through the fog of wickedness in which we wander, I have learned to see beyond, to see beauty, to see God, to see love. When I say I am a lover I do not mean in the romantic sense (whether it be literary romanticism or relationship based romanticism). I mean instead that I look around me and feel overcome with wonder at the blessings God has given us. There was a time when the cynic in me would have scoffed at that statement; perhaps the cynic is dying, but I think he is only learning. I love nature; I love people; I love my family, my friends, my Church. I love living, though it has its moments of great trial and pain, though it means that sometimes we must stare evil in the face and not back down, life is still a precious and beautiful gift.

A Warning: I am fond of quotes and allusions, and am likely to constantly be scattering musical or literary references throughout my entries. When people recognize them, I am overcome with joy, and when they do not, I remind myself that I am a pedantic ass, and so I am not downtrodden.

Also: I alternate between overblown attempts at poeticism, and blunt, coarse, direct language. Let the reader beware.

And so let the mind of a madman wander and muse, pondering the great evils in the world and rejoicing over the great beauties of life. I shall write whatever strikes me, and so we begin.