by standing

 

He is just a boy.

 

Everyone where I go, I see knees; they’re as natural as trees for a mountain man.  Here, in a glowing room, surrounded by the delicate sounds of conversation, laughter, casual greeting and the airy smooch of European kisses, I make my way through a field of knees.  I’m hardly noticed.  Tube socks hiked high, bowtie askew, a tiny blazer gracing the bony seams of my shoulders, my plastered hair gleams, catching the flicker of intimate lighting. I eat sweet bread and stare.  Looking forward, I see knees; looking upward, I see faces distorted by the prominence of chins.  From their saucers, they sip stimulants and barbiturates, peppering me with inadvertent crumbs and the cold, building drip of condescension.  I’m too young to taste these things and I’m adorable, running under busy hands, shielding my head with a napkin.

 

Now, knees are what I know of people.  Still, I’m becoming more aware of voices captured in a muted range of lofty tones – from the bass growl of a fat man to the nasal pinch of my nanny.  I’ve also heard how eyes offer a glimpse of a person’s eternal nature and their daily state of being. From my limits, I would not know.  But I notice the nervous twitch of a man before giving a speech or approaching an attractive woman.  And I’ve heard that people who shake their knees and fidget at the dining table are shaking out all the good luck stored up for their lives, like rattling change in a pocket - full of deep insidious, repressed or un-kosher meaning. 

 

They say people change.  In a few years, I’ll face pubescence and hemlines – or their historic rise to shortness.  It’s a universal rite of passage.  But still, knees will remain that which I know best.  Both because I am small and because I am caught up in what’s familiar.

 

I push my glasses up the pudgy bridge of my nose, adjusting my eyes for obstacles moving around me.  I am hardly noticed but they smile and continue as special guests of the Host.  Look at their clothes – the friar’s robe, the general’s slacks, the king’s culottes, and the painter’s spotted trousers. 

 

But I want to see more than just knees and hemlines, I want to be that rare man in full, looking out the window, eyes peering over the skyline of downtown at night, even over the Cascades, the Catskills, the Andes.  Then, like the rare few who stand on the highest peaks, I may see God in a new, life-giving way.  I’ll say things that haven’t been said, think things that repackage life.  Hegel commands this salon but I am overwhelmed by the dialectic.  Still, when heard before in different classes, it’s all the same thing - missing the forest for the knees.  They tickle my tummy and I run to the next room.

I am a boy and at best I giggle, watch, mimic and pretend, confused by, in awe of, bothered by these giants.

—-

—

It’s cooold outside.  Well, it’s in the high 20′s.  And that’s frigid for a native Californian.  It’s raining too.

Matt11:28

OK, USA!

Here’s a good discussion: click.  Lots of voices but worth your while.
Why were opponents of the war with Iraq insistent on UN approval when they often condoned military action in Kosovo (i.e. Michael Moore)?  Milosevic would lose to Saddam in a who’s-done-worser-things contest.  That just seems to throw principle out the window.  Just seems more like party allegiance.

Or just read the article…here.  These be important times!  In terms of character, Joe Lieberman would be a good president except that he’s such a weakly man in front of the camera.  John Edwards actually offers legitimate, principled ideas but it just won’t happen… he’s offered the most specifics in terms of policy; it’s impressive.  And man! he keeps it generally positive.  Watch him in debates and read the stuff he offers.  You may not agree with him but he’ll at least gain your respect.  Kerry is all discombobulated; he keeps changing his message.  Howard Dean is more divisive than Bush (and Bush is a pretty divisive figure)!  I’m disturbed that he finds it gleeful if/when things go badly for troops or public safety.  Out of every major candidate, he’s the only one I can’t imagine visiting troops to a warm reception; even Hillary Clinton was well-accepted.  One thing most Democrats (DLC) and all Republicans will agree on is that Howard Dean leading the United States is a scary thing. 

He just has a really active base of voters that are pushing the debate to the left. 

He says that America isn’t any safer since 9-11.  Then why did he support the effort in Afghanistan?  He says he would’ve wholeheartedly supported an attack on Iraq with UN approval.  I don’t see how UN approval makes the US any safer.  It isn’t a consistent message.

Imagine Hussein on trial, facing the evidence of mass murder, etc.  That would overshadow any election… and the facts would look very bad for Dean (who said he supposes it’s a good thing that Saddam is removed… they’ll keep playing soundbites).  If you’re a Democrat, trust me, you don’t want Dean to run against Bush.  If you’re a Bush fan, you’ll root for Dean in the coming primaries.  If you’re a Democrat, Wesley Clark is your best shot at beating the President.

But the democratic party is all mixed up these days.  For better or worse, Bush is the only one who’s offered a consistent vision/theme for foreign policy. 

I just don’t see how it’s the disaster (to quote) that some people (Dean) are making it out to be.  Even with UN troops and support, do we really think attacks would end?  Shoot, all it takes is hatred and will to ambush people; daily, people get mugged in alleys all across the US.  Rebuilding will take years and will cost lives; that’s the case no matter what your process or who your president.  That’s history speaking.

So, who knows how Iraq will turn out.  But we’re talking about building a democracy out of nothing!  Sure, there are oil contracts and the like, but since when was a free-market such an evil thing?  Name one democracy that doesn’t allow for such investment.  A lot more money is going to go to the Iraqi people now than when Saddam was siphoning dough through the UN Oil-for-Food program.  Their overall food and water infrastructure is so much better now.  To the resentment of many, women have more rights (read about how they form a huge part of the Iraqi border patrol).  That’s all still something to be proud of.

And exit strategy?  Man, we’re still in Kosovo and South Korea(!); if a stable Iraq is the goal, there may not be an exit strategy.  There are only options to lessen the American financial and military burden.  But a democracy in the heart of the Middle East!   

It bothers me when I hear people speak of the left as being for the people and the right as being for special interests; there are special interests on all sides!  That’s just politics!  NPR had a great piece following the evolution of a well-meaning local politician; it was amusing and disturbing.  In that world, it takes a lot of compromise to get anything done – that’s either really disillusioning or well, reality.

——

 Breaking Away (Kathe Kollwitz)

—

horizon

When it rains
We are all the same person
Staring doe-eyed
Through ghostly reflections and
Cars passing hard
In a hurry.

When it’s cold
We are caught laughing,
Warming hands near
Bonfires of books
Loving and vanity.

When we wake
It’s midnight -
Caught in the salty
Webbing of
Living inertia.

——

Grief in Gaza (??)

—-

To Add:

Maybe it’s sad but politics aren’t really about the big picture or the long-term.  Back when Mandela was pushing for nationwide suffrage, the Afrikaaners insisted that black Africans just weren’t educated enough to deserve a vote.  Mandela replied that when it comes to voting, most people simply vote for one issue that they hold most dear.  The farmer – regardless of race – will vote for the man who offers the biggest subsidies or a free cow to every yeoman.  It’s seldom been about facts, it’s always been about promises.

It’s just life again.  Even in our own lives, how often do ideas/beliefs and facts really matter?  Oftentimes, it’s fine to learn just enough about our reasons to love/hate or believe/doubt God or Republicans or Democrats or romance or our neighbor’s windy stories.  The full story is usually just too long.  And there are too many full stories.  I mean, I don’t want to know which fertilizer really has the best chemical compound blend, I want the one with pretty wrapping and lots of commercials on TV.  And in the end, I don’t even buy fertilizer.

So how much of life is really about truth?  Not as fact but as daily reality… not much.  We’re all caught up in the momentum of all the stories that shape our view of what’s real.  Hope, both under God and under the press of daily living, is all about promises; promises are all about possibility.  So, we ride the wave and we’re moving, and as long as you call it Forward, we’re happy.  Well, I’m happy.

Matt11:28

my magdalene

I want medals
Commemorating those
Nights we spoke
As if
The same citizens
Of an understanding love
Were present.

We circled wagons
Holding ground
Like soldiers
Hell-bent
On gripping fear and
Thinking yesterday.

You held the line
Like a cutting wire
Repeating across
A landscape barren,
Used and unhoped for.

And soon,
Breaking through -
Shameful words
Brush, tease
And loosen
Bonds that keep us
Wholehearted. 

———

Paulo Garreto on the Cover of Vanity Fair

——–

winter

Antarctica marks a new age of exploration and icy intrigue.  Snowy peaks and the slow crawl of glaciers like the hand of God, move deliberately, grip the past, press it firmly forward.

The storm blows a frigid wind and it makes us shiver.  In our tents, we nibble on bones like Neanderthals, teeth chattering sounds like ants at work.  We are bundled deep within our parkas, cheeks pink and cute, toes blue and numb.

Our days are marked on a glossy calendar of John Muir and his life’s legacy, trees and half-domes and things that are beautiful but do not last.  Things that are fearful, like big rigs and urban sprawl, are inevitable.

So, we are here in the cold, warming hands by a blue chemical fire.  During the day, we dig in search of truth, hoping it’s to be found in slowly churned layers.  When I was a child, I remember a story from church.  Supposedly, a petroleum hunt went so far deep that ungodly sounds and shrieks rose up to the fear of working men.  I even remember a badly manipulated tabloid cover with a demon face, chalked up in the plumes of a gaseous cloud.

Zippered up, covered warmly, we live restricted.

We eat out of cans – peas and powdery sausages hidden under pop-tops.  At night, the winds are shrieking.  During the day, we get lost in the flurries.  It is frustrating to live here but fortunately, we get consumed with work and the daily grind robs much feeling.  We mark our days but ultimately, none of us knows how long we’ll be here.         

The snowcats are a godsend.  Roaring like tractors, their diesel coughing gets us everywhere we need to go.  But really, one place is as good as the next. 

I was once lost, left staggering knee-deep.  Hands shaking, I shielded my eyes in search of a familiar landmark, something rare in an unvaried place.  Everything was white, foreboding and even majestic.  The building cold was harsh and lonely and looking skyward, I saw nothing but blue.  I thought it was much like heaven – far and mysterious, unfriendly to most men. 

It is ominous to stumble on workers from the past, frozen and trapped in a quiet, confused moment.  They are like warriors, carved and hidden in the Great Wall.  When the dissident stands before a rolling tank, the world stops and listens because forceful men take hold of the kingdom.  I wonder if we are the tank and salvation is the man. 

Here, few things are easy.  But in the cold, things will last; life is a constant.

——–

boy near cincinnati, ohio  (John Vachon)

Matt11:28

Toro!  Toro! 

Alternately daring and effeminate, he stands center-stage, absorbing the undulation of a thousand cheers.  Adam does his prissy dance, pony-tail covered neatly with a little black hat or something resembling Mickey ears. 

Toro!  Toro!

He is in the arena, facing a most temperamental rhinoceros.  She is mocked by a rain of jeers; she is old and angry.  The heavens are thick with moisture, but above this spectacle, the clouds part, bringing an eerie beam of limelight.  Under the sun, released from her cage, she is confused and restless, unaccustomed to the flash of lights and the drunken smell of circus humanity.  Not far off is the man, walking steadily toward her, a fake smile giving way to a mischievous grin.

And now he is brave.  So he calls out her name and sprints around her.  Silly cartwheels eliciting laughs and applause, he pumps his fist and that is his hello.  She is a wounded creature as children call out her name rhymed wittily.  Her body is riddled with popcorn.  As Adam dances, he inches closer, whispering mean things.  All machisimo; he’s been told to be this way and at that moment, he’s regrettably unkind but yet feels a powerful virility flashing.  If we were to peel the iris and look deep into pupil, we’d see him holding his boot over the head of another, a stomping fascist’s primal, prurient pleasure.  But she has had enough and a puff of anger sounds through her nostrils.

And now he is running.  He is in trouble because he has pushed too hard and given too little thought.  His is now a hollow laugh and with a final cartwheel, he gives her space and runs toward the rafters.  But she is in pursuit, her thick hide wrinkled and tested, dust clouds kicked into a crowd-coughing fog.  Rumbling and ambling toward cornered predator-turned-prey, the look in her eyes is unapologetic because she was gentle but it has come to this.  He tries to flee with a casual air but in truth, he runs for his life, eventually backed against a busty cardboard ad.  For his transgressions, Adam must pay and with her haunches coiled, she launches forward to skewer man for every mean word and moment of unfeeling.  The world watches and gasps – all the noise of affected concern; but this is what they’ve wanted. 

And now he is strong.  Ha!  He jumps aside and watches her plow through the wall and into the first row, wreaking havoc yet nimbly avoiding the women and children.  It is a scene captured perfectly by the excited sounds of a mariachi band.  Like a bucking bronco, she rights herself kicking and with wood snapping, bottles breaking, she runs to center ring.  Now, the show’s tempo is a hyperventilating heartbeat and the crowd goes wild!  Man against beast – an old story.  She tucks her head low and runs ahead, tripping on her own feet, tumbling forward all clumsy.  In turn, his escapist somersault goes awry and he lands square on his head.  Two beasts of burden lay prostrate and distant, enveloped by a brutal cheer. 

And now he is weeping.  He is sorry for it all.  Churros and candy pelt the ground as the crowd boards the bus.  Staring up at clouds closing in on the day’s event, he shrugs as his hands wander the near-ground, looking for a round-eared hat.  Flicking her ears, puffing her nostrils, she’s unbroken; she was goaded into battle and sighs that it wasn’t fair.  Her anger gives way to resignation.  In pain, catching breath, counting bruises, two enemies rest quiet and alone.  This dance is a dangerous business.

Toro! Toro!

———-

Stravinsky at Work

—

Too much introspection is childish but not enough is mindless.  The past few days have slowly changed something.  I’ll keep pushing hard, setting real and big goals.  But I won’t forget character in the process.  Without it, there isn’t a whole lot to make up a man.  There are things like honesty amidst opposition or optimism when crap hits the fan… but it may be enough to wake up in the morning with a desire/drive to be good.  To really be a good man.

I met a clever cynic today.  She fancied herself hip and world-wise.  Some people just take and give nothing, living without risk, giving very little to the world of thought or the world of bread/hunger.  Pretty and smart, she is ugly and lonely.

—–

A favorite:

Thickfreakness

 …Matt11:28

Under the Vine

 

It’s the leviathan, weaving her way

Past rock formations.

The dean of the cloister,

The truant officer.

 

You’ll never catch me,

See.

 

The world came forth at the flick of your wrist.

The word came forth with a sneeze.

You raised your hand to wipe your brow,

Life slipped out.

 

Dogs pant for charity whiffing,

Sniffing for scraps from your diner.

It’s the alley that’s living

And I’m buried behind

What is

Read all over –

A bleeding zebra or a drop

In an Angeles pail.

 

Rich but ungrateful,

I’ll cook hearty in hesitant’s stew.

I’ll leap with the heat -

Tasting a smidgeon

Of sanctification.

 

Chewed on, hurled on

A distant shore:
Learning to live proudly,

Cosmically asunder. 

———

——

a good man

From a fluffy cloud, black goggled eyes look down.  And expressively frown.

 

Morning stretch and you’re brand new.  Hair mussed, plastered every which way, you’re awake but for the heavy brown bags that pull your face down, weighted with yesterday’s gloom and doom.

 

Off to the mines you go, awake at the crack of dawn, looking out a dark window, sipping motor oil, living in the butt of America.  A joke at 7, you were bald at 12.  Born with three precious strands, a little Job born to good grief.  Your youth was lost to the laughter and pointed barbs of friends.

 

You could’ve been a contender.  You were born of resilience and dreamy hope.  Nobody whiffed a kick as often; you were heroically bad.  Tossing Lucy a nickel, you could’ve heard advice.  But blinded by stars, you pitched a good game, only to have the homerun snot knocked out of you.

 

Marcy secretly loved you and Patty was butch and Lucy was just beastly.

 

It’s Monday and you don your hardhat and pull on a striped yellow shirt, all backward.  Life is mean; you woke one morning to find your cattle and children gone.  But you look at the curly redhead, sitting at the table, milk on the stove, sleepy eyes smiling.  She hands you a lunch pail and in the transfer, you wrestle with bootstraps, lifting yourself a little higher.  Lifesavers for rings, walking out of a rusty trailer, you see the sun, the lightness of being. 

 

Kicking dust on your way to the bus, you whistle a tune Linus once taught you.  Maybe you’ll kick one through the uprights just yet.  Winning is a matter of timing.   

 

Ears flapping, swooping down from the clouds, a laughing Red Baron proves himself a faithful friend again.

 

——-

It was a panicked morning.  Hitting the snooze, I accidentally nudged the hour button, advancing the clock forward.  Ten minutes later, I flipped out.  When I realized what happened, I couldn’t help but laugh.  A fun start to a long day.

 

———


Currently looping:

Yours, Mine, Ours 
 

Matt11:28

drunk stumbling for serendipity

Life boils down to choices.  Tonight, I made just one.  Split me down the line and you’ll see Jeckyl waving happy, Hyde fuming pissed and pulling hair.

I’m an ironman to refuse what winked.

Some things dangle ready, even asking for the taking.  And you would and could but don’t.  For a day it would be good.  But you’ll only leave it half-eaten and battered inside places where even angels fear to tread.  And you could roll your eyes here but really, I could but don’t.  Two chairs were surrounded by envy, yolk and albumin laughing, flirting.  But know that driving home, I’m not steadfast and sure.  I slam the wheel and think sad thoughts for missed opportunities, however fleeting but toothsome they likely are.  The wrong thing doesn’t last, the right person is worth your while.  This would’ve been it: hurt things for the sake of tasting; bruise things for pretty sake… that’s what the fellas say I should do but I shook my head cooly. 

I’ll shake my fist at my Maker and say, hey, I do the right thing.  I did, even.  But what, I expect a pat on the back?  A cookie?  Damnation.  I’m not far from it, sure.  But I’m not there either.  Preachy sap isn’t for me but damn, damn, damn.  That’s what He tells me.

We’re all capable of a whole lot of things.  That’s a truth, magnificent and bitter.

Baptism (Ray Isaac)

——–

<wink>

——-

Here’s a good story from an old issue of the Atlantic.

 click Matt11:28

chasing a slow train

 

Powerful hand gestures, carefully timed.  Raised right, sweeping left, heavy stones rolled away with aplomb.

 

I saw a fuzzy haze and faded out, hearing the same words with mumbled intent.  Head tilting forward, bouncing lightly, I wrestled like Jacob with eyes that cripple.  So, I’m a little lame.

 

Slicked back hair catching heaven’s halogens.  Beads of sweat wiped casually with his practiced pacing.  Six Flags flap over his eyes, his oratory climbing and falling to thrills.  Staring off into high corners, he shakes his head slowly for influence, flipping through tissue paper pages.  Dear friends, hackneyed and true are bedfellows.  Easy, breezy, Japaneezy.

 

Layers of noise, baked between melting sheets of euphoria.  Slack-jawed and hurting, I eat my drowsiness knowing I envy them.  You do too.

 

I dreamt of a snowman, breaking in two, thorax and abdomen sent tumbling down the mountainside.  Institutions gaining momentum, growing unwieldy and fat, headed for the masses who sit on their asses, drinking hot cocoa for two long millennia.  And then, smash!

 

My eyes opened and there it was.  Light refracting through St. Paul’s hand in a fragile colored window.  Red beams hitting my hands slapping a wake-the-hell-up. 

 

Man, it was beautiful and through the applause muffled by sleepy weepiness, I felt close to salvation.

 

I fell asleep in church, dreaming of that perfect friend with a dimpled smile.  But sometime then, I felt an angel pass me by.  I was nudged but I simply nodded and drifted again.  And sleeping, dreaming, losing myself temporarily to a better place, I missed my time.

 

 

Three Graces (Hung Liu)

 

——-

 

So, I’m all moved in.  It’s a nice one-bedroom with a cool balcony view.  Lots of trees and a beautiful winding running trail but twenty yards from my front door.  The marina is just two blocks away and it’s nice to catch a breather out by the water after a good run. 

 

I’m thankful and glad to be here.  Now’s my chance to make things happen. 

 

 

Matt11:28

 

 

Pie in the Sky

 

It starts with a slow droning rumble and you feel it right in the gut.  It’s like Ebola on a Red Bull high, spreading from one cell to the next, each vibration a sign of momentary bliss, the long due comeuppance of sunlight post-rain.  It jiggles like an ocean, each wave breaking across a cold sand shore where tiny feet will pitter-patter giggling to the chase of parents, lifted high onto shoulders to see farther than before.  Or liken it to the clicking wake of channel surfers, finally settling on the local station.  And the editor paints a picture of a world gone awry, looking at you all fiery and unstable because they’re all mad.

 

Trapped in the folding jowls of an old man laughing.

 

Charles isn’t in charge!  And who is.  He doesn’t know what the kids are up to, staying out late, getting in trouble. 

 

The rumbling rises like the yeast of good German lager, the canned humour foaming right to the top, built to spill but just kissing the brim.  This is repeated, marked by breaks for Depends and Pow-Pow-Power Wheels.  He spills his drink and red flannel becomes a darker flannel and where’s all the fun now?  It’s right there, laughing, all smirky confident like Hannibal and his stupid plans that always come together.  All when Face decides to jump ship and work on the Love Boat.  Liquored up, living vicariously - head tilted, eyes closed, rumpled suit for a body blanket.  Station identification giving way to a loud, vainglorious chhhh.  It’s sad.

 

See Kaczynski nodding off

To late night reruns

A week before

His flight into the hills.

 

—————

 

 

————

no stone unturned

 

One man

Like Hangman

Life in the hands of

A bad guesser.

 

So God is real

And so went the

Moon and the stars

Rams smashing heads

Impressing the ladies

And yet he won’t make up

His mind.

 

Hale-Bopp passes a

Smidgeon too close

But we’re happy knowing

Our unbilical buttons hold

Our rears and the world

In place:

   Like Melville’s mysterious

   Doubloon.

 

———-

 

 

Hotel Lobby (Hopper)

 

————

 

Grace? 

 

I’m not as introspective as I used to be but through all the lows and highs, grace is worth keeping fully in mind; it’s what keeps me from slipping too far as I’ve lately been pulled to do.  The pulpit’s a long ways off for me and those childhood dreams are dim but still, it’s all somewhere ahead.  Convictions may stay the same but people change and in turn, those beliefs are subject to evolving vantage points.  For now, I’m walking.

 

Life boils down to choices and I’ve drifted a bit from the bedrock ideals that’ve always kept me in line.  Yet, I’m in a good spot and with lots of ambition and a simple faith, I’m hoping for the best of lives.  But the thought of seeds falling among thorns comes to mind – the worries of this world and the pursuit of wealth smothering the life and purpose out of men. 

 

Think too much and you’re left dressed all nice with nothing much to show for it.  So, I smartly salute and move on, hoping to make God and Teddy Roosevelt (It is not the…) proud.  It really is grace in the end.

 

  Matt11:28

 

Common Sense About War and Peace

War, as they say, clears the air, and sometimes the mind. It isn’t true that all wars are just. But it’s even less true that all wars are unjust. The “legal” and absolute elimination of war is, in practice, more likely to lead to injustice than to justice. We sometimes hear it said that the world has now “advanced” to such a point that we can “eliminate” war. We may, however, have “advanced” to a point where we can no longer fight for our freedom—or perhaps, will not. This is not progress. A war college is more likely to be an instrument of real peace than “peace studies.” After all, a mere absence of fighting or violence is not peace.

Augustine, of course, never said that war could be wholly eliminated. He said the opposite: that we would never arrive at such a point. The reason had to do with our wills, not our politics. And if Augustine is right, it means that the “elimination” of war or its possibility may not at all mean universal justice but universal tyranny, in which a physically or morally disarmed populace could not defend itself against the powers or ideology of unlimited state control. Political boundaries are not arbitrary. They define what goes on inside of them. Virtue too needs protection.

Had certain wars not been fought and, more importantly, won, much of the world would already be subject to greater tyranny than it is. Indeed, much of the disorder in the world today is the direct result of (sometimes ancient) wars lost. The people most likely to believe that war is no longer necessary are those most likely to be subject to the next power that detects the intrinsic weakness in a country with this mentality.

The position that “peaceful means” can always be found in any situation sometimes has the uncomfortable result of extending present tyrannies. Not fighting often kills more than fighting. The conflict between the diplomat and the politician frequently has to do with the question of when action must replace persuasion, not because there is anything wrong with persuasion, but because there are some people who simply won’t be persuaded.

We underestimate the tenacity of pride and greed. Some people who “won’t be persuaded,” however, will be more willing to change their minds if power is assembled against them. Still others won’t be persuaded until power is used successfully against them. Victory as such does not prove the cause is just, nor does it prove that it is unjust. But it does make a difference both for justice and for injustice.

Police and armies are potential enemies of freedom. They’re also actual enemies of tyranny. The question is, who uses them? For what? The reason why we have police and armies is not because someone imposes them on us. It’s because we understand that without them our own internal and external order will not hold. Force is a last resort, but it is a resort—an alternative—without which we’re changed against our will.

We live, it sometimes seems, in a kind of utopianism that maintains that a “new man” has already been formed. This new man is not subject to sin or greed or ambition. He can set up a world in which no one will seek anything unjust or uncontrolled. Therefore, he’s setting this world up. Therefore, it exists. Therefore, those who worry about the quality of the world the utopians propose are “irrational.” Courts are being established to try those who oppose it. Ironically, the prospect for a worldly peace is proposed in the name of “rights,” “dignity,” and “values.” These are very modern words, very fuzzy.

“Rights” have come to mean the individual’s demand to do whatever is necessary for him to achieve his end, which he defines himself. A “value” has no content. It’s a blindly chosen end for the attainment of which “rights” are ordered. “Dignity” has come to mean that which I give myself, that which you must respect. I cannot be subject to anything outside of myself. I choose my values and demand that my “rights” be respected, whatever they are.

If these words come to be the program of “social justice,” then the force of the state backs them up as the promotion of “dignity.” Every word in our social vocabulary is transvalued, and common sense is not particularly common. Indeed, if what I’ve been saying is correct, it doesn’t even appear as good sense. Our tradition says that we’ll always have “wars and rumors of wars.” We can deny this tradition or accept its truth and prepare for its possibility. We’re not forbidden to lessen its possibility by acting. Eternal vigilance is still the price of liberty.

Rev. James V. Schall, S.J., teaches political science at Georgetown University.

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I’m so out-of-the-loop.  But it’s nice to be back in school again… albeit, an entirely new experience.  It’s learning of a different sort.  I’ll save the sordid details for later. 

Moving onward; God is good and I have faith that He’s leading me to good places.  Growing and changing… I guess we all are.  I’m walking and trying to push hard; these are the times that burn men’s soles.  Ain’t it good for a man to dream?

Given a moment to breathe, I like what I see.

Matt11:28 

passing batons on the road to damascus

 

You are hurtling, headlong and wide-eyed.  Locomotive blasting pistons, whistle screaming a roar.  Straight through the tunnel, John Henry pounds his way; blurry mallets sending chips of gold, silver and granite up to ceiling, down to ground.  Flickering light behind you, the dark descending in a lead heavy cloud. 

 

Sounds from below.  Writhing horns, all slightly off-key, grasping for ankles, sniffing for a shoelace.  The grasping is gruesome and you’re pushing onward, high-stepping, grasping for God’s own hand or silver lining, the flapping strap of a sandal.  Neck sore from staring at the Sistine:  leaning lazy and naked, resting on a cloud.  So serious but none too reverent: pull my finger.  His earnest, holed hands reach for a falling people.  Hungry hands all around.

 

Sounds from above.  The ringing twinkle, the music of spheres.  From ours, it’s the hymn of indifference; from his, a clean staccato – my ways our not your own. 

 

Chicks in a bind.  Or actually, in need of it.  He’ll gather us up in outstretched arms, tired like Moses, watching the battle below.  Girded by the things we sneer over.  Things like goodness and kindness and mercy.  The bad guy who turns out to be so good; Darcy divine, secretly kind.

 

It’s just too good to be true.  And I hurtle, headlong and defiant as ever.  Hammers flying, layers smashing.  Making your way through the mountain, no need to strain Nebo’s dead-end eyes.  With every clang and spray of dust, beating against the goads.  The roar of steam and the steady drum of pistons, drilling away, a little slower but without the sweat and tears.  You’re pushing through, heart giving way – all for rodents sprinting down the track.

 

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Met some great folk today.  One girl, Sheena (named after Easton, really) was particularly refreshing.  She was young but carried herself with such intense dignity.  Her smile is genuine and her character runs deep.  With some people, you just look and know.  We laughed and talked serious and fun all at once.  And when you enjoy a conversation over Lifesavers, you’re reminded of what it means to really have faith and to live life in a pure, earnest way.  Bright, well-read but ever outward-looking and full of hope… that’s a great thing to see.  It pricks me too.

 

Just a really beautiful person, raised well by God and family.  The Preacher Master Sergeant’s daughter, the girl who sings like Yolanda Adams and reads Hurston and TouchDown Jake.  I may not bump into her again but for one long day, we were good friends.  Here’s to hoping the best for her.

 

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Four Trees (Schiele )

 

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Dinner and a nap sound just about right.  Watch this.

 

Matt11:28