This is the morning after the first frost. The air is crisp and cold, and still. The birds talk joyously about their winter plans, and the leaves crackle when they dive from the trees. They tuck and roll and they dance together, three or four, spinning around and up and down, till they land in bed -- a deep mattress of decaying leaves, where they will sleep away the cold.
There is no thought of death this morning though for weeks the battle raged. The Indian Summer clung tightly to the trees, kept fanning the sun to keep us warm; but now the frost has come and summmer has migrated. Those in Chile will be happy to see him come. But here, finally, the world is at peace with autumn -- the world rests in a contented defeat -- as if this is what it wanted all along.
And this is how I want to feel.
October 27, 2005
October 24, 2005
a book for your winter book list
If you've ever loved Peter Pan by J.M. Barrie, you'll want to secure yourself a copy of Winnie-the-Pooh by A.A. Milne.
The fatal joust
From a conversation in a car, today:
"What did you think of the quote I put on the board?"
"I joked about it with Mom and Rachel -- that you were trying to get me to quit my job."
"Hah. Well, no, that's not exactly how I meant it. I read it in a book. One of the books I'm reading. And then I was watching a show about Sergei, and I'd heard of him. He worked at the UN as vice president of the UN or something. He'd go to countries that were having troubles and make them whole and heal them. He was in Sierra Leone before he went to Iraq. He brought democracy to them. I read that he'd died in the paper a couple days ago, but it was a blurb so it didn't mean much to me. But watching the show, how he was killed in Iraq doing what he really wanted to do. I don't think enough people do what they want to do."
"They do what they think they have to do."
"Yes. They don't follow their passions. I don't think many people do what they really want, because they are afraid to do it. They get stuck on their obligations and what they think they should do, because they're afraid to step out."
The highway is busy at rush hour, and the sidewalk is covered with molding leaves. A storm is calling from a few days away, and one can hear it on the breeze. The skies clear in anticipation.
"Steinbeck wrote that every man battles with greatness, but most lose and become mediocre."
"What?"
"It's not exactly how he says it. I'm paraphrasing it. But he basically says that every person battles with greatness, but that few become great because most people don't want the responsibility. Greatness brings a heck of a lot of responsibility."
The cars ahead stop. And so do the cars behind. A river pauses for a moment. Eyes wandering out the windshield, and the window lowered an inch to sample the air. Eyes unfocused, and clear again, like when a movie is flashing back to the past. A long green field, stretching away, far, probably around the world. The grass probably grows like this, a giant watchband around the world, even under the sea. Sea sponges make their vacation homes in the grass, far from the coral reefs. But the grass stops at the highway. The grass is full of clover; and probably bees, but the road is too large, the window is too far away, too blurry to tell. A viking hefts his wooden shield, levels his lance. His skin must be goosey, exposed like that. And his opponent is a skinny kid, curved like a shrimp. There is no question who will win. The shrimp steadies his lance. This isn't about killing the viking. He won't feel anything, now that he's writing his victory speech in his head. "The great pontificate, lord of the sword!" The shrimp in a pot turning red. Past the butterflies and past his mother's admonishments, he'll charge into grandeur, and crash. The shields will meet and the lances will fall, and perhaps one or the other will bleed. Each will hear their eulogies, as all boys do -- on the walk home -- when they die and become men.
"I've forgotten what my passions are. I've talked to God about it, and I'm asking him to show me again. There are things I enjoy doing, but they're not the sort of thing you make a living doing."
"Like waxing cars."
"Hah. Yea, like waxing cars."
"Did you see that?"
"I wasn't sure I did."
"Those boys were jousting."
"The light is green."
"What did you think of the quote I put on the board?"
"I joked about it with Mom and Rachel -- that you were trying to get me to quit my job."
"Hah. Well, no, that's not exactly how I meant it. I read it in a book. One of the books I'm reading. And then I was watching a show about Sergei, and I'd heard of him. He worked at the UN as vice president of the UN or something. He'd go to countries that were having troubles and make them whole and heal them. He was in Sierra Leone before he went to Iraq. He brought democracy to them. I read that he'd died in the paper a couple days ago, but it was a blurb so it didn't mean much to me. But watching the show, how he was killed in Iraq doing what he really wanted to do. I don't think enough people do what they want to do."
"They do what they think they have to do."
"Yes. They don't follow their passions. I don't think many people do what they really want, because they are afraid to do it. They get stuck on their obligations and what they think they should do, because they're afraid to step out."
The highway is busy at rush hour, and the sidewalk is covered with molding leaves. A storm is calling from a few days away, and one can hear it on the breeze. The skies clear in anticipation.
"Steinbeck wrote that every man battles with greatness, but most lose and become mediocre."
"What?"
"It's not exactly how he says it. I'm paraphrasing it. But he basically says that every person battles with greatness, but that few become great because most people don't want the responsibility. Greatness brings a heck of a lot of responsibility."
The cars ahead stop. And so do the cars behind. A river pauses for a moment. Eyes wandering out the windshield, and the window lowered an inch to sample the air. Eyes unfocused, and clear again, like when a movie is flashing back to the past. A long green field, stretching away, far, probably around the world. The grass probably grows like this, a giant watchband around the world, even under the sea. Sea sponges make their vacation homes in the grass, far from the coral reefs. But the grass stops at the highway. The grass is full of clover; and probably bees, but the road is too large, the window is too far away, too blurry to tell. A viking hefts his wooden shield, levels his lance. His skin must be goosey, exposed like that. And his opponent is a skinny kid, curved like a shrimp. There is no question who will win. The shrimp steadies his lance. This isn't about killing the viking. He won't feel anything, now that he's writing his victory speech in his head. "The great pontificate, lord of the sword!" The shrimp in a pot turning red. Past the butterflies and past his mother's admonishments, he'll charge into grandeur, and crash. The shields will meet and the lances will fall, and perhaps one or the other will bleed. Each will hear their eulogies, as all boys do -- on the walk home -- when they die and become men.
"I've forgotten what my passions are. I've talked to God about it, and I'm asking him to show me again. There are things I enjoy doing, but they're not the sort of thing you make a living doing."
"Like waxing cars."
"Hah. Yea, like waxing cars."
"Did you see that?"
"I wasn't sure I did."
"Those boys were jousting."
"The light is green."
October 18, 2005
Far better it is to dare...
I thought this was pretty apt (which, I've just noticed, is an abbreviation for "appropriate") considering the hike I and a few friends (yes you) took on Sunday.
Thanks for pointing these out again, Azina. You can see the rest of them, which Azina wrote, at her website. Thanks for reading.
"#6
At this point I'm thinking it would be better to be up there with Dave climbing the wrong mountain than to be stuck here making plans about climbing mountains, but not actually climbing any at all. So what if you get all the way up there and realize you're one peak off, at least you've gone somewhere, given it a shot, instead of sitting around making plans that never pan out. Climb a few wrong mountains, eventually you're sure to end up on the right one, and even if not you'll have some great stories to tell of adventures with Dave."
This also reminds me of one of my favorite quotes, which perhaps my friends think I quote too frequently, considering its duration. Our beloved president Theodore said it: "Far better it is to dare mighty things and win glorious triumphs, even though checkered by failure, than to take rank with those poor spirits who neither enjoy much nor suffer much because they live in the gray twilight that knows neither victory nor defeat." Well said. I think I'm going to try again on Sunday. Anyone up for Mt. Si?
Thanks for pointing these out again, Azina. You can see the rest of them, which Azina wrote, at her website. Thanks for reading.
"#6
At this point I'm thinking it would be better to be up there with Dave climbing the wrong mountain than to be stuck here making plans about climbing mountains, but not actually climbing any at all. So what if you get all the way up there and realize you're one peak off, at least you've gone somewhere, given it a shot, instead of sitting around making plans that never pan out. Climb a few wrong mountains, eventually you're sure to end up on the right one, and even if not you'll have some great stories to tell of adventures with Dave."
This also reminds me of one of my favorite quotes, which perhaps my friends think I quote too frequently, considering its duration. Our beloved president Theodore said it: "Far better it is to dare mighty things and win glorious triumphs, even though checkered by failure, than to take rank with those poor spirits who neither enjoy much nor suffer much because they live in the gray twilight that knows neither victory nor defeat." Well said. I think I'm going to try again on Sunday. Anyone up for Mt. Si?
October 15, 2005
Crash
"It's the sense of touch. In any real city, you walk, you know? You brush past people, people bump into you. In L.A., nobody touches you. We're always behind this metal and glass. I think we miss that touch so much, that we crash into each other, just so we can feel something." -- Crash
You want to see this movie. Crash. Rent it.
Or come visit me. :)
You want to see this movie. Crash. Rent it.
Or come visit me. :)
October 9, 2005
The midpoint of Oktober
Seeing as Octoberfest is half way over, I'm posting the first half of the Oktoberfest story Andrea requested. What happens next? You'll know when I know. Enjoy. And any advice is welcome.
-----------
There is a quaint town on the northern slopes of the French Bavarian Alps, named for its benefactress, the Duchess of Pontoof. M'me Pontoof is a ravishing creature with hair so golden, Rapunzel was locked in a room to spin its equal. The Duchess does not age; nor has she ever. Legends tell that her husband discovered her collecting butterflies in the deepest parts of the Forest Noirtier. She was beside Edelweiss, a spring named thus because its color is the scent of that rare bloom. And it is said that the Duchess of Pontoof was made beautiful by this pool. It is told that she was once a homely, calloused milkmaid, but upon pouring her despairing tears into the pool, she was bade wash her face with its color; when she did, the water filled her eyes and she became enchanting, and enchanted. Her eyes turned from brown, to clear -- the color of Edelweiss. Now the Duchess has returned this greatest of favors by one still greater: she has built her estate around the spring, and around her estate has been built a town, named for M'me Pontoof.
Each year a festival is held remembering the day the best-loved Lady d'Edel became beautiful. All throughout the town, in every available square, great striped tents are erected and filled with teeming crowds from throughout the canton. And in these tents, in nearly every one, actually, a bar is built against a back wall; and at this bar are queued the masses. They wait hours to drink, each taking only one pint and savoring it, for in Pontoof, no golden beer is consumed. In Pontoof all beer is like the Edelweiss -- rare, unique, and again, rare. The only beer in Pontoof is beer drawn directly from the spring. And when all the beer is gone, a collective sigh flows about the town, rustling the last autumnal leaves from their perches and hurrying them along to the ground. Upon this annual sign, every citizen and stranger directs their footfalls towards the large tent, striped orange and red alternately, the large tent placed beside the Pontoofian Manor, beside the spring Edelweiss.
It is here, at the bar along the back wall, that each year a very important person is announced: the recipient of the last pint of sparkling beer. For ages this tradition has been repeated. My own father told me of it, and how as a child his father had charged him at his bedside to pray to one day be the lucky man to whom the Duchess of Pontoof presents the last pint of the year. But before you think the Duchess might descend to standing behind a bar in a striped tent doling out beer, you had better know that the Duchess is much more beautiful than that. Her eyes would light the tent, and it might burst into flames, on account of their clarity. They do seem to channel the sun. If one is not careful, when gazing at her, one may find themselves rapidly falling in love. But, to return to the beer; it is her dear friend, the mayor Viktor Von Pontoof, who does the announcing, and the last pint is presented at a masquerade ball which lends one memories of the Carnival at Rome. This ball is days of dancing and cheering and messes of confetti thrown about by the elite, masked revelers -- elite in their social class, not in their talent for frivolity -- capped at the climax by the presentation of the last alcohol imbibed at the festival.
There is only one more thing you must know before we may join current events as they play upon the stage, and it is this: M'me Pontoof is a spinstress. That is all.
We join our hero and our villain on the third night of the ball, the final night, when the important people deem to condescend to the mess the not-so-important-but-elated-to-be-invited revelers have already made. Amongst the company of the important is one rather unimposing being dressed as a musketeer; he trips over his cape and flails his scabbard behind him like a labrador; he is a short fellow, wearing a recent fashion behind his feathered mask: spectacles. This unimposing man is Hans. Hans is to be the recipient of the last pint. He has perhaps not yet comprehended his exaltation to the throne of men's admiration, as he is still apologizing profusely to the other guests, and is still breaking vases with that sword. We must be fair though: Hans has reason to be nervous. He is a simpleton from the town, a watchmaker. He is used to walking with his chin tucked to his chest, and even now, in the midst of this gala, he walks with his eyes fixed on his knees. It has been long since anyone has seen his face, and if they had, they would not remember, for his face is not remarkable. He is on his way to the main ballroom, where the Duchess will soon present him with a pint of blue beer, which Hans is still not sure he has won. Hans never wins anything, you see. He did once win a raffle as a child, but all it gained him was a wooden stick from the treasure chest in his brother's fort -- and the ticket had cost him an amount of silver. When his name was announced by the mayor, Hans stared at the man in disbelief, for reasons we will address before ending this story, but suffice it to say Hans was not one who hoped for fortune's benificience. But here he is, without regard to his doubt, standing before the chair of the Duchess, whose face I cannot discern, so closely do her eyes resemble the Edelweiss. She wears a obsidian mask, and I cannot help thinking of her eyes as jewels adorning a Polynesian volcano. It is as if the myriads of revelers are all standing in line at a museum, to see her eyes and to care nothing for the momentous occasion, or the beer or Hans at all. And then Hans did something that is still talked about in Pontoof, to this day.
Hans, though timid, was not entirely plain. Hans was the sort of fellow who doesn't talk at the bar, but always wins at arm wrestling; he does eat black chilis; and he holds his liquor better than any man you or I have known. And so Hans bent to the ear of the Duchess, then took her hand and together they twirled the length of the ballroom. All the best ladies stepped back a bit, and all the best men stepped nearer to the couple, so attracted are crows to bright shiny objects, whether they be dimes or Edelweiss eyes. The ladies murmurred that the Duchess did not look her usual dignified self on the dance floor. She did not bear herself as a swan upon a pond; no, she did not dance with poise at the hands of Hans. No, she danced like a child on a swing, and Hans was her father pushing her faster and higher and she laughed with delight. Between her laughs, the Duchess attempted to forward some conversation. "You wear spectacles, do you?" she asked. Hans wondered at her powers of observation; "Why yes, you are kind to notice, my lady." She appeared as bemused as he, and continued her theme of interrogation. "And you have begun wearing them recently, have you?" Hans was all politeness. "Well, no, my lady; I have worn them since childhood, my lady." And now she is confused. "But do you wear them in public at all?" He is confused as well. "Yes, yes my lady. I do. I have poor eyes." Hans' poor eyes searched for another topic of conversation. The Duchess was insistent though: "But how do you see when you give your speeches and presentations before the council..." And here her words slipped away unheard, because the song had ended. Hans kindly helped M'me Pontoof to sit. The two of them beside each other cut a dashing figure, with posture perhaps more familiar than one might expect from complete strangers. Hans, always the gentleman, slipped away to acquire the M'me a drink to refresh her for the presentation. A few moments later a trumpet was sounded and a herald entered bearing the last pint of the year, borne upon a tray inlaid with diamonds and sapphires and other gems that sparkled like a crayon box. And still, next to this radiance, the eyes of M'me Pontoof shone like the afternoon sun on a deep blue sea. All eyes watched hers, as the valiant musketeer approached her with a glass of water. He offered it to her and she in exchange, with much fanfare which I am of course leaving out for expediency, she presented him the last glorious pint of beer. The musketeer stood and, facing the Duchess, drank to her health and swallowed the pint in two breaths. As he set the pint back upon the shimmering tray a cheer erupted from the bystanding revelers, the trumpets sounded again, the Duchess smiled, and Hans returned to her side with a glass of water.
-----------
There is a quaint town on the northern slopes of the French Bavarian Alps, named for its benefactress, the Duchess of Pontoof. M'me Pontoof is a ravishing creature with hair so golden, Rapunzel was locked in a room to spin its equal. The Duchess does not age; nor has she ever. Legends tell that her husband discovered her collecting butterflies in the deepest parts of the Forest Noirtier. She was beside Edelweiss, a spring named thus because its color is the scent of that rare bloom. And it is said that the Duchess of Pontoof was made beautiful by this pool. It is told that she was once a homely, calloused milkmaid, but upon pouring her despairing tears into the pool, she was bade wash her face with its color; when she did, the water filled her eyes and she became enchanting, and enchanted. Her eyes turned from brown, to clear -- the color of Edelweiss. Now the Duchess has returned this greatest of favors by one still greater: she has built her estate around the spring, and around her estate has been built a town, named for M'me Pontoof.
Each year a festival is held remembering the day the best-loved Lady d'Edel became beautiful. All throughout the town, in every available square, great striped tents are erected and filled with teeming crowds from throughout the canton. And in these tents, in nearly every one, actually, a bar is built against a back wall; and at this bar are queued the masses. They wait hours to drink, each taking only one pint and savoring it, for in Pontoof, no golden beer is consumed. In Pontoof all beer is like the Edelweiss -- rare, unique, and again, rare. The only beer in Pontoof is beer drawn directly from the spring. And when all the beer is gone, a collective sigh flows about the town, rustling the last autumnal leaves from their perches and hurrying them along to the ground. Upon this annual sign, every citizen and stranger directs their footfalls towards the large tent, striped orange and red alternately, the large tent placed beside the Pontoofian Manor, beside the spring Edelweiss.
It is here, at the bar along the back wall, that each year a very important person is announced: the recipient of the last pint of sparkling beer. For ages this tradition has been repeated. My own father told me of it, and how as a child his father had charged him at his bedside to pray to one day be the lucky man to whom the Duchess of Pontoof presents the last pint of the year. But before you think the Duchess might descend to standing behind a bar in a striped tent doling out beer, you had better know that the Duchess is much more beautiful than that. Her eyes would light the tent, and it might burst into flames, on account of their clarity. They do seem to channel the sun. If one is not careful, when gazing at her, one may find themselves rapidly falling in love. But, to return to the beer; it is her dear friend, the mayor Viktor Von Pontoof, who does the announcing, and the last pint is presented at a masquerade ball which lends one memories of the Carnival at Rome. This ball is days of dancing and cheering and messes of confetti thrown about by the elite, masked revelers -- elite in their social class, not in their talent for frivolity -- capped at the climax by the presentation of the last alcohol imbibed at the festival.
There is only one more thing you must know before we may join current events as they play upon the stage, and it is this: M'me Pontoof is a spinstress. That is all.
We join our hero and our villain on the third night of the ball, the final night, when the important people deem to condescend to the mess the not-so-important-but-elated-to-be-invited revelers have already made. Amongst the company of the important is one rather unimposing being dressed as a musketeer; he trips over his cape and flails his scabbard behind him like a labrador; he is a short fellow, wearing a recent fashion behind his feathered mask: spectacles. This unimposing man is Hans. Hans is to be the recipient of the last pint. He has perhaps not yet comprehended his exaltation to the throne of men's admiration, as he is still apologizing profusely to the other guests, and is still breaking vases with that sword. We must be fair though: Hans has reason to be nervous. He is a simpleton from the town, a watchmaker. He is used to walking with his chin tucked to his chest, and even now, in the midst of this gala, he walks with his eyes fixed on his knees. It has been long since anyone has seen his face, and if they had, they would not remember, for his face is not remarkable. He is on his way to the main ballroom, where the Duchess will soon present him with a pint of blue beer, which Hans is still not sure he has won. Hans never wins anything, you see. He did once win a raffle as a child, but all it gained him was a wooden stick from the treasure chest in his brother's fort -- and the ticket had cost him an amount of silver. When his name was announced by the mayor, Hans stared at the man in disbelief, for reasons we will address before ending this story, but suffice it to say Hans was not one who hoped for fortune's benificience. But here he is, without regard to his doubt, standing before the chair of the Duchess, whose face I cannot discern, so closely do her eyes resemble the Edelweiss. She wears a obsidian mask, and I cannot help thinking of her eyes as jewels adorning a Polynesian volcano. It is as if the myriads of revelers are all standing in line at a museum, to see her eyes and to care nothing for the momentous occasion, or the beer or Hans at all. And then Hans did something that is still talked about in Pontoof, to this day.
Hans, though timid, was not entirely plain. Hans was the sort of fellow who doesn't talk at the bar, but always wins at arm wrestling; he does eat black chilis; and he holds his liquor better than any man you or I have known. And so Hans bent to the ear of the Duchess, then took her hand and together they twirled the length of the ballroom. All the best ladies stepped back a bit, and all the best men stepped nearer to the couple, so attracted are crows to bright shiny objects, whether they be dimes or Edelweiss eyes. The ladies murmurred that the Duchess did not look her usual dignified self on the dance floor. She did not bear herself as a swan upon a pond; no, she did not dance with poise at the hands of Hans. No, she danced like a child on a swing, and Hans was her father pushing her faster and higher and she laughed with delight. Between her laughs, the Duchess attempted to forward some conversation. "You wear spectacles, do you?" she asked. Hans wondered at her powers of observation; "Why yes, you are kind to notice, my lady." She appeared as bemused as he, and continued her theme of interrogation. "And you have begun wearing them recently, have you?" Hans was all politeness. "Well, no, my lady; I have worn them since childhood, my lady." And now she is confused. "But do you wear them in public at all?" He is confused as well. "Yes, yes my lady. I do. I have poor eyes." Hans' poor eyes searched for another topic of conversation. The Duchess was insistent though: "But how do you see when you give your speeches and presentations before the council..." And here her words slipped away unheard, because the song had ended. Hans kindly helped M'me Pontoof to sit. The two of them beside each other cut a dashing figure, with posture perhaps more familiar than one might expect from complete strangers. Hans, always the gentleman, slipped away to acquire the M'me a drink to refresh her for the presentation. A few moments later a trumpet was sounded and a herald entered bearing the last pint of the year, borne upon a tray inlaid with diamonds and sapphires and other gems that sparkled like a crayon box. And still, next to this radiance, the eyes of M'me Pontoof shone like the afternoon sun on a deep blue sea. All eyes watched hers, as the valiant musketeer approached her with a glass of water. He offered it to her and she in exchange, with much fanfare which I am of course leaving out for expediency, she presented him the last glorious pint of beer. The musketeer stood and, facing the Duchess, drank to her health and swallowed the pint in two breaths. As he set the pint back upon the shimmering tray a cheer erupted from the bystanding revelers, the trumpets sounded again, the Duchess smiled, and Hans returned to her side with a glass of water.
October 6, 2005
The future latent in the people
Returning to Les Mis, one entire chapter later, I was knocked off my socks by this little paragraph. I couldn't sleep for another thirty minutes. I really like it, and I'll explain why after you read it.
Part 3, Book 1, Chapter 12:
[The narrator is talking about the Parisan street kids] "They cannot read. So much the worse. Will you abandon them for that? Would you make their misfortune their curse? Cannot the light penetrate these masses? let us return to that cry: Light! and let us persist in it! Light! light! Who know but that these opacities will become transparent? are not revolutions transfigurations? Proceed, philosophers, teach, enlighten, enkindle, think aloud, speak aloud, run joyously towards the broad daylight, fraternise alphabets, proclaim human rights, sing your Marseillaises, sow enthusiasms broadcast, tear off green branches from the oak trees. Make thought a whirlwind. This multitude can be sublimated. Let us learn to avail ourselves of this vast combustion of principles and virtues, which sparkles, crackles, and thrills at certain periods. These bare feet, these naked arms, these rags, these shades of ignorance, these depths of abjectness, these abysses of gloom may be employed in the conquest of the ideal. Look through the medium of the people and you shall discern truth. This lowly sand which you trample beneath your feet, if you cast it into the furnace, and let it melt and seethe, shall become resplendent crystal, and by means of such as it a Galileo and a Newton shall discover stars."
One of my heart's rationalizations for helping the poor and oppressed (other than the sheer morality of it, and Jesus' insistence upon it) is that if, for example, all of Africa was given the same level of opportunity we in the "developed" world are offered, that continent would throw off its misnomer, "The Dark Continent", and quite probably supercede our innovation. It's not like Africans are stupid! The library of Alexandria and the University at Timbuktu are both African institutions. There is proof that African's landed in the Americas long before they were named for Amerigo, or by Columbus. If they were only given a chance to breathe and think instead of having to scramble for the scraps of our tables, they might just change the world and change our cliche lives. If this sand which we trample beneath our feet and upon which we offer our libations were allowed to feed themselves, were stirred up by education, were allowed to self-determine the course of their lives without the spectre of AIDS hung by a string above their heads, perhaps, through this replendent crystal, a Mandela and an Achebe will discover stars.
Part 3, Book 1, Chapter 12:
[The narrator is talking about the Parisan street kids] "They cannot read. So much the worse. Will you abandon them for that? Would you make their misfortune their curse? Cannot the light penetrate these masses? let us return to that cry: Light! and let us persist in it! Light! light! Who know but that these opacities will become transparent? are not revolutions transfigurations? Proceed, philosophers, teach, enlighten, enkindle, think aloud, speak aloud, run joyously towards the broad daylight, fraternise alphabets, proclaim human rights, sing your Marseillaises, sow enthusiasms broadcast, tear off green branches from the oak trees. Make thought a whirlwind. This multitude can be sublimated. Let us learn to avail ourselves of this vast combustion of principles and virtues, which sparkles, crackles, and thrills at certain periods. These bare feet, these naked arms, these rags, these shades of ignorance, these depths of abjectness, these abysses of gloom may be employed in the conquest of the ideal. Look through the medium of the people and you shall discern truth. This lowly sand which you trample beneath your feet, if you cast it into the furnace, and let it melt and seethe, shall become resplendent crystal, and by means of such as it a Galileo and a Newton shall discover stars."
One of my heart's rationalizations for helping the poor and oppressed (other than the sheer morality of it, and Jesus' insistence upon it) is that if, for example, all of Africa was given the same level of opportunity we in the "developed" world are offered, that continent would throw off its misnomer, "The Dark Continent", and quite probably supercede our innovation. It's not like Africans are stupid! The library of Alexandria and the University at Timbuktu are both African institutions. There is proof that African's landed in the Americas long before they were named for Amerigo, or by Columbus. If they were only given a chance to breathe and think instead of having to scramble for the scraps of our tables, they might just change the world and change our cliche lives. If this sand which we trample beneath our feet and upon which we offer our libations were allowed to feed themselves, were stirred up by education, were allowed to self-determine the course of their lives without the spectre of AIDS hung by a string above their heads, perhaps, through this replendent crystal, a Mandela and an Achebe will discover stars.
October 5, 2005
This picture is nearly perfect
Since our existential world allows us to find meaning in anything, I'd like to point out that the chicken and the barge, before which he struts, match. Click on the image to see the larger picture.
October 3, 2005
Who is Cambronne?
I was interested by Hugo's reference to a clay pipe owned by Cambronne, so I looked him up. There's quite the controversy surrounding his words upon being defeated at Waterloo. The French hold that he said, "The guard dies; it does not surrender." Apparently other accounts hold that he uttered merely, "Merde!" (No, you look it up). There are other sides to the story, but all that is not quite as interesting as the gentleman who, in 1932, wrote to The Times (London, not New York). He informed the editor that he had, in his childhood, known an old German General who relayed to him that it was in fact he, the old General, who had captured Cambronne, long before the Old Guard was broken by the Prussians. It's fascinating. Read the letter here.
To dare; progress is at this price.
If you have a copy of Les Miserables close at hand you may wish to read Part 3, Book 1, Chapter 11. I'll quote the pertinent portion for you:
"To dare; progress is at this price.
All sublime conquests are, more or less, the rewards of daring. That the revolution should come, it was not enough that Montesquieu should foresee it, that Diderot should preach it, that Beaumarchais should announce it, that Condorcet should calculate it, that Arouet should prepare it, that Rousseau should premeditate it; Danton must dare it.
That cry, 'Audace', is a Fiat Lux! The onward march of the human race requires that the heights around it should be ablaze with noble and enduring lessons of courage. Deeds of daring dazzle history, and form one of the guiding lights of man. The dawn dares when it rises. To strive, to brave all risks, to persist, to persevere, to be faithful to yourself, to grapple hand to hand with destiny, to surprise defeat by the little terror it inspires, at one time to confront unrighteous power, at another to defy intoxicated triumph, to hold fast, to hold hard -- such is the example which the nations need, and the light that electrifies them. The same puissant lightning darts from the torch of Prometheus and the clay-pipe of Cambronne."
Well, dear reader, what do you dare? Will you carry humanity any closer to Shalom -- to completeness, to right relationships with environment, self, humanity and with God? Will you dare?
"To dare; progress is at this price.
All sublime conquests are, more or less, the rewards of daring. That the revolution should come, it was not enough that Montesquieu should foresee it, that Diderot should preach it, that Beaumarchais should announce it, that Condorcet should calculate it, that Arouet should prepare it, that Rousseau should premeditate it; Danton must dare it.
That cry, 'Audace', is a Fiat Lux! The onward march of the human race requires that the heights around it should be ablaze with noble and enduring lessons of courage. Deeds of daring dazzle history, and form one of the guiding lights of man. The dawn dares when it rises. To strive, to brave all risks, to persist, to persevere, to be faithful to yourself, to grapple hand to hand with destiny, to surprise defeat by the little terror it inspires, at one time to confront unrighteous power, at another to defy intoxicated triumph, to hold fast, to hold hard -- such is the example which the nations need, and the light that electrifies them. The same puissant lightning darts from the torch of Prometheus and the clay-pipe of Cambronne."
Well, dear reader, what do you dare? Will you carry humanity any closer to Shalom -- to completeness, to right relationships with environment, self, humanity and with God? Will you dare?
October 2, 2005
oktoberfestic
Just a momentary update: the Oktoberfest story had stalled like a butterfly in a tailwind, but tonight I was grabbed by a thought and the train is back on the trestle.
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