Alright, more on Merton, it seems, and nothing on Dominicans. Okay, not really so much on Merton, either, truth be told, but it starts with him.
In the same part of the same book, the Sign of Jonas, where Merton deals a bit with his struggle between intellect and something like what he construed as 'real work' or the 'right path' to communion with the Divine at the time, he mentions his correspondence with some Carthusians. For Merton the Trappist Cistercian, the spirituality and life of the Carthusians seems to have seemed higher, purer, better. At the time he wrote that particular entry, there was no Carthusian monastery in the US (by the early 1950s, however, there was a small Carthusian Foundation, followed by construction of the Charterhouse of the Transfiguration in Vermont, completed by 1960), and Dom Porion suggested to Merton from France that the idea of an American Carthusian charterhouse was an unlikely one at any point. The Carthusian rule is the most austere of all the orders, and Americans, well...
Echoing Merton's respect for the Carthusian charisms, Robert Speaight, visiting the monastery at the time for a performance, remarked to Merton that 'half the people he knew at at some time or other tried to become Carthusians.' Merton reflects upon Dom Porion's letter that 'I saw at once very clearly how literally the contemplative vocation is taken by the Carthusians...It reminded me of my own longing for solitude, interior purity, perfect silence, a life for God alone. I haven't prayed in months as I have been praying since I read that letter...but burning up with the desire of God and with shame at my unmitigated interior activity and the futility of so much that I do.'
Now, part of Merton's frustration would arise in anyone committed to any sort of a mission, whether religious or secular. He had to do all sorts of administrative things for his publishing and for the monastery, he had to proofread, revise, order books for his monastery, 'barter' books with other communities, and he had to read and answer fan mail, as the world's most famous Catholic, the world's favorite monk, and some kind of unintentional poster boy for religion and the contemplative way in the new age. And as he said, 'the theology of contemplation does not mix well with fan mail. Also it is difficult.' These are all rather worldly things, 'noisy' things - even the theology of contemplation - compared to the encompassing silence he wished to cultivate and live inside - a silence to which it seemed the Carthusians had more ready access.
And this is what I am getting to: this apparent human need to have a hierarchy, rather than an egalitarian taxonomy, of gifts. The Tibetan Buddhists are better than straight-up Mahayana, because theirs is a solidly monastic tradition. The priest is better than the devoted father of three, because he is celibate. A Poor Clare is better than a Franciscan sister, because she has renounced all possessions, not 'merely' embraced poverty. The choir nun is better than the lay sister, and Carthusians are better than Cistercians, who are better than Benedictines, who are better than Dominicans. And any religious who wears a habit is better than a religious who doesn't.
I see a lot of this, and a whole lot of the latter. Vocations are booming, too (okay, relatively speaking) in more 'traditional' orders part of whose tradition includes centuries-old garb. There are good and bad reasons to be drawn to orders part of whose rule includes habits, but as someone with a lot of experience with clothing, history of clothing, anthropology of clothing, psychology of clothing, and philosophy/semiotics (yes, there is such a thing) of clothing, I can understand and relate to feelings on both sides. In part this whole issue relates to the 'traditionalist' stream in Catholicism in general, and I'm not not going to get into that specifically. Everyone's spirituality is their own, and it's up to the individual and his conscience to figure out what his path is.
But there is a sound bit of logic on the part of apostolic or active (i.e., out in the world doing stuff; not solely contemplative) orders for not wearing 13th-century clothing. When the Franciscan and Dominican orders were started, the clothing reflected the clothing of the common people of the time. It was meant in part as a bridge between the brother or sister and the population they were called to serve among. Yes, a vow of poverty is indeed one of the vows of every religious, so even the many who came at that time from aristocratic backgrounds would have renounced their rich robes in favor of simple garments, but the aim is greater, and more communal, than that.
Clothing is on the surface (forgive the pun) completely trivial. It's just fabric and some fasteners, shoes, maybe some jewelry. But what we wear conditions how people perceive us. And it does so in an instant, rather than gradually, as through diction, accent, mannerisms, vocabulary. Clothing can also condition our own behavior: imagine just your own gait in an evening gown and heels versus in shorts, a baggy tee-shirt and 'flip-flops.' And the average person, consciously or no, does treat people differently based on their clothing. Whatever we might wish the ideal be, in reality clothing is always an easily readable declaration of something.
So, an ungreat reason for wanting the habit (and, certainly, for focusing overmuch on that aspect in assaying an order's 'worth' or level of spirituality) involves this declarative aspect. It can signify, and be read as, an unbridgeable distance between the person in it and everyone else, between the sister and the world. A habit neither confers nor proves holiness or inaccessibility, but it can easily be perceived that way, most particularly in environments hostile to or ignorant of, religion, religious life, or spirituality. For those populations, whether they are university students, counseling patients, or clients of a soup line, a habit can be a barrier to natural and vital human interaction, to a feeling of community - which is for anyone suffering any kind of trial what is most precisely and urgently needed.
Merton indirectly brings up another motive for desiring the habit. He talks in his later work about his juvenile and facile contempt for all things worldly, which he believed in his immaturity had led him to a larger contempt for the world, for everything outside obvious spiritual pursuit. I get the notion in some things I read that the habit provides for some this clear delineation between, or defense against, the things of the world: the truly hideous, the rightly renounced, rather than the merely mundane, as with Merton's jejune stance. It's not outward-directed, and it's not ego. Rather, it is maybe some psychological bulwark against worldliness, a prayer and hope in itself that the wearer remain true, a 'full-body sacramental' to aid the wearer in maintaining full-time devotion. From this perspective, it's more like a soldier's letters from home pressed against his heart than the suit of armor he wears on the outside.
Then, too, there is an interpretation that shares something in common with Queen Victoria's perpetual mourning gear after the death of her beloved husband. She would hardly have been inclined to go out dancing and carousing had she simply changed her clothes, but the widow's weeds she cleaved to for forty years linked her outer and inner life. Again, it's not so much meant as a barrier as an invitation: read this, know this - and you will know a great deal about who I am, what I am, today and tomorrow. The problem that arose with Victoria's extended mourning, however, was that many of her subjects had experienced a great many more deaths in their families than she had (Catholics can easily recall the family of Thérèse of Lisieux, who lived in the same period and were middle class, not underprivileged, and yet lost four children within just three years and for the first year of her life feared the sickly Thérèse was next). Victoria's focus on mourning rather than the 'pastoral,' public duties of a monarch, served to alienate her from her subjects. It's not a great parallel, since her reclusiveness was as great an obstacle as her arch attire, but my point is that for apostolic, active work that is not confined to religious or exigent circumstances, or serving the already-faithful alone, a habit can be confusing, distancing, and make the wearer seem more like a symbol than a rich, complex, fault-filled and human individual to whom the suffering and struggling can turn in a lonely moment of crisis and pain.
And I think any smart person will tell you that reaching out in love to the wounded and needy is the highest pursuit of anyone who even suspects there may be something greater than solecism and material gain to strive for.
Sunday, June 29, 2008
Saturday, June 28, 2008
There's no Escaping Them, Part II
So, as the last posting recounted, Thomas Merton the young Trappist had just become a sub-deacon, was undergoing troubles in his writing, and had come across an issue of La Vie Intellectuelle, which happens to have been written by a Dominican, a thinky Frenchman by the name of Sertillanges.
At this time Merton was struggling with something I, too, have always intermittently struggled with: essentially a distrust of la vie intellectuelle. It's not like Merton didn't read, and it's not as though I don't. But in certain people inclined that way there is a very real awareness of the aridity that can arise by being given overmuch to cerebration. Intellect can give rise to intellectualism. Philosophy can lead to sophism. One can know all there is to know about the first three years of the first plastics-manufacturing plant in Guangdong -- and know nothing about love, or living, or laughter. One can be esteemed by one's peers as the most brilliant and erudite exponent of ____, and yet remain a cripple in all other areas. In life, that is.
Merton seems always to have been terribly uneasy with his vocation as writer. He realized how many he touched, he realized it was a gift, and that he was thus obliged to exercise it - and yet his particular spirituality made the intellectual aspects of his writing hard for him to reconcile with his faith, his desires, his ideal of the man of God:
'Every book I write is a mirror of my own character and conscience. I always open the final, printed job, with a faint hope of finding myself agreeable, and I never do.
There is nothing to be proud of in this one (speaking of his Seeds of Contemplation), either. It is clever and difficult to follow, not so much because I am deep as because I don't know how to punctuate, and my line of thought is clumsy and tortuous. It lacks warmth and human affection. I find in myself an underlying pride that I had thought was all gone, but it is still there, as bad as ever. I don't see how the book will ever do any good. It will antagonize people, or else make them go around acting superior and stepping on everybody.
Laughlin tells me a book club is taking it and advertising it as a "streamlined Imitation of Christ." God forgive me. It is more like Swift than Thomas a Kempis.
...the book is cold and cerebral.'
Now, some of that can read to modern ears unfamiliar with the larger picture of Merton, as reminiscent of the self-flagellation in print of medieval saints, whose 'autobiographies' were constrained by social and ecclesiastical realities as much as by the lack of modern psychological perspective. Merton's auto-critique here is, taken in the broader context, about his fear of excessive intellectualism and its effects on others. He is trying to lead others into contemplation, a union with God in the heart, and he is scared his vital message will be obscured by 'cleverness' and rhetoric, which will have the opposite effect from that intended. He is humble, yes: no one in his right mind would wish to be called the 'new Aquinas' or 'this century's Aristotle,' but it's far, far from pathological insecurity. It is only recently that humility has come to be perceived as a vice.
Anyway, Merton finds much of sound value in the little book. It is in many ways a handbook; it's not, despite the similarity of titles, something like Hannah Arendt's A Life of the Mind. And, being by a Dominican/Catholic/Christian/believer, it views thinkiness and writing, for those thus endowed, as vocations, as a means of and responsibility toward using one's (God-given) gifts in service to God and man.
Which is something Dominicans and Jesuits are not just good at, but comfortable with and schooled in. Other orders, other faiths, people with different histories -- well, it can be a tricky road. Most ethical traditions teach the importance of giving, whether as corporal acts of mercy, or standing up in the face of injustice, or giving materially, as with traditions of philanthropy, alms, tzedekah, and zakat. Compared with, say, the extraordinary giving of Miep and Jan Gies or Mother Teresa or Dorothy Day, it can be difficult for some people to believe a philosopher, a thinker - or, for that matter, a Carmelite or Tibetan Buddhist monastic pray-er, might be as worthy as these individuals. In rigidly secular circles, the latter groups are dismissed altogether, as either charmingly benighted or possibly obscenely self-indulgent.
Which brings us back to Thomas Merton, who didn't want to be self-indulgent but feared that the nature of his work might always be thus. In his handbook, Sertillanges advises that the body is not inseparable from the mind, and insists (sounding rather Benedictine, I might add) that work, sleep, silence, and proper eating all play a part in cultivating the whole person necessary to such a pursuit. If one is properly to exercise this gift, one must exercise also other disciplines: detachment, simplicity, ample reflection, note-taking, etc. In Sertillanges' schema, right ordering of the whole of one's life and one's mind results in an intellectual life which is neither all-consuming, nor shallow, nor sterile, nor incompatible with spirituality or the contemplative life.
Merton, however, while seeing the great practical wisdom of the book, recoiled and wondered what John of the Cross would have to say about all this. He felt he could never reconcile the two -- but perhaps someone like Maritain (une vie intellectuelle, bien sûr!) might be able to. When Sertillanges decrees that the man who has just come from physical labor is like a wounded man, should be respected and cared for, Merton demands to know What about John of the Cross, and his 'labor' in prison in Toledo? Surely he emerged from his cell 'comme un blessé' - and with the Canticle and the Dark Night stuffed in his clothes!
His concern is largely, as I interpret it, the same as mine: a fear of losing humility in some sort of elegant proportion to using the intellect. Merton relents and admits the two paths may not be irreconcilable - but it seems that he still feels he would in some way be choosing to 'be' Jacques Maritain in a sense when what his heart really seeks is the direct mystical union between 'God in His Oneness and not broken up into all His shadows' of St. John of the Cross. He doesn't really feel he can have it both ways, but he confesses, 'the truth is, there is room for both. In what proportions is there room for them in my life? That'll work itself out in practice.'
The truth is, I love Merton. And ask ten different Catholics, ten different Buddhists, and ten different 'Buddhist' Whole Foods customers, what they believe about Thomas Merton, and you'll get thirty different answers, possibly. He can no doubt express it best:
"I will be a better Catholic, not if I can refute every shade of Protestantism, but if I can affirm the truth in it and still go further. So, too, with the Muslims, the Hindus, the Buddhists, etc. This does not mean syncretism, indifferentism, the vapid and careless friendliness that accepts everything by thinking of nothing. There is much that one cannot 'affirm' and 'accept,' but first one must say 'yes' where one really can. If I affirm myself as a Catholic merely by denying all that is Muslim, Jewish, Protestant, Hindu, Buddhist, etc., in the end I will find that there is not much left for me to affirm as a Catholic: and certainly no breath of the Spirit with which to affirm it."
And I think it is this effervescent, radiant, expansive 'Yes' that is at the core of any true religious, and any true vocation. Merton was afraid of losing that Yes if he wandered too far into the cerebral, while at the same time he felt no risk to it by embracing the genuine beauty he could see elsewhere.
I still didn't get to the Dominicans and their intimidating 'balance' (which is my perspective, not their expression), but I'm sure they'll follow me again, if not to the next posting, then the one after the bit about vicious Australian reds that destroy the esophagus in one swallow...
At this time Merton was struggling with something I, too, have always intermittently struggled with: essentially a distrust of la vie intellectuelle. It's not like Merton didn't read, and it's not as though I don't. But in certain people inclined that way there is a very real awareness of the aridity that can arise by being given overmuch to cerebration. Intellect can give rise to intellectualism. Philosophy can lead to sophism. One can know all there is to know about the first three years of the first plastics-manufacturing plant in Guangdong -- and know nothing about love, or living, or laughter. One can be esteemed by one's peers as the most brilliant and erudite exponent of ____, and yet remain a cripple in all other areas. In life, that is.
Merton seems always to have been terribly uneasy with his vocation as writer. He realized how many he touched, he realized it was a gift, and that he was thus obliged to exercise it - and yet his particular spirituality made the intellectual aspects of his writing hard for him to reconcile with his faith, his desires, his ideal of the man of God:
'Every book I write is a mirror of my own character and conscience. I always open the final, printed job, with a faint hope of finding myself agreeable, and I never do.
There is nothing to be proud of in this one (speaking of his Seeds of Contemplation), either. It is clever and difficult to follow, not so much because I am deep as because I don't know how to punctuate, and my line of thought is clumsy and tortuous. It lacks warmth and human affection. I find in myself an underlying pride that I had thought was all gone, but it is still there, as bad as ever. I don't see how the book will ever do any good. It will antagonize people, or else make them go around acting superior and stepping on everybody.
Laughlin tells me a book club is taking it and advertising it as a "streamlined Imitation of Christ." God forgive me. It is more like Swift than Thomas a Kempis.
...the book is cold and cerebral.'
Now, some of that can read to modern ears unfamiliar with the larger picture of Merton, as reminiscent of the self-flagellation in print of medieval saints, whose 'autobiographies' were constrained by social and ecclesiastical realities as much as by the lack of modern psychological perspective. Merton's auto-critique here is, taken in the broader context, about his fear of excessive intellectualism and its effects on others. He is trying to lead others into contemplation, a union with God in the heart, and he is scared his vital message will be obscured by 'cleverness' and rhetoric, which will have the opposite effect from that intended. He is humble, yes: no one in his right mind would wish to be called the 'new Aquinas' or 'this century's Aristotle,' but it's far, far from pathological insecurity. It is only recently that humility has come to be perceived as a vice.
Anyway, Merton finds much of sound value in the little book. It is in many ways a handbook; it's not, despite the similarity of titles, something like Hannah Arendt's A Life of the Mind. And, being by a Dominican/Catholic/Christian/believer, it views thinkiness and writing, for those thus endowed, as vocations, as a means of and responsibility toward using one's (God-given) gifts in service to God and man.
Which is something Dominicans and Jesuits are not just good at, but comfortable with and schooled in. Other orders, other faiths, people with different histories -- well, it can be a tricky road. Most ethical traditions teach the importance of giving, whether as corporal acts of mercy, or standing up in the face of injustice, or giving materially, as with traditions of philanthropy, alms, tzedekah, and zakat. Compared with, say, the extraordinary giving of Miep and Jan Gies or Mother Teresa or Dorothy Day, it can be difficult for some people to believe a philosopher, a thinker - or, for that matter, a Carmelite or Tibetan Buddhist monastic pray-er, might be as worthy as these individuals. In rigidly secular circles, the latter groups are dismissed altogether, as either charmingly benighted or possibly obscenely self-indulgent.
Which brings us back to Thomas Merton, who didn't want to be self-indulgent but feared that the nature of his work might always be thus. In his handbook, Sertillanges advises that the body is not inseparable from the mind, and insists (sounding rather Benedictine, I might add) that work, sleep, silence, and proper eating all play a part in cultivating the whole person necessary to such a pursuit. If one is properly to exercise this gift, one must exercise also other disciplines: detachment, simplicity, ample reflection, note-taking, etc. In Sertillanges' schema, right ordering of the whole of one's life and one's mind results in an intellectual life which is neither all-consuming, nor shallow, nor sterile, nor incompatible with spirituality or the contemplative life.
Merton, however, while seeing the great practical wisdom of the book, recoiled and wondered what John of the Cross would have to say about all this. He felt he could never reconcile the two -- but perhaps someone like Maritain (une vie intellectuelle, bien sûr!) might be able to. When Sertillanges decrees that the man who has just come from physical labor is like a wounded man, should be respected and cared for, Merton demands to know What about John of the Cross, and his 'labor' in prison in Toledo? Surely he emerged from his cell 'comme un blessé' - and with the Canticle and the Dark Night stuffed in his clothes!
His concern is largely, as I interpret it, the same as mine: a fear of losing humility in some sort of elegant proportion to using the intellect. Merton relents and admits the two paths may not be irreconcilable - but it seems that he still feels he would in some way be choosing to 'be' Jacques Maritain in a sense when what his heart really seeks is the direct mystical union between 'God in His Oneness and not broken up into all His shadows' of St. John of the Cross. He doesn't really feel he can have it both ways, but he confesses, 'the truth is, there is room for both. In what proportions is there room for them in my life? That'll work itself out in practice.'
The truth is, I love Merton. And ask ten different Catholics, ten different Buddhists, and ten different 'Buddhist' Whole Foods customers, what they believe about Thomas Merton, and you'll get thirty different answers, possibly. He can no doubt express it best:
"I will be a better Catholic, not if I can refute every shade of Protestantism, but if I can affirm the truth in it and still go further. So, too, with the Muslims, the Hindus, the Buddhists, etc. This does not mean syncretism, indifferentism, the vapid and careless friendliness that accepts everything by thinking of nothing. There is much that one cannot 'affirm' and 'accept,' but first one must say 'yes' where one really can. If I affirm myself as a Catholic merely by denying all that is Muslim, Jewish, Protestant, Hindu, Buddhist, etc., in the end I will find that there is not much left for me to affirm as a Catholic: and certainly no breath of the Spirit with which to affirm it."
And I think it is this effervescent, radiant, expansive 'Yes' that is at the core of any true religious, and any true vocation. Merton was afraid of losing that Yes if he wandered too far into the cerebral, while at the same time he felt no risk to it by embracing the genuine beauty he could see elsewhere.
I still didn't get to the Dominicans and their intimidating 'balance' (which is my perspective, not their expression), but I'm sure they'll follow me again, if not to the next posting, then the one after the bit about vicious Australian reds that destroy the esophagus in one swallow...
Those Pesky Dominicans Return -
and just where you'd least expect them...
To begin, here are some of the books I'm reading right now: Chesterton's Aquinas bio in a double volume with his Francis, Josipovici's On Trust: Art and the Temptation of Suspicion, Rancière's Hatred of Democracy, the Dalai Lama's The Good Heart, Jean-Luc Nancy's Dis-Enclosure: the Deconstruction of Christianity, and Ratzinger's Truth and Tolerance: Christian Belief and World Religions. Apart from the Chesterton, which is very chatty, 'personable,' and inviting, the rest are more, well, I take time off. With different things: with the Chesterton, with poetry (a lot of Jorge Guillén at the moment),
a slim, early volume by Eco on aesthetics in the Middle Ages and, I just decided today when I lay down for a nap, Merton's The Sign of Jonas, which I probably haven't read since I was 17 or 18.
Now, why there is no fiction in there, either as a primary reading or as 'relief,' is that I can't do with a novel what I can do with poetry or non-fiction, which is to say stop and start wherever and whenever I please. In fact, even with language textbooks, as long as you have a good base already you can go forward and backward, practicing just the dative case one day and the past dubitative-abilitative mood the next. A good novel consumes the reader to the exclusion of all other books until it is sated; a bad one merely bores and is tossed away - and then the reader is back where he started in either case.
And at the moment I am enjoying this profligacy, so no novel right now.
But back to Merton.
As I said, this particular book I haven't read in many years. It is five years of Merton's daily journal early in his vocation just before and after his ordination, an it was interesting (in a manner now completely unshocking to me) that I picked it today, as just last night I had written to a friend just starting a blog how sometimes I become frustrated with what I would call the 'definitional' issues of the medium. It is not at all a diary, though a personal blog does, or can, share attributes with that form. It's not the same as even a completely open op-ed column, since if the blog is truly non-commercial/personal, the sense of writing for/to one's audience is naturally different - if the writer even considers the issue of audience at all.
For me, certain topics seem clearly too boring to subject others to (not that I don't sometimes ignore this concern altogether), some too emotional to discuss in a (potentially, at least) public space, some too heavy or controversial to feel right mixing them in with postings about shoe organization and exboyfriends' irksome proclivities. Then, too, there is the idea of coherence of the whole, coherence of voice, something which has bedeviled me to the point of not posting anything at different times, because the stuff I was writing about wasn't 'bloggy' enough in my view. I have no idea how to address this, because worrying about it overmuch defeats one of the points of personal weblogs, which is that sense of freedom the medium shares with diaries, but which distinguishes it from even the most unrestricted columns in the paid world. Minimally, a columnist would have to find a way to unify that week's concern with the voice and the stance that come through the column as a whole. More typically, the subject itself would have to appear clearly congruent with the other topics in the series.
But back to me.
I'm not a columnist (despite any sartorial similarity to Peggy Noonan in the above; I'm just running out of photos and my mother insists upon 'seeing your pretty face' every so often). Any sense of wishing a consistent voice or outlook or stance is my own preoccupation, comes from my own meditations on why anyone would be writing one of these things in the first place, and a desire to make it 'earn its keep.' The reason I started to write a blog was as a discipline, to make myself write regularly. The reason I was told to write a blog is the same as with anyone who has demonstrated evidence of writing ability: people tell you that since you can write, you should write; in fact, you should 'be a writer.'
Which, as those less reactionary among us are all too aware, is something altogether different than merely being able to write. And it is not solely a matter of discipline: being able to expatiate endlessly on the differential merits of various wardrobe-organizational systems is not the same as being able to write 500 pages on the social history of wardrobe-organizing systems, nor certainly 500 more on the history of railroad building in Japanese-occupied Manchuria.
And yet there is overlap: those who taught themselves to read, those who spent their childhoods in books, read books about books and books about words, those to whom language comes easily and those for whom a well-turned description is as alluring as a well-turned ankle, clearly have much in common with those who spend lifetimes capturing their own or others' lifetimes in print. Even if not Writers, they can certainly be called writers, without any need of scare quotes to emphasize their non-professional status. I look at it this way: my exhusband was and is a musician. He can do other jobs, he has done other jobs; like all of us, he has various different abilities. But his gifts as a musician are so clear, so profound, that they are, I would argue, constitutive of who he is, his self, his way of being in the world, such that one reveals much of substance to say about him 'he is a musician,' the copula there doing what it is has the power to do but seldom does.
But back to Merton.
As I said above, I enjoy being able to open books and start reading at whatever page I happen to land on. It doesn't always work so well while in school, I admit, but I'm not in school, and I like the way it works much of the rest of the time. In cases of postmodern history and historiography, it works very, very well, I must say, as I get to miss the introduction wherein the same list of the same secondary sources is tiresomely trotted out to ensure the reader understands just how thoroughgoingly postmodern the coming exegesis of trends in kitchen appliances in postwar Bavaria is going to be. I like skipping that bit and getting right to the riveting parts about the evolution in backsplashes and cupboard-pulls.
Anyway, not that Merton has exhausting prefaces, or cites much Gramsci, Derrida, Butler, or Homi Bhabha, but part of my enjoyment in reading this way, at least with certain types of material, is to imagine why I'm being given what I'm being given right then. It's often shocking, and always productive. I tuned in when Merton has just become a subdeacon, and I had to go back a few pages to find out what he was referencing when he referenced his current experience with Sertillanges' La Vie Intellectuelle. It turns out (a few pages earlier, which is one of the downsides of this reading method) that he received a copy during this time, when he was really struggling with writing what became The Ascent to Truth. He got stuck a lot, he wrote a good deal he was completely unhappy with, but spending time with Sertillange had on him 'the effect that Dale Carnegie's advice might have had on a despondent salesman.'
Now, I've loved Merton forever. He taught me invaluable things, led me in all sorts of meaningful directions, and I have to say a good deal of that was due to the personal tone of much of what he wrote. I do love struggling with prickly authors and thorny texts at times, and in my weaker moments I can take great delight in the recondite and the recherché, but we're all human, and it is only the deeply, universally human expressed in the works of great novelists, poets, memoirists, and diarists that speaks directly to the heart, and results in a staggering convincement of the soul, rather than a gradual assent via logic.
***Because this is already too long for a blog posting, I'm going to leave this with 'logic' as the last word in the body, since that is surely a one-off, and I should savor it!
To begin, here are some of the books I'm reading right now: Chesterton's Aquinas bio in a double volume with his Francis, Josipovici's On Trust: Art and the Temptation of Suspicion, Rancière's Hatred of Democracy, the Dalai Lama's The Good Heart, Jean-Luc Nancy's Dis-Enclosure: the Deconstruction of Christianity, and Ratzinger's Truth and Tolerance: Christian Belief and World Religions. Apart from the Chesterton, which is very chatty, 'personable,' and inviting, the rest are more, well, I take time off. With different things: with the Chesterton, with poetry (a lot of Jorge Guillén at the moment),
a slim, early volume by Eco on aesthetics in the Middle Ages and, I just decided today when I lay down for a nap, Merton's The Sign of Jonas, which I probably haven't read since I was 17 or 18.Now, why there is no fiction in there, either as a primary reading or as 'relief,' is that I can't do with a novel what I can do with poetry or non-fiction, which is to say stop and start wherever and whenever I please. In fact, even with language textbooks, as long as you have a good base already you can go forward and backward, practicing just the dative case one day and the past dubitative-abilitative mood the next. A good novel consumes the reader to the exclusion of all other books until it is sated; a bad one merely bores and is tossed away - and then the reader is back where he started in either case.
And at the moment I am enjoying this profligacy, so no novel right now.
But back to Merton.
As I said, this particular book I haven't read in many years. It is five years of Merton's daily journal early in his vocation just before and after his ordination, an it was interesting (in a manner now completely unshocking to me) that I picked it today, as just last night I had written to a friend just starting a blog how sometimes I become frustrated with what I would call the 'definitional' issues of the medium. It is not at all a diary, though a personal blog does, or can, share attributes with that form. It's not the same as even a completely open op-ed column, since if the blog is truly non-commercial/personal, the sense of writing for/to one's audience is naturally different - if the writer even considers the issue of audience at all.For me, certain topics seem clearly too boring to subject others to (not that I don't sometimes ignore this concern altogether), some too emotional to discuss in a (potentially, at least) public space, some too heavy or controversial to feel right mixing them in with postings about shoe organization and exboyfriends' irksome proclivities. Then, too, there is the idea of coherence of the whole, coherence of voice, something which has bedeviled me to the point of not posting anything at different times, because the stuff I was writing about wasn't 'bloggy' enough in my view. I have no idea how to address this, because worrying about it overmuch defeats one of the points of personal weblogs, which is that sense of freedom the medium shares with diaries, but which distinguishes it from even the most unrestricted columns in the paid world. Minimally, a columnist would have to find a way to unify that week's concern with the voice and the stance that come through the column as a whole. More typically, the subject itself would have to appear clearly congruent with the other topics in the series.
But back to me.
I'm not a columnist (despite any sartorial similarity to Peggy Noonan in the above; I'm just running out of photos and my mother insists upon 'seeing your pretty face' every so often). Any sense of wishing a consistent voice or outlook or stance is my own preoccupation, comes from my own meditations on why anyone would be writing one of these things in the first place, and a desire to make it 'earn its keep.' The reason I started to write a blog was as a discipline, to make myself write regularly. The reason I was told to write a blog is the same as with anyone who has demonstrated evidence of writing ability: people tell you that since you can write, you should write; in fact, you should 'be a writer.'
Which, as those less reactionary among us are all too aware, is something altogether different than merely being able to write. And it is not solely a matter of discipline: being able to expatiate endlessly on the differential merits of various wardrobe-organizational systems is not the same as being able to write 500 pages on the social history of wardrobe-organizing systems, nor certainly 500 more on the history of railroad building in Japanese-occupied Manchuria.
And yet there is overlap: those who taught themselves to read, those who spent their childhoods in books, read books about books and books about words, those to whom language comes easily and those for whom a well-turned description is as alluring as a well-turned ankle, clearly have much in common with those who spend lifetimes capturing their own or others' lifetimes in print. Even if not Writers, they can certainly be called writers, without any need of scare quotes to emphasize their non-professional status. I look at it this way: my exhusband was and is a musician. He can do other jobs, he has done other jobs; like all of us, he has various different abilities. But his gifts as a musician are so clear, so profound, that they are, I would argue, constitutive of who he is, his self, his way of being in the world, such that one reveals much of substance to say about him 'he is a musician,' the copula there doing what it is has the power to do but seldom does.
But back to Merton.
As I said above, I enjoy being able to open books and start reading at whatever page I happen to land on. It doesn't always work so well while in school, I admit, but I'm not in school, and I like the way it works much of the rest of the time. In cases of postmodern history and historiography, it works very, very well, I must say, as I get to miss the introduction wherein the same list of the same secondary sources is tiresomely trotted out to ensure the reader understands just how thoroughgoingly postmodern the coming exegesis of trends in kitchen appliances in postwar Bavaria is going to be. I like skipping that bit and getting right to the riveting parts about the evolution in backsplashes and cupboard-pulls.
Anyway, not that Merton has exhausting prefaces, or cites much Gramsci, Derrida, Butler, or Homi Bhabha, but part of my enjoyment in reading this way, at least with certain types of material, is to imagine why I'm being given what I'm being given right then. It's often shocking, and always productive. I tuned in when Merton has just become a subdeacon, and I had to go back a few pages to find out what he was referencing when he referenced his current experience with Sertillanges' La Vie Intellectuelle. It turns out (a few pages earlier, which is one of the downsides of this reading method) that he received a copy during this time, when he was really struggling with writing what became The Ascent to Truth. He got stuck a lot, he wrote a good deal he was completely unhappy with, but spending time with Sertillange had on him 'the effect that Dale Carnegie's advice might have had on a despondent salesman.'
Now, I've loved Merton forever. He taught me invaluable things, led me in all sorts of meaningful directions, and I have to say a good deal of that was due to the personal tone of much of what he wrote. I do love struggling with prickly authors and thorny texts at times, and in my weaker moments I can take great delight in the recondite and the recherché, but we're all human, and it is only the deeply, universally human expressed in the works of great novelists, poets, memoirists, and diarists that speaks directly to the heart, and results in a staggering convincement of the soul, rather than a gradual assent via logic.
***Because this is already too long for a blog posting, I'm going to leave this with 'logic' as the last word in the body, since that is surely a one-off, and I should savor it!
Friday, June 27, 2008
'la grandeur et la vérité' - et l'absurde
Hmmm. I don't quite know what to make of this. And it's not the Philipponnat I'm sipping, either. I'd show you a picture, but the bottle is lodged between the hideous plastic vat of palm oil, a candle holder that belongs by the other ones nestled between the jungle and the television, a box of wire nails and a resin tincture I'm trying to remember to agitate. Not to mention the emergency extra cellphone that, despite its life of idleness, nonetheless manages to run out of steam every so often and emit a desperate chirping sound audible from the car. Which I'm charging.
So.
I gave a teensy decant of the in-process 'Catherine of Siena' scent to the dear and impressive lady I made it for, with a printout of its description and intent. (With ample caveats as to its need of more time and tinkering.)
But that's not my point.
My point is that I had not remembered that the French Resistance fighter, and Nazi prisoner, Fr. Joseph Marie Perrin, who was basically Simone Weil's guide into Catholicism, was a - yes, okay, it's obvious by now - Dominican. They met in Marseilles, had a long and close interaction in person and in letters -- and to me, I guess, the Little Manual of Perfect Prayer and Adoration - written, it should be added, during the occupation of France and his activities in the Resistance - seems to have been too envelopingly universal/catholic, as were what few of his thousand other works I've read, for one to be able readily to recall the author's particular/'partisan' Catholic spirituality. Simone Weil - who bridges the gap between fellow École Normale Supérieure brooding Gallic leftist alums like the preceding post's Sartre et tchums and the equally august roll-call of modern-day thinky Catholic converts like Chesterton, Merton, Jacques & Raissa Maritain, Dorothy Day, Claire Booth Luce, Avery Dulles, Graham Green, Brubeck (yes, Brubeck!), Gerard Manley Hopkins, Malcolm Muggeridge (yay! Punch! I never get Michael Bywater in here anymore) and even newly-minted Maronite, WSJ bigwig Peggy Noonan - was roped by a Dominican.
Anyway, since everything is strange and confluent and doubly-signified, and I have no hope of cohesion in this post, in 1946 Vogue magazine ran a spread called 'Portraits of Paris' of photographs by Messrs. Sartre and Camus. On the one hand, I admit this seems a bit like Wittgenstein offering up prose-poems about the rights or wrongs of the New Look; on the other, I do understand that these days Derrida or at least Baudrillard is invoked every time there is a change in heel shape or skirt length, and that every fashion magazine no less than every home-decorating periodical considers itself 'cutting edge. ' Still, it is a bit shocking considering the state of magazine journalism today, and I like to imagine Elle commissioning Ismael Kadare to do a photographic series on 'Sidewalks of Tirana,' which he fulfills with portraits of improvisational Rom 'habitation-artists,' impromptu scenes of trafficked 'sex artists,' and a 'location shoot' of 'hunger artists' in a car trunk lumbering across the immeasurable divide between Nogales and Green Valley.
Undoubtedly at this point that IS the Philipponnat talking, as it's taken me about an hour to write this that in any way makes sense even to me.
So.
I gave a teensy decant of the in-process 'Catherine of Siena' scent to the dear and impressive lady I made it for, with a printout of its description and intent. (With ample caveats as to its need of more time and tinkering.)
But that's not my point.
My point is that I had not remembered that the French Resistance fighter, and Nazi prisoner, Fr. Joseph Marie Perrin, who was basically Simone Weil's guide into Catholicism, was a - yes, okay, it's obvious by now - Dominican. They met in Marseilles, had a long and close interaction in person and in letters -- and to me, I guess, the Little Manual of Perfect Prayer and Adoration - written, it should be added, during the occupation of France and his activities in the Resistance - seems to have been too envelopingly universal/catholic, as were what few of his thousand other works I've read, for one to be able readily to recall the author's particular/'partisan' Catholic spirituality. Simone Weil - who bridges the gap between fellow École Normale Supérieure brooding Gallic leftist alums like the preceding post's Sartre et tchums and the equally august roll-call of modern-day thinky Catholic converts like Chesterton, Merton, Jacques & Raissa Maritain, Dorothy Day, Claire Booth Luce, Avery Dulles, Graham Green, Brubeck (yes, Brubeck!), Gerard Manley Hopkins, Malcolm Muggeridge (yay! Punch! I never get Michael Bywater in here anymore) and even newly-minted Maronite, WSJ bigwig Peggy Noonan - was roped by a Dominican.
Anyway, since everything is strange and confluent and doubly-signified, and I have no hope of cohesion in this post, in 1946 Vogue magazine ran a spread called 'Portraits of Paris' of photographs by Messrs. Sartre and Camus. On the one hand, I admit this seems a bit like Wittgenstein offering up prose-poems about the rights or wrongs of the New Look; on the other, I do understand that these days Derrida or at least Baudrillard is invoked every time there is a change in heel shape or skirt length, and that every fashion magazine no less than every home-decorating periodical considers itself 'cutting edge. ' Still, it is a bit shocking considering the state of magazine journalism today, and I like to imagine Elle commissioning Ismael Kadare to do a photographic series on 'Sidewalks of Tirana,' which he fulfills with portraits of improvisational Rom 'habitation-artists,' impromptu scenes of trafficked 'sex artists,' and a 'location shoot' of 'hunger artists' in a car trunk lumbering across the immeasurable divide between Nogales and Green Valley.
Undoubtedly at this point that IS the Philipponnat talking, as it's taken me about an hour to write this that in any way makes sense even to me.
Thus Spake Creepy Round-Headed Kid
I have a thing for random-text generators, and sticking that nasty, nasty Nietzsche quote in there reminded me of one of my favorites. It pairs the abyss of the inexplicably long-running single-frame American comic 'strip' Family Circus with a random Nietzsche quote, and is found here. Whether you love Nietzsche or loathe Family Circus or revel in both emotions in equal parts on alternate days, this site will slake your deep hunger for stupid things to do while you should by all accounts be doing something, anything, else.
4 out of 5 French Existentialists Agree:
'if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss also gazes into you.' --Nietzsche
If you are sick of feeling like a self-absorbed abyss, and you live near Seattle, there may be a great opportunity to change that. The self-absorbed abyss part; I offer no suggestions nor assistance as to relocation. Tent City is going to be up at Prince of Peace Lutheran in Shoreline for the next three months. With collaboration through the Shoreline YMCA and a grant from ELCA, there is a meal program there Wednesday nights for about 150-190 people.
With Tent City there, there will be an additional 100 or so people. Most of the volunteers start somewhere between 3:30-5, and the meal will now run from 5-7-ish, to allow for a second seating. Volunteers are needed for set-up, service, bussing tables, doing dishes, and cleanup. If you want to volunteer, please call the Shoreline YMCA at 206-364-1700.
If you need more convincing that doing nice things is a nice thing to do, here are what some famous religious figures have to say on the matter:
'Feed the hungry and visit the sick, and free the captive, if he be unjustly confined. Assist any person oppressed, whether Muslim or non-Muslim.' -- Muhammad
'Compassion and love are not mere luxuries.
As the source both of inner and external peace,
they are fundamental to the continued survival of our species.' -- XIV Dalai Lama
'Love of all creatures is also love of God, for whoever loves the One loves all the works that He has made. When one loves God, it is impossible not to love His creatures. The opposite is also true. If one hates the creatures, it is impossible to love God who created them.' MaHaRal/ Yehudah ben Bezalel Levai
"Open my heart that compassion may
be my companion;
Where I meet pride, humble me;
Where I meet anger, calm my fears;
Where I meet injustice, cause me
to act in love's way.
May I be as gentle as the doe,
as fearless as the lion,
as faithful as the dog." --King David
'Live with compassion, Work with compassion, Die with compassion, Meditate with compassion, Enjoy with compassion. When problems come, Experience them with compassion.' --Lama Zopa Rinpoche
'I have been all things unholy. If God can work through me, he can work through anyone.' -- Francis of Asissi
Whether you call it tzedekah, chesed, rahmah, ihsan, metta, boddhicitta, mercy, compassion, or good works, everyone from Zoroaster to Abraham thinks you should be cultivating it. And if in their saffron robes and pilgrims' sandals all the foregoing are unconvincing, remember that the great existentialist unbelievers Sartre, Camus, and de Beauvoir all risked their lives to save those of others in the French Resistance. Surely not everyone needs recourse to a metaphysics or baleful eschatology just to wash a few darned dishes???
If you are sick of feeling like a self-absorbed abyss, and you live near Seattle, there may be a great opportunity to change that. The self-absorbed abyss part; I offer no suggestions nor assistance as to relocation. Tent City is going to be up at Prince of Peace Lutheran in Shoreline for the next three months. With collaboration through the Shoreline YMCA and a grant from ELCA, there is a meal program there Wednesday nights for about 150-190 people.
With Tent City there, there will be an additional 100 or so people. Most of the volunteers start somewhere between 3:30-5, and the meal will now run from 5-7-ish, to allow for a second seating. Volunteers are needed for set-up, service, bussing tables, doing dishes, and cleanup. If you want to volunteer, please call the Shoreline YMCA at 206-364-1700.
If you need more convincing that doing nice things is a nice thing to do, here are what some famous religious figures have to say on the matter:
'Feed the hungry and visit the sick, and free the captive, if he be unjustly confined. Assist any person oppressed, whether Muslim or non-Muslim.' -- Muhammad
'Compassion and love are not mere luxuries.
As the source both of inner and external peace,
they are fundamental to the continued survival of our species.' -- XIV Dalai Lama
'But whoso hath this world's good, and seeth his brother have need, and shutteth up his bowels of compassion from him, how dwelleth the love of God in him?' --John the Baptist
'Even offering three hundred bowls of food three times a day does not match the spiritual merit gained in one moment of love.' --Nagarjuna
'Love of all creatures is also love of God, for whoever loves the One loves all the works that He has made. When one loves God, it is impossible not to love His creatures. The opposite is also true. If one hates the creatures, it is impossible to love God who created them.' MaHaRal/ Yehudah ben Bezalel Levai
"Open my heart that compassion may
be my companion;
Where I meet pride, humble me;
Where I meet anger, calm my fears;
Where I meet injustice, cause me
to act in love's way.
May I be as gentle as the doe,
as fearless as the lion,
as faithful as the dog." --King David
'Live with compassion, Work with compassion, Die with compassion, Meditate with compassion, Enjoy with compassion. When problems come, Experience them with compassion.' --Lama Zopa Rinpoche
'I have been all things unholy. If God can work through me, he can work through anyone.' -- Francis of Asissi
Whether you call it tzedekah, chesed, rahmah, ihsan, metta, boddhicitta, mercy, compassion, or good works, everyone from Zoroaster to Abraham thinks you should be cultivating it. And if in their saffron robes and pilgrims' sandals all the foregoing are unconvincing, remember that the great existentialist unbelievers Sartre, Camus, and de Beauvoir all risked their lives to save those of others in the French Resistance. Surely not everyone needs recourse to a metaphysics or baleful eschatology just to wash a few darned dishes???
'I sometimes wonder if that is what Krishna meant--
Among other things -- or one way of putting the same thing:
That the future is a faded song, a Royal Rose or a lavender spray
Of wistful regret for those who are not yet here to regret,
Pressed between yellow leaves of a book that has never been opened.
And the way up is the way down, the way forward is the way back.'
Eliot, Dry Salvages III
Which is a long way of saying that for those of you who like your futile arranging of withering flowers, or your wistful combining of always-already evaporating scents, accompanied by faded song free of cost, you can go to choraltreasure.org and get your fill of the sepulchrine, the sacred, the plain and the polyphonic.
That the future is a faded song, a Royal Rose or a lavender spray
Of wistful regret for those who are not yet here to regret,
Pressed between yellow leaves of a book that has never been opened.
And the way up is the way down, the way forward is the way back.'
Eliot, Dry Salvages III
Which is a long way of saying that for those of you who like your futile arranging of withering flowers, or your wistful combining of always-already evaporating scents, accompanied by faded song free of cost, you can go to choraltreasure.org and get your fill of the sepulchrine, the sacred, the plain and the polyphonic.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
The (Pungent) Cloud of Unknowing
I cannot begin to understand the chemistry that gave rise to it, but a bottle whose label has faded, and which thus I cannot look up, smells of bubblegum, mint, and soap. I haven't used anything that smells minty or soapy on its own, and I most definitely do not own anything possessing a bubblegum fragrance...
I don't know. I can't repair it; it's beyond redemption. And I can't even use it to put in the oil soap for the floors, because while the mint might be refreshing (before it started to drive me mad), it's the most muted part. I would be making my house smell like bubblegum.
('And then, in this laborious nowhere,
suddenly the ineffable point where the pure too-little
mysteriously reverses ---, flips round into
the empty too-much.
Where the complex equation
equals zero.' -- Rilke, Fifth Elegy)
I don't know. I can't repair it; it's beyond redemption. And I can't even use it to put in the oil soap for the floors, because while the mint might be refreshing (before it started to drive me mad), it's the most muted part. I would be making my house smell like bubblegum.
('And then, in this laborious nowhere,
suddenly the ineffable point where the pure too-little
mysteriously reverses ---, flips round into
the empty too-much.
Where the complex equation
equals zero.' -- Rilke, Fifth Elegy)
Sunday, June 22, 2008
A Rabbi, a Priest, and a Blonde Walk into a Bar...
All apologies for being as boring as I am being/have been, but the meaty writing is taking place elsewhere. I hope to integrate it and this blog in time (more on that later) but for now, more on perfume.
--Look, it's riveting for the two of you for whom it's riveting. The other two of you can go practice your Uzbek.
In the meantime: I have a friend who's absolutely in love with Catherine of Siena.
The first coup de foudre took place while she was, unsurprisingly, in Siena. Not being Catholic and not knowing a Dominican from a Double Englishman's at the time, she returned home and went back to work, enjoying the occasional nostalgic Brunello and trying to make sense out of the whole thing while feeling a distinct urge to learn how to make rosaries out of rose petals. (Or something: I totally made that last bit up.)
Go ahead a year. The friend sells her piano so she can go to Siena again, not needing to get to a why or even a how there, but at least a What, God help her, as to the nature of what she is experiencing. She prays, meditates, cries, meets some religious, buys some books, is yet more moved, and the whole time the piano is more than worth it.
Then it's almost time for her to leave, so she asks the bookstore guy, who remembers her from last time, whom she sort of knows halfway enough to feel one-quarter comfortable, if there are any 'Dominicans' near where she lives, which is near Seattle, in Washington, United States. And then Vincenzo, or Bartolomeo, or God help us all, Domenico, tells her that, well, he knows he sends some books to this parish in Seattle, and maybe that could help?
Fast forward to now-ish, and she's in a Dominican parish, still breathing in Catherine with every breath, and still not hungering for the piano now long gone. So for her I made a Catherine of Siena scent. It has a bunch more ingredients than this, but this is the part she will like:
Orris (=Iris rhizome) + Lily of the Valley (= yields no oils naturally, so a synthesized version of the compounds producing the natural scent; see headspace technology): Lily symbol of Catherine and of purity in general, as with other saints; Lilies and Iris considered same thing until 19th C.; now what still grows along the River Lys and was once called Fleur de Lis is actually 'Iris' in our lexicon (and I had to use orris as a fixative, since I'm desperative for fixatives in this, since florals scare me). So, lily + lily. More semantics, etymologies, and fights can be found here, if you're that picky.
Frankincense, Oud, Sandalwood, Benzoin, Patchouli: Very ecclesiastical, obviously; traditional ingredients for incense in many faith traditions for millennia. (Okay, also elements i know how to work with.) Anyway, in this tradition it means: ergo Jesus, and the Church. Very meaningful if one can argue that a scent can possess a narrative, as patently I believe it can, but also a great pragmatic blessing in that I can impart some resonance and richesse, so that the whole thing doesn't sound like Elvira de Hidalgo on a helium rebreather and last for all of a shrill twenty seconds.
Cedar: the Cedars of Lebanon; therefore the Song of Solomon; Divine Love; Deus Caritas Est; Catherine's Holy Bridegroom.
Rose Absolute and Rose Geranium (which has three of the same constituents as rose: linalool, geraniol, and citronellol, but with greater depth, complexity, and tenacity): Kind of obvious, but: Catherine's crown of roses; the Blessed Virgin; the Rosary (the Marion devotion as well as the sacramental - which Dominican friars and nuns wear as part of the habit, and which is likewise important to the Dominican Third Order and laity) and, being a partly kinaesthetic mode of prayer, evokes Dominic's Nine Ways of Prayer. At least to me.
And, lastly, Lotus: Death of the Old Self, Regeneration, New Life -- and Continuity. The lotus simultaneously represents the transitory and the eternal, two realms we as humans are challenged to mediate every day. What dies away will be replaced by something brighter, stronger, deeper. It is born out of mud,
,
like the first man, 
, and strives ever upward. As we do.
It sounds super easy. Hit and run, like having 'bezique' staring at you in your Scrabble tray on opening. But I added a bunch of stuff besides this, to try and have it not read as 'rose and religion.' It would be sad if she loved the story and hated the scent!
Update 6/22: I added coriander. The opening had become as vigourous as a tulip stalk in late June. I thought about more citrus (there's hardly any), but the coriander seems a better bet, if it can link up with the frank and patch and cajeput in the prelude. We'll see. But middle and end are quite nice.
Update 6.23: Feeling tempted to add saffron for some reason. But I think logically I should give it a spike with more coriander and boost the cedar. Give me a couple weeks. I know I will...
--Look, it's riveting for the two of you for whom it's riveting. The other two of you can go practice your Uzbek.
In the meantime: I have a friend who's absolutely in love with Catherine of Siena.
The first coup de foudre took place while she was, unsurprisingly, in Siena. Not being Catholic and not knowing a Dominican from a Double Englishman's at the time, she returned home and went back to work, enjoying the occasional nostalgic Brunello and trying to make sense out of the whole thing while feeling a distinct urge to learn how to make rosaries out of rose petals. (Or something: I totally made that last bit up.)
Go ahead a year. The friend sells her piano so she can go to Siena again, not needing to get to a why or even a how there, but at least a What, God help her, as to the nature of what she is experiencing. She prays, meditates, cries, meets some religious, buys some books, is yet more moved, and the whole time the piano is more than worth it.
Then it's almost time for her to leave, so she asks the bookstore guy, who remembers her from last time, whom she sort of knows halfway enough to feel one-quarter comfortable, if there are any 'Dominicans' near where she lives, which is near Seattle, in Washington, United States. And then Vincenzo, or Bartolomeo, or God help us all, Domenico, tells her that, well, he knows he sends some books to this parish in Seattle, and maybe that could help?
Fast forward to now-ish, and she's in a Dominican parish, still breathing in Catherine with every breath, and still not hungering for the piano now long gone. So for her I made a Catherine of Siena scent. It has a bunch more ingredients than this, but this is the part she will like:
Orris (=Iris rhizome) + Lily of the Valley (= yields no oils naturally, so a synthesized version of the compounds producing the natural scent; see headspace technology): Lily symbol of Catherine and of purity in general, as with other saints; Lilies and Iris considered same thing until 19th C.; now what still grows along the River Lys and was once called Fleur de Lis is actually 'Iris' in our lexicon (and I had to use orris as a fixative, since I'm desperative for fixatives in this, since florals scare me). So, lily + lily. More semantics, etymologies, and fights can be found here, if you're that picky.
Frankincense, Oud, Sandalwood, Benzoin, Patchouli: Very ecclesiastical, obviously; traditional ingredients for incense in many faith traditions for millennia. (Okay, also elements i know how to work with.) Anyway, in this tradition it means: ergo Jesus, and the Church. Very meaningful if one can argue that a scent can possess a narrative, as patently I believe it can, but also a great pragmatic blessing in that I can impart some resonance and richesse, so that the whole thing doesn't sound like Elvira de Hidalgo on a helium rebreather and last for all of a shrill twenty seconds.
Cedar: the Cedars of Lebanon; therefore the Song of Solomon; Divine Love; Deus Caritas Est; Catherine's Holy Bridegroom.
Rose Absolute and Rose Geranium (which has three of the same constituents as rose: linalool, geraniol, and citronellol, but with greater depth, complexity, and tenacity): Kind of obvious, but: Catherine's crown of roses; the Blessed Virgin; the Rosary (the Marion devotion as well as the sacramental - which Dominican friars and nuns wear as part of the habit, and which is likewise important to the Dominican Third Order and laity) and, being a partly kinaesthetic mode of prayer, evokes Dominic's Nine Ways of Prayer. At least to me.
And, lastly, Lotus: Death of the Old Self, Regeneration, New Life -- and Continuity. The lotus simultaneously represents the transitory and the eternal, two realms we as humans are challenged to mediate every day. What dies away will be replaced by something brighter, stronger, deeper. It is born out of mud,
, like the first man, , and strives ever upward. As we do.It sounds super easy. Hit and run, like having 'bezique' staring at you in your Scrabble tray on opening. But I added a bunch of stuff besides this, to try and have it not read as 'rose and religion.' It would be sad if she loved the story and hated the scent!
Update 6/22: I added coriander. The opening had become as vigourous as a tulip stalk in late June. I thought about more citrus (there's hardly any), but the coriander seems a better bet, if it can link up with the frank and patch and cajeput in the prelude. We'll see. But middle and end are quite nice.
Update 6.23: Feeling tempted to add saffron for some reason. But I think logically I should give it a spike with more coriander and boost the cedar. Give me a couple weeks. I know I will...
'The only way to atone for being occasionally a little over-dressed
is by being always absolutely over-educated' - if you happen to be Oscar Wilde, at any rate.
I have joked about it before, but I think I genuinely should consider making the electronic taxonomic 'wardrobe flashcards.' I worked with a girl once who had done this, and it was a fine idea. In her case, it was an actual little flip-book of pictures, with outfits and accessories laid out together in various combinations for easy reference. And it was interesting, frankly, since she was the last person most of her friends would have envisioned taking this extraordinary and labor-intensive step in sartorial ecology. She was exceptionally pragmatic and consistent in her dress, a bit of a hybrid between Northeast Yankee and Northwest Sporty, not to say verging perhaps on anodyne, and for the most part her 'dressing up' consisted of leaning more toward the former than the latter. Maybe that itself is why she did it; she may have felt that visual aids would spur greater creativity, allow her to match the salmon stripes on a blue background button-down with a salmon cardigan or salmon trouser socks, something she would be unlikely to contrive impromptu?
In my case, it's not as though I can't put together an ensemble. I start either with an idea of color(s) or a particular garment. The problem is, however, that like my friend I, too, have my habitudes, and that arguably my greater wardrobe may well hinder my selection process and steer my psyche in familiar directions more often than desirable, in an unconscious effort to conserve my mental health and leave what is left of my creativity for nobler ends.
In other words, I wear a lot of sweater sets, pastel jackets, and the same pearl or tiny hoop earrings until I drive myself mad. And, because I am an impossible size for jeans, the same thing holds for the bottom half: skirts or the same kid's size 10 or '10-slim' denims until I drive them mad.
What made me think of all this is that today I am going to a picnic. Since it's not sunny or warm, my clothes can only give a symbolic nod to the concept of 'summer picnic,' rather than being in actuality light and airy. That gives me color, jewelry, purse and shoes to work with.
Well, I have two very summery beaded necklaces, one that I made and one that I bought. One is green and pink, the other just green, so I started with those and managed to convince myself to put on dangly matching beaded earrings. I added a woven silk pink shell under a green fitted button-down, a sweater that matches the shell, a green leather purse (not especially summery, but neither is the weather, and I'm not wearing sandals) and pink slingbacks, as well as a frosty pink on the lips and fingers. And the current pair of favorite (i.e., the best I can do) jeans.
Now, the problem is not that that isn't a reasonable outfit for the occasion, and nice-looking, as well. The problem is the familiarity. I wore those shoes and the cardigan a few days ago. They were in my head - probably from the moment I thought of the necklace. Sure, I matched the purse to the shirt inside, rather than the outer cardigan and the shoes, but it was just lowest-common-denominator outfit-building, inasmuch as a) the handbags are all set out where I can see them and b) my default was 'not the purse you wore the last time you wore the shoes.' That's hardly creative; it's defensive, reactionary.
So, if I had a gallery of pictures, with a taxonomy akin to that of my closet:
Kingdom: Clothes
Phyla: Hanging, Folded (and we'll bracket that one: it's boring and never gets worn)
Classes: Suits, Jackets, Trousers, Skirts, Shirts, Dresses
Orders: Jackets, Trousers, Long Skirts, Short Skirts, Summer Skirts, Knit Tops, Button-Down Shirts, Sweaters, Sweater Sets, Evening...
Families: Black, Reds, Greens...
Subfamilies: Chartreuse, Lime, Celadon, Mint...
Tribes: Black with Metallic Wefts, Blues with White Collars/Cuffs...
Genera: Prints, Solids...
Species: Second-Favorite Off-White Button-Down Silk Sweater: with Detachable Narrow-Gauge White Fur Collar: No Cuffs: Delicate Knit: and Slim Fit Stopping Just at the Hipbone
THEN I would know what I was working with, and have a broader perspective necessarily, as I would have all members of every species equally available to my consideration. I could flip from
'shoes: high: pumps: green: pointed toe: w/buckle'
to
'jackets: whites: creams: patterned weave: w/color: green: belted: oversized-houndstooth cream-lime ribbon-belted self-fabric-button w/tiny pockets.'
And then I could browse the 'solids' genera in creams and greens and blues - and even mangoes if I wished - for tops and bottoms, giving a fair shot to all members equally, rather than too often resorting to the instinctive and the familiar.
I think it's worth a try. And it's manifestly a good excuse/incentive to get that dry-cleaning pile down to an apartment-sized scale. I'd add a photo of it, but it would hurt you, just like it hurts my closet, which can scarcely afford to take on more boarders...
**By the way, has anyone noticed that my former super-double-quotativity, of italics and quotation marks, has now become deluxe-triple quotativity, since I started using pink on quotes some time back. Interesting. Do I think that quotation marks are really all that unclear?
I have joked about it before, but I think I genuinely should consider making the electronic taxonomic 'wardrobe flashcards.' I worked with a girl once who had done this, and it was a fine idea. In her case, it was an actual little flip-book of pictures, with outfits and accessories laid out together in various combinations for easy reference. And it was interesting, frankly, since she was the last person most of her friends would have envisioned taking this extraordinary and labor-intensive step in sartorial ecology. She was exceptionally pragmatic and consistent in her dress, a bit of a hybrid between Northeast Yankee and Northwest Sporty, not to say verging perhaps on anodyne, and for the most part her 'dressing up' consisted of leaning more toward the former than the latter. Maybe that itself is why she did it; she may have felt that visual aids would spur greater creativity, allow her to match the salmon stripes on a blue background button-down with a salmon cardigan or salmon trouser socks, something she would be unlikely to contrive impromptu?
In my case, it's not as though I can't put together an ensemble. I start either with an idea of color(s) or a particular garment. The problem is, however, that like my friend I, too, have my habitudes, and that arguably my greater wardrobe may well hinder my selection process and steer my psyche in familiar directions more often than desirable, in an unconscious effort to conserve my mental health and leave what is left of my creativity for nobler ends.
In other words, I wear a lot of sweater sets, pastel jackets, and the same pearl or tiny hoop earrings until I drive myself mad. And, because I am an impossible size for jeans, the same thing holds for the bottom half: skirts or the same kid's size 10 or '10-slim' denims until I drive them mad.
What made me think of all this is that today I am going to a picnic. Since it's not sunny or warm, my clothes can only give a symbolic nod to the concept of 'summer picnic,' rather than being in actuality light and airy. That gives me color, jewelry, purse and shoes to work with.
Well, I have two very summery beaded necklaces, one that I made and one that I bought. One is green and pink, the other just green, so I started with those and managed to convince myself to put on dangly matching beaded earrings. I added a woven silk pink shell under a green fitted button-down, a sweater that matches the shell, a green leather purse (not especially summery, but neither is the weather, and I'm not wearing sandals) and pink slingbacks, as well as a frosty pink on the lips and fingers. And the current pair of favorite (i.e., the best I can do) jeans.
Now, the problem is not that that isn't a reasonable outfit for the occasion, and nice-looking, as well. The problem is the familiarity. I wore those shoes and the cardigan a few days ago. They were in my head - probably from the moment I thought of the necklace. Sure, I matched the purse to the shirt inside, rather than the outer cardigan and the shoes, but it was just lowest-common-denominator outfit-building, inasmuch as a) the handbags are all set out where I can see them and b) my default was 'not the purse you wore the last time you wore the shoes.' That's hardly creative; it's defensive, reactionary.
So, if I had a gallery of pictures, with a taxonomy akin to that of my closet:
Kingdom: Clothes
Phyla: Hanging, Folded (and we'll bracket that one: it's boring and never gets worn)
Classes: Suits, Jackets, Trousers, Skirts, Shirts, Dresses
Orders: Jackets, Trousers, Long Skirts, Short Skirts, Summer Skirts, Knit Tops, Button-Down Shirts, Sweaters, Sweater Sets, Evening...
Families: Black, Reds, Greens...
Subfamilies: Chartreuse, Lime, Celadon, Mint...
Tribes: Black with Metallic Wefts, Blues with White Collars/Cuffs...
Genera: Prints, Solids...
Species: Second-Favorite Off-White Button-Down Silk Sweater: with Detachable Narrow-Gauge White Fur Collar: No Cuffs: Delicate Knit: and Slim Fit Stopping Just at the Hipbone
THEN I would know what I was working with, and have a broader perspective necessarily, as I would have all members of every species equally available to my consideration. I could flip from
'shoes: high: pumps: green: pointed toe: w/buckle'
to
'jackets: whites: creams: patterned weave: w/color: green: belted: oversized-houndstooth cream-lime ribbon-belted self-fabric-button w/tiny pockets.'
And then I could browse the 'solids' genera in creams and greens and blues - and even mangoes if I wished - for tops and bottoms, giving a fair shot to all members equally, rather than too often resorting to the instinctive and the familiar.
I think it's worth a try. And it's manifestly a good excuse/incentive to get that dry-cleaning pile down to an apartment-sized scale. I'd add a photo of it, but it would hurt you, just like it hurts my closet, which can scarcely afford to take on more boarders...
**By the way, has anyone noticed that my former super-double-quotativity, of italics and quotation marks, has now become deluxe-triple quotativity, since I started using pink on quotes some time back. Interesting. Do I think that quotation marks are really all that unclear?
Saturday, June 21, 2008
Nanny Bloomberg
I do have more important things I could talk about; why, tomorrow I hope to sharpen about 30 knives for a meal program I volunteer at. However, this story from the 19th in the London Times (go down to the penultimate bullet point) about a memo distributed to Bloomberg's London staff made me a) cringe and throw up a tiny bit in my mouth and b) wonder whether James in the Tokyo office has likewise received such a thorough explanation of the precautions to take regarding the use and proper stewardship of plastic water bottles.
What it neglects to address is what staffers are to do if they own a permanent marker themselves.
"'These bottles are yours to look after and as stated in the original message, you will only get one,' it says. To ensure 'your bottle does not go walkies and [you] are drinking out of your own one and no one elses [sic]' it might be an idea to mark them with your name. 'There are permanent markers in the stationery cupboards you can use.'"
Anyway, James is the one I got this gossip bench from:
What it neglects to address is what staffers are to do if they own a permanent marker themselves.
"'These bottles are yours to look after and as stated in the original message, you will only get one,' it says. To ensure 'your bottle does not go walkies and [you] are drinking out of your own one and no one elses [sic]' it might be an idea to mark them with your name. 'There are permanent markers in the stationery cupboards you can use.'"
Anyway, James is the one I got this gossip bench from:
Friday, June 20, 2008
'I think fish is nice, but then I think rain is wet,
so who am I to judge?' saith the sage Douglas Adams, and
if I believed in the existence of rain boots and umbrellas any more than I believed in shorts and 'flip flops,' I would marry these. ('These' being Kamik 'Chance.')
I would do so of course in bridal lengha choli. But not - I can't stress this enough - not while wearing the boots. In fact, I can't think of any occasion on which I would wear the boots. But a part of me deep inside would want to. Sometimes. After we were married, at least.
If there were anything to be said for rain boots, these boots definitely would be able to say it.
Where Have All the Flowers Gone?
They've been distilled into absolutes, every one.
Okay, all that happened today was too intense and gorgeous to get into cogently right now, so I'll just say that floral #2 (I don't want to hear it, so don't bother; I've already said it to myself, anyway) is turning out just as wearable for me as #1. Why? I don't know. How? How, indeed! Here it is, in random order:
geranium
petitgrain
sandalwood
neroli
cajeput
clary sage
orrisroot
patchouli
benzoin
vanilla
coriander
vetiver
oakmoss
What's different is the proportions, and then the presence of oakmoss, vanilla, and petitgrain, and the lack of frankincense, in the second one. It doesn't come across as spicy at all, just a well-balanced warm floral.
I hope you got to see the full moon!
Okay, all that happened today was too intense and gorgeous to get into cogently right now, so I'll just say that floral #2 (I don't want to hear it, so don't bother; I've already said it to myself, anyway) is turning out just as wearable for me as #1. Why? I don't know. How? How, indeed! Here it is, in random order:
geranium
petitgrain
sandalwood
neroli
cajeput
clary sage
orrisroot
patchouli
benzoin
vanilla
coriander
vetiver
oakmoss
What's different is the proportions, and then the presence of oakmoss, vanilla, and petitgrain, and the lack of frankincense, in the second one. It doesn't come across as spicy at all, just a well-balanced warm floral.
I hope you got to see the full moon!
Thursday, June 19, 2008
A Rose by Any Other Name
Well, somehow I made a floral that I actually like. I don't know how, I don't understand it, and I've never succeeded before. And it's not just incompetence on my part; I don't like florals anyone makes. Other than Joy, and that makes no more sense than it should, unless you believe that the exception proves the rule.
At any rate, it still has some curing to go, but at this stage it is already quite nice and balanced. The ingredients, in no particular order are:
benzoin
clary sage
geranium
vetiver
patchouli
coriander
cajeput
sandalwood
neroli
frankincense
and a small amount of Moroccan rose
Most of the rose is coming from the geranium, and not much of the piney aspects of the geranium are present still, even with the other complements. Anyway, even with the tiny amount of patchouli and the not tiny amount of frankincense, it's not headed at all in the ecclesiastical-Oriental zone of most of what I wear. I don't feel any great excitement at succeeding with those scents, even when they are particularly complex, but this feels like a genuine coup! mean, I would actually wear this stuff!
At any rate, it still has some curing to go, but at this stage it is already quite nice and balanced. The ingredients, in no particular order are:
benzoin
clary sage
geranium
vetiver
patchouli
coriander
cajeput
sandalwood
neroli
frankincense
and a small amount of Moroccan rose
Most of the rose is coming from the geranium, and not much of the piney aspects of the geranium are present still, even with the other complements. Anyway, even with the tiny amount of patchouli and the not tiny amount of frankincense, it's not headed at all in the ecclesiastical-Oriental zone of most of what I wear. I don't feel any great excitement at succeeding with those scents, even when they are particularly complex, but this feels like a genuine coup! mean, I would actually wear this stuff!
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Godard on Prozac
Here is my second-ever cinematic opus. I didn't think it worked (and that it did is arguable still, as you will know once you've seen it, if you see it, if you're brave), because it just looked like a bad photo in the folder.
Instead, it's a long string of bad photos, in a sense.
Anyway, it's from the arboretum at the University of Washington, way too early in the morning, from the same batch of photos as the one with the William Blake quote. I would have taken some stellar photos, I'm sure, however lamentable my filmmaking skills might be, but the camera still had all the old photos in it, so I ran out of space before I got to the exciting parts of the arboretum.
On the upside, apparently Nilla Wafers have a soft-cookie sandwich with filling, and I met some ducks and geese who enjoyed my gas-station impulse buy rather more than I was in the midst of my technological misadventure. Anyway, had I known I was going to run out of space I would have spared myself the artistic outpouring. Since I didn't, it's yours to savor!
Be glad I am not subjecting you to my first movie, which was from my phone and consisted of the toes of my pointy aubergine boots walking down First Avenue in Belltown. You might think it potentially difficult to pull of pointy aubergine boots; what's actually difficult is managing to walk down the street filming them with a phone and not being disturbed in the slightest by looking completely idiotic by walking while pointing a telephone at one's feet!
Anyway, it comes to a fairly shocking finale. You won't see it coming; you won't expect it in the slightest.
Instead, it's a long string of bad photos, in a sense.
Anyway, it's from the arboretum at the University of Washington, way too early in the morning, from the same batch of photos as the one with the William Blake quote. I would have taken some stellar photos, I'm sure, however lamentable my filmmaking skills might be, but the camera still had all the old photos in it, so I ran out of space before I got to the exciting parts of the arboretum.
On the upside, apparently Nilla Wafers have a soft-cookie sandwich with filling, and I met some ducks and geese who enjoyed my gas-station impulse buy rather more than I was in the midst of my technological misadventure. Anyway, had I known I was going to run out of space I would have spared myself the artistic outpouring. Since I didn't, it's yours to savor!
Be glad I am not subjecting you to my first movie, which was from my phone and consisted of the toes of my pointy aubergine boots walking down First Avenue in Belltown. You might think it potentially difficult to pull of pointy aubergine boots; what's actually difficult is managing to walk down the street filming them with a phone and not being disturbed in the slightest by looking completely idiotic by walking while pointing a telephone at one's feet!
Anyway, it comes to a fairly shocking finale. You won't see it coming; you won't expect it in the slightest.
'And was Jerusalem builded here
Among these dark Satanic mills?'
The mills of Blake's time are the fields, slaughterhouses, and sweatshops of ours. And while we castigate China and others for not being the New Jerusalem, it is well to remember that there are human rights abuses, squalor, powerlessness, misery, and death here, as well. Neither China nor Iran, at least, ever commissioned a huge statue welcoming anyone to the land of liberty.
'Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!'
Clearly, immigration is a complex issue, and one not amenable to easy solutions or ready consensus. However, it is clear on the one hand that American citizens are loathe to take agricultural, sewing, or meat-processing jobs. All Maria Isabel Vasquez Jimenez was trying to do was work - and at a very low wage at that. A death sentence seems an extraordinary price to pay for being willing to do jobs few are willing or able to do. And as for her dead child, we will never know what he or she could have been, could have contributed to this country: president? rape counselor? professor? violinist? Or maybe just a decent citizen who, thankful for the rights and privileges accorded to him/her by citizenship, devotes much time to helping others less fortunate.
There is such a thing as worrying too much about everything. There is also, however, such a thing as inherent human dignity and worth - and leaving someone to die without water, shade, or personnel trained in responding to such emergencies is disgusting and unconscionable.
From the UFW website:
Maria’s Story
'On May 14, the official temperature was 95 degrees; it was even hotter inside the wine grape vineyard owned by West Coast Grape Farming, east of Stockton, where Maria and her fiancé, Florentino Bautista, worked. Maria had been working for nine hours.
At 3:40 p.m. Maria became dizzy. She didn’t know where she was and didn’t recognize Florentino. Maria passed out. Florentino helplessly held her in his arms.
There was no water for the workers from 6 a.m. to 10:30 a.m. When water arrived, it was a 10-minute walk from where Maria was working, too far to access. There was no shade or training for foremen and workers about what to do if someone became ill from the heat—as required by law.
The foreman came over and stood four or five feet away, staring at the couple for about five minutes. He said, "Oh, that’s what happens to people, but don’t worry. If you apply some rubbing alcohol to her, it will go away." It didn’t.
After a number of delays Maria was taken to a clinic. On the in Lodi, the foreman called on the driver’s cell phone and spoke to Florentino. “If you take her to a clinic,” the foreman said, “don’t say she was working [for the contractor]. Say she became sick because she was jogging to get exercise. Since she’s underage, it will create big problems for us.”
They arrived at the clinic at 5:15 p.m., more than an hour and a half after Maria was stricken. She was so sick an ambulance took her to the hospital. Doctors said her temperature upon arrival was 108.4 degrees, far beyond what the human body can take.
Maria’s heart stopped six times in the next two days before she passed away on Friday.
Doctors said if emergency medical help had been summoned or she had been taken to the hospital sooner, she might have survived.
It is hard for Maria’s family and her fiancé, Florentino, to accept her death, knowing it could have been prevented.
Florentino, said, “There should be justice for what happened. It wasn’t just. It wasn’t fair what they did.”
The grief that fills our hearts today inspires our work tomorrow. Your donation today can help us send a strong message to the governor and lawmakers and prevent future tragedies.'
Saturday, June 14, 2008
Friday, June 13, 2008
Don't Be Silly, Toto! Scarecrows Don't Talk!
In other news, the Kansas State University Wind Erosion Laboratory was blown away by a tornado in a sort of punctuated-equilibrium moment in architectural evolution.
Here in Seattle, we had a bit of sun, actually. All sorts of poppies are out. They look a lot better with sun on them. More real, really, more like flowers and less like Georgia O'Keefe is going to spring out from behind one and harm me with her eyebrows.
Here in Seattle, we had a bit of sun, actually. All sorts of poppies are out. They look a lot better with sun on them. More real, really, more like flowers and less like Georgia O'Keefe is going to spring out from behind one and harm me with her eyebrows.
Chacun à Son Goût, Mr. Bush
Well, praise God, it seems that the Constitution Mr. G.W. Bush swore to uphold (and please note how the whole second half of the Oath of Office seems pretty much focused on that one responsibility -- that it is in fact the sole specific duty of the office of President mentioned by name) does maintain the Constitutional right of Habeas Corpus to individuals. Even for people accused of crimes! Even for people accused of hideous, unthinkable, unconscionable crimes! Even for people accused of terrible crimes in the midst of terrifying times!
"I do solemnly swear (or affirm*) that I will faithfully execute the office of President of the United States, and will to the best of my ability, preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution of the United States."
[*: in there for Friends, who would 'affirm' that they tell the truth, rather than promising merely to do it in court for the duration of the proceedings. Also handy for our non-theistically-inclined friends, although I don't see one of those winning major office in the US any time soon. But more info on oaths, affirmations, and office here, if you like that sort of thing.]
To his credit, Bush said the Administration would now abide by the Supreme Court's ruling, but that 'dunt mean I haftagree with it.' In a more reflective mood than Mr. Bush following the close (5-4) ruling, Judge Anthony Kennedy wrote for the majority, 'The laws and Constitution are designed to survive, and remain in force, in extraordinary times.' The ruling therefore upholds the notion of separation of powers woven throughout the Constitution, such that, with reference to this specific case, the Executive Branch cannot legally arrest and detain persons without valid legal reason, setting a precedent that one hopes may lead to further examination and repair of the sundry other holes Bush & Co. have rent in this amazing document he swore to protect and defend.
"I do solemnly swear (or affirm*) that I will faithfully execute the office of President of the United States, and will to the best of my ability, preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution of the United States."
[*: in there for Friends, who would 'affirm' that they tell the truth, rather than promising merely to do it in court for the duration of the proceedings. Also handy for our non-theistically-inclined friends, although I don't see one of those winning major office in the US any time soon. But more info on oaths, affirmations, and office here, if you like that sort of thing.]
To his credit, Bush said the Administration would now abide by the Supreme Court's ruling, but that 'dunt mean I haftagree with it.' In a more reflective mood than Mr. Bush following the close (5-4) ruling, Judge Anthony Kennedy wrote for the majority, 'The laws and Constitution are designed to survive, and remain in force, in extraordinary times.' The ruling therefore upholds the notion of separation of powers woven throughout the Constitution, such that, with reference to this specific case, the Executive Branch cannot legally arrest and detain persons without valid legal reason, setting a precedent that one hopes may lead to further examination and repair of the sundry other holes Bush & Co. have rent in this amazing document he swore to protect and defend.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
The Bidding Starts at $.99! (act now?)
From EBay:
'Description
This is a one of a kind Virgin Mary and Baby Jesus Cheetos! See how she is holding baby Jesus and looking down at him. It also looks like an angel. Depends on how you look at it. Now is your chance to own this rare and unique religious collectable! Approx. 1 1/2 inches long.
Good Luck and Happy Bidding!'
Kaneohe, HI
Sunday, June 8, 2008
Friday, June 6, 2008
'You Can Be Active with the Activists,
Or sleep in with the sleepers, While you're waiting for the great leap forward.' In this photo I look like I'm rather more than simply one of Mr. Bragg's activists in the song; I look like I'm just waiting for the brass section and the Red Lanterns Shining to show up so I can orchestrate the revolution myself.
(Through my nostrils, apparently, but that's neither here nor there.)
Yes, this was taken on that one sunny day we had that one time. That was great. There was, like, sun. It was, like, out.
Anyway, I like this photo because it looks like I'm leading some or other great march forward into what is clearly a socialist future. It's very stirring. If it were a conservative future I would have been shot head on, be seated with my ankles crossed above some sensible-but-discernible heels, and have an A-line skirt, some 'nude'-tinted hose with reinforced toes, and a couple well-behaved children at my bosom reading along with me the noble deeds of our noble forefathers or, when 'conservative' meant something rather different than it does now, perhaps pointing out the titillating bits in the Constitution. Certainly there would be no mention of public transportation in the background.
(Through my nostrils, apparently, but that's neither here nor there.)
Yes, this was taken on that one sunny day we had that one time. That was great. There was, like, sun. It was, like, out.
Anyway, I like this photo because it looks like I'm leading some or other great march forward into what is clearly a socialist future. It's very stirring. If it were a conservative future I would have been shot head on, be seated with my ankles crossed above some sensible-but-discernible heels, and have an A-line skirt, some 'nude'-tinted hose with reinforced toes, and a couple well-behaved children at my bosom reading along with me the noble deeds of our noble forefathers or, when 'conservative' meant something rather different than it does now, perhaps pointing out the titillating bits in the Constitution. Certainly there would be no mention of public transportation in the background.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
But Mochi Doesn't Wear Loincloths!
I have only two things to say.
One is: 'Diplomacy is not synonymous with talking,' and the other is:
Diplomacy ≠ Talking? Diplomacy ≥ Talking? Diplomacy < Talking?
Alright, children, bubble tea is not synonymous with tapioca; religion is not synonymous with faith; politics is not synonymous with guanxi; and cole slaw in Kotzebue is not synonymous with Matanuska Valley cabbage. But I would expect to encounter a fair bit of the latter in any of these cases should I find myself confronted with the former.
I understand (perhaps) (in the most gracious reading) that what Ms. Rice meant to say was something like 'Diplomacy is not coextensive with talking,' mixed with a more minatory something akin to 'We have reconceived the notion of diplomacy such that a range of things from threats to preemptive strikes can now be put in the overlappy middle bit of a Diplomacy/War Wenn diagram.' She just didn't think Americans would understand 'coextensive,' 'reconceived,' or 'Wenn diagram.'
And more power to her: we don't. But I assume the esteemed Secretary did fairly well on her GRE, and even if it were more years ago than her youthful looks would imply, putting that zingy soundbite in the lamentable form she chose makes one want to ask, 'If not synonyms, then what are they? You've juxtaposed them; it seems you've counterposed them. Now tell us the nature of their relationship, if it is not one of synonyms. Diplomacy is to Talking as _________ is to what, Ms. Rice?'
To help her and us out, here are some choices of sample GRE analogy questions from this site.
COLOR: SPECTRUM::
a. tone: scale
b. sound: waves
c. verse: poem
d. dimension: space
e. cell: organism
HEADLONG:FORETHOUGHT::
a. barefaced: shame
b. mealymouth: talent
c. heartbroken: emotion
d. levelheaded: resolve
e. singlehanded: ambition
SEDATIVE: DROWSINESS::
a. epidemic: contagiousness
b. vaccine: virus
c. laxative: drug
d. anesthetic: numbness
e. therapy: psychosis
I don't want to sound unduly cynical, but I suspect Ms. Rice is hinting that for the departing administration it may be that
diplomacy: talking :: gladiator: kagami mochi.
One is: 'Diplomacy is not synonymous with talking,' and the other is:
| Wednesday | Thursday | Friday | Saturday | Sunday |
 61° F | 47° F 16° C | 8° C | 61° F | 49° F 16° C | 9° C |  61° F | 49° F 16° C | 9° C |  63° F | 50° F 17° C | 10° C | 63° F | 50° F 17° C | 10° C |
| Mostly Cloudy | Mostly Cloudy | Rain Showers 70% chance of precipitation | Chance of Rain 50% chance of precipitation | Chance of Rain 30% chance of precipitation |
Diplomacy ≠ Talking? Diplomacy ≥ Talking? Diplomacy < Talking?
Alright, children, bubble tea is not synonymous with tapioca; religion is not synonymous with faith; politics is not synonymous with guanxi; and cole slaw in Kotzebue is not synonymous with Matanuska Valley cabbage. But I would expect to encounter a fair bit of the latter in any of these cases should I find myself confronted with the former.
I understand (perhaps) (in the most gracious reading) that what Ms. Rice meant to say was something like 'Diplomacy is not coextensive with talking,' mixed with a more minatory something akin to 'We have reconceived the notion of diplomacy such that a range of things from threats to preemptive strikes can now be put in the overlappy middle bit of a Diplomacy/War Wenn diagram.' She just didn't think Americans would understand 'coextensive,' 'reconceived,' or 'Wenn diagram.'
And more power to her: we don't. But I assume the esteemed Secretary did fairly well on her GRE, and even if it were more years ago than her youthful looks would imply, putting that zingy soundbite in the lamentable form she chose makes one want to ask, 'If not synonyms, then what are they? You've juxtaposed them; it seems you've counterposed them. Now tell us the nature of their relationship, if it is not one of synonyms. Diplomacy is to Talking as _________ is to what, Ms. Rice?'
To help her and us out, here are some choices of sample GRE analogy questions from this site.
COLOR: SPECTRUM::
a. tone: scale
b. sound: waves
c. verse: poem
d. dimension: space
e. cell: organism
HEADLONG:FORETHOUGHT::
a. barefaced: shame
b. mealymouth: talent
c. heartbroken: emotion
d. levelheaded: resolve
e. singlehanded: ambition
SEDATIVE: DROWSINESS::
a. epidemic: contagiousness
b. vaccine: virus
c. laxative: drug
d. anesthetic: numbness
e. therapy: psychosis
I don't want to sound unduly cynical, but I suspect Ms. Rice is hinting that for the departing administration it may be that
diplomacy: talking :: gladiator: kagami mochi.
Monday, June 2, 2008
Architectural Indigestion
The last two Sundays, when I turned on NPR after church in the evening, the story I tuned into was on both occasions relevant to things I had been contemplating that day. This is not a blog about religion, but the topic does come up every now and then - if, I freely confess, primarily to blame the Calvinists for everything I can't blame on the Beats.
Today just before leaving, I was preoccupied with the topic of sacred architecture and, to a lesser extent, religious art, ornamentation, and sacramentals within a church building: in other words, the totality of the physical presence of a constructed sacred space. There are as many schools of thought on this as there are believers, non-believers, architects and art-haters. But there are two traditional purposes sacred architecture strives to fill: to present an invitation to the faithful and to the stranger, and to provide a physical, lisible symbolic representation of the individual's journey from the profane to the sacred. Now, NPR's story when I was driving back was about reconceiving and refashioning the newsroom not the chapel, but what it illustrates is that architecture is important, it can serve or hinder its putative goals, and that we, the victims or beneficiaries of an architect's design, do notice and are affected by the space.
What got me on to it first was writing about some of the perhaps surprisingly numerous shared beliefs of the Friends and Catholics. While every Christian church has some genetic resemblance to all others, there is not only serious doctrinal difference to address in comparing them, but also the subtler distinctions in emphasis among all the various ideas they still share. In other words, it's not just huge things like 'faith v. works' or literalness v. historicity, but how much stress is put on certain tenets at the expense of which other ones.
Now, the anti-clerical Friends may seem to be the furthest from the hugely organized Catholic Church - and yet in reality they both place tremendous emphasis on the need for individual discernment. Encyclicals and other writings, with increased vigor after Vatican II, insist over and over on the importance of an informed, passionate, and active laity, the need to question and to search for answers, and the importance of being an activist when convinced of the appropriateness of that course. Both churches, as well, lay tremendous stress on justice, including social justice, which is conceived in both traditions as emanating from and being necessitated by the fact of utter, radical equality among all people. The language is different, but the message is the same.
As fascinating as all that is (to me), one place there is a huge difference is in how meeting spaces are viewed by the two groups, which makes sense as they are meant to do different things. And I have no intention of going into that in any depth. But a Quaker meeting-house does not strive to invite, as do churches of most other Protestant and Catholic traditions, nor does it attempt to lay out a narrative or an argument, except of simplicity and the concept of the inner light within all present and all without. Friends would say we glorify God through our actions, and too many, or too-richly-decorated, things around distract us from the real issue, which is 'what are we going to do/ what does God want us to do?' Friends likewise assert that, rightly lived, life is worship, and if simplicity is integral to one's life, this value should of course carry over into meeting halls and the worship meetings within them.
I haven't given much of an explanation there, but it makes sense in a Quaker context. It does not make sense in the context of regular Protestantism, or in Catholic or Orthodox traditions, where the physical church is meant to inspire awe, create an atmosphere of reverence and solemnity, and lead us to contemplate the glory of God, a glory which exceeds that of the gilt and the plainchant, but which can be symbolized by them - by things we can apprehend through our senses and intellect. This, too, has an elegant and coherent logic, to which I'm also giving short shrift.
Additionally, in their beauty, churches, temples, mosques, and cathedrals are meant to invite the sinner in, that he might be led through beauty to Beauty. Again, part of the logic is that the place one worships God should celebrate His wonder through the highest efforts of human labor, and that being drawn to beauty is a noble and God-given trait - but since it is also true that humans like sparkly things, offering them a few in the place of worship is one way to help them keep coming back, in the hope that eventually more substantive things and a more mature understanding of the fullness of the religion will serve the same purpose.
However, even if you are not a beginner, there is something to be said for a holy space that looks like a holy space (unless you belong to a faith like the Friends within which this would make no sense). And I don't care if you believe in God or not, if you enter the Blue Mosque or the Hagia Sophia, a Thai temple or a Zen garden, the results of the care taken to evoke the majesty of the unknowable and the ineffable makes you believe in something. We were given our senses in the same package as we were given our minds, and unless you follow Mani or Mr. Calvin, I fail to see why punishing those senses in worship is necessary.
And that is my main point: the 1960s were regrettable. The 1960s were painful. The 1960s should have stuck to social reform and left style and design alone. That era is my proof that reincarnation does not happen, as I can attest that had I lived before, I would have done so much good in my life that not only would I not have been born when I would have had to witness the horrific legacy the decade wrought in the arts - but I would have taken every prophylactic precaution possible to ensure that my karma be so great that none of it would even have been perpetuated! So, since I'm here now, I wasn't here then, and the best I can do is to try to avoid imagining those puffy ladies' hats, those square ladies' suits, the clunky low heeled parsons' pumps with squared-off toes and ridiculous buckles, and the hideous architecture that evoked not so much the Great American Century as the Supreme Soviet. If I want to worship, I don't want to do it in a place that looks like the People's Recreation Hall and Refectory at Reeducation Center 29! There is a fairly crappy YMCA up the road, and a disastrous, menacing Albertsons a bit further on; I can always go to one of those if I need to savor a bit of Stalinist-gymnasium ambiance. I don't need to do it at church.
Today just before leaving, I was preoccupied with the topic of sacred architecture and, to a lesser extent, religious art, ornamentation, and sacramentals within a church building: in other words, the totality of the physical presence of a constructed sacred space. There are as many schools of thought on this as there are believers, non-believers, architects and art-haters. But there are two traditional purposes sacred architecture strives to fill: to present an invitation to the faithful and to the stranger, and to provide a physical, lisible symbolic representation of the individual's journey from the profane to the sacred. Now, NPR's story when I was driving back was about reconceiving and refashioning the newsroom not the chapel, but what it illustrates is that architecture is important, it can serve or hinder its putative goals, and that we, the victims or beneficiaries of an architect's design, do notice and are affected by the space.
What got me on to it first was writing about some of the perhaps surprisingly numerous shared beliefs of the Friends and Catholics. While every Christian church has some genetic resemblance to all others, there is not only serious doctrinal difference to address in comparing them, but also the subtler distinctions in emphasis among all the various ideas they still share. In other words, it's not just huge things like 'faith v. works' or literalness v. historicity, but how much stress is put on certain tenets at the expense of which other ones.
Now, the anti-clerical Friends may seem to be the furthest from the hugely organized Catholic Church - and yet in reality they both place tremendous emphasis on the need for individual discernment. Encyclicals and other writings, with increased vigor after Vatican II, insist over and over on the importance of an informed, passionate, and active laity, the need to question and to search for answers, and the importance of being an activist when convinced of the appropriateness of that course. Both churches, as well, lay tremendous stress on justice, including social justice, which is conceived in both traditions as emanating from and being necessitated by the fact of utter, radical equality among all people. The language is different, but the message is the same.
As fascinating as all that is (to me), one place there is a huge difference is in how meeting spaces are viewed by the two groups, which makes sense as they are meant to do different things. And I have no intention of going into that in any depth. But a Quaker meeting-house does not strive to invite, as do churches of most other Protestant and Catholic traditions, nor does it attempt to lay out a narrative or an argument, except of simplicity and the concept of the inner light within all present and all without. Friends would say we glorify God through our actions, and too many, or too-richly-decorated, things around distract us from the real issue, which is 'what are we going to do/ what does God want us to do?' Friends likewise assert that, rightly lived, life is worship, and if simplicity is integral to one's life, this value should of course carry over into meeting halls and the worship meetings within them.
I haven't given much of an explanation there, but it makes sense in a Quaker context. It does not make sense in the context of regular Protestantism, or in Catholic or Orthodox traditions, where the physical church is meant to inspire awe, create an atmosphere of reverence and solemnity, and lead us to contemplate the glory of God, a glory which exceeds that of the gilt and the plainchant, but which can be symbolized by them - by things we can apprehend through our senses and intellect. This, too, has an elegant and coherent logic, to which I'm also giving short shrift.
Additionally, in their beauty, churches, temples, mosques, and cathedrals are meant to invite the sinner in, that he might be led through beauty to Beauty. Again, part of the logic is that the place one worships God should celebrate His wonder through the highest efforts of human labor, and that being drawn to beauty is a noble and God-given trait - but since it is also true that humans like sparkly things, offering them a few in the place of worship is one way to help them keep coming back, in the hope that eventually more substantive things and a more mature understanding of the fullness of the religion will serve the same purpose.
However, even if you are not a beginner, there is something to be said for a holy space that looks like a holy space (unless you belong to a faith like the Friends within which this would make no sense). And I don't care if you believe in God or not, if you enter the Blue Mosque or the Hagia Sophia, a Thai temple or a Zen garden, the results of the care taken to evoke the majesty of the unknowable and the ineffable makes you believe in something. We were given our senses in the same package as we were given our minds, and unless you follow Mani or Mr. Calvin, I fail to see why punishing those senses in worship is necessary.
And that is my main point: the 1960s were regrettable. The 1960s were painful. The 1960s should have stuck to social reform and left style and design alone. That era is my proof that reincarnation does not happen, as I can attest that had I lived before, I would have done so much good in my life that not only would I not have been born when I would have had to witness the horrific legacy the decade wrought in the arts - but I would have taken every prophylactic precaution possible to ensure that my karma be so great that none of it would even have been perpetuated! So, since I'm here now, I wasn't here then, and the best I can do is to try to avoid imagining those puffy ladies' hats, those square ladies' suits, the clunky low heeled parsons' pumps with squared-off toes and ridiculous buckles, and the hideous architecture that evoked not so much the Great American Century as the Supreme Soviet. If I want to worship, I don't want to do it in a place that looks like the People's Recreation Hall and Refectory at Reeducation Center 29! There is a fairly crappy YMCA up the road, and a disastrous, menacing Albertsons a bit further on; I can always go to one of those if I need to savor a bit of Stalinist-gymnasium ambiance. I don't need to do it at church.
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