Once more into the breeches, dear friends! Remember, if their hands are deep in your pockets, they may be going for something besides your money . . . hey, that sounds like the TSA (Thugs and Sexual Assaulters). Drolleries aside, my friend Todd commented on a tidbit I forwarded to him recently: a chilling excercise in arithmetic which pointed out that the present administration's doling out of trillions of dollars to their banking and corporate cronies amounts to $50,000 for every citizen (and probably most of the illegal aliens) in this republic. If my wife and I had received such checks, we would have four times my present pension and meager social security payments. We would be able to pay off most of our house and the usurers at VISA. We could relax and enjoy retirement; we could . . . who knows what.
A trillion is a very large number. One can almost imagine a million ( especially with the prices at the supermarket lately). If you put a thousand by a thousand dollar bills in a large square, you have a million dollars. Now, if you take that square and put a thousand by a thousand of them in a very large square, you have a trillion dollars. I saw a bumper sticker that made me laugh recently: "Don't tell him what comes after a trillion". I don't know if the world domestic product stretches to a quadrillion dollars (or urals or whatever you call them).
Now, economics, like higher mathematics, is one of my weak areas. I have little interest--and less intention--in plumbing the depths of the economy, domestic or foreign, free-market or Marxist. Blindworm that I am, I am more concerned about the depressing fact that our monthly balance sheet is written in red ink every month. This upsets my comptroller to no end. I am concerned with the economy of the small town I live in. When the transnational owners of the mine near us locked out the wage earners a while back, I was angry on the workers' behalf. The blunt and inescapable truth is that a small group of people who run the great mining cartel that owns the local mine make an enormous amount of money from their operations. Do they deserve their profit? Perhaps. Do they deserve to have much of their profit taken from them and given to people who have done nothing to earn it? I think not.
Redistribution of wealth is an idea with two different roots: Christian and Marxist. This holds true at least in our country. India or China might have diferent perspectives. Like it or not, our economic roots are Judeo-Christian and free-market in the USA. Most of our Founders were Christians (yes, even Jefferson) and, to a man, free-market capitalists. They were not without venality and other sins, of course. But their rebellion against the English king, as shown at Boston Harbor (making it the world's largest tea pot), demonstrated their beliefs. Socialism as an ideology had not really come to public attention yet.
The early Christian church was the first modern example of the collective sharing of wealth. In the first century, many Christians pooled their resources so that no-one went without the necessities of life. The negative example of Ananias and Saphira is instructive. They did not survive their agenda. Jesus was the inspiration and model of sharing and sacrifice. As Paul said, without His atonement for our sins, nothing of what Christians did made sense. It took the French Revolution and Marx' and Engel's Communist Manifesto to remove God from the collective ideal. Unfortunately, without Jesus to inspire charity, socialism has nothing but force to compel the sharing of wealth. Many millions of lost lives have demonstrated this in the last century. In the last analysis, wealth equals power. One can only spend so much on himself or his family. Money=leverage. Remember Obrien's dictum in 1984: The object of power is power.
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Reality Shows and Other Abominations
I have been struck by two phenomena lately, which taken together I find ominous. *Spoiler alert! This is going to be one of those "Things were different when I was young!" essays.* Both trends indicate a dissociation from reality, a distancing. The first is the plethora of "reality shows" on television, especially on the old-line networks. TV is rife with them. The other indicator I see is the increasing use of electronic communication devices and the concomitant use of "social networking". Taken together, these demonstrate a lack of consensual relationships, a fading of the face-to-face interaction which I believe we are designed to experience. Some people think this substitution is inevitable, given the Malthusian pressure we are being forced to cope with. There are just too many people around. That may be a factor, but I don't think it's the only one. Quite a few people are concerned with merely staying alive and eking out a tolerable existence for their families. I'm not talking about them. I'm concerned about the people with discretionary time or money (which, in the end, are the same) who seem to be receding into the background.
Reality shows on TV serve at least two functions. They show us ourselves in situations we wouldn't normally be involved with; and they entertain and titillate by putting Everyman and Everywoman in improbable straits and making us laugh or be horrified. Fictional shows and films do this, of course, but their protagonists are often so idealized that disbelief must be heavily suspended. Reality shows give us our neighbors, warts and all. Our reactions are usually twofold: "Thank God I'm not doing that!" followed by "I wonder how much money they're making?" The movies that show people you might know doing things you might do are called cult classics and are seldom viewed (almost never on television). It wouldn't be so bad if reality shows were real; a few of them seem to be close to everyday life. Taking a bunch of fat people and having them compete to lose weight (I can identify with this!) is not too improbable, though few of us could afford the regimens they undergo. You notice they are carefully screened for orthopedic and medical problems and are usually not sprung chickens. My other pet peeve is the "Survivor" shows. They usually seem to take place in areas where the contestants don't have to wear much clothing. Having one in Finland isn't going to happen. A base part of me wants to see the rejects dumped on a deserted island and hunted by the "survivors"--with spears and knives! Probably a good thing I'm not a producer.
What bothers me about these shows is the "bread and circuses" atmosphere of many of them. You can almost picture Nero giving some poor sweaty fatso the thumbs down--and hear the crowds roaring as motorcyclists whip him with old chains. What really pulls my chain are the sadists who pose as judges and ringmasters. Since we are not in England, I will challenge the libel laws and mention two of my least favorites: Simon Cowell and Gordon Ramsay. Both delight in savaging and humiliating contestants on their reality (talent?) shows. They are certainly not aglow with encouragement. Cowell is debuting a new show. I have never heard him sing; I don't know if he can. Ramsay is a master chef with Michelin stars. He seems to enjoy using verbal cleavers on hapless would-be chefs. What bothers me about these men and their shows is that people watch them. Why? Jesus told us that vicarious (and imagined) sin is the same as the real thing.
You cannot go anywhere these days without seeing people talking on cell phones or texting. They hardly seem to know where they are. My wife complains about my talking to people when I'm out of the house. I can't seem to go far without stopping to talk to someone. Sometimes I know the person; sometimes not. It doesn't matter to me. The interaction matters. I've gotten to the point that I can enjoy a phone conversation--I didn't always. If I'm watching television and someone comes to visit, I will turn the TV off. People are always more important than the idiot box. (Besides, I can catch my shows later on the computer.) I will admit to a mild addiction to surfing the Internet. As with television, I pick what I want to watch or read. I am an information junkie. Mea maxima culpa! My wife sometimes spends considerable time on Facebook. The so-called "social networks" are developing into substitutes for physical proximity to other human beings. A friend or ours was actually ready to move to another state because of an Internet friendship. Having five-hundred "friends" online doesn't substitute for one real person sitting near you, drinking coffee. "Tweeting" your every move to an adoring public is, perhaps, the ultimate narcissism. God help us!
Every other commercial on TV seems to be a sales-pitch for "smart" phones or tablets (those diabolical shrunken computers). Remember, though, the NSA (or Whoever) can probably track you and what you're doing easily. Walk down the street. Turn your gizmos off. Look people in the eye. Smile. Talk. Rejoin the human race.
Reality shows on TV serve at least two functions. They show us ourselves in situations we wouldn't normally be involved with; and they entertain and titillate by putting Everyman and Everywoman in improbable straits and making us laugh or be horrified. Fictional shows and films do this, of course, but their protagonists are often so idealized that disbelief must be heavily suspended. Reality shows give us our neighbors, warts and all. Our reactions are usually twofold: "Thank God I'm not doing that!" followed by "I wonder how much money they're making?" The movies that show people you might know doing things you might do are called cult classics and are seldom viewed (almost never on television). It wouldn't be so bad if reality shows were real; a few of them seem to be close to everyday life. Taking a bunch of fat people and having them compete to lose weight (I can identify with this!) is not too improbable, though few of us could afford the regimens they undergo. You notice they are carefully screened for orthopedic and medical problems and are usually not sprung chickens. My other pet peeve is the "Survivor" shows. They usually seem to take place in areas where the contestants don't have to wear much clothing. Having one in Finland isn't going to happen. A base part of me wants to see the rejects dumped on a deserted island and hunted by the "survivors"--with spears and knives! Probably a good thing I'm not a producer.
What bothers me about these shows is the "bread and circuses" atmosphere of many of them. You can almost picture Nero giving some poor sweaty fatso the thumbs down--and hear the crowds roaring as motorcyclists whip him with old chains. What really pulls my chain are the sadists who pose as judges and ringmasters. Since we are not in England, I will challenge the libel laws and mention two of my least favorites: Simon Cowell and Gordon Ramsay. Both delight in savaging and humiliating contestants on their reality (talent?) shows. They are certainly not aglow with encouragement. Cowell is debuting a new show. I have never heard him sing; I don't know if he can. Ramsay is a master chef with Michelin stars. He seems to enjoy using verbal cleavers on hapless would-be chefs. What bothers me about these men and their shows is that people watch them. Why? Jesus told us that vicarious (and imagined) sin is the same as the real thing.
You cannot go anywhere these days without seeing people talking on cell phones or texting. They hardly seem to know where they are. My wife complains about my talking to people when I'm out of the house. I can't seem to go far without stopping to talk to someone. Sometimes I know the person; sometimes not. It doesn't matter to me. The interaction matters. I've gotten to the point that I can enjoy a phone conversation--I didn't always. If I'm watching television and someone comes to visit, I will turn the TV off. People are always more important than the idiot box. (Besides, I can catch my shows later on the computer.) I will admit to a mild addiction to surfing the Internet. As with television, I pick what I want to watch or read. I am an information junkie. Mea maxima culpa! My wife sometimes spends considerable time on Facebook. The so-called "social networks" are developing into substitutes for physical proximity to other human beings. A friend or ours was actually ready to move to another state because of an Internet friendship. Having five-hundred "friends" online doesn't substitute for one real person sitting near you, drinking coffee. "Tweeting" your every move to an adoring public is, perhaps, the ultimate narcissism. God help us!
Every other commercial on TV seems to be a sales-pitch for "smart" phones or tablets (those diabolical shrunken computers). Remember, though, the NSA (or Whoever) can probably track you and what you're doing easily. Walk down the street. Turn your gizmos off. Look people in the eye. Smile. Talk. Rejoin the human race.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
R & R
My title doesn't refer to "Rest and Recreation"--a topic for another time. I'm referring here to what mechanics and engineers call "Remove and Replace". This is what might be called the "module" concept of constructing and servicing various devices. I'll use my late freezer as an example. I say "late" because it died last summer, in the middle of a heat wave, presenting us with us with seven or eight cubic feet of defrosting food. My mechanical intuition (which often exceeds my mechanical ability) told me the motor had burned out. The freezer, a small reach-in, was venerable; we were its third owner. I called my father for information. He has forgotten more about mechanical and electrical things than I'll ever know. He told me the motor was part of the compressor unit. In other words, the whole unit had to be replaced; this would cost more than a new freezer. So, in this case, "R & R" meant remove the freezer and get another one.
I find this to be a sign for much of our culture. I knew something was up when I was was twelve. My friend David and I were busy buying our weekly supply of candy from Sav-On in Lancaster. It was about 1960. I saw a new display above the candy: Bic disposable lighters. My father was a Zippo man, involved in rituals of fluid, wick, and flint. As I eyed the colorful plastic lighters, I felt a deep premonition, somewhere in my bowels, that all was not well. I told David that nothing good would come of this. The disposable culture had begun.
I am not against "progress"--far from it. (Though I am not a "progressive"--another column.) What I am against is modularizing our lives and quashing ingenuity and practicality. This mouthful simply means that everything in life cannot be reduced to parts or units that can only be replaced when they fail, never repaired or rebuilt. Thus, curiosity and tinkering can't fix what can't be taken apart. We still triumph sometimes. Two examples: One of my cars had rear wheel bearings that were "sealed". You were supposed to buy new bearings (for a lot of money) and throw the old ones away. I forced the bearing shells apart, found the bearings to be okay, greased them, and put them back together. They worked fine. The oven in our stove was refusing to light. It was nearing Thanksgiving, and my wife was quite upset. I went online and found schematics for the "igniter" circuit (no pilot). I bought a new igniter and got a young friend to help me install it. Gloria was happy; the turkey got roasted. Cost: $90.
The throw-away culture and the R & R principle are one and the same. Progress is like a drug. It should be used when necessary. Drugs, however, often have side-effects; some are addictive, and require ever-larger doses for diminishing returns. For two final examples, I will return first to the automobile. I was taught by my father to do as much of my own maintenance and repair as I could. This way you saved money and knew what you were driving. You can still work on your car, a little, but much of the engine is beyond the abilities and equipment of the average shade-tree mechanic. Modern cars contain increasing amounts of gadgets and electronic devices. Whether we need these things or not, we can't work on them. R & R.
My final example is computers. I use them; I like them. I have assembled my own (with a little help from my son, Thomas). Mine is a desktop. I have tried a laptop--my hands are too big. I haven't tried one of the tablets. We are being told desktops are obsolete. I can't work on a laptop, let alone a tablet. Parts are much more expensive than the ones I have put in my desktop. Perhaps there is no solution or alternative to the throwaway culture. We can't turn the clock back . . . too many people. At some point, the clock will stop working. Then the craftsmanship of its Maker will come back. A quote from T. S. Eliot: "After such knowledge, what forgiveness?"
I find this to be a sign for much of our culture. I knew something was up when I was was twelve. My friend David and I were busy buying our weekly supply of candy from Sav-On in Lancaster. It was about 1960. I saw a new display above the candy: Bic disposable lighters. My father was a Zippo man, involved in rituals of fluid, wick, and flint. As I eyed the colorful plastic lighters, I felt a deep premonition, somewhere in my bowels, that all was not well. I told David that nothing good would come of this. The disposable culture had begun.
I am not against "progress"--far from it. (Though I am not a "progressive"--another column.) What I am against is modularizing our lives and quashing ingenuity and practicality. This mouthful simply means that everything in life cannot be reduced to parts or units that can only be replaced when they fail, never repaired or rebuilt. Thus, curiosity and tinkering can't fix what can't be taken apart. We still triumph sometimes. Two examples: One of my cars had rear wheel bearings that were "sealed". You were supposed to buy new bearings (for a lot of money) and throw the old ones away. I forced the bearing shells apart, found the bearings to be okay, greased them, and put them back together. They worked fine. The oven in our stove was refusing to light. It was nearing Thanksgiving, and my wife was quite upset. I went online and found schematics for the "igniter" circuit (no pilot). I bought a new igniter and got a young friend to help me install it. Gloria was happy; the turkey got roasted. Cost: $90.
The throw-away culture and the R & R principle are one and the same. Progress is like a drug. It should be used when necessary. Drugs, however, often have side-effects; some are addictive, and require ever-larger doses for diminishing returns. For two final examples, I will return first to the automobile. I was taught by my father to do as much of my own maintenance and repair as I could. This way you saved money and knew what you were driving. You can still work on your car, a little, but much of the engine is beyond the abilities and equipment of the average shade-tree mechanic. Modern cars contain increasing amounts of gadgets and electronic devices. Whether we need these things or not, we can't work on them. R & R.
My final example is computers. I use them; I like them. I have assembled my own (with a little help from my son, Thomas). Mine is a desktop. I have tried a laptop--my hands are too big. I haven't tried one of the tablets. We are being told desktops are obsolete. I can't work on a laptop, let alone a tablet. Parts are much more expensive than the ones I have put in my desktop. Perhaps there is no solution or alternative to the throwaway culture. We can't turn the clock back . . . too many people. At some point, the clock will stop working. Then the craftsmanship of its Maker will come back. A quote from T. S. Eliot: "After such knowledge, what forgiveness?"
Monday, May 23, 2011
Adulteration
No, class, I'm not talking about sex, though that could be subsumed by my general topic. To adulterate means to dilute something or substitute inferior ingredients or components. My launching pad today is soap. Hence, blather about lather. My wife recently bought me a bar of Pears soap, which she knew to be one of my favorites. Since she only buys such things at bargain prices, I hadn't had any for a year or more. Now, Pears is a venerable soap, having first been made in England over two-hundred years ago. It was touted as the first "transparent" soap, though the correct word would be "translucent". This is fairly common today and is really just a novelty. I could care less whether one could read text through a bar; for me the unique scent of the soap was pleasing. Pears contained rosin, as well as thyme and several other herbs. In addition, it worked well. It was basically a natural product.
By now you're thinking, A fetish for soap, ehhh . . . Perhaps . . . but I like natural products, with as few unnecessary ingredients as possible. Also, I have made soap several times. The basic ingredients were tallow, olive and cocoanut oil, and lye. The lye saponifies the fats and oils, and this produces the soap. Any other additions are for color, scent, or healing properties. The process is laborious and smelly and is best done outdoors. After the soap is poured into molds, it must age for several weeks. It is then cut into bars.
When I eagerly unwrapped my new bar of Pears, I found it didn't smell quite the same. It had a perfumy note, like some chi-chi ladies' soap. I looked at the ingredients list on the box. To my horror, it listed 24 ingredients! The leading ingredient was sorbitol. This is a sugar alcohol used as an artificial sweetener. Why it was listed as the leading ingredient of a bar of soap is not known to me, unless the bar was intended to be eaten. My favorite soap had been reduced to a chemical stew. I noted on the box that the soap was produced in India under license from England. My first outraged question was, Why? Was the motive economic? Did it cost less to make this faux Pears? Perhaps. . . .
This adulteration, this substitution, this cheapening is happening to many things around the world. Often the motive is economic. Profit margins are shrinking. Without going "green" on my readers (God forbid!), I would guess that increasing population, conglomeration of businesses, and centralization of production would have something to do with this trend. But I don't think this explains everything. There is a strange, underlying sense that "they" want us to be aware that nothing stays the same, that change is the only constant. At various levels, choices are being made for us, and many of them seem arbitrary. As to who "they" are, I have my suspicions; readers of my older posts will know who I mean. Terms such as Illuminati or Bilderbergers have no real meaning. The powers behind the thrones will use whomever they need to do as they wish.
Tradition is now a dirty word in some circles. Since the past cannot be changed, some people feel it must be ignored. There has always been rebellion by the young against the established. That goes without saying, and cannot be stopped. The dialectic of thesis vs. antithesis equals synthesis is as old as humanity. Unfortunately youth lacks one vital quality: perspective. But it comes at a price: inflexibility. Wisdom is the accretion of perspective modified by experience. Some wisdom, at least, must be passed on as tradition. Destroying a good soap simply because you can is at least foolish; doing it to make more money is wicked. I am a poet. One of my influences was T. S. Eliot. In his essay "Tradition and the Individual Talent" he advised us to know and understand what past poets had done, before we did something different. You don't throw the baby out with the bathwater.
By now you're thinking, A fetish for soap, ehhh . . . Perhaps . . . but I like natural products, with as few unnecessary ingredients as possible. Also, I have made soap several times. The basic ingredients were tallow, olive and cocoanut oil, and lye. The lye saponifies the fats and oils, and this produces the soap. Any other additions are for color, scent, or healing properties. The process is laborious and smelly and is best done outdoors. After the soap is poured into molds, it must age for several weeks. It is then cut into bars.
When I eagerly unwrapped my new bar of Pears, I found it didn't smell quite the same. It had a perfumy note, like some chi-chi ladies' soap. I looked at the ingredients list on the box. To my horror, it listed 24 ingredients! The leading ingredient was sorbitol. This is a sugar alcohol used as an artificial sweetener. Why it was listed as the leading ingredient of a bar of soap is not known to me, unless the bar was intended to be eaten. My favorite soap had been reduced to a chemical stew. I noted on the box that the soap was produced in India under license from England. My first outraged question was, Why? Was the motive economic? Did it cost less to make this faux Pears? Perhaps. . . .
This adulteration, this substitution, this cheapening is happening to many things around the world. Often the motive is economic. Profit margins are shrinking. Without going "green" on my readers (God forbid!), I would guess that increasing population, conglomeration of businesses, and centralization of production would have something to do with this trend. But I don't think this explains everything. There is a strange, underlying sense that "they" want us to be aware that nothing stays the same, that change is the only constant. At various levels, choices are being made for us, and many of them seem arbitrary. As to who "they" are, I have my suspicions; readers of my older posts will know who I mean. Terms such as Illuminati or Bilderbergers have no real meaning. The powers behind the thrones will use whomever they need to do as they wish.
Tradition is now a dirty word in some circles. Since the past cannot be changed, some people feel it must be ignored. There has always been rebellion by the young against the established. That goes without saying, and cannot be stopped. The dialectic of thesis vs. antithesis equals synthesis is as old as humanity. Unfortunately youth lacks one vital quality: perspective. But it comes at a price: inflexibility. Wisdom is the accretion of perspective modified by experience. Some wisdom, at least, must be passed on as tradition. Destroying a good soap simply because you can is at least foolish; doing it to make more money is wicked. I am a poet. One of my influences was T. S. Eliot. In his essay "Tradition and the Individual Talent" he advised us to know and understand what past poets had done, before we did something different. You don't throw the baby out with the bathwater.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
Founts of Misinformation
Well, fans (all five of you), here I am again--having taken off time for bad behavior. I have decided to return to my outrageous haunts: mini-essays either irrelevant or irreverant, sometimes both. I am, as always, a poet, so concision and compression are my fortes. I propose to stick a few barbs into a sacred cow or two, from my aging, hidebound, reactionary point of view. The old bull(shitter) fixes his nearsighted eyes on a sacred cow, paws the ground, and lumbers into action.
I wish to gore thatInternet ox of information, the online encyclopedia Wikipedia, with a few stabs atand other arbiters of correctness. I will be the first to admit to consulting Wikipedia (or, as I sometimes call it, Wickedpedia), and I do so fairly frequently. On simple matters of fact, I have found it to be both concise and accurate. I have no quarrel with most entries I have read. Wikipedia claims that almost anyone can post and edit its contents. It was created by a small group, however, and continues to be governed from behind the public purview. Reader participation is invited; given the scope of information covered, it is necessary. Thus the revolutionary nature of the work. What bothers me, from my perspective of general conservatism and evangelical Christianity, is its growing bias in favor of a liberal, humanist worldview.
I am not going to cite examples of what I consider to be bias or misinformation. That's not my point. I feel there is is a filter in place that slants what we read on Wikipedia in a particular direction. There have been instances of the deletion of all or part of certain "controversial" articles, and these are often ones written from a conservative direction. As I said above, I appreciate the breadth and scope of Wikipedia and frequently use it, but I don't trust it very far. Editors can and do remain anonymous. Some have gone through the site and scrubbed references to certain topics. For instance, one altered many posts regarding Islam, changing things he perceived as antagonistic. Pseudonymity can enable vandalism as well as courage.
Your picador is now going to brandish a sword or two atand , two sites that claim to be reliable, if not final, sources of information. The first is run by a husband and wife who are admittedly liberal supporters of President Obama; the second is run by the Annenberg Foundation. At the instigation of terrorist/scholar Bill Ayers, this foundation was instrumental in backing Obama's rise to power. Now, if you are a left-wing "Democrat", this is all well and good. If, however, you are conservative, this makes some things learned from these two sites suspect.
Dear readers, I take anything these three sites put out with a heap of seasalt. The primary goal of education should be the ability to think for oneself. Facts are good, especially if proven to be true. Propaganda and indoctrination are not, no matter which direction one is pointed in. Read a book!
I wish to gore thatInternet ox of information, the online encyclopedia Wikipedia, with a few stabs at
I am not going to cite examples of what I consider to be bias or misinformation. That's not my point. I feel there is is a filter in place that slants what we read on Wikipedia in a particular direction. There have been instances of the deletion of all or part of certain "controversial" articles, and these are often ones written from a conservative direction. As I said above, I appreciate the breadth and scope of Wikipedia and frequently use it, but I don't trust it very far. Editors can and do remain anonymous. Some have gone through the site and scrubbed references to certain topics. For instance, one altered many posts regarding Islam, changing things he perceived as antagonistic. Pseudonymity can enable vandalism as well as courage.
Your picador is now going to brandish a sword or two at
Dear readers, I take anything these three sites put out with a heap of seasalt. The primary goal of education should be the ability to think for oneself. Facts are good, especially if proven to be true. Propaganda and indoctrination are not, no matter which direction one is pointed in. Read a book!
Friday, September 11, 2009
Four Hours: Habits, Addictions, and Idolatry
High! My name is Dan . . . I'm an addict. Well, I am--a Vicodin addict. If I take it, I walk; if I don't take it, I don't walk. As my friend Jon has sternly reminded me: If a doctor prescribes it, and I'm following the regimen, then I'm not an addict. Well, I'll bow to superior wisdom--or experience. But I know my personality, which tends toward addiction. The average medication seems to last about four hours. I guess, technically, I'm physically dependent on hydrocodone. That, and Inderal, which is a "beta blocker". It seems to hold down my blood pressure, but, more importantly, blocks most of my migraines. I was getting them on an almost daily basis. Doctors have told me this isn't really possible, but you can't argue with your head (or, at least, you shouldn't). Being an addict is an exercise in diminishing returns: you take more and more to less and less effect (I WANT MOORE--BUT THERE'S LESS OF ME!). In my substance-abusing days, lo these 27 years ago, I much preferred stimulants (CNSS, technically) such as methylesterbenzoylecgonine (cocaine, for you tabloid types) and methamphetamine. When you've been depressed for much of your life, you tend to avoid downers. I always enjoyed the taste a good dark ale, a good dry red wine, or a strong-but-smooth tequila, but alcohol, like sugar, gave me migraines. Pot made me vegetative (feel those roots going down). When I took good acid I couldn't see myself in the mirror, and I astrally projected . . . a little too close to the line. So . . . flying that plane, high on cocaine . . . And then, an increase in speed to make up for lost reality!
Habits might be described as repetitive reactions to unconscious emotional needs. I plain English, I always do something the same way, because at some level I need too. Then again, habits may just be like record grooves cut into reality. The end result: if you don't do something the same way, you feel uncomfortable (you remember what happens when you hit the needle while a record's playing?). They're said to take several weeks to establish, depending on the habitue' and the nature of the habit. They are very hard to break, as we know. I believe this is because we enter into them unconsciously, but it takes a conscious (and often protracted) effort to break or change them. Most habits are innocuous, not bothering anyone save ourselves (well, maybe our significant others; perhaps that's one reason people live alone). Some habits, however, are deadly, at one level or another. Sarcasm is a veiled anger which seeks to humiliate other people: a very destructive habit. Brawling (often fueled by alcohol addiction) is another destructive habit, at a physical level.
Idolatry is an addiction or habit carried to a spiritual level. It is my contention, backed up, I believe, in the Bible, that humans are tripartite beings: we have spirit-bodies, which are imperishable (except by God, of course); we have physical bodies, which act as hosts or carriers for our spirits; and we have mental-emotional (mind+heart) bodies, or souls, which are the interface of the other two. In other words, our "operating systems". This is, I believe, what is seen by some people as "auras" and what can be viewed or photographed by Kirlian "photography". All living--and some inanimate--things have a "soul", but only human beings have a "spirit" which can be linked to God's Spirit by salvation. Idolatry is simply an addiction or habit at the spiritual level, something that interferes with our relationship with God.
I actually took the "est" training with "Werner Blowhard" before I became a Christian. I did get one thing of value out of it: you start with "being", then go to "doing", and then to "having". You are first, then you do, then you have. Everything proceeds from the spiritual, then to the soul-level, then to the physical. Sometimes, God is the only one who can change us. Some addictions and habits are beyond our volition; some aren't. If trying is beyond you, ask God.
Habits might be described as repetitive reactions to unconscious emotional needs. I plain English, I always do something the same way, because at some level I need too. Then again, habits may just be like record grooves cut into reality. The end result: if you don't do something the same way, you feel uncomfortable (you remember what happens when you hit the needle while a record's playing?). They're said to take several weeks to establish, depending on the habitue' and the nature of the habit. They are very hard to break, as we know. I believe this is because we enter into them unconsciously, but it takes a conscious (and often protracted) effort to break or change them. Most habits are innocuous, not bothering anyone save ourselves (well, maybe our significant others; perhaps that's one reason people live alone). Some habits, however, are deadly, at one level or another. Sarcasm is a veiled anger which seeks to humiliate other people: a very destructive habit. Brawling (often fueled by alcohol addiction) is another destructive habit, at a physical level.
Idolatry is an addiction or habit carried to a spiritual level. It is my contention, backed up, I believe, in the Bible, that humans are tripartite beings: we have spirit-bodies, which are imperishable (except by God, of course); we have physical bodies, which act as hosts or carriers for our spirits; and we have mental-emotional (mind+heart) bodies, or souls, which are the interface of the other two. In other words, our "operating systems". This is, I believe, what is seen by some people as "auras" and what can be viewed or photographed by Kirlian "photography". All living--and some inanimate--things have a "soul", but only human beings have a "spirit" which can be linked to God's Spirit by salvation. Idolatry is simply an addiction or habit at the spiritual level, something that interferes with our relationship with God.
I actually took the "est" training with "Werner Blowhard" before I became a Christian. I did get one thing of value out of it: you start with "being", then go to "doing", and then to "having". You are first, then you do, then you have. Everything proceeds from the spiritual, then to the soul-level, then to the physical. Sometimes, God is the only one who can change us. Some addictions and habits are beyond our volition; some aren't. If trying is beyond you, ask God.
Friday, August 7, 2009
Orwell and Pinochio
I don't usually make statements of record about politics. Most of my comments are oral, made mostly to friends. After this melange, I'll probably have fewer of them (friends, not comments). Sometimes, though, a man has to stand up in public and say what he feels. To quote Whorf from First Contact, as his ship is about ready to be broken up by the Borg, "Perhaps today is a good day to die! Give me ramming speed!"
George Orwell was a socialist and an atheist; I am neither. He was perhaps the most brilliant essayist of the 20th century. With the exceptions of 1984 and Animal Farm, his novels were less successful--and less well-received--than his essays and criticism. Though I sometimes disagree with his starting points or his objectives, I can seldom criticize his reasoning. Once he got hold of an idea he squeezed every drop of juice out of it--and usually found something to do with the pulp. The two novels mentioned above embodied almost all of Orwell's ideas about socialism--and his fears. Animal Farm is satirical and allegorical, but 1984 is nightmarish, a reductio ad absurdem of war and tyranny. Orwell is not really concerned with showing us the process and progression of collective socialism; he shows us the gritty end result of unchecked power exercised by oligarchy. Winston Smith, a tired everyman, knows--has always known--that he will be caught and tortured. O'Brien, his teacher-inquisitor, helps him to understand that there is no point to this process other than conformity and extinction. The central truth is: "The object of power is power." The other truth is that the collective is immortal; there is no need for God. The novel resembles one of those unpleasant dreams you can't escape from.
Barack Obama, in my opinion, is trying to force us in the direction of collective socialism. He is a member of an oligarchy. Whether he is making policy or just carrying it out does not matter. The recent institution of a Whitehouse website to encourage people to tattle on those who oppose Obama's health-care plan strikes me as ludicrous and ominous at the same time. I call it the"rat line". No representative democracy needs a system of informers, although the occasional whistleblower can be a good thing. I'm not going to get into specific proposals or policies right now. I believe the electorate, the people in general, need more input into the process of government than they're being given. You can't lie to them or bury things in thousand-page bills and not expect a backlash.
Pinochio comes to mind here: the myth of the puppet boy who would be real. The longing of the old clock-maker and puppeteer for a real boy is the quest for the miraculous. Pinochio had already been given free will, though he was still wooden. When he lied, he grew asses's ears (hmmm). We go through our lives trying to cut our strings and become real. Our Puppeteer has always given us free will; the Clock-maker wants us love Him as Father and, by believing, be real. He wants you to love Him, Obama, as your earthly father did not. Go to Jesus, Barry.
George Orwell was a socialist and an atheist; I am neither. He was perhaps the most brilliant essayist of the 20th century. With the exceptions of 1984 and Animal Farm, his novels were less successful--and less well-received--than his essays and criticism. Though I sometimes disagree with his starting points or his objectives, I can seldom criticize his reasoning. Once he got hold of an idea he squeezed every drop of juice out of it--and usually found something to do with the pulp. The two novels mentioned above embodied almost all of Orwell's ideas about socialism--and his fears. Animal Farm is satirical and allegorical, but 1984 is nightmarish, a reductio ad absurdem of war and tyranny. Orwell is not really concerned with showing us the process and progression of collective socialism; he shows us the gritty end result of unchecked power exercised by oligarchy. Winston Smith, a tired everyman, knows--has always known--that he will be caught and tortured. O'Brien, his teacher-inquisitor, helps him to understand that there is no point to this process other than conformity and extinction. The central truth is: "The object of power is power." The other truth is that the collective is immortal; there is no need for God. The novel resembles one of those unpleasant dreams you can't escape from.
Barack Obama, in my opinion, is trying to force us in the direction of collective socialism. He is a member of an oligarchy. Whether he is making policy or just carrying it out does not matter. The recent institution of a Whitehouse website to encourage people to tattle on those who oppose Obama's health-care plan strikes me as ludicrous and ominous at the same time. I call it the"rat line". No representative democracy needs a system of informers, although the occasional whistleblower can be a good thing. I'm not going to get into specific proposals or policies right now. I believe the electorate, the people in general, need more input into the process of government than they're being given. You can't lie to them or bury things in thousand-page bills and not expect a backlash.
Pinochio comes to mind here: the myth of the puppet boy who would be real. The longing of the old clock-maker and puppeteer for a real boy is the quest for the miraculous. Pinochio had already been given free will, though he was still wooden. When he lied, he grew asses's ears (hmmm). We go through our lives trying to cut our strings and become real. Our Puppeteer has always given us free will; the Clock-maker wants us love Him as Father and, by believing, be real. He wants you to love Him, Obama, as your earthly father did not. Go to Jesus, Barry.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
The Jewish Problem
Well, sports fans, it's been too long since Dan the Despicable posted, so . . . Looking at the title of this column, you're probably thinking, "Aha! He's finally gone off the deep end. We've got him now. Next thing you know, he'll be defending Sarah Palin! [Soon!]" Actually, this is in response to several writer-personalities I have found useful in the past. One is in radio; another is the author of Christian books I found interesting, even provocative. They share an all-too-common monomania: hatred and paranoia of Jews. I am a Christian; Jesus Christ was a Jew. The Jews were necessary antecedents of the Christian movement. Jesus never renounced or denounced His Jewish roots. Indeed, He specifically credited them with fulfilling His identity as the Son of God. Many prophecies in the Old Testament, the Hebrew part of the Bible, pointed straight at Him. There is no coincidence in this; it is specifically intended by God the Father. The Jews were anointed as God's chosen people. Abram and Sarai were launched by God straight into eternity as Abraham and Sarah, the parents of the chosen people. Ironically, few Jews believe that Christians are connected to them in any way. More than a few Christians in the past have ignored or distanced themselves from their Jewish forbears. Some, as I mentioned above, have reacted with astonishng hatred toward Jews. Historically, some "Christians" have accused the Jews of being "Christ-killers". He had to be put to death by His own people so He could resurrect as Savior of all.
Jew-haters of the type I mentioned above cloak their hatred with labels like "anti-Zionism". They claim they don't have any problem with individual Jews, just with their rightful homeland, Israel. Bigotry works by establishing unreal distinctions and using them to isolate and hurt target groups of people. It's the ultimate extension of "stranger danger": xenophobia, fear of strangers. Intelligent and learned men become mental cripples. Even Martin Luther is said to have been a victim of this disorder, though I have not researched his case. We need to fight this tendency, people, otherwise we put on mental blinders . . . and end up serving the Enemy. Thus we fail to advance God's Kingdom on Earth.
Jew-haters of the type I mentioned above cloak their hatred with labels like "anti-Zionism". They claim they don't have any problem with individual Jews, just with their rightful homeland, Israel. Bigotry works by establishing unreal distinctions and using them to isolate and hurt target groups of people. It's the ultimate extension of "stranger danger": xenophobia, fear of strangers. Intelligent and learned men become mental cripples. Even Martin Luther is said to have been a victim of this disorder, though I have not researched his case. We need to fight this tendency, people, otherwise we put on mental blinders . . . and end up serving the Enemy. Thus we fail to advance God's Kingdom on Earth.
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Whitechapel
1888 had been, so far, a year of frantic action, as well as conflicting emotions. I had buried my wife, Constance, in the preceding December. It was a sad and dreary time of sleet alternating with fog: London at its worst. Holmes had gently suggested that I move back in with him. As there were no children involved, I had acceded. Constance had succumbed to diphtheria. She was always of delicate constitution, though she tried so hard to be the perfect doctor's wife. She tolerated and even encouraged my friendship with Holmes, though she discomfited him by cheerfully (in the American fashion) using his given name.
Holmes sat with me in Baker Street and, looking at me with those remarkable grey eyes, piercing and masterful, said, "Work is the best antidote to sorrow, Watson." Within a week we were enmeshed with the Douglas family at Birlstone. The pace did not let up. After that we were invited by a scientific team to investigate the murders of several of their members in the Transcaucasus mountains. A large, hairy wildman called the Wodewose was involved. I have been enjoined not to reveal the details of this near-tragedy until after the death "Col. Bombast". Holmes was badly injured; I was injured in the leg. Only my expertise with battlefield wounds was able to save us, and several other members of the expedition. Holmes never again went to a zoo, and his bitterness toward hunting began then.
By April he was chafing to work. The strange little case I called "The Yellow Face" was not one of his more successful cases. Just before that case, the first of the harlot killings occured in the East End. Holmes dismissed the murder, though noting the savagery of the knife-work. "The unfortunate murder of an unfortunate," said he. "When liquor is mixed freely with the baser passions, this sort of thing happens. There is no intellectual interest or redeeming human element in it." He strode up and down our sitting room, flapping his arms like some great, refined bird of prey. "I have told Lestrade, and anyone else who will listen, that Whitechapel is like a powder-keg, only needing a spark to set it off. If Sir Charles keeps provoking them, they will surely blow!"
I had rarely heard him express political and social opinions so freely. Usually, when he was immersed in work, he professed indifference to the social matrix in which he lived. His interest was in the day-to-day intersection of the criminal class with the rest of us, not in Dickensian social reform. "Recidivism, Watson! Recidivism--that's the thing!" he exclaimed.
By September, though, it became obvious that "Jack", as the press were calling the harlot-killer, was growing bolder. The unfortunates lived in fear. Several private citizens of some stature had interceded with Holmes to take an interest in the bloody rampage. But work intervened. The puzzles which engaged Holmes' attention came thick and fast: "The Greek Interpreter", which introduced me to Mycroft Holmes; the case of the Sholtos and the Agra treasure, which rewarded me with my second wife; and the extraordinary affair of the Baskervilles on the moors.
At the end of October we were sitting quietly in Baker Street with a fire going; outside it was raining. We had barely recovered from the rigors of the Baskerville case and its fiendish hound. The bell rang on the ground floor of 221B. Holmes looked at me. "Are we expecting anyone, Watson?" I shook my head, put my book down, and stood. Suddenly we heard Mrs. Hudson's voice: loud and frightened. This was followed by an imperious rapping at our door. Holmes lifted his brows, reached into his desk, and extracted his hair-trigger. He sat back down and covered the pistol with a cushion. "Come in!" said he.
The door opened slowly and a man entered. Taller than Holmes was he, thin and stooped, with a balding head which seemed to oscillate slowly back and forth, like a snake. His forehead was domed and his features aquiline. His eyes were grey, like Holmes. He shut the door and stood staring, from one to the other of us. I had only heard him described by Inspector MacDonald.
"Pray, Doctor, put down your shillelagh . . . and might I suggest, Holmes, that you take your finger off the trigger of your trick pistol? You might do yourself a mischief. I am not here for violence; you know my ways, Holmes." I sat down and rested my heavy blackthorn cane by my chair. Holmes tossed the cushion aside and took his finger off the trigger of his revolver, though he kept it in his lap.
"Please be seated, Professor," he said. His tone was even, but not light.
"Thank you, gentlemen," said Moriarty.
"I can think of no reason for you to be here," said Holmes. "I see that you got to Douglas."
Moriarty gave a small smile. "I do not tolerate opposition--or disobedience. 'Porlock', as you style him, is no more."
Holmes gave a start. "I will settle for you one of these days, Professor," he said quietly.
"And I you . . ." Moriarty said. "But now we have a problem in common, Holmes."
"The harlot killer," said Holmes.
Holmes sat with me in Baker Street and, looking at me with those remarkable grey eyes, piercing and masterful, said, "Work is the best antidote to sorrow, Watson." Within a week we were enmeshed with the Douglas family at Birlstone. The pace did not let up. After that we were invited by a scientific team to investigate the murders of several of their members in the Transcaucasus mountains. A large, hairy wildman called the Wodewose was involved. I have been enjoined not to reveal the details of this near-tragedy until after the death "Col. Bombast". Holmes was badly injured; I was injured in the leg. Only my expertise with battlefield wounds was able to save us, and several other members of the expedition. Holmes never again went to a zoo, and his bitterness toward hunting began then.
By April he was chafing to work. The strange little case I called "The Yellow Face" was not one of his more successful cases. Just before that case, the first of the harlot killings occured in the East End. Holmes dismissed the murder, though noting the savagery of the knife-work. "The unfortunate murder of an unfortunate," said he. "When liquor is mixed freely with the baser passions, this sort of thing happens. There is no intellectual interest or redeeming human element in it." He strode up and down our sitting room, flapping his arms like some great, refined bird of prey. "I have told Lestrade, and anyone else who will listen, that Whitechapel is like a powder-keg, only needing a spark to set it off. If Sir Charles keeps provoking them, they will surely blow!"
I had rarely heard him express political and social opinions so freely. Usually, when he was immersed in work, he professed indifference to the social matrix in which he lived. His interest was in the day-to-day intersection of the criminal class with the rest of us, not in Dickensian social reform. "Recidivism, Watson! Recidivism--that's the thing!" he exclaimed.
By September, though, it became obvious that "Jack", as the press were calling the harlot-killer, was growing bolder. The unfortunates lived in fear. Several private citizens of some stature had interceded with Holmes to take an interest in the bloody rampage. But work intervened. The puzzles which engaged Holmes' attention came thick and fast: "The Greek Interpreter", which introduced me to Mycroft Holmes; the case of the Sholtos and the Agra treasure, which rewarded me with my second wife; and the extraordinary affair of the Baskervilles on the moors.
At the end of October we were sitting quietly in Baker Street with a fire going; outside it was raining. We had barely recovered from the rigors of the Baskerville case and its fiendish hound. The bell rang on the ground floor of 221B. Holmes looked at me. "Are we expecting anyone, Watson?" I shook my head, put my book down, and stood. Suddenly we heard Mrs. Hudson's voice: loud and frightened. This was followed by an imperious rapping at our door. Holmes lifted his brows, reached into his desk, and extracted his hair-trigger. He sat back down and covered the pistol with a cushion. "Come in!" said he.
The door opened slowly and a man entered. Taller than Holmes was he, thin and stooped, with a balding head which seemed to oscillate slowly back and forth, like a snake. His forehead was domed and his features aquiline. His eyes were grey, like Holmes. He shut the door and stood staring, from one to the other of us. I had only heard him described by Inspector MacDonald.
"Pray, Doctor, put down your shillelagh . . . and might I suggest, Holmes, that you take your finger off the trigger of your trick pistol? You might do yourself a mischief. I am not here for violence; you know my ways, Holmes." I sat down and rested my heavy blackthorn cane by my chair. Holmes tossed the cushion aside and took his finger off the trigger of his revolver, though he kept it in his lap.
"Please be seated, Professor," he said. His tone was even, but not light.
"Thank you, gentlemen," said Moriarty.
"I can think of no reason for you to be here," said Holmes. "I see that you got to Douglas."
Moriarty gave a small smile. "I do not tolerate opposition--or disobedience. 'Porlock', as you style him, is no more."
Holmes gave a start. "I will settle for you one of these days, Professor," he said quietly.
"And I you . . ." Moriarty said. "But now we have a problem in common, Holmes."
"The harlot killer," said Holmes.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
The Beach
You're 14, on vacation with your parents and your sister, who's eight and very annoying (though if pressed, you'd admit to loving her, but not around your friends). You're old enough to rate your own puptent. Freedom! You wake early, smelling the trees around the campsite and also the beach nearby. This is your favorite beach in North California, because the evergreens march almost down to the beach: pines, with an occasional coastal redwood. Underneath the trees, you sometimes find blackberry brambles; a few of them have delicious sweet berries that stain your fingers. Outside, as you pull your pants on and your shoes and socks, you see tendrils of fog curling through the boles and branches of the trees. Fog! Coming from the high desert, it's a great rarity. You don't realize yet that some people would rather live in the unremitting desert sun.
Nobody else is stirring as you make your way down the trail to the beach. You can barely see the ocean through the fog. Glorious! You can hear the waves breaking; there's no wind as you start walking south, to the left down the beach. You stay just above the line of wet sand, looking down for shells as you walk. You love the ocean, but you don't like to get wet in it. Your sister can spend hours in her bathing suit running through the waves and shivering with pleasure--but not you. You enjoy swimming in the private pool your aunt takes you to, and you swim well, but there's something about the ocean, the great Pacific Ocean. . . .
The fog thins as you walk down the beach. You are headed for one of nature's most fascinating displays: great rock areas of the beach with large, permanent tidepools. A few people are already out, looking down into the pools. The tide is out, so viewing is good. As the sun rises and the fog leaves, you can see farther down into the pools, some of which are ten or twelve feet in diameter. They have seaweed growing in them, in various colors, and sea anemones--large ones--gently waving their tentacles. Small fish swim lazily through the seaweed fronds. Some of the pools seem quite deep.
A little later, as the sun gets a bit higher in the sky and it warms up some (though it's high summer and not really cold), you walk farther down the beach, away from the tidepools and people. The land rises behind the beach, forming a small cliff. Boulders begin to stud the wide strand, buried partway in the sand. Some of them are huge, ten feet around perhaps, though half-buried in the beach. A whole field of them stretches for hundreds of yards. The average one sticks up two or three feet above the sand. Smaller ones the size of basketballs are in between the big ones. You are just about ready for some exercise. And here comes your parents, walking your sister between them. An audience!
You warm up by running slowly and easily down the beach, away from your family, hopping from boulder to boulder in your tennis shoes. You have to watch out for the patches of green, moss-like growth on some of the rocks. You've actually slid off a few of them, though never hurting yourself. Your family is at the beginning of the field, and you're several hundred feet down the beach. You're ready to start your run. You start off fairly slowly, hopping on the smooth colored stones. You soon reach full speed. You're no track star, but you'd like to see one of them do this. Speed and oxygen merge into one exhilirating rush as you aim for your family. Your mother is holding her hand over her mouth (you can hear her southern drawl: "For heaven sakes, Tom!"); your sister is shouting encouragement and jumping up and down; and your father is grinning! Life is good as you fly off the last boulder and land in the sand in front of them, arms spread wide.
Nobody else is stirring as you make your way down the trail to the beach. You can barely see the ocean through the fog. Glorious! You can hear the waves breaking; there's no wind as you start walking south, to the left down the beach. You stay just above the line of wet sand, looking down for shells as you walk. You love the ocean, but you don't like to get wet in it. Your sister can spend hours in her bathing suit running through the waves and shivering with pleasure--but not you. You enjoy swimming in the private pool your aunt takes you to, and you swim well, but there's something about the ocean, the great Pacific Ocean. . . .
The fog thins as you walk down the beach. You are headed for one of nature's most fascinating displays: great rock areas of the beach with large, permanent tidepools. A few people are already out, looking down into the pools. The tide is out, so viewing is good. As the sun rises and the fog leaves, you can see farther down into the pools, some of which are ten or twelve feet in diameter. They have seaweed growing in them, in various colors, and sea anemones--large ones--gently waving their tentacles. Small fish swim lazily through the seaweed fronds. Some of the pools seem quite deep.
A little later, as the sun gets a bit higher in the sky and it warms up some (though it's high summer and not really cold), you walk farther down the beach, away from the tidepools and people. The land rises behind the beach, forming a small cliff. Boulders begin to stud the wide strand, buried partway in the sand. Some of them are huge, ten feet around perhaps, though half-buried in the beach. A whole field of them stretches for hundreds of yards. The average one sticks up two or three feet above the sand. Smaller ones the size of basketballs are in between the big ones. You are just about ready for some exercise. And here comes your parents, walking your sister between them. An audience!
You warm up by running slowly and easily down the beach, away from your family, hopping from boulder to boulder in your tennis shoes. You have to watch out for the patches of green, moss-like growth on some of the rocks. You've actually slid off a few of them, though never hurting yourself. Your family is at the beginning of the field, and you're several hundred feet down the beach. You're ready to start your run. You start off fairly slowly, hopping on the smooth colored stones. You soon reach full speed. You're no track star, but you'd like to see one of them do this. Speed and oxygen merge into one exhilirating rush as you aim for your family. Your mother is holding her hand over her mouth (you can hear her southern drawl: "For heaven sakes, Tom!"); your sister is shouting encouragement and jumping up and down; and your father is grinning! Life is good as you fly off the last boulder and land in the sand in front of them, arms spread wide.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
Angels and demons
I use the title of Dan Brown's novel, which is being released as a movie by the Howard-Hanks team, because it leads directly into our subject: Gnosticism. More specifically, I wish to discuss the barrage of novels, tracts, and movies that deny the divinity of Jesus Christ, the Son of God. Belief in the triune nature of God is central and essential to Christianity, to the Way. All other religions, cults, and variants of Christianity deny Jesus' role as the second Person of the Trinity. He is not a created being, an illuminator, a teacher, or a guide: He is the Son of the living God, an aspect of the Godhead, along with the Father and the Holy Spirit. Of course He illuminates, teaches, and guides, but with the authority and power of Deity. He is the only Way to the Father; none may enter the Kingdom of Heaven save through Him. One can separate His sheep from the goats by asking the simple question: Who is Jesus? There is only one answer.
One cannot enter our favorite (and only) bookstore, the Barn of No-Bull, without seeing a book about the Knights Templar, Rosslyn Chapel, or the Priory of Scion. They all seem vaguely Gnostic and they all deny Christ's divinity. The favorite scenario goes somethinglike this: Jesus is conceived and born in the normal fashion. He shows great intelligence and wisdom beyond his years growing up. He finally takes the reins of the Jewish revolutionary movement, but he realizes he must disguise his ambitions in a messianic cloak and fakes his own death. He has already married Mary of Magdala, who, pregnant, escapes to France or wherever, gives birth, and establishes a secret "royal" line, which is finally rediscovered in the Twentieth Century. The Catholic Church and/or some secret group tries to cover up this "heresy" for selfish reasons.
There is no credible evidence for this fantastic conspiracy hypothesis. Brown's "scholarship" has been shown by many real scholars to be false and bogus. Some of the books raise interesting points: Why, for instance, does Scotland's Rosslyn Chapel, established in the early Middle Ages, show representations of New World plants such as corn, well before Columbus' voyages? I, for one, think that a lot more went on back in history than we realize. The evidence, though, for Jesus' crucifixion, death, entombment, and resurrection is powerful and convincing. If it is a lie, a lot of people, starting with His own apostles, have lived and died for that lie. I believe history pivots around that virgin birth.
One cannot enter our favorite (and only) bookstore, the Barn of No-Bull, without seeing a book about the Knights Templar, Rosslyn Chapel, or the Priory of Scion. They all seem vaguely Gnostic and they all deny Christ's divinity. The favorite scenario goes somethinglike this: Jesus is conceived and born in the normal fashion. He shows great intelligence and wisdom beyond his years growing up. He finally takes the reins of the Jewish revolutionary movement, but he realizes he must disguise his ambitions in a messianic cloak and fakes his own death. He has already married Mary of Magdala, who, pregnant, escapes to France or wherever, gives birth, and establishes a secret "royal" line, which is finally rediscovered in the Twentieth Century. The Catholic Church and/or some secret group tries to cover up this "heresy" for selfish reasons.
There is no credible evidence for this fantastic conspiracy hypothesis. Brown's "scholarship" has been shown by many real scholars to be false and bogus. Some of the books raise interesting points: Why, for instance, does Scotland's Rosslyn Chapel, established in the early Middle Ages, show representations of New World plants such as corn, well before Columbus' voyages? I, for one, think that a lot more went on back in history than we realize. The evidence, though, for Jesus' crucifixion, death, entombment, and resurrection is powerful and convincing. If it is a lie, a lot of people, starting with His own apostles, have lived and died for that lie. I believe history pivots around that virgin birth.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Eschatology
We are under attack, people. Whatever your beliefs, however you slice life, there is obviously a concerted effort to deprive us of "life, liberty, and the pursuit of happinesss". Since I believe that the spiritual precedes the physical, the master plan of attack is implemented by the "Enemy". This is the collective name for the fallen angels, led by Satan (the Devil), the slanderer and accuser of we humans. Satan was possibly God's own archangel and led the worship of Him in Heaven (his name was probably Samael; "Satan" is a title). Through pride he was cast out of Heaven along with a third of all angels. Satan seduced Eve, the mother of all humans, and caused the Fall of Man. Ever since he has gone about the world, which he considers his domain, corrupting and destroying any humans he can. He plans our downfall and co-ordinates his army of fallen angels (demons) to oppose God. Though he was defeated by Jesus' resurrection, in his insanity he cannot stop. This is all explained in the Bible, in various books, culminating with a flourish in Revelation, the last book. The last surviving Apostle, the elderly John, was given this great vision of the end of all things. Like Genesis, the first book of the Bible, Revelation is indispensible for an understanding of God's plan for us. Some "Christians" seem to find these two books figurative or irrelevant. They do so at their peril.
Satan's master plan, founded on four great lies he told Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden, has never really changed. The Flood (the third great event in our history, after the Creation and the Fall) interrupted his strategy, but didn't change it. Satan has only two objectives for us: to keep us from loving God; and, if we do, to render us ineffective in carrying out God's work. All historical events revolve around these two poles: to serve God or to serve ourselves--hence, Satan. Through the millenia the faces and circumstances have changed but the real battle has been the same. In these last days, at the end of time, Satan's tactics are two-pronged. On the one hand we have the socialists and extreme liberals, who would deprive us of our individual liberties in favor of the state, for our own good. On the other hand we have the Muslims, who are willing to kill us to save the world; they tolerate no opposition, according to their own scriptures.
The two poles of the Enemy's plan seem seem disparate, indeed irreconcilable. If you examine the overall goals of the Enemy, however, the jihadists and the socialists are aiming for the same scenario. They both want a world where there is no opposition, because the state is everything and everyone. If there is only one choice there can be no choosing. The nanny-state and the caliphate are the same. Both are theocracies; and in both, the ends always justify the means. One need only look at World War Two. The Grand Mufti of Jerusalem, the spiritual leader of Islam, was a regular visitor to Berlin, consulting with Goebbels and Goering on the "Jewish Problem". Both groups had the same objective: the rooting out of Judaism and, ultimately, of Christianity. The Muslim leader got along well with the Nazis. After all, Satan was the spiritual leader of both.
Satan's master plan, founded on four great lies he told Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden, has never really changed. The Flood (the third great event in our history, after the Creation and the Fall) interrupted his strategy, but didn't change it. Satan has only two objectives for us: to keep us from loving God; and, if we do, to render us ineffective in carrying out God's work. All historical events revolve around these two poles: to serve God or to serve ourselves--hence, Satan. Through the millenia the faces and circumstances have changed but the real battle has been the same. In these last days, at the end of time, Satan's tactics are two-pronged. On the one hand we have the socialists and extreme liberals, who would deprive us of our individual liberties in favor of the state, for our own good. On the other hand we have the Muslims, who are willing to kill us to save the world; they tolerate no opposition, according to their own scriptures.
The two poles of the Enemy's plan seem seem disparate, indeed irreconcilable. If you examine the overall goals of the Enemy, however, the jihadists and the socialists are aiming for the same scenario. They both want a world where there is no opposition, because the state is everything and everyone. If there is only one choice there can be no choosing. The nanny-state and the caliphate are the same. Both are theocracies; and in both, the ends always justify the means. One need only look at World War Two. The Grand Mufti of Jerusalem, the spiritual leader of Islam, was a regular visitor to Berlin, consulting with Goebbels and Goering on the "Jewish Problem". Both groups had the same objective: the rooting out of Judaism and, ultimately, of Christianity. The Muslim leader got along well with the Nazis. After all, Satan was the spiritual leader of both.
Friday, April 10, 2009
My First Car
Moby Dick, "The Great White Whale", was my first car: a 1964 Ford Custom. He had a 250 c.i. straight six, with a one-barrel carburetor. There was enough room for me to get in the engine compartment, if necessary. A three-speed column shift completed the drive-train. After the second time the shifting tube in the steering column broke, I had a Hurst shifter put in on the floor. Sometimes the linkage got hung up, necessitating a wrestling match with a tire iron under the car. The ignition had points (as did the voltage regulator!): tuneups were an art, done as much be ear as eye ("If it pings, back off the distributor!"). After 150,000 miles, a mechanic friend declared Moby to be "Perfectly worn out". He rebuilt the engine and we got another century out of Moby.
Moby seemed (by today's standards) to be huge, until I compared him to my friend John's Cadillac: a '62 convertible, also white, with fins, that clocked in at over twenty feet. A true land yacht. You could almost see the bow-wave when you cornered. Moby's trunk was big enough to camp in (this was when the trunk was bigger than the hood). Inside, he boasted two bench seats and plenty of leg room. A we used to say, seats six or sleeps two. There were even two seat belts in the front. My father figured I couldn't kill myself if I tried. He was right. I inherited Moby in '66--I was 18. He had been the family battle-wagon for several years and was just broken in. I was the load-master and could just about make his tail drag.
When I started attending concerts "Down Below" (sounds like Hell!), Moby was the steed of choice. Five or six of us would pile in, rolling joints and swigging from quart bottles of Cuervo Special. I was accounted a steady driver who didn't become too incapacitated and didn't sleep too much, although midnight trips back from the Forum were sometimes mysterious, with involuntary lane-changes and other late-night phenomena. I usually couldn't hear too well--my ears would ring for several days after some concerts.
Moby accelerated like an arthritic tortoise. Some of my first conscious prayers were to keep from being squashed by trucks when entering the freeways. How I longed for the belchfire V-8! With gas three gallons for a dollar, we didn't give a damn about mileage. After I got married, we decided to leave Gomorrah-by-the-Bay and return to Lancaster, or as my son calls it, the Mojave Triangle. I sadly decided to leave my faithful steed in S.F. My wife had a German Opel (or Offal). It was my first European experience--but hardly a love affair. Siempre viva! Great White Whale.
Moby seemed (by today's standards) to be huge, until I compared him to my friend John's Cadillac: a '62 convertible, also white, with fins, that clocked in at over twenty feet. A true land yacht. You could almost see the bow-wave when you cornered. Moby's trunk was big enough to camp in (this was when the trunk was bigger than the hood). Inside, he boasted two bench seats and plenty of leg room. A we used to say, seats six or sleeps two. There were even two seat belts in the front. My father figured I couldn't kill myself if I tried. He was right. I inherited Moby in '66--I was 18. He had been the family battle-wagon for several years and was just broken in. I was the load-master and could just about make his tail drag.
When I started attending concerts "Down Below" (sounds like Hell!), Moby was the steed of choice. Five or six of us would pile in, rolling joints and swigging from quart bottles of Cuervo Special. I was accounted a steady driver who didn't become too incapacitated and didn't sleep too much, although midnight trips back from the Forum were sometimes mysterious, with involuntary lane-changes and other late-night phenomena. I usually couldn't hear too well--my ears would ring for several days after some concerts.
Moby accelerated like an arthritic tortoise. Some of my first conscious prayers were to keep from being squashed by trucks when entering the freeways. How I longed for the belchfire V-8! With gas three gallons for a dollar, we didn't give a damn about mileage. After I got married, we decided to leave Gomorrah-by-the-Bay and return to Lancaster, or as my son calls it, the Mojave Triangle. I sadly decided to leave my faithful steed in S.F. My wife had a German Opel (or Offal). It was my first European experience--but hardly a love affair. Siempre viva! Great White Whale.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Talk Radio
I do not usually write about politics. As a Christian, I would hope that many of my positions and inclinations would be clear from the Bible, particularly the New Testament. I certainly don't disdain the Old Testament: it is the father of the New: the Son shines in a different way. The Cross, that central signpost in human history, points the Way for us with painful clarity. It is becoming clear to me, however, that our new President is choosing a different direction to go in. He sees the brightly lit exit, the feeder road going to the superhighway. The traffic is heavy but the pace is fast. The destination? Who cares! They say it leads to paradise. . . . Who wants to take that old goat-trail that heads into the mountains--probably need four-wheel drive anyway.
The Senate, as a sop us dumb-ignorant-stupid-conservatives ("Idiots probably listen to Rush, anyhow"), agreed to not legislate the "fairness doctrine". Well, we're okay, aren't we?! But Dick Durbin (the other senator from Illinois) managed to save the day for Hussein I: Amendment 591, "Diversity in Media Ownership". I believe this only applies to radio stations. Most television stations and newspapers are already quite liberal. I won't go into the free-market tirade again; suffice it to say that conservative stations don't have to be subsidized.
Now, as I understand it, what this seemingly innocuous amendment means is pretty clear ["Hey, you know, we'll even let one of them own a station--long as he has the money, and we don't have to have lunch with him!"]. It will allow the FCC to determine who is licensed to run a radio station, i.e., who can own it. And since El Presidente is picking the commissioners and since Rush and Doc Savage and those other wackos are such pains in the ass . . . It doesn't take a Buchanan to spot this one.
They're building the superhighway already, starting from the coast of Tejas and going straight north to Canada. It will be a mile wide, and where American highways cross it, there will be customs stations, with a major "port" in the Kansas City area. It will split the country in two. Of course, we'll be a part of the North American Union, so that won't matter. Now, be still, boys and girls, this won't hurt--just a little chip in the backs of your hands. Then you can never get lost; we'll know how you're feeling; and you won't need money, or even credito facil, any more. Until then, use these ameros; they're just like the urals they use in Eurabia. Remember to face east, and remember, the telescreen can always see you. . . .
The Senate, as a sop us dumb-ignorant-stupid-conservatives ("Idiots probably listen to Rush, anyhow"), agreed to not legislate the "fairness doctrine". Well, we're okay, aren't we?! But Dick Durbin (the other senator from Illinois) managed to save the day for Hussein I: Amendment 591, "Diversity in Media Ownership". I believe this only applies to radio stations. Most television stations and newspapers are already quite liberal. I won't go into the free-market tirade again; suffice it to say that conservative stations don't have to be subsidized.
Now, as I understand it, what this seemingly innocuous amendment means is pretty clear ["Hey, you know, we'll even let one of them own a station--long as he has the money, and we don't have to have lunch with him!"]. It will allow the FCC to determine who is licensed to run a radio station, i.e., who can own it. And since El Presidente is picking the commissioners and since Rush and Doc Savage and those other wackos are such pains in the ass . . . It doesn't take a Buchanan to spot this one.
They're building the superhighway already, starting from the coast of Tejas and going straight north to Canada. It will be a mile wide, and where American highways cross it, there will be customs stations, with a major "port" in the Kansas City area. It will split the country in two. Of course, we'll be a part of the North American Union, so that won't matter. Now, be still, boys and girls, this won't hurt--just a little chip in the backs of your hands. Then you can never get lost; we'll know how you're feeling; and you won't need money, or even credito facil, any more. Until then, use these ameros; they're just like the urals they use in Eurabia. Remember to face east, and remember, the telescreen can always see you. . . .
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Prosody
And what, you ask in all innocence, is a "prosody"? Is it some minor technique, like flower arranging? Need one wear an apron, perhaps a bit of makeup . . . ? No, Grasshopper! It is the anatomy of poetry, the body politic of epiphany and theophany [but, you ask, aren't those the same?], the arms and legs and fingers and phallus of poetry! If you ask what is poetry . . . "Oh, do not ask, 'What is it?'/Let us go and make our visit." [Eliot.] It is the body of technique that makes verse into poems. It encompasses meter and rhythm, line and stanza, figures of speech and sound coloration, types and forms. If you think that poetry is made by breaking up prose into indiscriminate line lengths and random stanzas, then read no further. If you think poetry is an irritation that ought to be smacked with a flyswatter, then go back to reading your refrigeration manual or the latest Clive Cussler (though Clive is a hell of a storyteller--he just seems to be poorly translated from German) from the bestseller list.
There is an esthetic conundrum that needs to be dealt with at this point. I will use painting (visual art) as an example (my wife is a painter and sculptor). Traditionalists (and I am one) think that one ought to be able to master the basic tools of a medium, before experimenting. A painter must be able to represent what he sees in a way that someone else can recognize it. He must know how to use the tools and methods of his trade: brush, paper, canvas, easel, pigment, color, line, perspective, composition, and so forth. Only by knowing and reacting against what has gone before can he create something new and fresh. As Uncle Ezra said, "Make it new!" In the case of "modern art", much of what I have seen strikes me as the equivalent of what Woody Allen (in Love and Death) called "practicing in my room". I am no painter, as my wife often reminds me, but when I don't understand what I'm looking at, even when the artist explains it, I am suspicious and have an impulse to ask the artist if he can paint a portrait of his cat. The poet e. e. cummings produced what looked like word salad sometimes, but he knew exactly what he was doing (I think). You have only to read "Epithalamion" or one of his other early poems to see his complete control. Gerard M. Hopkins, who was way ahead (or outside) of his time, did things to English poetry that we're still trying to figure out--but he had mastered available technique (in English and Latin!). One of my favorite influences, W. S. Merwin, has strained syntax, punished punctuation, and done extraordinary things with line and stanza, but his early work is more traditional and magnificently controled.
I was fortunate to have several good poet-teachers in my formative years. The first, Robert Watson, made us buy Prosody Handbook, by Shapiro and Beaume. We hated the book! We felt our teacher was conspiring with Masters S. & B. to torment us and prevent us from expressing ourselves freely. But, by S&B, we knew what a villanelle and both sonnet forms were--and could write acceptable examples of them. Later, Dan Langton, Mark Linenthal, and Stan Rice (late husband of Anne Rice) put the polish on my poetic education. If you don't know your past, you may be condemned to repeat it.
I am not going to go into the mechanics of prosody. There are, as noted above, a number of good books available. Instead, I will offer a small poem, a little reminiscence:
There is an esthetic conundrum that needs to be dealt with at this point. I will use painting (visual art) as an example (my wife is a painter and sculptor). Traditionalists (and I am one) think that one ought to be able to master the basic tools of a medium, before experimenting. A painter must be able to represent what he sees in a way that someone else can recognize it. He must know how to use the tools and methods of his trade: brush, paper, canvas, easel, pigment, color, line, perspective, composition, and so forth. Only by knowing and reacting against what has gone before can he create something new and fresh. As Uncle Ezra said, "Make it new!" In the case of "modern art", much of what I have seen strikes me as the equivalent of what Woody Allen (in Love and Death) called "practicing in my room". I am no painter, as my wife often reminds me, but when I don't understand what I'm looking at, even when the artist explains it, I am suspicious and have an impulse to ask the artist if he can paint a portrait of his cat. The poet e. e. cummings produced what looked like word salad sometimes, but he knew exactly what he was doing (I think). You have only to read "Epithalamion" or one of his other early poems to see his complete control. Gerard M. Hopkins, who was way ahead (or outside) of his time, did things to English poetry that we're still trying to figure out--but he had mastered available technique (in English and Latin!). One of my favorite influences, W. S. Merwin, has strained syntax, punished punctuation, and done extraordinary things with line and stanza, but his early work is more traditional and magnificently controled.
I was fortunate to have several good poet-teachers in my formative years. The first, Robert Watson, made us buy Prosody Handbook, by Shapiro and Beaume. We hated the book! We felt our teacher was conspiring with Masters S. & B. to torment us and prevent us from expressing ourselves freely. But, by S&B, we knew what a villanelle and both sonnet forms were--and could write acceptable examples of them. Later, Dan Langton, Mark Linenthal, and Stan Rice (late husband of Anne Rice) put the polish on my poetic education. If you don't know your past, you may be condemned to repeat it.
I am not going to go into the mechanics of prosody. There are, as noted above, a number of good books available. Instead, I will offer a small poem, a little reminiscence:
What Has Been Planted
I started reading the unabridged
dictionary when I was twelve
it was the best novel I had seen
I took the words
singly and in groups
and planted them in the yard
not knowing what meanings
what shapes what colors
would sprout
and a different crop
would come up every year
casting their connotations to the wind
and flowering with new sounds
before the syllables went to seed
What has been sown
will be reaped long after I have
gone to rest
Daniel Moore
1-10-09
I started reading the unabridged
dictionary when I was twelve
it was the best novel I had seen
I took the words
singly and in groups
and planted them in the yard
not knowing what meanings
what shapes what colors
would sprout
and a different crop
would come up every year
casting their connotations to the wind
and flowering with new sounds
before the syllables went to seed
What has been sown
will be reaped long after I have
gone to rest
Daniel Moore
1-10-09
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Race
Well, here I go again, stirring up the natives! I may have to violate my rule of no-guns-in-the-house (instituted for the safety of the kids long ago; my father kept the family arsenal) soon, if they start coming down the street. I was always a pretty good shot, especially at closer range with the twenty-gauge.
There is no such thing as race in human beings. I repeat, for the farsighted, THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS RACE IN HUMAN BEINGS. As a Christian, I base this on the first book of the Bible, "Genesis". As I have said before, rejection or adulteration of any of the Bible, but particularly the first and last books, makes the whole of it moot. Either God created the universe (not the "multiverse"--though it's a neat concept for stories) and us, or we might as well give up and join the Dawkins Dunderheads with their "millions and billions of years". Ken Ham, of "Answers in Genesis", first electrified me a few years ago with a short radio sermon on race and Genesis. The argument is simple: God created us in His "image". I put the latter word in quotes because we do not look like God physically; that is impossible. God is a spirit being and has no physical form; or, conversely, He can take any form He likes (remember Moses . . .). What this means is that we are created with an immortal spirit, intelligence, and free will. We are locked into one form (though one wonders about "shapechangers"--the subject for another essay) at this level of reality.
Now for the next sticking point. . . . Humans display mild variation just like housecats. This is natural and is called micro-evolution. Given the fact that we have only been around for, perhaps, twenty-thousand years (though the strict creationists will dispute this), some differences in size, pigmentation, hairiness, and so forth are to be expected. Genesis speaks of God creating "kinds": human kind, dog kind, etc. Biblical taxonomy is simple and to the point. We seem to have varied less than other kinds; perhaps this is due to our tripartite nature and possession of an immortal spirit. In any event, it puts paid to the concept of "races" of humans. Genetically, we can all be traced back to one set of parents. Thus, there is no need to classify people by race; we are all from the same stock. While I'm at it, let us dispense with the nonsense of other or earlier forms of humans, as contained in that odious term "hominids". We are the only hominids; there have been no others! Current research has shown that "Neanderthals" were genetically so close to the average living person that there is no differentiation--no speciation. The existence of "Bigfoot" and other bipedal apes, or "cryptids", might explain the "fossils" touted as missing links between humans and apes. Some of the cryptids are pigmy forms.
The division of humans into races, such as caucasoid, negorid, mongoloid, etc., is inherently artificial and is always done with the intent of creating division and paranoia. Indeed, the adoption by different groups of cultural identities based on race can be divisive and can limit the work of God in establishing the Kingdom of Heaven. I am not talking about groups speaking different languages or coming together from very different cultures. Multiculturalism should be a natural process of blending, a respectful exchange of flavors. It cannot be forced. This country was founded on the blending of cultures, languages, and creeds. It has produced something greater than the sum of its parts: the United States of America. Vive le difference!
There is no such thing as race in human beings. I repeat, for the farsighted, THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS RACE IN HUMAN BEINGS. As a Christian, I base this on the first book of the Bible, "Genesis". As I have said before, rejection or adulteration of any of the Bible, but particularly the first and last books, makes the whole of it moot. Either God created the universe (not the "multiverse"--though it's a neat concept for stories) and us, or we might as well give up and join the Dawkins Dunderheads with their "millions and billions of years". Ken Ham, of "Answers in Genesis", first electrified me a few years ago with a short radio sermon on race and Genesis. The argument is simple: God created us in His "image". I put the latter word in quotes because we do not look like God physically; that is impossible. God is a spirit being and has no physical form; or, conversely, He can take any form He likes (remember Moses . . .). What this means is that we are created with an immortal spirit, intelligence, and free will. We are locked into one form (though one wonders about "shapechangers"--the subject for another essay) at this level of reality.
Now for the next sticking point. . . . Humans display mild variation just like housecats. This is natural and is called micro-evolution. Given the fact that we have only been around for, perhaps, twenty-thousand years (though the strict creationists will dispute this), some differences in size, pigmentation, hairiness, and so forth are to be expected. Genesis speaks of God creating "kinds": human kind, dog kind, etc. Biblical taxonomy is simple and to the point. We seem to have varied less than other kinds; perhaps this is due to our tripartite nature and possession of an immortal spirit. In any event, it puts paid to the concept of "races" of humans. Genetically, we can all be traced back to one set of parents. Thus, there is no need to classify people by race; we are all from the same stock. While I'm at it, let us dispense with the nonsense of other or earlier forms of humans, as contained in that odious term "hominids". We are the only hominids; there have been no others! Current research has shown that "Neanderthals" were genetically so close to the average living person that there is no differentiation--no speciation. The existence of "Bigfoot" and other bipedal apes, or "cryptids", might explain the "fossils" touted as missing links between humans and apes. Some of the cryptids are pigmy forms.
The division of humans into races, such as caucasoid, negorid, mongoloid, etc., is inherently artificial and is always done with the intent of creating division and paranoia. Indeed, the adoption by different groups of cultural identities based on race can be divisive and can limit the work of God in establishing the Kingdom of Heaven. I am not talking about groups speaking different languages or coming together from very different cultures. Multiculturalism should be a natural process of blending, a respectful exchange of flavors. It cannot be forced. This country was founded on the blending of cultures, languages, and creeds. It has produced something greater than the sum of its parts: the United States of America. Vive le difference!
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Censorship and Suppression
Forgive me, fans, I have been preoccupied--or post-occupied (why, he's uninhabited!)--lately. I've been writing poetry; have, in fact, joined a poetry group in Tehachapi. I think perhaps it's nearing time to get a real website set up and post Selected Poems. . . . [Thomas . . .?]
I try to stay out of partisan politics here, usually, although my Christian conservatism is in-and-of-itself inflammatory, I suppose. I believe there is a strong possibility B. Hussein Obama was born in Kenya and has abrogated the Constitution in this matter. Be that as it may, he is starting to come against talk radio, which is overwhelmingly conservative. Whenever Franken (who is busy trying to steal Minnesota) or some other liberal comedian tries to break into talk radio, he expires from disinterest. Obama has publicly denounced Rush Limbaugh, the doyen of media conservatives. I listen to Rush. He is sane and patriotic. I wish I could say the same for some of our elected leaders. At least Bragojevitch has been deposed (what an insult to Slavs he is!)--although if I were Governor Quinn, I would have him searched for weapons periodically!
Now to the heart of the matter: The Democrats are going to revive the "Freedom of Choice" act. Reagan killed it in '87. This misnamed FCC rule would mandate equal time for opposing viewpoints in broadcast media. Sounds fair, eh? What it really does is make it uneconomical for radio stations to carry conservative and Christian shows. Rush and company only rose up in the twenty years since Ronnie killed it. In a free marketplace, liberal commentators have to compete for the airwaves. They have failed miserably. I don't know anyone who listens to NPR; I seldom watch PBS. They have to be subsidized. Conservative media don't. Economics aside, I believe the Democrats are going to try to muzzle conservative commentators. This is contrary to the First Amendment. I repeat, THIS IS CONTRARY TO THE FIRST AMENDMENT! Our Constitution is the thing that separates us from tyranny and balkanization. I hope our Kenyan-American President realizes this. We need to pray for him. God bless America.
I try to stay out of partisan politics here, usually, although my Christian conservatism is in-and-of-itself inflammatory, I suppose. I believe there is a strong possibility B. Hussein Obama was born in Kenya and has abrogated the Constitution in this matter. Be that as it may, he is starting to come against talk radio, which is overwhelmingly conservative. Whenever Franken (who is busy trying to steal Minnesota) or some other liberal comedian tries to break into talk radio, he expires from disinterest. Obama has publicly denounced Rush Limbaugh, the doyen of media conservatives. I listen to Rush. He is sane and patriotic. I wish I could say the same for some of our elected leaders. At least Bragojevitch has been deposed (what an insult to Slavs he is!)--although if I were Governor Quinn, I would have him searched for weapons periodically!
Now to the heart of the matter: The Democrats are going to revive the "Freedom of Choice" act. Reagan killed it in '87. This misnamed FCC rule would mandate equal time for opposing viewpoints in broadcast media. Sounds fair, eh? What it really does is make it uneconomical for radio stations to carry conservative and Christian shows. Rush and company only rose up in the twenty years since Ronnie killed it. In a free marketplace, liberal commentators have to compete for the airwaves. They have failed miserably. I don't know anyone who listens to NPR; I seldom watch PBS. They have to be subsidized. Conservative media don't. Economics aside, I believe the Democrats are going to try to muzzle conservative commentators. This is contrary to the First Amendment. I repeat, THIS IS CONTRARY TO THE FIRST AMENDMENT! Our Constitution is the thing that separates us from tyranny and balkanization. I hope our Kenyan-American President realizes this. We need to pray for him. God bless America.
Monday, December 29, 2008
Lou Reed
"And I thought you were a Christian . . . ! Shouldn't you be listening to Michael W. Smith or [insert your own favorite Christian music]?" WHAT WOULD JESUS LISTEN TO? How could we know? I have a hunch he would be listening to Lou Reed, Bob Dylan, and Tom Petty (insert your favorite singer-songwrtiters here). After all, the gentry (i.e., the Pharisees, etc.) excoriated Josh for hanging out in the wineshops with tax collectors, whores, thieves, and other riffraff. These were the people who were telling him what was really going on. I'll bet if there were poets and singers to be heard, he listened to the ones describing the underside of life. Of course, he was on a mission from his Father, so he was trying to keep them from going down in flames--showing them the Kingdom of God.
I'm not saying Lou Reed has been preaching the Kingdom of God . . . far from it, sometimes. What he's been doing for the last forty or so years has been picking up the rocks under our feet, turning them over, and showing us the things we've hidden, kicked under there. Then he's been searing them across our hearts with words like hot branding irons in songs such as "Sweet Jane", "Heroin", and "Waitin' for the Man", anthems to the underside of life, messages from the black holes beneath our society. Like Dylan, Lou has never sought lasting popularity. He has constantly changed and experimented with his music. I don't like all of it; I think Lou would be surprised if anyone did. My favorite is Rock 'n' Roll Animal and Lou Reed Live! recorded at a concert at the end of 1973 in New York. Of all rock concerts, this is the one I wish I had been at. Steve Hunter and Dick Wagner fronted a five-piece band, playing magnificent, symphonic, dual-lead guitars. Hunter's "Intro" to "Sweet Jane" is "arrogantly long", as one critic said, and brilliant--worth the price of admission itself. After all these years, it still sends shivers through me. The rest of Lou's noble and comic characters show us everyday life, as she is lived at the street level. Thank God for Bach--and thank God for Lou Reed. Rock on, baby, rock on!
I'm not saying Lou Reed has been preaching the Kingdom of God . . . far from it, sometimes. What he's been doing for the last forty or so years has been picking up the rocks under our feet, turning them over, and showing us the things we've hidden, kicked under there. Then he's been searing them across our hearts with words like hot branding irons in songs such as "Sweet Jane", "Heroin", and "Waitin' for the Man", anthems to the underside of life, messages from the black holes beneath our society. Like Dylan, Lou has never sought lasting popularity. He has constantly changed and experimented with his music. I don't like all of it; I think Lou would be surprised if anyone did. My favorite is Rock 'n' Roll Animal and Lou Reed Live! recorded at a concert at the end of 1973 in New York. Of all rock concerts, this is the one I wish I had been at. Steve Hunter and Dick Wagner fronted a five-piece band, playing magnificent, symphonic, dual-lead guitars. Hunter's "Intro" to "Sweet Jane" is "arrogantly long", as one critic said, and brilliant--worth the price of admission itself. After all these years, it still sends shivers through me. The rest of Lou's noble and comic characters show us everyday life, as she is lived at the street level. Thank God for Bach--and thank God for Lou Reed. Rock on, baby, rock on!
Friday, December 12, 2008
Merry Christmas, Richard!
This column is dedicated to an author I encountered online recently. Your website is highly interesting to me, dealing with what I call "protohistory". In particular, your expertise in anthropology and linguistics inspire me. You have published several books in the general area. In addition, you write very well, which is a rarity. I assumed we had some common ground, so I initiated an e-mail correspondence with you. You thanked me for being a "fan". This is a term I will gladly suffer for someone I really respect. For instance, I am happy to be a fan of the great writer Gene Wolfe. Then I made the mistake of telling you I am a creationist. My few readers know this--and still read me, apparently!--even though their views are not necessarily the same. You have taken the trouble to read my columns in this blog, Richard, and have responded by telling me I know nothing about science, history, or anything else and that I am a bigot. Please! I am opinionated, stubborn, and sometimes facile, but anyone who knows me knows that I try hard to rid myself of unreasoning prejudice. We Christians call this quality humility. You told me--warned me--that you were neither atheist nor Christian. This should have tipped me off. I still assumed we could share some common ground in our interest in a previous great civilization. I was wrong. I see from Wikipedia that you are in your mid-seventies; I am 60. I guess that as one ages one's views either harden, like arteries, or become more open, more accepting--though one must beware of gullibility. I have been accused of being overly credulous, and I have had to admit I didn't know what I was talking about. It hurts. What hurts even more, Richard, is unreasoning rejection and the imputation of narrow-mindedness. I know when I am wrong, and have done wrong, Richard; do you? I know you will not read this; you have cut off any communication. But I will try my best to pray for you, Richard. Merry Christmas, and Happy New Year!
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Nephilim
In Genesis 6:2 it says, ". . . the sons of God saw that the daughters of men were beautiful; and they took wives for themselves, whomever they chose." In 6:4 we are told "the Nephilim [giants] were on the earth in those days. . . the sons of God came in to the daughters of men, and they bore children to them. These were the mighty men who were of old, men of renown." This is from the New American Standard translation, perhaps the most literal of tranlations. Some of the older ones have "giants" instead of Nephilim. The root of the word means "fallen". Whether this is in the sense of fallen angels, or demons, or men who "fall" upon women, is debatable. The term "sons of God" seems generally to mean angelic beings. There are, as far as we are told, two classes of created beings: humans and angels. Demons are angels who rebelled against God. Demons seem to be able to take physical form and interact with humans; there are a number of instances in the Bible. The resulting offspring might well be giants, "mighty men . . . of renown".
Aside from Biblical references to Goliath and other giants, there have been numerous discoveries of giant burials: great skeletons measuring seven to twelve feet in height. They were often buried with armor and weapons of great size and weight. I believe these were descendants of demon-human interbreeding: nephilim. They originally possessed great intelligence and strength. The pantheons of "gods" refer to these nephilim. In other words, Zeus and Thor existed as actual beings. Any preternatural powers they might have possessed would have come from their demonic sires. Great intelligence, demonic knowledge, and great physical abilities would have been enough to dominate their world. Several epistles of the New Testament, Peter and Jude, indicate that God chained some of the fallen angels responsible in deep pits (i.e., Hell).
The fabulous creatures of myth, legend, and folklore (MLF), such as pegasus and centaurs, were actual beings created by demonic manipulation of genetic material. This, I think, is perhaps the main reason why God chose to wipe out most life on Earth. The Enemy perverts, but only God can create. "There were giants in the earth in those days . . ." Until the Flood. . . .
Aside from Biblical references to Goliath and other giants, there have been numerous discoveries of giant burials: great skeletons measuring seven to twelve feet in height. They were often buried with armor and weapons of great size and weight. I believe these were descendants of demon-human interbreeding: nephilim. They originally possessed great intelligence and strength. The pantheons of "gods" refer to these nephilim. In other words, Zeus and Thor existed as actual beings. Any preternatural powers they might have possessed would have come from their demonic sires. Great intelligence, demonic knowledge, and great physical abilities would have been enough to dominate their world. Several epistles of the New Testament, Peter and Jude, indicate that God chained some of the fallen angels responsible in deep pits (i.e., Hell).
The fabulous creatures of myth, legend, and folklore (MLF), such as pegasus and centaurs, were actual beings created by demonic manipulation of genetic material. This, I think, is perhaps the main reason why God chose to wipe out most life on Earth. The Enemy perverts, but only God can create. "There were giants in the earth in those days . . ." Until the Flood. . . .
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