18 January 2006

... were I a 19th century writer, I’d use this bit of dialogue:

“Such indolence!” said he, observing the torpid man sitting aside the verdant willow, hand on his belly and smile on his face. “The insufferable uselessness of these pallid men! It’s little wonder they remain in but the meanest of states.”

“Indeed,” added his friend, wryly. “Such insolence...”

... Adam and Even sinned and were ashamed. They covered themselves, hiding from each other, from God -- from them self. & so we lost not what was true, but sight of what was true...

... the old man’s upper lip is curved a bit and his lower is thinly tucked just behind. The lips move as he reads: it seems as if he is pecking at the book...

... Remarkable parallel between the scientist and the Christian regarding the object of his affection. Telling a scientist, “Your theories do little to explain this” does nothing to invalidate his thought. He’ll laugh his booming, huffing laugh and say, “Perhaps, perhaps. But this is our present data and our present understanding. It may change in the future; it may not. But for now, this is what I know to be true.”

Tell the Christian, “Your theologies do not explain this” and he’ll ash his cigar and sit back in his chair and, staring pensively toward the Spirit, he’ll mutter, “Perhaps... Perhaps...”

A peculiar Christian, that one...

( C: 1 )

10 January 2006

...Grey sky, grey wall up high, keeping us not from the sun, but the sun from us: haven’t seen the cool winter glow in weeks. Grey, grey, grey, January. The wall appears infinitely thick, and matte clouds pulled from its surface hardly reduces its strength, the wall is being chipped and fragmented, but never crumbles...

...Obscure guilt
of the plastic past
Smothers and colors
the air starved land...

...From her frequent and emphatic use of the word “F---“, just about anyone might wonder, “Why doesn’t she say, at the beginning of conversation, ‘I’m always angry’ and save herself the unnecessary repetition of the same meaningless word?” -- it’d save her a considerable wind; she’d be able to use that on more anger...

...At the squared table before me sits a couple I’ve seen frequently. They often enter, drink their coffee and play card games together. She’s a subtle type of uncommon. Her thick stranded hair is a dull tan, and it lays straight and tense on her shoulders. Her face is eminently common, when it shows no emotion -- you’d glance at her and then away, with hardly a bit of awareness.

But when her eyes and lips smile at him, the uncommonness is displayed: her forehead creases, bends down in concern, and she leans forward in her chair and then back, pulling near to him and then away. She loves him, I think -- the sort of great love that understands its power and then fears its strength.

He wears shorts and a fresh t-shirt, no matter the weather. His grey hair is thick, carefully horn low on the sides, while there is a mere dusting of hair toward the top. He smiles frequently, the lines deeply formed about his eyes. And he smiles more frequently when she speaks, slow smiles of deep pleasure, like when a child discovers a long-lost toy, a favorite toy -- the slow growth awareness of deep joy.

He comes here because of her; this is not the sort of place he’d normally frequent, but he loves the commonness of it, the normalcy of habit. When he returns to the table, after a break, he queries, “How’s your cheating go?” in the most common tone. He’s said that before and likely will again. But they both find this an amusing game, with rules developed years ago. He loves her, the calming patter and meter of rain melting upon stone. She calms him and wakes him, giving his life a warm pulse. He is her stone; she melts against his strength, his habit...

( C: 3 )

02 January 2006

...To know, to know
Noble mountain falling whole
Shattered ashes
In my throat
Pounding dust
and eye of smoke...

...”Behind all these things is the fact that beauty and terror are very real things and related to the spiritual world; and to touch them at all, even in doubt or fancy, is to stir the deep things of the soul.” (Chesterton)

I can believe in this! In the trilling wood creatures, the plain dancers, elves and the hobbit, Grendel and Beowulf! This is a sort of salvation, to believe in those things, though the reason must be expressed delicately, so as to not lose the reason in the cut of reason. To love and know those things is to love the thing behind them, the thing I cannot quite see. They become manifestations of that, they create a full impression of the not-seen. Speak of heroism as a principal, pull it from context and analyze it -- and people may pass a test, or explain it clearly. But relate the story of Beowulf and they will know what heroism truly is...

... behind me, two ‘literary’ high school girls fling words back and forth. It’s my impression that these two would enjoy a padded room: they’d run, in order, and fling themselves against the rubber walls. Falling to the ground, they’d (individually) laugh, leap up, and toss themselves (one after another) against the walls again. -- all with rapid, focused speed.

Their words, tossed back and forth, have a literary bounce. “Fabulous,” opines one, her pitch lowering as the word reaches completion. I can’t see her, but I imagine her head lowering in a similar manner, and her back straightening, all in a single motion, until she finish the word with a glance toward her friend, eyes (due to the unnatural tilt of her head) necessarily half-shaded in lid.

The two have the sort of cheeriness found during a summer storms’ breath, when the sun is pulled through a break in the clouds. The light springs from the resting rain water, blinding those about. The air -- cool and comfortable during the storm -- becomes noticeably humid, full of warm storm-sweat. And everyone shutters their eyes and squirms uncomfortably, waiting for the storm to just finish, the temporary sun a mockery of the true sun...

( C: 4 )