Behind the Curtain: Accident Report

Immediately below this entry is another of my attempts at formal verse. I'll talk more in a moment about how well I think I succeeded, but I want to begin by considering the seeds of this poem.

Originally, this was going to be a personal essay reflecting on an actual event. I was not involved in an accident, but it was only because the car on my left was not driving like a runaway train. A matter of random moments separated me from a multi-car pile-up on I-40 West. Unlike the poem at hand, the essay would have meditated on the nature of life after death. In other words, it might have ended up being like the apocrophal writing in which one of the apostles returns from death and reports on the exact circumstances of the afterlife. My essay certainly would have shared more with that slight work than it would have with Dante's Divine Comedy.

I started trying to write this essay on Monday. The way I sometimes work is to type drafts in my e-mail program at home, then e-mail them to a work addy or directly to the blog (very appreciated feature in the latest version of Blogger). Then, as time and work allows, I can play with, and hone, the draft. I was running out of time Monday morning, so I quickly wrote the phrase: "I died on Saturday. But I digress." Well, the curiousness of that second statement caught my attention, and it lead me into another direction entirely. The fact that it was a non-sequitor tempted me to think about writing a poem.

Things have moved fairly slowly from there. It's been a relatively busy week, both at home and at work, and I've had little time to work on this poem. Well, that's not 100% accurate; I did write two quatrains based on the theme and opening line, then dumped them without saving. A couple of turns of phrase and rhyme I wish I had hung onto, but now lost to the ether.

You may notice I mentioned that this discarded draft was written in quatrains. Well, it just so happened that I was literally driving on I-40 West, which rhymes with "digress". Rhyming couplets seem inappropriate for a "graveyard" poem of this sort, so I immediately considered the classic ABAB rhyme scheme.

Whoops! Meant to write a sonnet, and this only has ten lines. I know there's other defects here (Mike Snider would no doubt point out the irregular meter), but that's certainly the first one to be tackled. So, now it goes back into the "work-in-progress" pile. Phooey.

But, let's continue considering what we have so far, shall we? The basis of my line is ten syllables. Yes, I'm aware line seven depends on eliding "toward" into "t'ward", and line eight is twelve syllables. I'm not terribly concerned about the Okie elision of "t'ward", even the afore-mentioned Mike has claimed some interesting pronounciations (sorry, appropriate link is not close to hand). I am more troubled by those twelve syllables in line eight. Now that I've realised I've got four more lines to go, I can dismantle the last two stanzas and stretch out the plot a bit more.

Now, here's my reasoning with that ten syllable thing: Chaucer and Shakespeare chose iambic pentameter, so I've been told, because that is the rhythm of everyday speech. Therefore, if I write an average of ten syllables per line, I'm bound to hit an iamb now & again.

This may seem like laziness, but everytime I've tried to screw my mind up to sound like Dracula, it comes out flat. I'm more likely to sound like me, in other words, if I focus on the syllable count than strict meter. Mike would possibly argue that I might find I could write in other voices (like Frost's Handy Man) if I worked more on the meter. Maybe. I suspect keen psychological empathy and observation have a lot to do with that sort of verse; perhaps more so than meter.

In any case, I think any kind of discipline will serve to lead the poet in new directions. The L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E poets, for example, impose all sorts of curious limits on themselves. The product may not suit my tastes any more than it does Mike's, but I respect their attempt at a discipline. Though I suspect said poets might object to the term "discipline"; it is not a term I recognize from Ron Silliman's poetics.

So, for now, the syllable count and rhyme scheme are sufficient discipline for me. I have written a few syllabic "personae" poems, "At The Cafeteria" being the most recent. The restrictions of the octologue form did move me toward brevity (similar to my haiku experiments) that I think is effective (at least, in this instance).

So - back to the woodshed. Throw "train/lane" on the scrap-heap along with that unwieldy 12-syllable line, see if I can end up building a more elegant police accident report.

Accident Report

I died Saturday night. But I digress.
Or leap ahead in telling my tale,
Not sure. I was driving I-40 West,
going home; she was driving a land whale.

She merged in at a high rate of speed
from Douglas Boulevard, crossed the right lane,
kept going toward the middle, right at me.
The car on my left moved like a run-away train,

So I was trapped. Now, I await what's next.
I died Saturday night. But I digress.

---

Work In Progress

Idée d’jour

We have just enough religion to make us hate but not enough to make us love one another.
— Jonathan Swift, satirist (1667-1745) [best known for Gulliver's Travels, Swift was also Dean of St. Patrick's (Anglican) Cathedral in Dublin]

Pictured: Stainglass window in the Oakerhater Chapel of St. Paul's Cathedral. The central design is the glyph which David used to sign his name until he learned how to write English. The glyph translates as "Oakerhater", and represents a Sundancer in a lodge.

Grant me a stillness of seeing, O God.
In the conflicting voices of my heart
Grant me a calmness of hearing.
Let my seeing and hearing
My words and my actions
Be rooted in a silent certainty
of your presence.
— The Rev. J. Philip Newell

In the Presence of the Holy

Creator, we give thanks for all you are and all you bring to us for our visit within your creation. In Jesus, you place the Gospel in the center of this Sacred Circle through which all of creation is related. You sho us the way to live a generous and compassionate life. Give us your strength to live together with respect and commitment as we grow in your spirit, for you are God, now and forever. Amen.
Source Unknown

I went to the meeting last night to learn more about the Vacation Bible School our church sponsors for Native American children in Watonga. You see, I'm the wort of fellow who likes a modicum of information before he makes a commitment.

The VBS is sponsored by the Oakerhater Guild, named for David Pendleton Oakerhater, of whom I have written in the past. The VBS organizational meeting was followed by a regular guild meeting.

The guild had a special guest last night, Nellie Burnham, who I understood to have some connection with David Pendleton. Having no better plans, I chose to stay. I was richly blessed for this choice.

To begin with, for the benefit of the special guest, Canon Carol reviewed the history of the Guild. Though not important to this current narrative, I was glad to hear it. Then Deacon Knowles, the Diocesean Indian Missioner and vicar of the mission in Watonga, spoke of that mission's recent history.

Then Nellie told her story.

She is the great-granddaughter of Mary Douglas Burnham, one of the first women ordained deacon in the Episcopal Church. From childhood, MDB (as people called her) had a special love and caring for Native Americans. When she came of age, she dedicated her life to ministering to this people.

Now, MDB spent most of her life in northwest New York state, where Nellie still lives. MDB's brother lived in Florida. Both she and her brother were both ill at one point, and she went to Florida to care for him a she herself convalesced. While there, she became acquainted with Capt. P–, the jail keeper where a number of Indian Terrorists were being held. Keep in mind, this was during the Indian Wars.

Capt. P– was apparantly a fairly enlightened man, for he believed it was possible to educate these "savages". So, he arranged for them to be sent to local schools. Four especially promising young men returned to New York with MDB, one of whom was David Pendleton.

She arranged with a local priest to house and educate these men. She served as house mother for the group. David Pendleton and one other received religious training, and were ordained deacons. As we know, St. David returned to Oklahoma to minister to his own people, and tell them of the new chief he had chosen to follow. The chief's name was Jesus.

The first item she opened was a collector's dream: four or five pieces of art by St. David and his companions. According to the guild's historian (also an academic historian), David was almost single-handedly the father of modern Plains Indian art. The art was in the "cartoony" style common to what we call ledger art. Since these works were not signed, there is no way to know whether David was the artist; but we can certainly say they came from his "school".

Nellie also gave the Guild David's letters, mocassins he or his family had made, two of his bows, and a number of photographs. Among these is the only known picture of David Pendleton in his deacon's vestments. Aside from Nellie and her companion, no one at that table had seen that picture before.

As I have said, the Episcopal church has recognized David Pendleton Oakerhater as a saint. There is reportedly action being taken to include Mary Douglas Burnham on the Episcopal calendar of saints.

I have no doubt that I was in the presence of holiness last night.

I'm Terza Rima

I'm terza rima, and I talk and smile.
Where others lock their rhymes and thoughts away
I let mine out, and chatter all the while.

I'm rarely on my own - a wasted day
Is any day that's spent without a friend,
With nothing much to do or hear or say.

I like to be with people, and depend
On company for being entertained;
Which seems a good solution, in the end.
What Poetry Form Are You?

---

Not sure the results are exactly scientific....

Recommended Reading

Baseball lovers (talkin' to you, Stick Poet Superhero) are hereby directed to read "Circus Delight" at Dr. Omed's Tent Show. This is one of the very best things I've read by the good doctor, and he's written some very fine things. At first, it seems to be a meditation on one of his summer jobs (a meme begun by Christopher Key, at the Barbaric Yawp); but it then becomes a meditation on the great diamonds that glitter on long summer nights.

Personally, I've enjoyed baseball more as a mythic fiction than a reality. You know what I'm talking about: the film version of The Natural; both Field of Dreams and Shoeless Shoe (the novel on which Field was based). League of Their Own, Bull Durham, and many, many others.

But the good doctor's essay makes me want to go out there and make a fool of my middle-aged self, and miss a few more fly balls, and strike out and scrape my knee sliding into first. Well, almost.

Idee, 6/16/04

Idée d’jour

I frequently tramped eight or ten miles through the deepest snow to keep an appointment with a beech-tree, or a yellow birch, or an old acquaintance among the pines.
— Henry David Thoreau, naturalist and author (1817-1862)

Subliminal

1. Colorblind :: snow blind
2. Shallow :: lake
3. Erotica :: lane
4. Figment :: imagination
5. Eviction :: notice
6. Composed :: poem
7. Chill :: ghost
8. Girl :: friend
9. California :: girls
10. Bond :: age

Idee, 6/14

Idée d’jour

It is difficult to get a man to understand something when his salary depends upon his not understanding it.
— Upton Sinclair, novelist and reformer (1878-1968) [author of The Jungle]

Fw: Virgin fridge magnet

Madame Fi on Our Lady of Guadalupe

Thanks for the new Virgin [posted two entries below]. I'm sure it's her, because of the knife blade nimbus, the blue cloak with gold trim and stars, the angle of her head, the drape of the cloak, position of the praying hands, etc. She is always drawn the same way. Also the rose figures prominently in her story. The Aztec peasant who saw her needed a miracle to get the church establishment to believe him — so she sent him up to the top of a desert mountain where there should have been nothing but cactus. When he got up there, he found a blooming rose garden. He took an armful to the church authorities, wrapped in his shirt, and when he delivered it, a painting of the Virgin had manifested on the shirt as well. After that, they decided to build the church for her that she wanted.

The rose (or any flower) is a symbol of truth to Aztecs and inserting it into this story (along with the Aztec everyman) was a way of bridging Aztec and Christian mythologies, and getting natives to convert to Catholicism.

Best
Fiona

Raygun vs. Bro. Ray

Raygun's Accomplishments	Bro. Ray's Grammy's
As Governor of California, was among first to "mainstream" the mentally ill. Hundreds left homeless.	Let the Good Times Roll, 1960 Best Rhythm & Blues Performance
As president, fired the air traffic controllers, effectively breaking their union. Also appointed judges who did not enforce pro-union laws.	Georgia On My Mind, 1960 Best Performance by a Pop Single Artist
Did not recognize AIDS as a disease until toward the end of his presidency (medical community recognized it in 1980, near the beginning of his term).  Thus, delayed funding for research on the treatment for this disease. Lead to the death of thousands.	The Genius Of Ray Charles, 1960 Best Vocal Performance Album, Male
Still non-existent "Star Wars" shield	Georgia on My Mind, 1960 Best Vocal Performance Single Record Or Track, Male
Iran-Contra	Hit the Road Jack, 1961 Best Rhythm & Blues Recording
Deregulating the Savings & Loan industry, paving the way for an industry meltdown and subsequent bailout that cost taxpayers hundreds of billions of dollars.	I Can't Stop Loving You, 1961 Best Rhythm & Blues Recording
Helped arm Saddam	Busted, 1963 Best Rhythm & Blues Recording
Through CIA, armed and trained Osama bin Laden, et al, in Afganistan's struggle against the Soviets	Crying Time, 1966 Best R&B Solo Vocal Performance, Male Or Female
Vetoed sanctions on the South African apartheid regime	Crying Time, 1966 Best Rhythm & Blues Recording
Slashed the security safety net	Living for the City, 1975 Best R&B Vocal Performance, Male
Largest tax cut in history for the wealthiest 1% of the nation - effectively widening the income and wealth gap	I'll Be Good to You (recorded with Chaka Khan), 1990 Best R&B Performance By A Duo Or Group With Vocal
Most of GWB's cabinet (Ashcroft, Rumsfeld, Chaney ....)	A Song For You, 1993 Best R&B Vocal Performance, Male

Raygun famously called catsup a vegetable.  Brother Ray recorded a version of "Georgia on My Mind" which is now that state's official state song. Raygun was GWB's protogenitor, proving only ACTING like president was necessary. Brother Ray, contrary to James Brown, was the true Godfather of Soul.

Here's the esteemed Dr. Omed on the former prez:

I'm afraid I don't feel ... warm and fuzzy about Teflon Ron. He prickles me still. I despise him, and all that he stood for. I remember the day after the election in Nov. 79. I was flabbergasted that he had won it. I simply couldn't believe that many voters were that stupid. Since then my flabber has wore out my gaster. That morning I had coffee at the lunch counter of the local drugstore (No Starbuck's back then) and listened as people around me said things like, "Murika's gonna be strong again." All the things that people liked about him I couldn't stand. His faux bonhomie, his whole fake-it-til-you-make-it ethos, the one liners, the jokes, his canned, prerecorded sincerity, his sentimental jingoism, his creepy canned creamed corn on mom and apple pie voice — and the jellybeans. Raygun made rightwing bunk mainstream. Largely because of this man, I have spent most of my adult life watching my country go down the toilet under the collective butt of fundamentalists, the predatory capitalists, the mouth-breathing peckerwood Good-Ol'-Boys, and Texicans. I really can't be objective about the man.

I'm with you, Doc. It's certain the nation won't spend a week mourning Brother Ray's passing. But we should. He deserves it much more than the MORON'S bastard father.

Well, the Repugnicans have had their little party. Now, let's set about making sure it's the last one they celebrate for the next decade or so....

Another Lady for Fiona

This is an image of a refrigerator magnet which I purchased in New Mexico in 1985. I've thought of it as an image of the Virgin of Guadalupe (thus, the shout-out to Madame Fi), but I could well be mistaken.

I suppose I have assumed this was a true variation on the "Guadalupe" virgin because of where I bought it.  But it seems that the nimbus should be larger, and golden.  The rose-coloring and accents also suggest that this was not intended as a variant on the "Guadalupe" vision. But I like the image nonetheless.

The roses are an interesting touch.  According to The Rose Garden Game, the early Christian community looked to the Old Testament for ways to understand Mary's function in Christ's life. She came to be associated with the Rose of Sharon mentioned in the Song of Songs, and eventually became associated with roses. This is the reason the cycle of prayers and beads dedicated to her honor is known as the rosary.

Got The Blues?

Possibly in honor of Ray Charles' death, the good Dr. Omed has posted the lyrics of "Black Hat Blues". He and I can have a side discussion on who, exactly, wrote this song, but it's a fun read. See if you can guess the plot (such as it is).

Along the same lines, I offer the lyrics to "I Get the Blues", which Dr. Omed & I indisputably did co-write. My memory is he wrote the first two verses, and I wrote everything else. But we are all familiar with the fluid nature of memory, if not personality....

---

I Get the Blues

I get the blues
Goin' home to empty rooms.
I get the blues —
It's nothing new.
When I have to face
That empty space, oohh,
I get the blues.

I get the blues
Just like you,
But I try
Not to think of you.
It's a harmonica wire
The wind is playin'
Oohh, I get the blues.

You just try to survive
In these perilous days & times,
You just try to get by
And you're bound to get the blues.

I get the blues
With my first cigarette
And the memories
That drive me back.
A six of beer
Or a pint of gin
Go away, I'll just drink
A quart of pure blues.

I get the blues
When I see you go by;
I get the blues,
How hard I try
To hold back tears
That I can't share
Oh, I swear, I got the blues.

You just try to get by
In these inflationary days & times.
You just try to survive,
And you're bound to get the blues.

I get the blues
Goin' home to empty rooms.
I get the blues —
It's nothing new.
When I have to face
That lonely space, oohh,
I get the blues.
© ~1985, jac & Dr. Omed

---

My favorite line is "It's a harmonica wire the wind is playing," which Dr. Omed wrote. Once upon a time, the good Doctor said his favorite line was "I get the blues / with my first cigarette," which I wrote.

Idee, 6/11/04

Idée d’jour

If we had paid no more attention to our plants than we have to our children, we would now be living in a jungle of weed.
— Luther Burbank, horticulturist (1849-1926)

---

Ironically, I believe this is the person for whom Burbank, CA is named. Regardless of this bit of trivia, this statement is even more frighteningly true than it was when he made it.

Mourning

I have had little to say regarding the recent demise of a certain former president. But I will say this: I mourn the loss "Brother Ray" more than the loss of the former governor of California.

Heeding the Call, Pt. IV
Gift Inventory

1. Singing
2. Speaking
3. Writing
4. Listening/Synthesis
5. Compassion

So: I have this cartoon at my desk - Augustine Interviews God, Part Three - © by Natalie d'Arbeloff. The cartoon has a charming Thurberesque quality; Augustine is a woman (rather than the male philosopher), and God is portrayed as a man. Augustine is asking God about the problem of evil. God responds that evil is a consequence of Free Will; God awaits the day when all creation will freely choose Love. Augustine naturally asks whether God is simply going to sit and do nothing while waiting for humanity to choose Love.

God responds: "No, I don't sit and wait. I give interviews. And I actively look for collaborators."

"Um...What sort of collaboration would that entail?" Augustine asks. "What have you got to offer?"

The above list is what I have to offer. A number of people have complemented me on my singing and speaking voice, and I have come to accept that it is a true gift (rather than just my ego). Some have complemented my writing, so I suppose it speaks to at least a few.

As for the next item - listening/synthesis - what I mean by this is that I have always had a good listening ear. I've always been a sympathetic listener. In addition to that, when I'm with a group, I seem to have a knack for synthesizing statements made by the group members. This has been validated by people agreeing with whatever summing-up statement I make.

This particular combination of gifts seem especially well-suited for the ordained ministry. However, there are a number of less formal ministries these gifts apply to.

You know what I would ask God if I could interview Her? I would ask if She is calling me to ordained ministry. Yeah, of course, I want the straight-forward, clear answer. And I probably would not get it.

I don't know. It might be more important to God that I share these gifts in the same Spirit of Love in which I received them. Whether I wear a priest's collar or not may not be as important as finding the best way to share these gifts.

Next: Charismatic Yin/Yang

Drafting

Drafting

My pen mutters across the page.
I like the way the ink glides
Like a skater on a new-frozen lake.
I like the frequent mental asides

That flitter as I dream each word.
The ink, the page, the tiny book,
Take their place in the verbal chord
And chatter like a rural brook

Or small flags on a windy day.
My pen is directed by that wind
and is led in the north-east way.
The ink forms this letter I send

to you in your pleasant chair
that you read this verse & heed its prayer.

Idée d’jour

As no roads are so rough as those that have just been mended, so no sinners are so intolerant as those that have just turned saints.
— Charles Caleb Colton, author and clergyman (1780-1832)

Heeding the Call, Pt. III
Conversion

Seems like a good time to pick up a thread I alluded to in Part I, my return to the church. I'm not sure exactly how it reflects on whether or not I might be called to the ordained ministry, but it seems appropriate to tell the rest of that story.

Like many Americans (perhaps the majority of my age-group), I did not have a choice in my religion. My parents attended a Methodist church, that was the church in which I was baptized, and the church I attended for most of my early youth. My parents divorced when I was 5, and my father was granted custody, but my maternal grandmother saw to it that I got to the Methodist church most Sundays.

My father re-married when I was eight. The woman he married, Wanda, was a member of the Episcopal church. While they were on their honeymoon, I was left in the care of my Aunt Nelle, who quickly shipped me off to the Episcopal Vacation Bible School. Somehow, I ended up in the youth choir, and I fell in love with the music.

When we returned to OKC, Padre & Wanda started looking for a new church home. The closest Episcopal church to us was St. David's, but it seemed somewhat lack-luster. Next, we visited St. John's, which was a very welcoming congregation with a very charismatic priest. I attended Confirmation classes with Padre, and was offered the chance to be confirmed at the same time he was. However, it felt important to be confirmed with my social group, so that was my choice. However, that adult class taught me that it was ok to question within the church. I quickly came to especially prize the intellectual freedom and honesty which have been hallmarks of the tradition.

When we joined the Episcopal Church, in 1967, congregations were using the 1928 Book of Common Prayer (BCP). The language was very similar to the King James' Bible, with "thee's" and "thou's" and "dost" and so on. As a 12 year-old, I thought this was the required language of prayer, and actually tried to pray in this archaic form. Reading Shakespeare still comes fairly naturally for me.  But, eventually, it occurred to me this was silly — surely God understood modern English as easily as God understood Swahili or Russian!

I was unaware of the fact that the Church itself was asking these same questions. Our Roman Catholic brothers and sisters were already celebrating Mass in modern language (rather than Latin), after all. In the early 1970s, the Church produced a number of experimental services which explored modern ways of describing our relationship with God. By 1979, the Church had ratified the Book of Common Prayer still in use today.

I attended St. John's Day School through 5th and 6th grade. Each day began with mandatory Chapel Service. In liu of a sermon, Fr. Pons would read from C.S. Lewis' Narnia Series; I know I heard all of The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe. I think I may have heard Prince Caspian as well. In any case, I fell in love with Lewis' work, which was a further introduction to the intellectual inquiry possible in the Episcopal Church.

To flash-forward a bit — in high school, I had my first sense that I was called to the priesthood. I had already had some experience as an acolyte and altar boy, and had a deep respect for the liturgics. I also had a deep sense of prayerful connection with God. Based on all this, I ran for chaplain, as I discussed in Part One. Even though I lost, I was not discouraged.

I suppose I became discouraged when no one could tell me what path to follow to be considered for the priesthood. There were other things going on at home which may have also been distracting. In any case, the summer following graduation I had no clue what to do with my life. I primarily went to college to get out of the house. I majored in English because that was my best subject in high school.

In my senior year of high school, I was introduced to the existentialist philosophers and Joseph Campbell's seminal Hero With a Thousand Faces. Both made a lot of sense to me, and I sought to explore this further in college. I took a philosophy course in existentialism, and began a self-directed study of world religions. At the same time, I didn't know about the Episcopal church's college ministry, so I got out of the church going habit.

It was in this atmosphere that I came to claim to be an atheist. My spiritual explorations did not decrease in the slightest — I was reading all sorts of religious titles by Alan Watts, Thomas Merton, and Andrew Greeley (I read his Bottom-Line Catechism long before I read any of his fiction). I was receiving a sort of spirtual instruction in the fiction I read as well: Henry Miller, Jack Kerouac, and D.H. Lawrence. As I've said, references to the divine in my letters and poetry were almost more prevalent now, when I was a nominal atheist, than they had been during high school, when I called myself a Christian.

As I say, all this was self-paced and self-directed. Aside from existentialism, I did not do any formal studies in the philosophy of religion. Heck, that would have been too logical! So I'm trying to make sense of it all on my own, without a mentor. Understandably, I began fraying at the edges.

At this point, I decided I needed some structure. And I had found out about the Episcopal ministry on campus, called St. Anselm's, which had service every Wednesday and Sunday. Coincidentally, this service was followed by a meal, which was another draw. The first service I attended was on a Wednesday.

It turned out that Fr. Don did dialogue sermons on Wednesday. This evening, the question was "Why do we bother performing this ritual every week?" Every answer offered was shot down as "not good enough". This went on for about 10 minutes, at the end of which the priest said we needed to move on. But he raised the question again over dinner, and still no answer was good enough.

Well, I went home thinking, essentially, if the priest doesn't know why we bother, why should I? And I continued on my self-paced, self-directed, and fraying path for a while longer.

I think it was about 2 or 3 months later that I chose to go to a Sunday evening service, which had a traditional sermon. It felt good to practice the familiar liturgical acts of genuflecting and kneeling. It felt good to be among people who accepted a spiritual reality.

Even though I didn't have the answer to the priest's question, I continued attending services on a regular basis. I joined the Folk Mass choir, and eventually became its leader. I went on retreats with the group. I eventually officially rejoined the church (though, on the books, I had never really left).

Several years later, I was able to talk to Fr. Don about that dialogue sermon. I believed I found the answer that felt right for me. I go to church, and repeat the rituals, for me. Not for some high-minded alturistic reason, or some cooked-up theological reason. But because I needed the structure and I needed the community.

As I recall, Don said that if it worked for me, it was good enough. I've been a part of the Episcopal Church ever since.

Next: Skills Inventory

Idee, 6/09/04

Idée d’jour

Everyone wishes to have truth on his side, but not everyone wishes to be on the side of truth.
— Richard Whately, philosopher, reformer, theologian, economist (1787-1863)

Some are anti-war. Some are anti-stem cell research. I am anti-gravity. It's been holding me down too long.

Meeting with Dean Back

Heeding the Call, Pt. II
A Meeting with the Dean
It may be helpful to begin with a note concerning Church polity, and the process one goes through to become a priest.

One approaches the priest in charge of his/her church. In the case of a Cathedral, the priest in charge is called the Dean. If the priest in charge believes the person is a good candidate, s/he writes a letter to the Bishop; the candidate goes through a series of psychological tests; a committee is established in the local church which lends moral support to the candidate; and, eventually, the candidate goes to seminary (assuming the candidate has successfully completed all the previous steps).

As some may know, the word "Cathedral" comes from the Latin for "Chair", because this building is the Bishop's official home, and is the place of his chair. As such, it makes sense that a Cathedral would have a slightly higher standard than a regular church. Further, it makes sense that there would be a stronger emphasis on orthodoxy than there might be in a parish church.

---

I met with the Dean last Thursday, June 3rd. He was very generous with his time, allowing a full hour for me to tell an abbreviated faith story which focused on my sense of call, followed by his reflections. While his answer was not a definitive "no", he did express some concerns which might be discouraging.

As I had anticipated, my lack of a degree was a concern. He mentioned one positive — my voice and presence — which he saw as a sort of two-edged sword. The voice and presence makes me a good candidate to lead liturgy. But he is aware that my current expression of liturgy is non-conformist.

My obliqueness reflects the Dean's. But one expression of this issue seems to be the fact that I intentionally avoid a pronoun when referring to God. Because I do have a strong voice, apparantly a lot more people hear me than I had imagined. For example, I typically say "It is right to give God thanks and praise" in the same proud voice as the majority of the congregation is saying "give HIM thanks and praise." Now, this is the last thing in the world I thought would give offense — in fact, I picked up the habit from a priest — but the Dean sees it as part of a pattern.

As I understand him, the pattern is that I'm more interested in my own ideas than the needs of the community. That, as one who is considering the priesthood, I should follow the order set down by generations. That my willingness to follow this order will reflect my willingness to be obedient within Holy Orders.

Using the pronoun issue as an example, I reflected that the resolution would be to speak (or sing) softer, to remain silent, or to use exactly the words as set forth in the Book of Common Prayer. He allowed as how I understood the resolution to this particular issue. As I interpret his concern, the key will be whether I can consistently put the needs of the community ahead of my own opinion or beliefs.

That's a hard question. Before now, I did not perceive my revising small chunks of the service to fit my understanding as being a potential problem (the primary change being the pronoun). This has been so much a habit, that it may take a while for me to change. So, in regards to this one particular issue, I am striving to be conscious and obedient. I don't necessarily agree with the Dean in this matter, but that's not the point.

For the immediate time, he has challenged me to think through ways to engage areas which will help me discern where my call is. I believe I'm already doing this to some degree. I'm very involved in the planning for workshops which will take place at the state church Convention in November. I'm involved with a Benedictine group and the Taize group. I even see my involvement with "Da Band" as an avenue of exploration.

He did hold out the possibility of leading services on the Health Science Center, if I understood him correctly. I have officiated at Morning & Evening Prayer, and it seems a shame to me to license people as Lay Readers without giving them an opportunity to officiate at these services. Granted, attendance at any such service (whether at the Cathedral or on Campus) is likely to be small, but numbers aren't necessarily the point. I'd be interested in leading either (or both) of those services, so perhaps I need to explore that avenue further.

At this point, it would be easy to get discouraged & give up — which, in itself, would be telling. But I see my immediate task to be allowing our discussion to "percolate," and to strive to be obedient in terms of following the order EXACTLY as we currently practice it.

I need to honestly & humbly explore how obedient I can be to orthodoxy as well as orthopraxis. I've seen my position with both as being within the realitively broad borders of Episcopal belief. After our meeting, I'm not convinced the Dean would agree. I acknowledge that as "gatekeeper" (his term), he needs to be especially sensitive to whether a candidate is "right-thinking" and "right-acting".

I am also more acutely aware of how vulnerable I make myself in this process. I need to be especially aware of whether I am willing to reveal some darker corners as I go deeper in the process. In particular, the Dean will want to eventually explore the nature of my relationship with my former spouse (a topic I skimmed over with him, primarily because I didn't see it as integral to the story of my call), and my work pattern. I see my work pattern as a two-edged sword - on the positive, I tend to stay in jobs a long time, and am faithful in attendance; on the negative, these have not been jobs that fully engage or challenge me.

As for my marriage — there are parts of that I'm not particularly proud of. I think I can talk about them without becoming overly defensive — but still, it's a challenge.

I came into the meeting very much with the attitude that I must accept whatever the Dean had to say with grace — even if the answer was an oblique "no". I recognize that the ball is still very much in my court. That, if anyone says no, it will ultimately be me. But, I believe this can be a process through which God helps me discern my place in the church. It may be that Lay Ministry is my call — as the Dean pointed out, there is more freedom there than within Holy Orders — if so, I am called to fully honor that ministry.

I pray for guidance and discernment.
I pray for the willingness to heed the call,
the strenth to follow it,
and the endurance to walk the path
as far as it leads.

Idee, 6/08/04

Idée d’jour

A man who works with his hands is a laborer; a man who works with his hands and his brain is a craftsman; but a man who works with his hands and his brain and his heart is an artist.
— Louis Nizer, lawyer (1902-1994)

Heeding the Call

Heeding the Call, I

Today, as I write this, I am a layperson. I have been a member of the Episcopal Church since c. 1966-67. I was confirmed in 1968. I've been taught that the rite of baptism ordains all of us into "the eternal priethood of Christ," but I am not a member of the ordained clergy.

The first inkling of a call came in high school. My response, at the time, was two-fold: I ran for chaplain, and asked the guidance counselor about an appropriate college program. I was not elected, and the guidance counselor had no ideas. PCW was, after all, primarily a Southern Baptist school, and the idea of someone becoming a priest must have been quite foreign to them.

It would be natural to ask why I did not seek out the priest at my church. Unfortunately, at that time Padre & I were attending a mission church which did not have a regular priest. If I approached Padre at all, he probably suggested the school's guidance counselor.

I became discouraged, and put the notion on the back burner. In fact, as I attended college, I lost my connection to the Church. By my second year, I was self-identifying as an atheist. I don't suppose the discouragement had much to do with this; I think my questioning & questing had more to do with normal early college rebellion and so on.

The interesting thing about this period is the fact that my spiritual hunger did not decrease in the slightest. I studied existentialism. I read Joseph Campbell, and began a self-directed study of world religion through his work. I read extensively into zen (especially Allan Watts), and other Eastern traditions. I read Elaine Pagels' The Gnostic Gospels, which was serialized in the New York Review of Books around this time. My letters and poetry were more filled with "God talk" than ever before.

I returned to the church a little less than a decade later. I'll tell more of this story later, but for now I want to focus on the issue of a "call". Once I rejoined the church, I became very involved: first as the leader of a folk choir. Then, as a member of the local church board (about 9 years); later, as member of the state church board (6 years). It wasn't long before people were asking again whether I had considered joining the priesthood.

Naturally, I've approached the priests at the last two churches I have attended concerning this question. Neither seemed to think I was ready; I can only make some conjectures as to why. In my more depressed moments, I think I may have missed my chance.

Why do I say that? Because I do not have a Bachelor's Degree. Becoming a priest requires going to seminary, which is a sort of Master's program, which requires a Bachelor's. Somedays, I'm afraid it's too late to work for that Bachelor's. Other days, I think all I have to do is believe in myself and dedicate myself to the proposition.

"Believing in myself" is the real challenge. I've screwed up and disappointed myself so often, I have a real fear of doing it again.

Perhaps, you would paraphrase the line from scripture — "Man, minister to yourself!"

---

Next: My meeting with the Dean

All Hail, William Blake!

Jilly, at the Poetry Hut, led me to this article about William Blake.

Primarily, the article is promoting the admirable work of the on-line William Blake Archive. This on-line resource has been collecting all available versions of Blake's Illuminated works, and is making them available through the internet. I've found this to be a valuable resource, and have linked to it in my occasional meditations on the "Proverbs of Hell."

The article also discusses the possibility that Blake was clinically insane. Many people have thought so, because he spoke openly of having prophetic visions. One of the people quoted in the linked article opines that Blake was schizophrenic.

Well, if he was, he was fairly high-functioning. The last biography of Blake I read suggested he was resolutely non-conformist and iconoclastic to the end, but perfectly capable of discerning the difference between mundane reality and his visions.

I admire Blake's early works — Marriage of Heaven & Hell, Songs of Innocence and Experience — more than his later prophetic works. It's been over a decade since I tried to read his epic poem Milton. Just the memory gives me a headache.

As the article notes, he resolutely forged his path in terms of religion, politics, and poetics. I suppose this is one reason I admire him so much. Considering the crushing poverty he lived under for most of his life, it must have taken great strength of character to believe in himself, and his visions.

Every day, I ask myself whether I have that strength of character. Every day, I wonder whether it's too late to define and seize my destiny.

Idee 6/07/04

Idée d’jour

If you came and you found a strange man ... teaching your kids to punch each other, or trying to sell them all kinds of products, you'd kick him right out of the house, but here you are; you come in and the TV is on, and you don't think twice about it.
— Jerome Singer

Idee, 6/06/04

Idée d’jour

Write with nouns and verbs, not with adjectives and adverbs. The adjective hasn't been built that can pull a weak or inaccurate noun out of a tight place.
—William Strunk and E.B. White, authors of The Elements of Style

---

Obviously, advice I have not heeded.

Try Not to Think About:

• Purple elephants wearing jalepeno lounge pants
• The innocence of dancing aubergines
• Moses doing the incredible rope trick
• Violets on steamy summer mornings
• Tiny birds darting among milkweed
• Water wings resting on the moon
• The hand, the heart, the shadow

Idée d’jour

Hope is believing in spite of the evidence and working actively to change the evidence.
— Michael Toms, host of New Dimensions

Soon to Be Published

Josh Corey is currently working on a chapbook which collects all the "Aubergine" poems. As you'll see at the linked entry, my "In Defense of Aubergine" will be included. This is, like, my 2nd or 3rd national publication.

I'm quite chuffed, as our British friends would say.

Specter

Driving south on Western,
I passed Padre on his motorcycle.
He's been dead for over ten years,
yet there he was. Under the face-shield
of his white motor-cycle helmet
I could see the familiar expression,
the calm serious eyes behind
the favored wire-frame glasses,
the clean-cropped beard.
He was driving north, I was driving south.
Our faces mirrored each other in passing.

Subliminals

1. Lover:: Demon
2. Ridiculous:: Price
3. Oscar:: the Grouch
4. Tennis:: elbow
5. Account Balance:: red
6. Hickey:: passion
7. License:: poetic
8. Breathmints:: fresh
9. TexMex:: diner
10. Stepmother:: Wanda

From Kari

From Argentina
Elsie forwarded the following letter from "Kari", an Agentinian student who stayed with Elsie a few years ago. This letter gives some perspective on how others view our nation and its leaders.

Its so sad what its going on in Irak, and it's also sad what the soldiers do to the prisioners.

Most of the people in Argentina is no agree with what is USA doing (when u live in another country its not only about what is doing Bush Jr. or Blair but its about what the [whole] country does, so that its why I say USA). Even if we read the polls, nobady thinks: "well the half of the american is not agree." From the begining we knew that it was all about the petrol oil, and also about the unfinish war that Bush Father had with Saddam H.

It is too bad, that many people around the world think the worst of USA and if USA falls that will be better. I think that it will take years for people around the world to have a good opinion of USA and probably more terrorist attacks u will have cause of the anger that this is causing, we hope that this will no happend of course.

I'm so lucky to know the great and good people that u are, but not everyone can see that, not if they didn't live in the USA for at least more than a month. I get so mad when someone that when to the USA for holidays say something bad about the Americans, I just say, do u think that because u went to the USA FOR 15 DAYS u are gonna know how americans really are?? You may be stupit if u think that!!! and I laugh!

But u know when something like what is going on in Irak happend its too hard to make them understand that not everyone is like Bush, people think that its to have more and more power, there is much more going on in the USA than that, but trust me that it's hard to make their minds. A good book to read its "The Paradox of the US" by Robert Kennedy. He talks about the hard and Soft power of the US, how important its for the future of your country.

In Argentina we also have problems with the price of the oil, it gets higher and higher. Here a gallon cost about USD 4, last week there were a lot of protests about the price and it we will be having problems because it goes get higher. Its so funny and ridiculous that we have our own petrol and there left is only one Argentina company who works with the petrol, the other one are from other country, but what its more funny it that we buy petrol from this companies and its the petrol that they get from our soil!!! That is what Argentina in [presume] its about!!! Good god, how sad..how stupids.. or how corrups its the goverment!! to be realistic.

From Karina X

idee

Idée d’jour

The notes I handle no better than many pianists. But the pauses between the notes — ah, that is where the art resides.
— Artur Schnabel, pianist (1882-1951)

Doggerel

Work in Progress

Scribble scrabble, scrabble scritch
Makes my pencil start to itch
In the watches of the night
Waiting by the faerie light
Pens & pencils start to dance
With hand-made paper in their hands

---

Funny what several subsequent sleepless nights will do to your subconcious. What's your vote on this one? Keep going, or till it back into the soil for the next plowing?

---

I'll note, once again, that I have little control over the banner ads. Apparantly a negative mention of cretinous talk-show hosts and doubly-cretinous commanders-in-chief generates ads which view same in a positive light. My laundry list of chicken-hawks, in other words, seems to have inspired an ad promoting the Amer Neo-Nazi Compassionate Conservatives. Just so you know.

Lectio Divina: On Anger

Reading. Do not let the sun go down while you are still angry. Ephesians 4:26 (NIV)

Comment.
My former wife was fond of citing this verse when we were having an argument close to bedtime on a week-night. In retrospect, this manipulative on her part.  For, it seemed obvious even at the time that the only resolution possible was for her to "win" the argument.

Somehow, I don't think that's what Paul meant.  I suspect the word translated as "anger" here is more precise than the English word. "Anger" connotes a range of emotions from mild annoyance to near homicidal rage. Many suppress any expression of anger along that range for fear it will automatically turn into rage.

But, notice that Paul does not say "Don't express your anger." In fact, the New Revised Standard Version translates the verse thusly: "Be angry but do not sin; do not let the sun go down on your anger." So, it's clear that it is appropriate to express anger. There are, indeed, at least two incidents in the Gospels where Jesus is recorded as being angry (the cleansing of the Temple being the best known). I believe an argument can be made that we risk more by not expressing anger; that, by saying "don't let the sun go down on your anger" Paul is saying in effect that it is best if one does express one's anger before the sun sets.

But we do not have free reign open fire on the freeways either: "Put away from you all bitterness and wrath and anger and wrangling and slander, together with all malice, and be kind to one another." The piling up of adjectives makes clear the type of strong, negative anger Paul has in mind.

In other words, you must become the master of your anger or it will become the master of you.

Meditation.
What seems right for me, today, are appropriateness and assertiveness. The way to appropriately express one's anger is to first examine oneself; what is the cause of the anger?  If, after thoughtful humble consideration, the anger seems justified, then express it. Not yelling and screaming, per se, but at the very least saying "I'm angry about x because y." Then you may assert what you desire as an outcome; there is no guarantee, of course, that you will achieve that outcome, but you must assert it if you want to have any hope of realizing it.

Prayer.
Grant me discernment to recognize the cause of my anger;
courage to speak it when appropriate; and
the strength to release it once it has been spoken.

So be it.

Definition

Definition d’jour

Chickenhawk n.

A person enthusiastic about war, provided someone else fights it; particularly when that enthusiasm is undimmed by personal experience with war; most emphatically when that lack of experience came in spite of ample opportunity in that person’s youth.

See also: GW Bush, Dick Cheney, Donald Rumsfeld, Paul Wolfowitz, Sean Hannity, Rush Limbaugh, and Bill O'Reilly. Courtesty The Progressive Voice

Lectio: from The Gospel of Thomas

Lectio Divina: from The Gospel of Thomas

Reading.
Jesus said: "If you bring forth what is within you, what you bring forth will save you. If you do not bring forth what is within you, what you do not bring forth will destroy you." translated by Gordon MacRae, quoted in Pagels, Beyond Belief, p. 32

Comment.
This one phrase summarizes Pagels' point in chapter two of the referenced book: Thomas sees "salvation" differently than the canonical John:

Thomas' gospel encourages the hearer not so much to believe in Jesus, as John requires, as to seek to know God through one's own, divinely given capacity, since all are created in the image of God. (34)

Thomas, then, is even more of a mystic than John, which is really saying something. For, this "knowing" is not an intellectual or philosophical activity — it is founded on one's experience of the Divine within one's self.

But what is it that is "within you" that is to be called forth? I suppose it to be that recognition of my unity with the Divine. Not that I am God, but to acknowledge the fact that I was created in the image of God makes me as much a Son of God as Jesus. That type of unity is shared by every individual on the planet. St. Paul is right when he says we are "sons and daughters of God," but it is not by adoption through Jesus; adoption is not necessary, for all of us were "sons and daughters" from the beginning.

Although we share the unity of being created in the image of God, we remain unique individuals with our unique individual gifts — the "charisms" Paul writes about so movingly. So, when I read this passage from the Gospel of Thomas, I imagine that what needs bringing forth is my unique gift.

Meditation.
I woke up around 4:30 Tuesday morning, which is early for me, and could not get back to sleep. Although there are some stressors at work, I believe the primary reason for this particular incident of insomnia was the fact that I wanted to write something in response to Fr. Stan's death. Somewhere in the area between the conscious and the unconscious, I wanted to write down my reactions before I forgot them.

This reflects a common romantic notion of writers — poets in particular — waiting on inspiration, or being so consumed with inspiration that they are compelled to write. The draw-back to this notion, of course, is what happens when the author no longer "feels" inspired? The landscape of American letters is littered with authors who ended their lives because they believed the flame had gone out.

However, I think this passage from Thomas is about something more than creative inspiration. I think it also applies to one's vocation, or ministry. M. Scott Peck, in his seminal work The Road Less Traveled, defines vocation as the place where one's great gift meets the world's great need.

I have been wrestling with this sense of ministry, and whether I might be called to the ordained ministry. I've been assessing my perceived gifts with as much humility as possible. I've been listening more intentionally to what others say my gifts are, for example. Sometimes people comment positively on my singing or writing, which more or less confirms my own notion of my gifts. Other times, people see areas of competence I was unaware of — a recent example was someone telling me I had a good sense of group dynamics. News to me.

This notion of listening to how others perceive my gifts was suggested by Mother Susan, who recently pointed out that the call to ordained ministry is either affirmed or confirmed by the community. In other words, have people come up to me and asked me whether I've considered the priesthood.

I can recall at least one person at the Cathedral who has asked me this question. The question has come up several times over the past 10-15 years, in other churches. In fact, I've even been asked this question by people outside our denomination within the past couple of months.

A couple of other people at the Cathedral have perceived that I have a gift for teaching — which is certainly useful for an ordained person. All this is worth listening to, evaluating, and pondering. Especially as I prepare to make this process official, by visiting with the Dean of the Cathedral.

As I continue to wrestle.

Prayer.
Divine Teacher, grant me proper discernment of my gifts;
grant me the wisdom to recognize the best application of those gifts;
and the courage and strength to use my gifts in your Way.
I seek to collaborate in your great work of Love*,
that it may come to guide all your creatures.
I ask this calling upon your Holy Name.

So be it.

*See "Augustine Interviews God", part three

Virgin de Guadalupe

For Fiona (note: actual size is approx. 2" tall)

idee

Idé d’jour

Better keep yourself clean and bright; you are the window through which you must see the world.
— George Bernard Shaw, play write (1856–1950)

At The Cafeteria

At The Cafeteria

Three women
rise from the table,
then walk east.
One says, "I
can multitask. I'm
a woman."
Three women:
maid, mother, matron,
on their way.
Three women
walk as one.

---

Another try with the "Octologue", a syllabic form which is supposed to report a monologue, and have an air of mystery. This is more straight reportage (I actually saw & heard what's reported, yesterday).

Along with Mike Snider, I like to occasionally let you peak behind the curtain (the link is to Mike's "draft" blog). Happily, making poetry is not normally as messy as making saugages. At any rate, you'll see below an image of the first two drafts; on the left, the Moleskine Journal ™ (3.5 x 5.5"), on the right, my bedside journal (4.75 x 7").


Moleskine ™ version
Octologue
Three women
rise from the table
then walk east
Three women
maid, mother, matron
walk as a group
One says, "I
can multitask.
I'm a woman."

The bedside journal version is more or less the final, except I've now given it a title, and I deleted the following lines (beginning at line 7):
Three women,
carrying their trays,
pass me by.
Three

Subliminals

1. Finale:: Grand
2. Martial arts:: film
3. Flirt:: tease
4. Energy:: wind
5. Flavor:: full
6. Guess?:: who?
7. Accomplishment:: List of
8. Prom:: Season
9. Diploma:: mill
10. Bloody:: hell!

Clairvoyance

"You know, back in 2000 a Republican friend of mine warned me that if I voted for Al Gore and he won, the stock market would tank, we'd lose millions of jobs, and our military would be totally overstretched. You know what? I did vote for Al Gore, he did win, and I'll be damned if all those things didn't come true."
— James Carville

---

Reminder: Al Gore won the popular vote.

Idee 5/25

Idée d’jour

In politics, everyone regards themselves as moderate, because they know some sumbitch who's twice as crazy as they are.
— from Blood Done Sign My Name, by Timothy B. Tyson; quoted
in Entertainment Weekly, #766, May 21, 2004, pg. 83.

In Memorium

In Memorium, Father Stan D.
November 20, 1921 – May 18, 2004

Father Stan died on Tuesday, May 18, a week ago today. His funeral was this past Saturday, May 22nd. I can't say I knew him very well. His primary liturgical duties were at the 11:00 service; I normally attend the 9 o'clock. I think I heard him read the Gospel once, about a year and a half ago.

So why did I cry at his funeral?

I suppose it could be by association. I mean, his funeral may have reminded me of other funerals I have attended in my my life. The loss of this man with whom I shared perhaps two face-to-face interactions somehow reminded me of other losses in my life.

But I think it was more than that.

I knew Fr. Stan through "The Community of the Broken Cross," a group of people studying the Rule of St. Benedict. A handful, including Fr. Stan, are oblates of a near-by Roman Catholic Benedictine monastery. The remainder of us seek to apply the Rule to our daily lives, to varying degrees, with varying degrees of success.

Fr. Stan led this group with Mother Nesbitt, who now continues his good work. Fr. Stan would read a passage from the Rule, a meditation, then a commentary. Then the group as a whole would reflect on these passages. This is an application of Lectio Divina, which I have discussed (and applied) elsewhere.

Naturally, Fr. Stan would have his own responses, either to the reading or to the reflections which came out of the group. His reflections were always based on his own experience of a dedicated spiritual life. I maintain that a primary foundation of "integrity" is to practice what one preaches; that is, that one's words be integrated with one's actions.

The man I came to know as Fr. Stan was one who lived his life with integrity.

This is perhaps best exemplified by how he responded to reflections from the group's members. Every time he responded to one of my reflections, for example, I could tell he had truly listened. Even when he disagreed with a point, he would respond respectfully.

As I write this, I remember the first funeral I attended. I was four years old when Grandfather Samuel H— died. Today, I only have two clear memories of Sam: playing chinese checkers, and walking with him to the ice cream shop. I also remember that I cried at his funeral, to the embarrassment of my older brother.

But I knew then, as I know now, that Sam H— loved me. Just as I know that Fr. Stan loved each member of our group. Granted, this was not the love of a grandfather for his youngest grandson — though an argument for similarities may be made. But it was the sincere unconditional love of one who had dedicated his life to the Source of All
Love.

Idee 5/24/04

Idée d’jour

We can put television in its proper light by supposing that Gutenberg's great invention had been directed at printing only comic books.
— Robert M. Hutchins, educator (1899-1977)

Our spring day

Haiku

Verses in Search of Haiku

Leaves whisper as water,
dapple slender stone paths;
late spring afternoon.

Even oak trees lean west,
monkey grass kisses the ground.
Late spring afternoon.

Canyon clouds slowly
scuttle across the sky.
Late spring afternoon.

Yelllow trumpets nod near
heavy wooden chairs.
Late spring afternoon.

This pocket journal
couched upon my lap.
Late spring afternoon.

Idée d’jour

While I have got religion several times in my life, I have always got over it.
— Christopher Key, commenting at Dr. Omed's Tent Show

Oklahoma's State Wildflower

Idee

Idée d’jour: Jesus, the Man With No Name

Who is Jesus?  He has no name.
— Meister Eckhart

---

Today's "Idée" was chosen at random from The Gospel According to Zen, ed. by Sohl & Carr.

I think understand why this chosen for a book related to Zen. It has a very koan-like quality to it. In other words, the statement seems to be a contradiction How can one say Jesus has no name right after they have said the name?

But what is true of most of us is equally true of Jesus: the truth of the whole person is not defined by the name alone. The fact I am called James, and that I inherited my name from my paternal grandfather, may tell you a little about me, but it does not give you much of a clue concerning the whole person. The fact that I have given myself a number of pseudonyms — jac, Jason, and Jonah — may tell you something about my sense of fractured identity and my sense of play, but it still doesn't reveal the whole person.

In the case of Jesus, this may be understood in the context of the pre- and post-resurrection Jesus.

Marcus Borg talks about the pre-resurrection Jesus and the post-resurrection Jesus. The pre-resurrection Jesus is the historical Jesus, of whom we know relatively little. Borg's claim is this person never referred to himself as "Son of God" or claimed equality with the Divine. There is no question this was a remarkable person, who reportedly performed a number of miracles. The persistence of a following after his grisly death suggests that much.

Borg sees the resurrection as a metaphor for the persistence of Jesus' teachings, rather than as a physical reality. So, when Borg talks about the post-resurrection Jesus, he is talking about how the disciples and the early church understood the life and teachings of the very human person Jesus.

I would extend this further to say the post-resurrection Jesus is given flesh (as it were) by those who sincerely strive to follow those teachings. In which case, Jesus may be James as easily as Jane. This is the Jesus who has no one name, but abides with each of us as we serve and allow ourselves to be served.

Ideé d’jour

The fact that a believer is happier than a skeptic is no more to the point than the fact than a drunken man is happier than a sober one.
— George Bernard Shaw, writer, Nobel laureate (1856-1950)

Quote

“Poetry is not an occupation, but a verdict.”
— Leonard Cohen

Idee

Ideé d’jour

To kill time is not murder, it's suicide.
— William James, psychologist and philosopher (1842-1910)

Princeton Summer

I woke up face down at the east end of Nassau Street.
It was one o'clock Princeton summer.
I rolled over. The air was steamy.

Flat on my back, I watched the clouds.
Pink clouds, forming, then breaking apart.
I wasn't dreaming. They came from the factories.

Last I remembered, I had drank three boilermakers.
That was Friday. I was a block away
from the apartment, where three of us lived.

I was hung over. The pink clouds
hung over me. The sky was pot-luck.
The ground was hanging over the sky.

Elsie & I took pictures of native wildflowers on Friday. Here, you see a highly alterred version of Oklahoma's "State Wildflower."

Idee d'jour

Ideé d’jour

Power is of two kinds. One is obtained by the fear of punishment and the other by acts of love. Power based on love is a thousand times more effective and permanent then the one derived from fear of punishment.
— Mahatma Gandhi (1869-1948)

Ideé d’

We have met the enemy, and he is us.
— Walt Kelly, 1913–1973; author and artist of Pogo

---

For more along this line, see Stephanie's free-ranging post.

Newly Blog-Rolled

Just added a couple of new "virtual" friends to the list on your left:

• Hail Dubyus! is an editorial cartoon up-dated Monday through Friday. The art is pretty good. I agree more than I disagree (though I do, sometimes, disagree). "Gregorious," as he styles himself, deserves increased readership. Check him out.
• Saunter and Repose, where Keiko Sono has been posting for about a month. What I've seen so far (especially of her photography) impresses me. Go visit her, and leave a comment. Her recent series of photographs of peonies in progress is worth the price of admission alone.

Respects

Respects

God Save King George,
who marches us into the forge,
long may he reign!

God bless his tax cut plan,
and bless the wealthy man
whose riches we maintain.

God save his army bright,
they battle a holy fight
to win God's victory.

Which God will bless the plan
of this compassionate man?
Truth: ’tis the God Ares.

The Poet As Fauve Painting

Old Friends

I've been inspired by Ms. Candide to share a bit of an old school book with you.

This comes from my elementary school, James Madison, which I attended from the first grade through the second. As I dimly recall, the book was being phased out, and the teacher simply gave the books to us at the end of the year.

This is one of the classic "Dick & Jane" books There is no print date, but the copyright is 1946 (Scott, Foresman & Co).

Here, you see the Table of Contents. The copyright information is that very fine print at the bottom of the page. The text is a little more complex than the stereotypical "See Dick run.  Run, Dick, run!" Here, the sentences are actually a little longer — as we shall see.

The selection I still remember is "Dark Pony," which the table of contents lists as a folk tale. Here's the first two pages:

Dark Pony (Folk Tale)
Every night a little dark pony came running along the road.
Every night he took boys and girls to Sleepy Town.
Every night his four little feet came galloping, galloping, galloping.
His color was dark, and he came at dark.
So that is why all the children called him Dark Pony.

One night a boy met Dark Pony running along the road.
The little boy called,
 "Please take me down
 To Sleepy Town."
Dark Pony stopped running.
Up jumped the little boy, and away they went.
Galloping, galloping, galloping.

[Next a little girl, then a little puppy, then Grey Squirrel]

How happy they all were!
They sang and sang and sang.
Soon Dark Pony began to go slower and slower and slower and slower.
He was coming to Sleepy Town.
The puppy, the squirrel, the boy, and the girl were all very sleepy.
And so was Dark Pony.
Slower and slower he went, and at last he stopped.
He had come to Sleepy Town.
And so had the puppy, the squirrel, the boy, and the girl.
They all had come to Sleepy Town.

It's odd. Whenever I think of this entry, I think of it as a poem. It's sort of formatted as a poem, but it does not have a regular rhyme scheme or metrical pattern that I can discern. Primarily, it has repetition; but it is more or less the same sort of repetition common to the remainder of the book.

If it pleases me to call it a poem, it does no one any harm. But I wonder what Mike Snider would say?

Ideé d’jour

Every time I see an adult on a bicycle, I no longer despair for the future of the human race.
— H.G. Wells, writer (1866-1946)

---

The seed of God is in us. Given an intelligent and hard-working farmer, it will thrive and grow up to God, whose seed it is; and accordingly its fruits will be God-nature. Pear seeds grow into pear trees, nut seeds into nut trees, and God seed into God.
— Meister Eckhart, quoted in The Gospel According to Zen, ed. Sohl & Carr.

Insanity of War

Oklahoma Senator Jim Imhofe has guaranteed himself a spot on the news by making a patently absurd comment about the abuse of Iraqi prisoners in Abu Ghraib: "You know, they're not there for traffic violations." Now, as a self-proclaimed "extreme right-wing radical conservative," Senator Imhofe no doubt believes that everyone American police arrest here are automatically guilty as well. Most others recognize, as do senators of both parties, that some in Abu Ghraib were falsely imprisoned. Hearing Senator Imhofe's comments make me want to disown the state in which I was born.

The recent murder of Nick Berg will most likely add fuel to Sen. Imhofe's righteous indignation. No doubt, Sen. Imhofe will view this video of proof that we battle barbarians, who must be destroyed utterly. Take, for example, this well-reasoned essay in the National Review. No doubt Sen. Imhofe will call for us to bomb them all.

Continuing with the Berg story, there's a new twist on blaming the victim:

A U.S. official, speaking on condition of anonymity, said Berg was in Iraq "of his own accord" and had been advised to leave Iraq but refused. The official refused to elaborate but promised more information later Wednesday. [CNN on-line]

Happily, his father has been brave enough to offer another version of that story:

According to his family, Berg, a small telecommunications business owner, spoke to his parents on March 24 and told them he would return home on March 30. But he was detained by Iraqi police at a checkpoint in Mosul on March 24.

Berg was turned over to U.S. officials and detained for 13 days. His father, Michael, said his son wasn't allowed to make phone calls or contact a lawyer. On April 5, the Bergs filed suit in federal court in Philadelphia, contending that their son was being held illegally by the U.S. military. The next day Berg was released. He told his parents he hadn't been mistreated. His family last heard from him April 9 but it was unclear when and where he was abducted. [same article]

To connect these two stories, the "eye for an eye" morality cited by Mr. Berg's killers is no different from Imhofe's contention that the Al Ghraib prisoners got what they deserved because they're terrorists. If there is a difference, it is only by degree. Both incidents simply prove that humans are capable of inflicting untold abuse on their fellow creatures. Not exactly a major headline.

I believe it was Gandhi who originally said that an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth would eventually leave us hungry and blind. I pray people will not see this murder as a justification for our presence in Iraq, or for increased military retaliation.

The situation in that beleaguered country gets exponentially worse with each week, to the point that the VietNam analogy no longer holds. By which I mean to say that the situation seems to be getting worse faster than it did in 'Nam. For example, revelations about the Mai Lai massacre did not become public until sometime in the '70s — by which point, America had been involved in VietNam since sometime in the late 50s. The revelations about prisoner abuse are being made a little over one year after the "end of major conflict."

Britney Spears Sings the Blues
For Pat

The day is longer than my noonday shadow
the leaves are greener than her eyes
The wind comes up, the trees courtsey,
And the leaves sing with a voice of many waters

I walk the cathedral harbor
Where shellfish prayers
Prick my fingers
Barbed wire twines the afternoon
I walk the formidable sidewalk DNA
Through dog-bush warrens
And her impossible magnolia eyes

Light plays feline mazurkas
Across the fractured concrete
Each door could be hers
Each window a foreign country
And though I have chanted the ancient stones
Her shade follows me from pillar to post

More Current Events

Courtesy of the erstwhile Brother Dave, I've read this article by Greg Palast, which discusses Disney's decision not to distribute Michael Moore's film Fahrenheit 9-11. According to Mr. Palast, Moore's film is based on a documentary Palast unsuccesfully tried to distribute to the U.S.

The theme of Palast's documentary, and Moore's entertainment, is the background of why the administration has not further investigated possible Saudi ties to Al Queida and the 9/11 attacks. News flash for the handful of Faux News lovers who somehow stumbled here: most of the men who highjacked those planes were Saudi, not Iraqi or Afghani.

According to Palast (and Moore) the reason that particular lead has been stiffled is the most American reason around: money. GHWB has very close ties to the Saudis, and there's an amazing amount of Saudi money in GWB's campaign war chest.

Meanwhile, Emily forwarded an essay by Bill Moyers on how media conglomeration has affected the quality of information we receive. Sadly, I don't know the origin of the essay, so I can't link to it. Here's an excerpt:

The war in Iraq has become also a war of images. This week, we were troubled by pictures of tortured Iraqi prisoners. Last week, it was photographs of American soldiers who have given their lives there.

On Friday a week ago on Nightline, Ted Koppel read the names of the dead and showed their photographs. But their faces and names were blacked out on ABC stations owned by Sinclair Broadcasting. Sinclair accused Koppel of "...doing nothing more than making a political statement."

But what about Sinclair's own political agenda? With 62 stations the company is the biggest of its kind in the country and has lobbied successfully in Washington for permission to grow even bigger. Its executives are generous contributors to the Republican party.
<snip>
Sinclair's not alone with cozy ties to Washington. Clear Channel, the biggest radio conglomerate in the country (with twelve hundred stations plus), was a big winner in the deregulation frenzy triggered by Congress in 1996. Last year Clear Channel was a cheerleader for the invasion of Iraq with pro-war rallies.

Rupert Murdoch's a big Washington winner, too. Congress and the Republican controlled Federal Communications Commission let him off the hook even though his News Corp. owned more stations than the rules allowed.

Murdoch also controls Fox News, another big cheerleader for American policy in Iraq, [and] the New York Post. For a week, the Post refused to publish photographs of those tortured Iraqi prisoners saying the pictures would "reflect poorly" on the troops risking their lives there.
<snip>
Nowadays, these mega-media conglomerates relieve government of the need for censorship by doing it themselves. So we're reminded once again that journalism's best moments have come not when journalists make common cause with the state but stand fearlessly independent of it. A free press remains everything to a free society.

Finally, from the Smiling Chimp, comes this theory that GWB has chosen stupidity as an Oedipal response to his mostly absent father (famously known as G "Herbert Hoover" WB). This gibes fairly well with what I'm currently reading in American Dynasty by Kevin Phillips. This book is an impressive combination political/psychological biography and sociological analysis.

Ideé d’jour

All know that the drop merges into the ocean but few know that the ocean merges into the drop.
— Kabir, reformer, poet (late 15th century)

Benefit Concert Tonight

I know it's short notice, but Da Band is doing a benefit concert at St. Paul's Episcopal Cathedral tonight in Oklahoma City. Tickets are $5 at the door.

If you're new to this web-log, you don't know that I'm a vocalist/harp blower for this group of middle-aged miscreants. We're playing stuff from the 50s & 60s. Some Stones, a respectable amount of Beatles, some Carl Perkins ... well, you get the idea. We've been rehearsing for several months since our last gig, so I imagine folk will really hear a difference.

As vocalist, I'm sort of the "boy singer", in that I'm normally called on to sing ballads like "My Girl" or "And I Love Her". The exceptions are "Like a Rolling Stone" and the Elvis Presley medley. Folk try to give me Moon Pies after the Presley thing; not sure why.

Anyway, proceeds benefit St. Paul's Outreach Commission, whose projects extend beyond the cathedral walls — some even extend beyond Oklahoma City. So, it's a good cause.

St. Paul's is at N.W. 7th & Robinson, downtown OKC. The concert is in Dean Willey Hall, which is the middle of three buildings. Concert begins with an opening band at 7:00, then Da Band follows somewhere between 7:15 and 7:30.

Hope to see you there!

Midday Sketch

Sky dome arcs
from north-east to south-west
from north-west to south-east
her marian blue robe
stretches from north pole
to southern cross

Great turtle slowly turns
as she builds her nest
creature of habit, she
tracks the course of her beloved
across the day

Dust is stirred by her massive feet
it colors the sky like a sand painting

Who doesn't belong?
Perhaps the vigilant owls
at the hem of Aurora's gown
Perhaps the four hawks preceding her
And the eight silver kites behind
Perhaps the buffalo or puma,
the coyote, or the jackrabbit
Perhaps this tiny circle of Red Dirt
she smiles upon
But she smiles because she loves it
most of all

---

Work in progress. You may note the "vigilant owls", which I have included as an homage to the good Dr. O.

What you see here is transcribed from my Moleskine Journal®. I have a feeling the "Who does not belong" stanza will change in the next transcription. Stay tuned.

Bookmarks

Stray scrap of envelope flap
shopping list
credit card receipt
plastic-encased pictograph of Horus on papyrus
multi-colored ribbons

Where she works
where she once sang
her powder-blue scrubs
her green station wagon
her tent in the storm
the hovel where we kissed
even the street

Her head seen from behind
her long soft hair
her breast pressed against mine
her hands
her silken tongue
her voice in lost afternoons

Hazardous Duty

I've seen and heard a couple of stories recently on the relatively short life spans of poets. This reminds me of the parlor game Dr. Omed & I like to play: listing all the writers we can think of who killed themselves.

Limiting it for the moment to 20th C Americans, there's Hemingway (who wrote some pretty bad poetry), Plath, Anne Sexton, and Fitzgerald (via drink). I believe there's a lot more, but those are all the names I can think of at the moment.

On the other hand, poetry might be less risky than construction work. Doubt I'm going to end up with 6 pens or pencils driven into my head and neck any time soon.

Actually, that short life-span thing seems like pretty hopeful news to me. My retirement plan consists of dying at age 65.

Current Events

Please read "Business as Usual" at Dick Jones' Patteran Pages.  It's the first sensible response to the "shocking" tapes of our soldiers abusing prisoners in Iraq.  Bottom line:  we train these guys to kill.  At the same time, most major religions teach it is wrong to kill. In order to overcome this moral repugnance against killing, soldiers are taught to consider the enemy less than human. So, as Dick points out, it's more shocking we haven't heard a story similar to this sooner.

On the less sensible or reasonable side, see this report (Sick, Sick, Sick) on Rush Limbaugh's reaction. I've glanced at the transcript at Rush's site, and the quotes are accurate. Rush does say Marv Albert would be turned on by the pics, and seems draw a moral equivalence with Britney Spears' stage show. Proving once again that Rush is an entertainer, not a commentator who should be taken seriously.

Those who have used Saddam's torture palaces as justification for our invasion are hopefully reconsidering that position. It definitely must look to the Iraqis like the American bully is as bad as the Baathist bully. Certainly, the publication of these images make the situation several times worse.

Finally, this cartoon by Gregorious gives you a fair notion how civil liberties are doing here at home.

Ideé d’jour

Love is like war; easy to begin but very hard to stop.
— H.L. Mencken, writer, editor, and critic (1880-1956)

New Card

You may recall, a coupla weeks ago, my reporting an international collaboration with Natalie d’Arbeloff (the alter-ego of Augustine, or vice-versa; both of whom live in England). She was trusting enough to lend me four digitally-created images, and I have been ever-so-slowly writing poetic responses to them.

Originally, I had pictured this like a series of panels. Ultimately, we agreed it was best if each image/poem combination stood on its own. So far, we've got The Apparition and Escape. Just this morning I completed the penultimate image/poem. Natalie has approved it, so now I can share Stardust with you.

Between these wonderful images and aubergines, I hardly have an excuse to have residual writer's block.

Back to the Moleskine Journal® ....

Subliminals

1. Sexy :: Beast
2. Clique :: high school
3. Pledge :: allegiance
4. Carbs :: low
5. Dream Job :: dream life
6. Sweeps :: stake
7. Soundtrack :: movie
8. Hero :: sandwich
9. Shave :: Burma
10. Christina :: ballerina

Meditation on Owls

Dr. Omed posted the following mini-dissertation in the comments section of Thistle & Hemlock:

Owl, in Middle English "oule;" Old English "ille" cognate with Low German "ule" and German "eule" all from the presumed proto-Germanic "uwwalo" or "uwwilo." Another derivation of owl is Icelandic "ugla" cognate to "ugglier" which came into English via Scandinavian as "ugly." In contrast to the modern meaning of ugly, "uggligr" means fearful, dreadful. Owl in Hindi is "ul" or "ulu;" Latin "bubo" Greek "buas" Hebrew "o-ah" Nepali "huhu."

The Owl Lodge was an old institution among the Oglala Sioux. The Sioux venerated the Snowy Owl; warriors who had shown bravery in battle could wear a cap of owl feathers. However, many Athabascan tribes fear the owl and consider it taboo. The Yakama tribes in Washington State regard the owl as a powerful totem.

The Hindu Goddess Laxmi rides an owl.

There was flightless owl species on Andros Island in the Bahamas, now extinct and known only from recovered remains. "Tytopollens" stood one meter tall and according to old local tales were apparently thought to be leprechaun like imps called "chickeharnies," with three toes, and able to turn their heads all the way around.

Athena Pronoia's bird was a little owl, Athena Noctua; as it was held sacred and thus protected the owl inhabited the acropolis in great numbers.

Australian Aborigines believe owls represent the souls of women, as bat do for the men, Thus, an owl is every man's sister, daughter, and mother.

Owl in Scots Gaelic is "coileach;" cognate "Cailleach" means old woman. The owl is often associated with the crone aspect of the Goddess.

The earliest image of an owl may be a paleolithic drawing of Snowy Owls (Nyctea Scandiaca) in a cave in France. Other owl petroglyphs have been found from the Victoria River Valley in North Australia to the Columbia River in Washington. A Screech Owl is part of a bas relief of Mayan ruler "3" in Dos Pilas in Guatemala.

"I am a brother to dragons, and a companion to owls." Job 30:29

<snip> ...I've been trying to write a poem on owls, the owls that are not what they seem, for several years now. Thus far I have failed utterly.

Impressive work. As an aside, I've found that a lot of study on a topic can kinda plug up the poetic works. The temptation is to frustrate oneself while trying to throw in everything one has learned.

I had this same problem in my unfininshed poem on the Columbia disaster (I never got further than the introit). I bought a couple of special issues, read the official biographies of the astronauts who died, followed the theories on the cause of the disaster ... and ended up totally blocked. Finally had to let go of the project to move ahead with any kind of writing at all.

For good or ill, I did not have this problem with the Aubergine sestina which appears below. I did a bit of research, and a couple of the links reflect said research. Guess I did ok — Josh called it "rather lovely" in an e-mail.

As for owls, I'm content to ask them to make cameo appearances in an occassional poem.

In Defense of Aubergine

Adam was in a restaurant in Cape Town
when he noticed something upon his plate:
a glossy fruit, a curious mad apple,
and the wild purple on the pure white
reminded him of eggs in a secret garden.
There — lightly sauteed — the mysterious aubergine.

Eve watched him delicately slice the aubergine
into neat quarters.  The Cape Town
afternoon swept across the restaurant garden
as sunlight danced upon his plate.
Adam speared a slice, carried it from white
to his mouth like a shiny forbidden apple.

And the "oh" of it was a tender apple
bush, that bitter-sweet aubergine.
The table cloth was blue, the sky was white
as silence seemed to rule that Cape Town
patio where Adam cleaned his plate
bite by bite, like birds in a garden.

Eve was thinking of summer jazz in the garden
of another eatery, near the Big Apple.
What was the name? — she had the salad plate —
ah, she knew it now — it was the Aubergine.
Well, that was a world away from Cape Town
where the sea is blue & the waves are white.

"This is good," he said, his eyes shining white
as his left hand swayed like a garden.
He was thinking of leaving Cape Town
for it was no longer a diamond apple.
But for now, he was lost in aubergine,
lost in the disks left on his plate.

Eve had already cleaned her plate
and was waiting for a soft white
chocolate mousse. She'd had no aubergine
that was not fresh from the garden.
For dessert, she ordered an apple,
a foreigner in Cape Town.

They left Cape Town, and Adam's plate,
sharing the apple and the white
sky. Left the garden, blessed by aubergine.

---

For more on this, see Josh's entries at Cahiers de Corey, beginning 2:21 p.m. on Wednesday, April 28. Josh is keeping a pretty extensive list of other blogs which have picked up this “meme” in his subsequent entries. Even Katey, one of my favorite poets, has entered the fray.

aubergine [oh-behr-ZHEEN], n.

1: hairy upright herb native to southeastern Asia but widely cultivated for its large glossy edible fruit commonly used as a vegetable [syn: eggplant, brinjal, eggplant bush, garden egg, mad apple, Solanum melongena]

2: egg-shaped vegetable having a shiny skin typically dark purple but occasionally white or yellow [syn: eggplant, mad apple]

WordNet ® 1.6, © 1997 Princeton University

Also:

<jargon> A secret term used to refer to computers in the presence of computerphobic third parties.

The Free On-line Dictionary of Computing, © 1993-2003 Denis Howe

Both courtesy of Dictionary.com