Deer Paradise

I imagine that if deer could dream of heaven, this is what it would be like for them: miles and miles of salt as far as the eye can see. This picture was taken at the Bonneville Salt Flats, not far from the Nevada / Utah border (we had stopped on our way to California).

Monday Poem--"Philosophy"

Philosophy, I believe,
is the attempt
to justify systematically
the beliefs we already have.
(Just don't ask me
to justify that claim.)

"In Loco Parentis"

Isn't it touching that I can be more than forty years old and Phi Kappa Phi, the National Honor Society, decides that I'm still not quite old enough to make decisions about my own health insurance so they go over my head to talk to my parents? I guess I should just be glad they care.

I must admit that I'm a little embarrassed about belonging to the organization at all (it's a long story about how I came to be a member but suffice it to say it would have been impolite for me to decline the invitation). It calls to mind Groucho Marx's old line about not wanting to belong to any club that would have him for a member. But it's not like they're as selective as they'd like to make you think. I attended the opening banquet and it was packed with literally thousands of students who had shelled out something like 50 bucks for that line on their resumé, along with a handful of professors who, I presume, were there for the warm Sprite and the cold chicken.

Enjoy the Silence

I'm a sucker for films that are: (1) foreign; (2) long; (3) boring. That said, I got the trifecta with Philip Groening's 2006 film, Die Große Stille (Into Great Silence). It's a nearly three-hour long documentary about a Carthusian monastery in France: there's no narrative and very little dialogue. Groening was given extensive access to the monastery and the result is a kind of poem-film of one striking image after another. Paradoxically, the images are almost all banal: the camera hones in on the monks preparing a meal, or turning the page of a hymnal, or shuffling along to mass. But each is invested with a kind of spiritual significance and Groening admirably finds the poetry in the ordinary activities that for the monks constitute a kind of worship in their own right.

Monday Poem--"Heidegger in Space"

I dreamed last night
of Heidegger in space.
I don’t mean to say
that he was hacking his way
through to the clearing of Being
but rather orbiting the earth
with the space shuttle crew:
the mission’s metaphysician
on call at all hours.
He sits by the portal
and stares outside
mouthing unintelligible truths,
thinking terrible thoughts.
“Das Nichts selbst nichtet”
—he solemnly intones—
and who could not help feeling,
staring out into the endless void,
the immensity of nothingness?
It is that same nothingness
which tightens his throat
and almost brings a tear
to his oracular eye.

Well, the rest of the crew,
as it turns out,
has no use for his
pencil-moustache,
his slinking around,
his dark sayings,
when there are gauges to check,
and tests to run,
and an interstellar lavatory
that must be cleaned.

So, without a word,
they lure him
to the escape pod.
Weary of his drivel,
they strap him in,
eject him into space
and watch in silence as,
still talking,
still taking
the measure
of the fourfold
of Earth and Sky,
Gods and Mortals,
he slowly rolls round
in earth’s diurnal course
already beginning
to forget the dearness
of rocks, and stones, and trees.

Monday Poem--"This Poem Began"

This poem began as a paean to your virtues,
A hymn to your body, brain, and being.
Sparkling images, each coolly reflecting your light,
every phrase and beat a gem your figure had cut.

But by the second stanza something had gone wrong.
The words lay crabbed and stricken on the page,
my thoughts confused, my metaphors limping along,
the whole thing lurching toward disaster.

When suddenly a sly tercet made a virtue of necessity,
my words' impotence became a tribute to your ineffable grace,
and my shortcomings served only to set off your perfection.

But now, at the end, I see irony cannot do you right,
and my words, as before, cannot utter your name,
not even as an absence, not even in failure, not even.

Summer = Climbing Stuff, Getting Tackled, Playing with Cousins

It also means hot-air balloons and parades. It's almost enough to rob me of my cynicism and smart-aleckiness. Almost.

They Say that "Everybody's Working for the Weekend:" Now See Why

Walter Ruttmann was an important German filmmaker whose best known work was Berlin: Symphony of a City (1927). He also dabbled in avant-garde composition. Here's a sound collage called "Week End." It's definitely dated in some ways, but I find it strangely appealing.

"Europeans already looking beyond Bush presidency" ...

... reads the headline for the AP story. Well, it may not be as simple as that, but it is a happy, hopeful thought for a Sunday morning nonetheless ...

Monday Poem--"Opening the Books"

And I saw the dead, small and great, stand before God; and the books were opened, which is the book of life: and the dead were judged out of those things which were written in the books … (Revelation 20:12)

When the final trumpet sounds,
when the graves yield up their dead,
when almighty Jehovah himself appears
in majesty and splendor,
I wonder what would happen
if He could find no book for you,
just a glossy magazine,
mostly ads,
recipes for holiday leftovers,
tummy-tightening exercises,
and tips for driving your man
wild in bed.

I smile at the thought
and then, with a glow of slow gratitude,
I realize that my own book of life
is no book either
just a perforated insert card
for your magazine,
an advertisement for your advertisements.

Perhaps, I think,
when the final echo
of the final trumpet blast
has faded away
we'll still be together
on a coffee table
of a waiting room
in the clean and quiet office
of the great God
of Heaven and Earth.

Marathon Man

Simon, along with his friends Jon, Jaxon, and Brandon B., made the paper for having run a marathon (in small increments) at school over the course of the last couple of months. Needless to say, it took quite a bit of dedication so we're pretty proud of him.

Here's a brief article from the local paper; a full report may be found at CNN.com and other major media outlets.

Babylon the (Not So) Great

I don't think I ever expected when I chose this career path that I would be dabbling in Babylonian studies. But I guess that's what happens when you work on Borges. I've been writing a book chapter about Borges's story, "The Lottery in Babylon," so I've been up to my eyeballs in Babylonian history and culture. Here's a couplet from a long poem, which, like many Babylonian literary texts, deals with the problem of theodicy in a particularly vivid way. Consider yourself warned.

ina ru-ub-si-ia a-bit ki-ial-pi
ub-tal-lil ki-i immeri (udu.nitá) ina ta-ba-ás-ta-ni-ia

Translation:
I spend the night in my dung like an ox,
And wallow in my excrement like a sheep.

Any questions?

Monday Poem--"Red Patch"

Now suppose that I am looking at a bright red patch.

I may say, "this is my present precept;" I may also say,

"my present precept exists;" but I may not say, "this

exists," becaue the word "exists" is only significant when

applied to a description as opposed to a name. This

disposes of existence as one of the things that the mind

is aware of in objects. (Bertrand Russell, "A History of

Western Philosophy, 1945)





"Red patch, here, now"

I tell the doctor,

rolling up my sleeve,

doing my best

to avoid self-diagnosis.

"Itching, here, now," I add,

trying to elaborate,

which is not to say

that there is, in fact

anything that itches.

For all I know,

my red patch is all in my mind,

in a manner of speaking

(and which emphatically does not imply

that I in fact have a mind).

The doctor, if there is a doctor,

nods, smiles, writes on a pad,

sends me on my way.



"Red patch, not here now,"

I am now relieved to report,

as I open the mail

from the doctor's office.

Drawing the bill

from its envelope

I can't help thinking,

"white patch, here, now,"

wondering if precepts of bills,

like regular ones,

must be paid with regular money

or whether precepts of money

would suffice.

But I, if there is an I,

think not.