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.