Hmmm

"I'm not only a trouble maker, I'm a troubled soul."

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          

                                                     Garry Kasparov, former World Chess Champion

You Can Never Have too Many

This reminds me of Thomas Jefferson's 1815 quote to John Adams:

         "I cannot live without books." 

                  This is my idea of Heaven!

God Bless Us, Everyone

Kai<

oJ lo>gov sa<rx ejge>neto kai< ejskh>nwsen ejn hJmi~n kai< ejqeasa>meqa th<n do>xan aujtou~ do>xan wJv monogenou~v para< patro>v plh>rhv ca>ritov kai< ajlhqei>av

And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us, and we beheld his glory, glory as a unique, only one of his kind Son, sent from the Father, full of  grace and truth.

John 1:14

Before

"What are you doing"

I asked her one night. She said,

"Making room for you."

The Irony

To whom it may concern:

Saturday night after a long day of shopping our favorite second hand stores, we settled in for the night to unpack two large bags of books we'd bought. While doing that, something happened, something simply spectacular, something I've wanted to do for a very long time, something I've dreamed about for decades but never, or very rarely, experienced, and never like this night. We managed a scene right out of John Denver's Poems, Prayers, and Promises, where, after talking quietly from the heart about the things most important to us, and passing the pipe around as it were, when I got to it, I opened a used copy of some collected poems of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow and began to survey its contents.

For whatever reason, I began at the back and began sampling here and there as I moved forward. As I was moved, I began reading aloud to her. What a magical moment: sitting with my best friend and lover, in a dimly lit room, sharing thoughts, dreams, and then poems from this newly purchased volume. Such a state eventually lead us to quoting favorite lines from memory where we could, and searching for others online when memory gave way to the ravages of time. 

After surveying a few pages, I came across his poem entitled Haunted Houses. Upon reading it, I realized that, like second hand houses, anything we purchase used, including books - maybe especially books - comes with a history, a past, ghosts if you dare. Some second hand items are significant, like valuable antiques, others simply carry the impressions, scars, and spirits of previous owners. This irony was not lost on either of us as I read Longfellow's beautiful argument, so lucidly laid out in Haunted Houses, from a used book. It was such a mystical experience all by itself that I have to share a significant stanza with you. It runs thus:

"We have no title-deeds to house or lands,

Owners and occupants of earlier dates

From graves forgotten stretch their dusty hands,

And hold in mortmain still their old estates."

What a perfect experience: sitting in a used house, built and inhabited since the early 60's, reading from a previously owned book of poems, immersed, or should I say, accompanied by, not only the spectral spirits of earlier generations of readers and dwellers, but also in the authorial presence of Longfellow himself (Anyone unfamiliar with this author/reader union needs to read Walt Whitman who makes it a habit to address future generations of readers as being present with them. Longfellow, while not as explicit, does the same thing by addressing topics such as time passage, aging, and the impermanence of life and reality). We both independently expressed feeling the ghosts of this simple volume. If I might be so bold, I'd say that we ALL enjoyed a beautiful evening singing chants from Longfellow and others.

If you can, get into the habit of buying second hand goods when you can, and you too can encounter these same multi-generational spirits on a regular basis. Please don't think this is just for books, houses, furniture, pictures, and sundry housewares can have the same effect. All one needs is something durable with a past.  I can't think of anything more spine tinglingly flattering than being honored to contribute to the life of a piece of furniture, a garment, or a book, a place, carrying on it's history, adding to its legacy. There's also something comfortably right about it. So join in and add your emotional footprint, your energy signature, to the life of the tangible.

Until next time,

Contemplate the mysteries, and remember to breathe.

(Favorite Poems of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 1947. Henry Seidel Canby, ed. Doubleday & Company, Inc. Garden City, New York. pp.276,7)

Never Judge a Book by Its Cover?

To whom it may concern:

Ted Bishop, a professor at the University of Alberta, wrote a book chronicling a motorcycle trip he made from Edmonton to Austin Texas (and back again - Just like a Hobbit - well if Hobbits rode motorcycles). While in Austin he did research on James Joyce's Ulysses. Among other things which he observed, what struck him most was the fact that the notes and questions left by previous owners in the various margins of the editions available to him (and apparently, the University of Texas at Austin has quite the collection of this work) varied greatly depending on the cover of the book and the various prefaces and introductions. He claims, as you'll see below, that all that preceded the text in a given edition of Ulysses colored the reader's expectations, and therefore his marginal remnants. 

Now, loving books myself, I've judged many a book by its binding, cover, paper (quality, thickness, AND color), age, and too many intangibles to mention. However, when I read this paragraph congealed from Bishop's careful research, I was astonished at it's truth.

"Seeing all these different editions together I was beginning to get a sense of how the physical book would change your reading of the text. I don't know the term yet, but what I was doing was reading the "paratext," the elements surrounding the text - cover art, blurbs, prefaces, introductions - all of those "thresholds," as the French critic Gerard Genette calls them, that we must cross before encountering the text itself. There is no such thing as a pure text; we always reach it through the paratext , and though we may try to ignore it, it shapes our reading. Who said, "Don't kjudge a book by its cover"? We always do. (Riding With Rilke: Reflections on Motorcycles and Books. Ted Bishop. 2006. W. W. Norton & Company. New York. p. 119).

Because of this paragraph alone, I now consciously attempt to begin reading a book at the first line of chapter 1 regardless of what precedes it. Of course, I must still see the cover, must still evaluate (at least when purchasing a copy) the quality of the paper if I expect it to last, and the myriad of other things related to the pure physicality of the volume itself. Thus, in many ways I don't always succeed. After all, we all know that often an author's best argument is in his prologue. So not being swayed by paratext material is hard under the best of conditions. Nevertheless, I thought I'd share this one caveat about reading which might have otherwise gone unobserved by readers like myself.

Until next time,

Contemplate the mysteries, and remember to breathe (and skip the paratext material!).

Life

There's an adage in aviation which goes like this: "Air speed is life, and altitude is life insurance." In the day to day world, we are often treated to cliches like: "Time is money." However, ask any child, any lover, any artist, any philosopher, or any person dying from a terminal illness, and you'll hear a fundamentally and radically different song, usually accompanied with vehemence and ferocity: Time is NOT money,

Time is life!

I wrote a poem about this once, but in keeping with today's image, I'll save you the time. 

Until next time,

Contemplate the mysteries, and remember to breathe.

Maybe

It seems I'm as calm and as at peace as I've been in years. No decades: no nervous coughing, no habitually unnecessary clearing the throat, no annoying sniffing, no wiggling, no wringing the hands, no tapping or drumming the fingers. 

Maybe it's the nightly mixed drink I've begun to enjoy. 

Maybe it's the prospect of knowing that my major issues have come to a head - after all, they can only end one way or another - I can't see how they can continue unresolved, for better or for worse, much longer. Certainly not forever.

Maybe it's knowing I'm free to live my life as I want, on my terms, outside the box which was depressingly too small for my vision, for the first time in my life. 

Maybe my body took leave of its senses and has fundamentally changed on it's own. 

Maybe it's just I'm too stressed to feel nervous any more? 

Maybe I'm where I was always meant to be, doing what I was made to do, enjoying life for its own sake, without expectation or requirement, in harmony with bigger, unseen plans. 

Maybe all the stars have magically aligned for the first time in my belabored existence. 

Maybe I no longer care, and I'm at peace simply because of the way things are.

Maybe it's being with the love of my life, safe, secure, cuddled in her embrace every night.

Just Maybe.

Maybe it's all these things. 

Maybe it's nothing at all. 

Maybe . . .  

Truth be told, I honestly don't know. But maybe, a thousand to one shot maybe, I really don't care.

But somehow I think I do.

Regardless, maybe I'm just happy to be happy for a change.

Maybe one day I'll know.

Maybe I won't.

Maybe it doesn't matter.

Maybe.

Invisibility

To whom it may concern:

I was watching the 1977 cartoon version of Tolkien's The Hobbit last night. While it is silly in so many ways, something stood out which made me question the plausibility of the concept of invisibility. No. I don't think it's really possible. No. I don't want it to be possible either. Given that it's a fictitious concept, maybe I'm thinking about it too much. However, I, and many writers throughout the ages,  have thought about it a lot, and this movie only re-opened the mental quandry again. 

The concept comes up early and often in man's literary history. In my experience, the earliest I've encountered the theme of invisibility was in Plato's The Republic where he discusses the ring of Gyges. Similar to Tolkien's ring of power, this ring, when worn a certain way, renders the wearer invisible. In like manner, H. G. Wells's The Invisible Man, could be characterized as a modern re-telling of the same episode. Here he wages the same argument and yields the same basic answers (While Wells answers clearly the question of what one would do while invisible if he knew he couldn't be caught, he doesn't wrestle the same way Socrates does about ethics. He implies a lot, but doesn't quite tackle, to my satisfaction, the issues Socrates raises). 

All that said, my basic problem is this: when one is in an invisible state, by means of a ring or other device, what actually is invisible? It's been too long since I read about Gyges or the invisible man in Wells. In Plato, Gyges was not, but in Wells, the invisible person might have to be naked. Does anyone remember specifically? I bring this exact point up because it is at this very point that my metaphysically addicted brain becomes over active. 

Let me expand on my question by allusion to The Hobbit. In this version of the movie, Bilbo wears the ring, waves sting (his small sword) around, and it appears, tho it's not stated as such, that the sword was still visible. I really don't care whether it was or not, my question remains, or at least shifts to: what is the basis of invisibility of inanimate objects? Obviously, Bilbo's clothes were invisible, and if you follow where I'm going, what else would be? I'd always assumed his sword or other carried objects were. However, what becomes of objects or people with whom he comes in contact? I.e. what about if he's riding a pony, carrying a basket, a back pack, or throws something which had previously been in his grasp and presumed invisible? Does it suddenly appear? Does the pony, etc vanish when he wears the ring? This is a problem to me because if it's anything he comes into contact with which becomes invisible, wouldn't the entire world (Universe?) by extension also become invisible because his feet are on the ground?

More recently, Harry Potter is also entrusted with an invisibility cloak by someone. As you'll remember, everything which is covered by it is rendered invisible. Of course, this only raises more questions than it answers to me, because, like the problems stated above, and very kin to the paradox of what container can hold a liquid which can consume anything?; why isn't Potter's invisibility cloak, well . . . invisible too? Or have we passed into the problem of the set of all sets? Maybe I'm digressing. 

Seems sort of self defeating to me. Silly I know, but I'm curious. Maybe I've just thought too much about it. Thankfully, it's never affected my enjoyment of stories where such devices grant the user invisibility. As a matter of fact, I can't imagine a good fantasy tale without at least someone going invisible part of the time. It's kind of like Sci-fi without some time travel. It just seems right, even tho in reality, it seems puzzling and problematic. Ah, well, maybe I need something else to think about.

Until next time,

Contemplate the mysteries (*puts on magic ring*) and remember to breathe

*disappears* 

Mind and Matter

I have at least one more post about books in the works. Can you tell I'm obsessed with them? However, after my last two, I thought you might need a break. Also, truth be told, I didn't write much (ahem . . . any) this weekend. So, I decided to post this nugget of wisdom on the left from one of my former professors instead.

It's reminiscent of one of my favorite adages:

"If you cannot make an appointment or accept an invitation, simply tell the person 'no'. A friend won't demand an explanation, and an enemy won't believe the one you offer."

Until next time,

Contemplate the mysteries, and remember to breathe.

Favorite Books: Part II

To whom it may concern:

After my rather long winded introduction, let's proceed directly to my favorite books, as grammatically conflicting for me as that name is. Well, almost directly . . . I must admit that I have many difficulties defining favorites of any kind. Maybe this is because, when applied to books, I enjoy too many genres of reading material. Or maybe it's that not all classics, whether books or other things, are created equally. Whatever it really is, laying out even a simple, general list of favorites is tricky for me at best, cumbersome at worst. Add to this the fact that I strive to read the canonical books of any field when learning about a topic. As a result, I've been plowing thru the standard canon of literary works for years. However, to claim that every work which appears on a recommended or required reading list is a page turner or immortal book for some common reason, is a mistake. 

For example, Don Quixote is a classic which appears on nearly every reading list I've ever seen, from High School Summer reading programs to requirements for Doctoral candidates. There are many reasons for its inclusion. Primarily I think, because it's the very first truly modern novel. At least that's the claim advanced by it's defenders. However, I did not find it a good read by any definition I can apply to it. While this is my mere uneducated opinion (i.e. I haven't studied the text in a class environment), I have read it and compared it to others of the same genre and find that it rambles, takes unnecessary detours, seems to contradict itself in places, and generally runs way too long (up to 1,000 pages in some editions!)

However, to it's credit, it incorporates multiple narrators (say some, and I'm not quite sure but that they are correct. Maybe a second reading is in order?), a complex plot which, written in two halves has the characters reacting in part two to real events in the life of the author. To explain, in part two, the main characters find a sequel to their own adventure, which really was published in Cervante's time prior to his publication of part two. In it, they read about themselves and decide to take alternate paths in order to frustrate the false writer's narrative. Quite complex and ingenious I think. Sort of time travel before the fact. The author also utilizes a good bit of meta fictional writing long before Calvino or his predecessors came along.

Nevertheless, as a novel, the story sucks, pure and simple. While there are many stories within the larger story; and often they are superior in quality to the deluded and ill conceived adventures of Don Quixote. However, don't let the fact that it's mammoth and shows up on every reading list in creation fool you. It's worth reading for the reasons I listed above. Prior to it, there was nothing else like it.

Yet to determine its true worth, ask yourself why there are so few movies about it (I actually can't think of any, but I haven't Googled it either). Also, ask yourself why you don't know anyone who's read it. Or if they claim they have, see if they can name any adventure other than the one with the windmills. That "adventure" occurred in the first 20 pages or so (Chapter 2 or 3 I think). I mention this because that's the only comment I typically get from people when discussing Quixote in person, I'm convinced that most people have only read that far. If that describes you, don't feel alone. There are entire blogs devoted to this book in which some of the authors confess that they've never read beyond the first part (which doesn't even represent the first half). In my experience, there are many who have tried to read Quixote but few, and by few I mean almost none, who finished it. Don't feel like the Lone Ranger on this one. Besides, it's not one of my favorites. 

OK, after a horribly long winded aside, let me finally list some of my actual favorite titles and tell you why I enjoyed them. What follows may seem too generalized for true favorites, but to me the literary world is a buffet of flavors. There are simply too many beautiful options to settle on just a handful. I hope you'll enjoy some of favorites. So, here goes! 

For fiction in general, my favorites are among the oldest and most famous. I think it impossible to surpass Homer's Iliad and Odyssey for pure fiction and creative genius. The former is deep, in many ways darker than the latter, and deals with more pointed issues. In the Iliad Homer hammers home again and again what it means to be human. Both take noticeably divergent perspectives on the power of the gods. The latter is at places funny, lighter, and contains rollicking adventures not even matched by Tolkien, Twain, or Lewis. Throw in the lyrical quality of even many English translations, and Homer can sing you (and he sang it for his original audience(s) rather than required them to read it) into a world where one-eyed monsters live, where men get turned to pigs, the wrath of one man alters the course of history, and the knowledge of one's future is anything but a blessing. These stories are alive and still kick after 2,800+ years. 

Next on my favorite fiction list has to be The Lord of the Rings by Tolkien. It is epic, deep, dark (except for the Hobbit), and breathtakingly profound in places. Beyond that, it's a riveting tale told by a master storyteller which keeps my mind glued to it, savoring morsels from it for weeks after the last page has come and gone. The hobbits in it ironically demonstrate to us what it means to be human, which is, or should be, the task of all good, serious literature.

For sheer depth of imagery, poetic beauty, theological excellence, drama, and overall effect (and more quotable quotes for me than in most Shakespearean works, not to mention a thorough romp through mythology by allusion), one would be very hard pressed to select anything better than Paradise Lost by Milton. His depiction of the fall into sin by our original parents paints a disparity few of us have even pondered, fewer still have grasped, and no one else I've read can communicate. It too is deep, dark (I'm seeing a pattern here), tragic, heavy, hauntingly beautiful,  tells me where I came from, what I am, what I should be, and why I'm not what I should be. At the end of it all, he not only tells us what it's like to be human, but why we are like it.

On a less epic scale, I've read many other works multiple times, which in my mind qualify them a favorite. At the pinnacle of this heap fall none other than the works of the venerable Charles Dickens. I can't recall how many times I've read Great Expectations. And I have read The Christmas Carol on Christmas Eve for the last few years. Some of my most loved and hated characters come from Dickens's pages. More evil than Gollum or Sauron is Quilp from The Old Curiosity Shop. I actually cheered when his dead body washed up on the river bank. There would be few better men than the Cheeryble brothers in Nicholas Nickleby. Nowhere in my experience, either in life or in literature, have I seen such a pure form of Christian love for another where the right hand truly didn't know what the left was doing. These aren't good books and characters, they are great ones. Don't pass up Dickens.

Others in this category would include The Chronicles of Narnia by C. S. Lewis (his space trilogy is great too). I've read them at least 5 times. Dracula by Bram Stoker, Frankenstien by Mary Shelley, The Foundation and Robot series by Assimov, To Kill a Mocking Bird by Harper Lee, In Cold Blood and Breakfast at Tiffany's by Truman Capote form a group of works divergent in their topics and approaches, powerful in their delivery, and simply unforgettable in the stories they tell. In a totally different vein, the fictional works of Aynn Rand are enlightening even if one doesn't buy her philosophy. 

Of course, no list of my favorites would be complete if I didn't enjoy in Shakespeare, the short works and poems by Poe, the novels of the Bronte sisters, and the classic short stories from O. Henry. Lately I've been reading the works of Thomas Hardy. I you enjoy not knowing the end until it happens, read him. Be warned tho, he attacks nearly every social convention, and the three novels I've read are tragedies. However, he's easy to read, and for classics, are real page turners. I suppose my list could go on if I actually went and looked at the books on my shelf. But by doing it from memory, I'm sure I've caught the best of the best.

Naturally, I enjoy good non-fiction too. However, since nonfiction can be very categorical  favorites might be harder to recommend. Thus, I'll only mention the tip of the top here and as generally applicable as possible. The Bible can't be overlooked if one expects to be fully educated (and maybe now one would have to toss into the same argument the Koran and other religious texts. While I've never read the Koran, I  imagine it's only a matter of time before I will). One need not believe it to benefit from it, but so much in our western culture comes from it, that one really has to be familiar with it's stories and themes. Mythology, Plato, Aristotle, Aquinas, Luther, Calvin, Descartes, Kant, Hegel, Heidegger, and others have shaped the way we view the world around us. In a sociological context, one really should read Neil Postman's Amusing Ourselves to Death, and Technopolies. And if you've ever wondered why the modern corporation operates  the way it does, read Matthew B. Crawford's  Shop  Class as Soulcraft. Just for fun, if for no other reason than to be able to argue with his defenders, it's worth the effort it takes to read Robert Persig's Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance (The follow up book Lila is no where near the quality of ZaAMM, read it at your own risk). Some call it deep philosophy, others Buddhism, and yet others complete excrement. I've read it twice and find it fascinating if not totally convincing. You decide.

Beyond books that are unquestionably great, I also enjoy the voice of good writers. Joseph Heller writes in a most engaging way. He wrote Catch 22 which resonates clear overtones of M*A*S*H. Maybe I should say that the series flashes personality from his book since it predates the show. Nevertheless, his voice captivates me, as does Twain's, Faulkner's, Steinbeck's, Franklin's, and especially, that sweaty-toothed-madman himself, Walt Whitman. Or, give me a Garrison Keillor book where he sing-songs along like a verbal Ulysses inebriating the Cyclops with his dry, mid-Western humor, and I'll laugh out loud until I cry reading it.

Anyway, that's about the best I can do in delineating my favorite books. However, I think you get my point, and hopefully,  you'll got a few of these titles to whet your appetite. Additionally, in my side bar I've listed the books I'm currently reading. The last title will generally be the last book I finished. So a title will slide down the list until it disappears. At least that's the plan.

I hope you found some fodder for your own reading edification and enjoyment.

Until next time,

Contemplate the mysteries, and remember to breathe (and sleep - some of these books are addictive).

Favorite Books: Part I

To whom it may concern:

First, my apologies. This post is long in many ways. So, to help speed things up, I've decided to break up this topic into at least two posts, maybe a third will evolve before it'd done. I promise not to do the same with music, movies, or art. Thus, without further ado . . . .

There may be no dearer topic to my heart than books and reading them. Mention books and my soul lights up, even my subconscious takes conscious notice. When combined with conversation (speaking) and writing, reading completes the social and communicatory trifecta.

I don't know why, but Blogger asks for my "favorite" books - plural. To me, being the geek that I am, my mind requires the word favorite to be a superlative. Thus, disallowing the possibility of there being more than one. However, I imagine they were just being generic with the classifications and really mean, what are the books which have meant the most to me in some way. I'll not bust their chops on this lest while living in a glass house I throw stones to my own detriment.

Before I begin giving titles, some preliminary remarks might help set the stage. All my life, people from all walks of life have told me that smart people read good books. Maybe that's true as far as it goes. My mentor in college used to answer the question, "what do you do for a living?" with, "I teach people to read difficult books." I always assumed he meant that because he taught Greek and Latin that they were difficult because of the effort required to translate them. Once I began reading ancient philosophy, even in translation, the import of his comment became all the more poignant.  One local pastor said on more than one occasion that he no longer had time to read good books: he only had time to read great books. Regardless of the minutiae one attaches to classification, I think Mark Twain summed it up quite memorably when he declared that:

"The man who will not read good books has no advantage over the man who cannot read them." 

Collateral to this discussion, it didn't take me long in my reading career to realize that if challenging books had the power to make one smarter or wiser, then the one who wrote the book must, by default, already, and maybe forever, be smarter and wiser than the reader. So, now, when reminded of the habit of smart people to read good books, I agree with my well intentioned adviser before advancing the probability that smart, maybe I should say the smartest, people actually write the good books. Maybe wise people read them, but it takes something very special to write a good one.

Regardless, Blogger didn't ask about my theory of writing, but of my favorite books. I'm really glad that they asked for favorite books rather than my all time favorite book. However, even that broadening of the field doesn't remove my major hindrance to answering the question. The major problem for me is that I can never narrow down my choice to a single book for the same reason I can't narrow it down to a top 10 list, or even my top 10 within a given topic. I would argue that I have an internal, intuitive gauge of ranking books. It looks something like this: Loved it; hated it; or read it but won't read it again. Pretty generic I know, but in the "loved it" category fall many titles which I either have or will read over and over.

Someone during the Enlightenment, and I wouldn't put it past Frances Bacon to be the culprit, once remarked that if a book was worth reading, it was worth buying. That, in a time when books were very expensive, was probably very sage advice. But now that books are so much cheaper in relation to one's income, and free lending libraries so plentiful in most areas of the US, I'm beginning to see the wisdom of such a plan even more acutely. Thus, I've taken his statement and modified it. Now it reads, "unless a book is worth reading twice, don't buy it." This prevents buying a room full of books which I will have only read once.

Like many readers I know, I read a multitude of books at once, broken down into some broad categories. In order to prevent the truly great, and often difficult books, from being trampled by their easier, and typically more fun brethren, I discipline myself to have one slightly more difficult, non-fiction work in progress. This requires I set aside time and priority for it so it doesn't get started, then neglected for weeks. Generally these books cover anything from very deep and difficult philosophy or theology to just a non-fiction topic covering one's memoirs or autobiography. Next I make it a priority to read one serious fiction book usually drawn from some "classical" or literary reading list. Of course for those nights when I'm tired I reserve something lighter on deck. I think of this one as my fun book. It can be anything from popular fiction, which may or may not be easy reading, sci-fi, or just something contemporary. Obviously, there is some overlapping.

One last aside before beginning in earnest. It has been claimed, I think by John Piper, a minister in Minnesota,  that one is not affected by good books, but rather by good sentences within such books. With this I'd have to agree. Consider Jerry Bridges's book The Pursuit of Holiness. In it he lays out all sorts of illustrations and schema for sanctification, the pursuit of holy living. However, the only thing I took away from it was the rational for obeying divine commands, namely, "It is not the thing commanded but rather the majesty of the law giver which is the standard of obedience" (quoted from memory, sorry can't provide an exact citation). Not that all good books fall into this category, many are so revolutionary that they are paradigm shifting from the very beginning and challenge our thinking all the way thru. But by in large, the ideas which change our thinking, and by extension, our lives, typically come in small sound bites which attach themselves to our receptive brains, maybe after being opened to the ideas by the skill and intention of the author, or maybe as a stroke out of the blue.

Having preambled more than enough, I'll mercifully stop here and begin with my actual favorite books in my next post. Thanks for reading, and thanks especially for you patience. And if I might be so bold as to make a small assignment to read before next time, please have a look at O. Henry's The Four Million. It's a collection of a dozen or so very short stories. It's available in e-reader formats (most of them) at Gutenberg.org. Just food for thought to get you started.

Until next time,

Contemplate the mysteries, and remember to breathe.

Geez

To whom it may concern:

I just glanced over my extant posts. The last two, which dealt with introductory material about myself were mammoth! If there's one thing I hate when reading blogs, it's posts that are too long. Truly good blogs, you know the type, the ones with dozens of comments under each post, seem to have two things in common: 1.) very frequent, if not daily, posts, and 2.) short posts. 

Unfortunately, my post on books is no exception to its forerunners. However, beyond that, out of respect for you and your time, I'll try to keep them to a few million words. 

But remember, try as I might: "Brevity is not my long suit"

Until next time, 

Contemplate the mysteries, and remember to breathe.

Castaways

To whom it may concern:

Every author has an audience. Well, at least that's the assumption he makes when he sits down to write. Otherwise, what's the point? This blog writer is no different. Besides, unlike some who craft words and mold ideas in other ways, I get direct feed back, either via comments or stats Blogger feeds me daily. I don't have many readers, but I see you there each time I post. The numbers creep slowly upward. And you know what they say, the numbers never lie.

I read a blog recently where the writer described her mental audience as a conversation with her readers around her kitchen table. Sounds warm and cozy. Who wouldn't like that? Naturally, it made me think of how I see myself in relation to my readers. Oddly, no image at all came immediately to mind.  

Obviously, I don't visualize my audience anything like the way she did. I didn't feel as close and cozy with my readers as she does with hers. However, I didn't take that to be a bad thing, just a different way of seeing one's role. 

What shocks me as I write this now is, that as a writer, I had no clear vision of my audience. Yes, I knew the type audience related to the topics and tone, but I'd never given any thought to a mental perception of them. 

After a few days, this deficiency began to haunt me. Why couldn't I come up with a simple analogy? Just how did I see myself interacting with those who take the time to read what I scribble here? So I set to work trying to create, no, discover my image. 

Last last night, and early this morning an idea crystallized into clarity. For what it's worth, I feel like a castaway on some deserted island who has discovered that his radio still works. He knows that if he broadcasts on a known frequency, someone, and he doesn't quite know who, but someone will hear him. He also knows that that same someone will respond - eventually. It's just a matter of time or maybe a matter of method. So, not to push the analogy too far, I feel that way: solitary, singular, but in no way stranded or lonely, writing to you, plural - a you somewhere else, maybe far away, maybe near, maybe a follower, maybe a casual reader, maybe a first timer - an only timer. Yet, I know you are out there reading. Eventually, I'll say something which will strike a nerve just right and you'll pick up the mic and respond. 

Please don't take this as a plea for any attention. I merely mean that I see myself as here alone at my keyboard spilling my heart and mind to you who are "out there somewhere". I'm not lonely. I'm not digging for comments. I just needed to tell you how I see myself in this capacity. 

I enjoy very much writing here. My mind needs a way to empty itself without burdening those with whom I live with the minutiae of things they might not understand or care about. Blogging gives an active mind an outlet it desperately needs to vent or sometimes flush itself and reset. That's the important function you serve as my readers. Like the fisherman, I can't see the fish who is biting on my line, but I can feel your tug on the other end and I feel the connection. I thank you for your participation.

Until next time,

Contemplate the mysteries, and remember to breathe.

Interests

To whom it may concern:

Pardon the pun, but "interests" is an interesting word. While I suppose one could parse it down until it's no fun any more, but I'll resist a former temptation because I'm here to inform, rather than debate. So, I'm going to treat the term as synonymous with "things I enjoy": or "these are a few of my favorite things" if you will pardon my tongue being firmly planted in my cheek. 

Seriously tho, typically I place reading at the top of any list of interests. I live for books. To me they are the life of the mind, and certainly the mind of my life. Similarly, given the amount of time I've spent commuting in my life, music also plays a huge role, thanks to the invention of various players for automobiles. And nothing helps me wind down after a long week like relaxing and watching a good movie. However, since Blogger asked about books, music, and movies separately, I'll discuss them separately as well in future posts. Conspicuous by it's absence is Art. Wonder why. I'll likely post on it too, eventually, altho for me, art is a much more difficult topic to pin down or comment on. We'll see how that goes. For this post, tho, I'll limit myself to the interests I have which fall outside these three (4 if you count Art). Thus, for now, let me describe my favorite things in the physical, intellectual, and what I can only describe as the spiritual realms.

When it comes to living in the physical world, I do, or have enjoyed a long run on a brisk winter morning, falling into rhythm with my feet and breathing, keeping mental cadence as I rap to myself about issues in my mind. The spring reminds me that I'm in step, no pun intended, with nature as I run thru the budding foliage. Summer pushes me to the limits as I finish exhausted and soaked, not a dry nano-meter on my body, but feeling rewarded for a job well done. Autumn simply helps me recover and enjoy the slowing down of life. In many ways, running was my life. There are and were so many analogies which naturally flow from the experiences of long distant running. I hope to take it back up soon.

When not running, there's nothing as exhilarating or rewarding as a 50+ mile bike ride where I can almost put it on auto-pilot while cruising with the wind in my face and nothing but the sound of nature all around. Throw in some challenging climbs and the accompanying descents, decent so fast that the tears roll out of my eyes uncontrollably, and I'm a happy man.  

Give me a bit of technology and another crisp winter morning and nothing awakens me like boring a hole in a clear blue sky after having brushed the frost from the wings of a two place airplane. The thrill and freedom of riding the currents and whims of my heart as it mirrors the winds, makes life take on a different quality from the world below. At times like these, I feel like the luckiest man in the world to be able to fly. Maybe sailing does the same thing for the sailor, sans the cold winter air, but as I don't sail, so I'll leave it to you sailors out there to contemplate the comparison.

Or back on earth, pack my bags, fuel up my car, ease my loved one into the passenger seat, and drive all day brings an ease which is hard to duplicate for sheer ease and comfort. No where in particular, just go "that" way until we've both talked ourselves tired. Then stop for the night to sleep. Next morning, get up and do it again in a lazy meander across the country, stopping at interesting places with no particular agenda in mind. And no schedules! Again, freedom of the best kind. Maybe all my endeavors center around that theme.

Moving into the intellectual realm, I love board and card games with a near fanatical passion. My mother always said that Chess was my first love. Of course, she also said that about flying. Regardless, nothing beats a quiet, comfortable room, a worthy opponent, a few hours to kill, and one colossal clash of minds and wills. The stronger and better matched my opponent is the better I play, the more fiercely I concentrate, and the more deeply I enjoy the competition. And yes, a draw is typically more satisfying than a win, and carries none of the devastation of a loss.

I'll not elaborate much here, but I love, in much the same way as games, and for many of the same reasons, the challenge of Theology and Philosophy. While this might be confused with reading books by some, one actually "does" philosophy to hear the philosophers tell it. However, the main tools in the bag of the thinker are simply his brain, time, patience, and a few lucky breaks from books and experiences. Most of my serious opinions were forged over a drive home from work or on a long run. This is an activity which cannot be done merely by reading books. Altho, books can and do lend fuel and often clarity to the practice, at the end of it all, like learning anything, both fields must be "done" individually and internally. While both disciplines can be researched, and much time is saved in reading the great thinkers who've gone before, generally one contemplates the mysteries and struggles alone. Yes, it can be a bit lonely at times, but the rewards of self-discovery are astounding. Maybe these are my true first loves. I've done both for as long as I can recall.

Next comes music. It's a field which is difficult to assign. It's highly physical, acutely mental, and deeply spiritual. So it spans all the categories I'm using today. So I place it here for lack of a better place. And while not overly musical, I do play meditative music on Whistles of all sorts (including Recorders), the Shakuhachi, and the Indian Bansuri. While not terribly good at them, the breath control required helps me center and relax.

Lastly, the category I have no adequate name for. Maybe we can agree to call it spiritual so long as we don't push it too far into the realm of religion; altho, I've been there a lot and might go there again before all is said and done. It could simply be that all I do naturally and intuitively, innately even?, gravitates towards the spiritual. At least I'm seeing a pattern here. Nevertheless, I have no other word for what follows, so we'll lump the remaining items under the rubric of a generic spiritual consciousness since I do them for no other reason than that intangible something far superseding the acts themselves.

To begin, while I would not ever claim to have written anything good or wise, I do enjoy that side of the life of the mind called writing. Francis Bacon once said, and I'm hyper-paraphrasing here, something about writhing enabling one to focus and articulate what one thinks. Another has said that "writing allows us to talk to one another over distances and over time." If nothing else, it's helped me to do those things. I do love stringing words together. There are times when the cadence and or the sounds become more important to my ear than the meaning to my mind. Maybe there's a bit of poet in me. Maybe I just enjoy playing w/the sounds. Maybe I just enjoy typing and seeing what resembles a meaningful pattern emerge on the page. Maybe there's something I can't express in and about my writing. Maybe I enjoy being purposefully ambiguous? Many writers have been. I'll never tell. Whatever it is, I've been curious about, and interested in writing all my life.

A corollary I find necessary to writing, I love deep wonder and imagination. Flights of fancy capture me like nothing else. Give me fantasy, give me what if's, give me possibilities and I'll ponder them all day. Many will inspire and result in stories or articles. Give me anything of interest to chew on and I will turn it over until something spills out of either my mouth or my pen.

Which leads me to conversation. The Russians claim that it's not what one eats at the table, but the company with which one shares it which makes a good meal. I couldn't agree more. That's why I love long road trips, eating out, and generally conversing with articulate people. After a long day, come relax with me in a dimly lit room, drink a bit of wine to clear out the cob webs, start with something innocent for discussion, then let our minds sound and explore the depths of whatever flows from that subconscious stream. Then weave oral poetry with me until one of us falls asleep.

To me, that's a good time, and these are my primary interests. 

Until next time,

Contemplate the mysteries, and remember to breathe.

Found

As soon as I stopped

Looking she found me at once

Now I'm lost no more

Work/Occupation

To whom it may concern:

Why do we measure ourselves, or maybe more destructively, describe ourselves, and please don't ever value yourself, by what we do to earn money? Maybe the human race hasn't really discovered the teleological answer to the question, "what was I designed to do?" just yet. No less than Aristotle wrestled with it, and countless others, maybe every, philosopher and guru since the dawn of time has too. So don't feel alone if you can't answer it. However, in my humble opinion (and you're entitled to it), until one comes to grips with this singular issue, one really doesn't have an occupation or vocation. One merely has a way of earning money. One can work all one's life and never find fulfillment or a true calling without some idea of what he's about in the world.

Having introduced the problem that way, far be it from me to tell you what it is. However, I'll begin by sharing with you what I have discovered and taken as my occupation, my vocation, my calling. It's the only one which consistently meshes w/my personality, gifts, and pardon my boldness, reality; one which Allan Bloom suggests in his work, The Closing of the American Mind. While the book is primarily about the state of education in these United States during his time of writing, in it he makes statement suggesting that the purpose of man is to know. Yep, as simple as that. It, at least to me, explains everything. When I began viewing my life and experiences through that grid, almost everything became clear . . . er.

The Hebrew people have a saying, "Everything has to do with either bread or death." In the final analysis, even bread is a means of staving off death in its own, humble way. But almost everything human kind is known for, while living at least, has to do with our insatiable curiosity. The scientist will conjecture, hypothesize, and experiment often insanely sounding propositions just to find out if they are really true. Often they learn more by disproving their original hypothesis than by the contrary. And nothing can compare to the hilarity spouted by conjectural philosophers. Lest you imagine that this urge is confined to the intellectual only, consider the test pilot: higher, further, faster. And have you ever heard of a little race called the Iron Man or the Tour de France? Both were begun to test the limits of human endurance - the organizers wanted to know if the human could endure such tests! In spite of the text, experiment, or contest, all of these were instituted in  pursuit of exactly the same goal - to know.

Thus, my occupation is to know, to learn, to discover. Now that won't pay the bills. I'm made aware of that fact regularly. I know that one must do something to buy bread, in order to stave of death, ad infinitum. However, with a stated objective firmly in mind, working becomes a bit more tolerable, productive, and possibly even a field of discovery itself. While I hate working for some mindless team oriented, goal directed program designed only to fatten the bottom line for some faceless share holders in some distant ivory tower, I do find meaningful labor satisfying regardless of what it pays. Some of my best loved jobs would be considered menial by most, but provided some essential need for the customer, not to mention satisfying work and meditation for me. Such jobs had no motive beyond the service it rendered. If it came to it, I'd wash dishes for a living. It's necessary to eat from clean dishes to stave off disease after all, and thus would hold its own reward. Remember our bread and death goals above. Maybe this is what causes some to be care givers or stay at home mothers, since the rewards can be immediate.

In my past I've done everything from running blue prints, making keys, sharpening knives and scissors, framing pictures, to imprinting books and Bibles. All have a useful and immediate service in common life. Even the entertainment industry has a part to play. Just don't try to sell me on up selling or procuring personal info from a customer just so we can "market" to him better. This only serves the business's ends, rarely the customer's, and never mine. If a firm sells something the customer needs to survive or otherwise improve his standard of living, he'll shop with you, or a competitor if he receives better or more convenient service there. The point is, I need something meaningful to do and I can live happily and pay the bills. This type of gainful employment buys me time to pursue my true end - to know.

So, no matter what I happen to be doing at any one time to earn money, I can always, and typically do, pursue my true calling. I constantly seek to know. In doing so, I ponder these types of questions:

• Why is there something here vs. nothing?
• Can God be consistently omnibenevolent and omnipotent and still allow evil to exist in the world?
• If there is no God, how can anything make sense (who invented the laws of logic)?
• Where do I come from?
• Where am I going?
• Where is my home?
• What does it mean to be human? (I love this question and ponder it most often)
• What is my function (if other than above)?
• When is life worth relinquishing? To be or not to be/That is the question

No doubt you can think of others. Please do! However, ponder these things and discover if the asking enriches you life. Whether the answers are as important as the process of discovery I'll leave for you to decide (btw, I don't have good answers to the above questions myself).

Regardless, contemplating the big questions is my work and occupation. To know is what drives my search.

Until next time,

Contemplate the mysteries, and remember to breathe.

The Flute

Breath, a tube, and space

open my mind up for some

deep contemplation.

Introduction

To whom it may concern:

I've always shied away from filling out profile questions and categories. However, since this blog is addressed to whom it may concern, I'll primarily say what's on my mind and leave the reading to you. In the main, I'll be more concerned with setting a mood w/my words, than in formulating a tightly knit argument or proof for some position. I'm too tired to fight via the written word. Life's too short, and fighting's no fun. So, you'll find here what's moving me on the day I write the posts. I hope you'll enjoy them as much as I'll enjoy writing them. 

By way of simple introduction, I'm a white male, old enough to know better, but young enough to do it anyway. Or, as Paul Simon so cleverly put it, "I'm older than I once was/but younger than I'll be/that's not unusual . . ." 

I've lived east of the Mississippi River and south of the Mason Dixon line all my life. I was raised and educated in a Fundamental(ish) Christian environment before going to a secular University. Thus, my opinions are varied, often scattered, and eclectic to put it mildly. 

I've been called a polymath and a renaissance man. To me, that's vastly over stating the case, but I'll let you decide as I pour my thoughts out here. 

So, for the next few posts, I'll address the remaining Blogger profile questions in the following order: Work and occupation; Interests; Favorite Movies, Music, and Books, with the last 3 items likely getting a full post each.

Until next time, 

Contemplate the mysteries, and remember to breathe.