On the Negation of Being

There are several things that come to mind upon beginning a post such as this.
Emerson and Thoreau's best comes to mind, my fault as a writer comes to mind and my thoughts also. None of these would be possible without a muse. Every pedant needs a muse and so I have thought mine would be faithful. Yet, as is the course, she has let me down. Again.

Should this again come to naught, I will still suppose that which makes of purpose my dreams and while still dreaming will think only of this. that which proposes that I will remain the one and only same man who I come in contact with. Everyday I write the story large without recompense but only with the accompnying wit, the wisdom shared but a token without which I should wither, the same man day after day that I have to contend with is the same man without which I would die.

That same man is non other than Christ himself...gone in a whisper with my sins attached and if only for a brief moment have I held his face placid against mine own.

Ne'er a briefer moment have I held his face or him mine own.

On the New Old News

Let us digress for a moment into the personal as well as the divine. Let us pretend for a second that an opinion matters and that conversations are worthwhile. Let us begin again from the start and hear what was intended to hear, the impossible might seem less so after seeking such as this.

We are all negated human beings. God we say does not listen. We do not listen therefore God has no time for us and our worries and fears. Sad state of affairs for believers even more so then the non-yet, think about this for a brief second.

If there were a divine being that certainly tells us about himself through creation, should we not give credence to this being, let ourselves become through him and within him. It is not so much a question as a response. Can you make yourself? Make even yourself do the things you want to do, let alone stop yourself from the things you do not want?

How about something greater than yourself able to guide you. Do you not know the love of a father and mother? Have you been gypped?

This is all I ask, to ask yourself, what do I believe-think, say, write...

For in the end it comes down to you to explain your actions, during the trials of human life, explain your case.

And if you have the advocacy of the father you would speak your mind would you not.

No longer a question but in the becoming of a statement it is well spoken, bringing you to heights never before supposed, never gained but ascribed too, never wanting- only gain.

Believe dear daughter- the father loves you very much.

On the Perpetuation of the Hitler Myth

The general public has no idea how close to the brink the Nation stands. Our States are seceding and our streets overrun with ravenous bands of hungry gangs. Hungry for power, for the wealth that isn't theirs and that they refuse to make by their own hands. The government extends its hands into our pocketbooks to procure provisions for the supposed poor while the poor provide the vote to keep the whole machine running.

That was Nazi Germany after the Wiemar Republic collapsed. It is the state or America now.
The myth is that no-one will concede that world conquest is again at hand. That Germany learned its lesson and the communist wall fell in the last half of the century. Both were beaten we think by free minded individuals and sanctions.

It is an ancient evil that pervades the climate of the Americas now. An ancient evil that dictates what the new policy will dictate, same as the old policy, same as the old dictators envision.

Socialism bred Auschwitz and never died after 1944. It is the same in its insidious march as it was then, only forty years of relative peace has obscured this. The devil is patient, we are the doctors.

Surgery is in session.

 On: Another Sort of Learning


This book keeps me creeping back in time to a more subtle romance with the written word.
It is less infatuation as it is age and decay. It is the foul rotting bodies of the authors spoken of in this great volume (truly literal) that keeps me coming back year after year to discover the face behind the corpse. The men behind the facade. The word.

What fascinates me is that they still speak, hundreds to thousands of years beyond the pale. What scintillates me is that they make sense at all, that I can sense all they did though not in the words they happened to spew, but that they did it, and I understand that they did, why they did and how.

I wish to be a thousand years dead so I could know them. They will remain unnamed for you will know them when they call and I shouldn't presume that they will be read anymore. But yet, perhaps, they have shaped you whether recalled or not. They are the greats, whomever that is to you. I will not presume that you have read them all as  I presume you have not of me.

I am the worm that crawls through the socket, I know nothing but that which I devour. Great names, worthy souls. Men who wrote books.

That is the beauty of the title of this post. "Another Sort of Learning" penned by James V. Schall and available from Ignatius Press will point you on the road to a Liberal education the likes of which you never saw in college. A book for everyman, corpses or not.

Take my word- please. Take my freedom, please...but don't take my copy.

The wiles of Emmerson

Searching for plane fare and running across essays by Emerson is like finding a candle still burning in the wind. Breathing is less fun, for the adventure begins with one of his on history. It is, our story by the way. Writ large and into a seamless whole by the master of the piqued.
May I recommend, and I may, that you read Emerson with an open heart, a foul tongue and a penchant for anger?
Because he writes as such, and no other can master the phrases that he endeavors with languid hearts full of passion and pain. The dichotomy is fierce. Lion-like you might say.
Not a one of us is hurting for having read him. But there are many lost who have not.
From VA to NC, GA and back, he has kept me company throughout the thin blue veil.
Sky. Fear. Angst. Ralph; in no particular order.

Speaking of Which

There is something within the human spirit that cannot be determined through words alone. Naturally speaking the next sentence should read along the lines of how actions (add favorite platitude here), somehow change opinions faster than anything heard. How something seen is favorably accepted while the most common everyday use of a certain faculty is ignored. Experience should tell me that this is true and authority coupled with history and the belief of untold millions really should lead me to believe as well that well, I should act accordingly. But I can't. Because He didn't. Not with Thomas, not with the masses. He just meant what he said, and did what he meant. Without question. In fact, he even berated poor Thomas and blessed those who didn't see but still believed on His word alone until the end of time. Should make us feel confident then in the power of speech, shouldn't it?
But it won't, in fact it can't. Last time I checked, I fell short of divinity and have had to accept my humanity, all of it. Even the bad stuff. But that doesn't mean I cut off my tongue to spite my mouth. It just means I grow everyday in the knowledge that I can only be as human as my humanity allows. And that is the great conversation, the wonderful dialog that can never be discouraged, for as long as I live I do still know that I will never know just how deep my humanity runs. And if I shut my mouth for just one minute, I will never know which actions I choose may bring about the necessary response between my spirit and my flesh to one day understand why I was born, what I must do and the reason this must be. Simply speaking; I must.