Prologue / Chapter I / II / IIIA / IIIB / IV / VA / VB / VIA / VIB / VII
~ * ~
‘Su, look, there’s a dragon!’
‘No, there isn’t.’
‘It’s a baby dragon: its wings aren’t grown yet. It’s grey. Are dragons usually grey?’
Susan stopped and turned around. Jenny sat crouched like a cat at the edge of the road, peering intently into the grass; her shawl trailed in the gravel behind her. She sighed. ‘Jenny, dragons don’t exist. Come on.’
“A well regulated militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to carry and bear arms, shall not be infringed.”
Most of us, I daresay, are thankful for the Bill of Rights. Apart from the Tenth Amendment (‘a truism’, according to the Supreme Court), and perhaps the Ninth Amendment (‘the right to choose an abortion’), we would support emphatically every right listed — except, perhaps, the Second Amendment. In these days of professional military, even the first phrase rings hollow. Is a well regulated militia really necessary to the security of a free State? Manifestly not. Clearly, by its own provisions, the Second Amendment ought to be struck down.
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1. I want a psychology centered on depravity
That is to say, when people look at the human psyche, I want the first thing they recognize to be that it’s broken and destructive. Inversely, when people think about depravity, I want them to recognize that it’s most apparent in the human psyche — our bodies in themselves don’t immediately evoke depravity; what goes on inside our heads that makes us do the things we do with our bodies does. Somewhat tangentially, I also want the church as a whole to find some way to interface its categories of mind, body, and spirit with psychological categories. I want to know how the soul relates to the superego.
Elizabeth Ten-Hove considers two centuries of change…
A thousand things on earth I deem more fair:
The crowds and concrete, cars and pigeons bold,
I hardly think majestic; yet they hold
A sort of fascination, and I dare
Not call the chaos ugly, and be done.
The towers, temples, theaters still rise,
Among their younger brethren, to the skies;
The air, though hazy, yet admits the sun.
But so much more is different; now the chime
Of bells calls only Argument to prayer;
A thousand tongues lend Albion their rhyme;
Niqab and veil are no longer rare.
Fair Britain stands upon the banks of Time:
Across this bridge her future lies, but where?
Laura Russell muses,
I should preface these poems by pointing out that I wrote them while I was on a relaxing vacation and in excellent humor. Don’t take them too seriously (if that’s even possible to begin with).
Tic Tac Toe
Tic tac toe
Patterned prison windows wink
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Philip Hilton comments,
In Australia, Britain, Canada, and New Zealand, the age of drinking, voting, and generally coming into one’s own is 18. In America, the drinking age is 21, even though the voting age is 18. Why the difference? If you are responsible at 18 — responsible enough, apparently, to choose the government, and join the Army (e.g, die) — aren’t you responsible enough to drink?
John Ahern writes,
(Emphasis on the not.)
There are a lot of common avenues of arguing about Church music that I think are seriously flawed and particularly destructive because they may be arguing for the right music for the wrong reasons. Here I’m simply outlining the ways I think are particularly unwise—perhaps in another place I can begin to outline the ways I think one ought to do it. (The bold affirms what I do not.)
I’m tired of this story. Let’s finish it.
To her surprise, she woke the next morning. The little red dots on her arms from the day before hadn’t developed into boils, and her knees and armpits no longer felt tight. In fact, they seemed to have no feeling at all. But that might have just been the contrast from yesterday. She didn’t remember if they should have a particular feeling. She sat up and yawned, then shook herself out. Perhaps the miracle had occurred, and the disease had passed.
She sniffed and looked about. The boy was nowhere in sight. He had been talking at her and wanting to show her something yesterday, but she could not remember what. Doubtless it was something bizarre. Aida stood up stiffly and stretched. She wanted to go back and explore the castle now. They had just walked straight through yesterday, but it probably extended on the sides.
Yes, I know I posted yesterday, but that was just an explanation of where I’d been, and where I would be, and contained no real content: therefore, I take the liberty of posting again.
This poem is the result of a visit I payed to an Anglican church while working in Meritt. Apparently, there are two varieties of Anglicans: the faithful, Bible-preaching, psalm-singing, sin-confessing kind, and the rest. I met with the rest.
It was a woman “pastor”, who talked about how Elijah gave his mantle to Elisha, and encouraged the congregation to do the same, passing the mantle on to others who came after. It was bitter irony to notice that there was no person in the church under fifty. The church had lost its youth, and no one was there to receive the mantle: I was in a dead church. I was saddened deeply when I saw all the old people nod in agreement with her, not realizing the impossibility of following her advice. When I talked to her after the service, bringing up the Scripture passages which preach against women leading the Church, she eventually declared boldly that the Bible contradicted itself, was not directly given by God, and should not be followed all the time. Eventually they called in security (a tottering elderly man named Bert) to deal with me and my Scripture, but I left. It was the first time I had ever seen such a church, who were led by a blasphemous woman, and refused to see their own withered state. Here’s the poem.
Dry Rot
I saw a church and graveyard:
And the second more alive than the first.
Elijah’s mantle came to Elisha,
But who waits to carry on here?
The crop has failed, and you have garnered no seeds.
‘Tis the bitterest sight of all –
An autumn turning to a springless winter -
And they know it not.
The dead, at least, admit themselves to have died:
But what of those who deny it?
And when truth’s honey turns poison in your mouth,
To ignore the taste is foolish.
And when the she-shepherd smiles with wolf-fangs benevolent,
Tarry not.
