Intoxicated

Somewhere between Vitruvius, Sam Johnson, and a little sewing box made of whalebone, and the incessant interruptions of Beowulf I found what I was looking for. The secret recipe for Old English ale.

Those that know me may remember the story of the English Party I once attended. I was very lucky to be visiting an acquaintance during the time of the annual English Party at an old English university. Those not affiliated with the English Department are not generally invited to the gathering, but my friend, an English student, wanted to show me something I had never seen and never will again, and thus broke the rules.

Evidently, it was obvious I was not a professor or a student, but an outsider; a foreigner because all there politely refused to engage in conversation with me. I was not bothered by this because I was there to sight see and enjoy the privileged event, not to mention that I had commonly experienced this reaction upon my native soil in the windowless and cold fluorescent confines of the local Institution of Higher Learning on the hill. In fact, I have even been known to take pleasure in the annoyance I cause certain crusty curmudgeons (Oh, Carol!).

I had a drink or two of the ale from the refreshment table which was kept brimming with good things by a very courteous and polite staff of stiff young men and women who offered up napkins with each glass of spirits or food. I always thanked them, set the napkin down and left with the drink condensing impolitely in my hand, and wandered around the great old room with its tall windows and ancient wood beams as it hummed very smoothly and warmed me in its yellow lamp lit glow.

If one has ever been to a perfect party or gathering they will remember that feeling of warmth, relaxation, and calm that emanates through the room. And even if the others gathered there are friendly, it is nice to find a quiet corner alone for a moment to watch and listen and absorb the vibrations and light into one's being, because it is like a warm blanket of joy and happiness which will not reoccur any time soon. I cannot explain this feeling of extreme and perfect contentment in the very moment one is in, but I do know that one must ingest it to experience it. That as why there is a gracious refreshment table.

During the course of the English Party I commented to a dark lady near me that there was an enchantment in the air and asked if this was a common thing in England. She told me that it was and that every village had the enchantment and that in some places it was so strong that even the rocks could fly.

Certainly, whatever it was I felt that night was very powerful and highly intoxicating. I do recall that the professors seemed to be wary of the younger students who became overly intoxicated and boisterous, but that it was understood this youthful lack of discipline and manners was only a passing phase, soon outgrown in another year at the university.

I did not think on that party for some time or of the puzzle of the enchantment (which I, a foreigner, had caught, much to the chagrin of the professors), but somehow Vitruvius and his Phi, Leonardo and his Golden Man, and a whale bone box reminded me that hidden away is a hoard of treasure, a highly valuable and volatile bottle of enchanted ale which only a few have tasted or dare to admit they have tasted. And I managed to spirit a bottle of the ale out of that country and home with me. Perhaps, rocks can fly.

"I am thinking of aurochs and angels, the secret of durable pigments, prophetic sonnets, the refuge of art" (Vladimir Nabokov, Lolita)....and, really, I am.

Virtual Pain

This virtual world of technology isn't always so great. Sometimes, one would like a more material and physical world so that when an item malfunctions it can be thrown, kicked, and smashed to smithereens (after trying to fix it and becoming frustrated by those attempts).

I read once that some Hebrew scholars consider the way we scroll on a computer akin to unrolling toilet paper. Lately, I tend to agree. But I can't go drape it around the Windows Media people's house because there's nothing to show after I've unscrolled a page.

Enough of this. When the going gets tough the tough get going back to their old ways.

Great Rivers and Thanksgiving

What if there were a river, large and raging, meandering through the land, clear and deep, endless and generous. What if this river supplied water for drinking, crops, energy, swimming, fishing, transportation, and homes for animals. And this giant stream never ran dry, always supplying the needs and the joys of all who utilized it and were thankful for it and would accept it.

But what if one day, a man came through the land spreading fear amongst the hearts, telling the people that they did not deserve the water of the river and should feel guilty for loving the water rather than being thankful for its many gifts. And what if the people of the land, knowing they did not deserve such greatness and gifts as the river gave to them, decided that indeed, the man was right, and they should stop wading in the stream or diverting the water to the fields, or chasing the silvery fish that lived in its pools.

And as the river began to be more and more avoided, only looked upon from afar as a kind of delicate and separate entity, something to be guilty about using so much; the fields began to become parched places, grave yards of skeletons that once produced the richness and oils of the world. No longer did the lines of the angler drift across the shadowy places on summer evenings, or the laughter of children sparkle in the sun-glinted splashes along the sandy banks.

The people of the land became parched and poor, afraid to touch the gift of the river for fear of contaminating it, not remembering that the river was greater than they and could wash away their dirt and grime, cool them, water them and make them rich beyond measure.

The great river continued to flow but its gifts continued to be rejected by the land. There was plenty of need for it, but the people were convinced that they could survive without it and that it was their duty to sacrifice their happiness to it. The river was wasted, and the land cried out for it, but the people afraid of themselves, believed the stranger's lie that the river needed protecting from them and their careless ways.

One day a giant chasm opened up and swallowed the river. The chasm had an insatiable appetite. Because the people of the land were helpless to divert the river, afraid of contaminating it with their touch, afraid of tempering nature, they stood and watched the chasm swallow the waters of the river. Slowly, even the source of the river gave up and less and less water flowed until one day only a salty and toxic trickle flowed into the endless pit. The fish died, the cattails, the birds, and the aquifers under the ground disappeared.

Why would a people believe the stranger and not accept the great generosity of the river? Why would they believe it was good to allow the water to be sucked up by a dark pit?

Do we accept the generosity of the rivers in our life in spite of being undeserving? Are we thankful for it? Do we use that generosity to water our land, our soul, and provide fruit and energy for life? Or do we waste it by rejecting it and allowing the water to go into a gaping cavern that does not appreciate or have use for the water's gifts?

Generosity does not require one to be perfect, it's only desire is for acceptance and thankfulness. Those who continually snub generosity will become dry and parched land where nothing grows and where certain streams will refuse to go even when attempts at diverting them are made.

image: View From Mount Holyoke, Northampton, Massachusetts, After A Thunderstorm - The Oxbow (1836) by Thomas Cole

On Time

Time. That eternally and infinitely timeless subject, time. There are so many ways to look at it and wonder and wonder.

Time is divided, subdivided, chopped up and categorized in so many ways, depending on the time of day and the age in which one looks at it. Historical time is most often labelled as linear, running along a straight line in one direction from some point buried in the sands of, well, time.

A day runs from morning to night for some and from sunset to sunset for others.

We often say, when not at a destination exactly when planned, that we are late, not on time. But we are always on time, because we live on time, every moment is time.

We say that some things are "timeless," which means that they transcend time, and are not ever on time at all because a timeless thing is not pegged to our time's segment upon the line.

But it seems quite evident that a straight linear time is not how time is organized at all. It must be circular, although it may not be repetitive.

Our earth is always hinting at the roundness of time. Everything moves in circular, spinning, and rotating motions.

What if time began at a point upon a circle and life is composed of two opposing forces that also began upon that first moment, and these two opposites are repelled from each other? If the two opposing forces are repelled they move in opposing directions from each other around the circle of time, thinking that they are going in opposite directions and further away from each other.

And for awhile the two opposites are spaced very far apart across the diameter of time. But as they each proceed further along the circle they become nearer and near each other until the moment they each reach the same point. The two forces will either merge with each other, becoming one or clash violently.

In the end the very thing we believe we are running from, that is opposed to everything we believe in will be the very thing we bump into or become.

This may explain, too, why we may be running out of time, because we are nearing the other side of the circle's diameter, drawing nearer that point of merge or clash (see "New Theory Nixes 'Dark Energy': Says Time is Disappearing from the Universe," 13 Sep. 2009, www.dailygalaxy.com).

image: oil press

The Holy Fair

A robe of seeming truth and trust
Hid crafty observation;
And secret hung, with poison'd crust,
The dirk of Defamation:
A mask that like the gorget show'd,
Dye-varying, on the pigeon;
And for a mantle large and broad,
He wrapt him in Religion.
(from the "The Holy Fair," by Robert Burns)

The Plain Language of Greed: H.R. 3962 "Affordable" Health Care Act

I've been examining the most elegant H.R. 3962 Affordable Health Care for America Act. I've read 654 pages of 1990, and plan to finish it. It's excellent. If passed it will force each and every American to enroll in "acceptable coverage" by compelling all to pay up or be penalized with exorbitant fines.

Nowhere does it say Americans will be given health coverage, but everywhere it tells them that they must obtain coverage or be penalized. The only "reform" is to the Internal Revenue code of 1986. This is a tax revenue-raising bill, not a health care reform bill.

This Bard wonders how forced coverage equals better coverage or reform? How does compulsory equal affordable?

How does amending the tax code with more sucking power improve insurance coverage or provide competition and choice?

And what is this about "Plain Language"?

(B) Definition.-- In this paragraph, the term "plain language" means language that the intended audience, including individuals with limited English proficiency, can readily understand and use because that language is concise, well-organized, and follows other best practices of plain language writing (page 122, "Affordable Health Care for America Act")

"Intended audience," or in plainspeak: unwitting players upon the stage, blinded by the glare of the strategically placed stage lights.