Scraps: the Sehr Gut Weblog

Avatar: Foggyclad the Marshwiggle

Some journaling, some articles and reviews of movies and music. Scraps and ephemera, miscellany, shreds of misplaced thought. This is much easier to maintain than the Sehr Gut Web main page, and is consequently updated much more frequently. Besides that, I always meant to keep a journal . . .

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Location: Pensacola, Florida, United States

I am an inveterate writer, and so am becoming an inveterate weblogger as well. Supported weblogs are Scraps, The Random Quill, Tome, Academic Musings, Ergle Street, and Harbour in the Scramble. I also have a personal, unlisted weblog. If you find it, comment to it. I'll email you something. I don't know. I'll think of something interesting. “21 Steps to Becoming a Democrat”, maybe. By the way, I can be reached from the email portal on my web site. Technorati Profile

2004/12/29

Loneliness

There is in loneliness an exquisiteness which longs to be imbibed unadulterated, like absinthe without sugar. Some delicate flavour among the varied bitterness demands to be tasted of unenwrapt in words or harmony. A call to such an inception of pleasure ensues wildly from the struck gong of a lost half-chance and whips through my hair, wailing from the fenestrations of Never.

All Things Feminine

There is that which running along after like a lost puppy is no shame.

I have an untoward gravitation, I think, towards all things feminine. No, not in the way that I am some girl-crazy kid, but merely in that women seem to make up a larger part of my life than they do for most men. You see, I would very much prefer being the only man anywhere in my life. It is much more pleasant, and pleasant nearly to a fault, to have anything — even the smallest task — done by a woman.

All beauty seems to spring from The Feminine — from the delicate inklings of nature: please do not misunderstand this as neo-Pagan goddess-worship — whether the clean design of a beautiful piece of architecture or a splendid poppy blowing in the wind, what makes something worth just sitting and staring at is always its feminine properties. The delicacy of the flower, the perfectly-arranged sweeping columns of some Parthenon in any country: all point to the beauty that is SHE.

The Feminine has always, as far as I can remember, held a strange fascination for me. There is that which running along after like a lost puppy is no shame. Indeed, I would be ashamed to not throw myself to the great Wind of Beauty. “From far, from eve and morning and yon twelve-winded sky, the stuff of life to knit me blew hither: here am I.”1 To stand firm when such a mistress bids me crumble I find the greatest blasphemy; to fall at her word, the stuff of life. Careless of being crushed by such a force, I would ride high on the gales of Her mischance until swept into the face of Wonder, I live, crippled by sweetness, forever.

Above all, I am a follower of the Feminine. I am a worshipper of Beauty.


1.

From far, from eve and morning
And yon twelve-winded sky,
The stuff of life to knit me
Blew hither: here am I.

Now — for a breath I tarry
Nor yet disperse apart —
Take my hand quick and tell me,
What have you in your heart.

Speak now, and I will answer;
How shall I help you, say;
Ere to the wind's twelve quarters
I take my endless way.

— “XXXII”, A Shropshire Lad, A.E. Housman.

Comfort Ye My People

Note: Yes, this piece is somewhat religious in nature. However, please do not allow that to scare you away. I think I can promise nearly every reader, of whatever creed, a line or idea or turn of phrase to carry away. I think you will be glad you read it.

“Comfort ye.” A sombre lilt of strings — no reeds, and certainly no horns — overlaid with the smoked glass of flute, opens. (The horn players are busy writing and reading, oblivious to a world which shall not require their attentions for several minutes.)
An overture of predawn and long, desert mountain trails, bears no premonitions of the victorious “Rejoice, O Ye Daughters of Zion!” and “Hallelujah!” to come. Indeed, it seems very fitting to that “story we know”1: yet one more tale of heartache and a supposedly-inspiring moral victory somewhere near the end. But this story — that story which kept Handel sequestered months in its telling — is far from a mere moral victory (though it may be rightly called a victory of The Moral).

*****

“The real meaning of Christmas” is a phrase lost now on me and most Americans: it has become a trite “ad-word”, sermonzing catch-all, and moral to any holidy tear-jerker. It’s a phrase hijacked by anyone who wants to say that Christmas isn’t just about getting, but it’s about {giving, family, unity, etc.}. Everyone, down to the most irreligious, has heard at least one rendition of the First Christmas meant to inspire a holy fear or love or somehow-restored devotion. The thrill of that is long since gone.

What is not gone is Handel. It is one thing to tell a story of a young engaged woman found pregnant with the son of God. It is quite another to begin, not with the Anunciation (as is the manner of most religious, due to Catholic tradition), but with God’s deep desire to send comfort to His people.

Jesus was sent with the commission to “comfort ye my people”, God’s people being the Jews. With all the persecution they had faced, and were facing, and admittedly though their own folly, they were still God’s people. The same God who in the Old Testament promised Abraham that a blessing to all nations would come from his line2 fulfilled that promise in the time of His people’s greatest need.

*****

Yes, sing the “Hallelujah!” chorus. It is fitting. “Worthy is the Lamb that was slain”* to receive our praises. But sing “Comfort Ye My People” as well. Handel well knew the real real meaning of Christmas. To him, it was worth what most people would never give up, for friends, family, or even self: comfort. For him, it was a story worth all in the telling, and giving all in the hearing.


1.

“The Story We Know”

The way to begin is always the same. Hello,
Hello. Your hand, your name. So glad, Just fine,
And Good-bye ant the end. That’s every story we know,

And why pretend? But lunch tomorrow? No?
Yes? An omelette, salad, chilled white wine?
The way to begin is simple, sane, Hello,

And then it’s Sunday, coffee, the Times, a slow
Day by the fire, dinner at eight or nine
And Good-bye. In the end, this is a story we know

So well we don’t turn the page, or look below
the picture, or follow the words to the next line:
The way to begin is always the same Hello.

But one night, through the latticed window, snow
Begins to whiten the air, and the tall white pine.
Good-bye is the end of every story we know

That night, and when we close the curtains, oh,
we hold each other against that cold white sign
Of the way we all begin and end. Hello,
Good-bye is the only story. We know, we know.

— Martha Collins

2. “In blessing I will bless thee, and in multiplying I will multiply thy seed as the stars of the heaven, and as the sand which is upon the sea shore; and thy seed shall possess the gate of his enemies; And in thy seed shall all the nations of the earth be blessed; because thou hast obeyed my voice.” — Genesis 22:17–18

First Sign of Winter

Written Friday, December 10th, 2004, in Pensacola, Florida.

The hibiscus are blooming. In the whipping breezes, long hibiscus branches rising from the ground swing and whirl their tip-tops of Hawai’ian brightness. The hibiscus are blooming, and winter is coming to Florida.

It is funny to me, that whiteness which covers so many Christmas pictures. What is it? And why are the trees dead? How, in a black-and-white death world, can one see the joy of Christmas? And my Grandmother asks how I can get into the Christmas spirit without snow!

2004/12/26

How to Raise a Perfect Little Angel

or, Training and Trusting

Of course you’ve heard teenagers and even younger children claim, “My parents don’t trust me.” Every child psychologist will tell parents that the important thing is that they trust their children: trustworthiness is sure to follow. I’m sorry, but I’m just not used to paying for something and waiting six to eight weeks for delivery with no assurance of delivery or recourse when delivery is not made. Trustworthiness is something which results from training, and not from previously-doled-out trust.

Enter Joel L. He’s a second-grader in my Sunday School class at the Campus Church, Pensacola, FL. He’s also the most trustworthy and best-behaved child in the class. In fact, when I need someone to deliver something to the Junior Church teacher (Junior Church follows Sunday School, and is in a different classroom), he is the only student whom I have ever so much as considered for the errand. Joel can spout off a semester’s-worth of Bible verses at the drop of a hat (“How about the one before that, Joel? Do you remember that one?”), answer questions about last week’s story like nobody’s business, and sit still to boot! I have an idea. Let’s follow him for a moment to see where his behaviour and trustworthiness originated: from trust, or from training.

Friday, December 17th, 2004. Sports Center, Pensacola Christian College, Pensacola, FL.
The semester had officially ended at 9:45 that morning. Most of the student body had left, and most of us stragglers were in the Sports Center (gym, weight rooms, bowling, racquetball, ice skating, and miniature golf, along with pool, foosball, and places to just sit and chat or play games) killing time. My friends and I were sitting around watching The Artistry of Ivan1 on Rachel’s computer and making small talk. Suddenly Joel came (from nowhere, as far as I could figure) and stood over me (I was seated on the carpet). He and I chatted a bit, and he eventually sat down to watch the movie with us.

After not too long, Mrs. L, his mom, came over. I stood up to introduce myself (as the recipient of the cookies she had sent with him to Sunday School the previous Sunday to give to his teachers), and ended up in a conversation. I mentioned rather quickly how much I enjoyed having Joel in my class, and how well he always behaved himself.

“Well, I’m glad to hear that! I worry about him . . . When we do school, the girls always do their work, but he always wants to go outside and play.”

Are you seeing where I am going with this? The kid was homeschooled (which I had found out a couple of weeks earlier — but which in no way surprised me, given his beyond-years maturity). That’s nearly a given these days when you run across the rare decorous, well-behaved child. That aside, however, did you see how even the mother of my best student was not assuming of his behaviour?

A child can sense the difference between assumption and expectation, I think. Assumption states that the child will be trustworthy because I trust him. Expectation states that the child will be trustworthy because I train him; and because I, knowing that “the heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked”2, watch for the untrustworthiness when (not “if”) it crops up so I can immediately and lovingly correct it.

And you know, that is love.3 A kid like Joel is going to grow up and go places. A kid like D_____ (unanimously the worst-behaved kid in the class) is going to need some help. But you know, Joel’s folks could blow it. They could start trusting him — who, as sweet and obedient as he is, has a deceitful heart and a sin nature just like you or I. And D_____’s parents could stop trusting him and start training him. That would make all the difference.


1. The Artistry of Ivan is a student-produced documentary of Hurricane Ivan. Daniel Allen, a student at Pensacola Christian College, arranged for footage to be taken throughout the campus during the lockdown for the hurricane itself, as well as interviewing numerous faculty, staff, administration, students, and Pensacola residents after the hurricane had passed. The two-disc set, including a half-hour documentary and a large library of still images and short video clips, may be ordered from Brand X Multimedia by calling 815-212-3564 or 815-886-4144. The cost is $15US +S&H. It is well worth fifteen dollars to see the good coming from Ivan — the good that only God can bring from a catastrophe. As Mr. Allen said, “Ivan’s terror was not random or evil. It was all part of the Painter’s perspective to show forth the glory of God.” The Lord hath His way in the whirlwind and in the storm, and the clouds are the dust of His feet. — Nahum 1:3b

2. “The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked: who can know it?” — Jeremiah 17:9

3. “He that spareth his rod hateth his son: but he that loveth him chasteneth him betimes.” — Proverbs 13:24
c.f. Proverbs 22:15 and 23:13

2004/12/08

Art Deco and a Piano Man

This was written on November 20th.

I have never exactly considered art deco to be a light, open, “castle-in-the-air” style. Apparently no one told that to whoever designed the central atrium of the Atlanta-Hartsfield airport.

I lounge back with my trusty PowerBook G4 500MHz (“Trillian”) in a huge, red vinyl cushioned chair designed in exactly such a way as to preclude actual comfort (probably to as well preclude missed flights), while not being specifically painful to occupy.

A man of dubious ancestry (in that he could be part Arab, or part African, or part Indian, or part Hispanic) with an odd clerical-collared green-brown suit and a basketball-sized paunch accented by the simplicity of the suit front comes and begins setting up his drums. ‘Tis a pity, as I was enjoying the jazz piano in front of Houlihan’s. The arms of the chair are covered with a sort of faux-granite formica, which isn’t very convincing.

My goodness, he’s practically in front of me. Four drums, a fallen drumstick, a five-speaker cabinet, and an electric guitar case. This looks neither pleasant or cultured. And besides, he has a lazy sneer about his lips: I know that sneer from any- and everywhere. And here come the cymbals.


I was lying in the chair. Yes. Hmmm . . .

Above me — and ahead of me if I stare up through it, is a great eye of a skylight. Decagon bifurcating to icosagon bifurcating to whatever a forty-sided polygon is called in a great display of monochromatic stained glass. If I stared at the fog above long enough, I am certain I'd see my future in its swirling slight eddies.

In the grand tradition of Wonka’s square candies that look ‘round, the whole atrium is undecidedly a squircle. The rail-rimmed eye of skydome surrounded by what looks like a floor of grey slate tiles studded with fire-extinguishing circles, inscribed in the vast circumference of a round atrium with pillared and balconied corners. Running in recesses below each rim round and round the room are neon lights of an almost-pink, except for the three lights above the “Terminal South” — these are forebodingly out.

Around me slides the music from Houlihan’s. I don’t know his name, but I’ve seen him twice now in three days. Mayhap I’ll see him again next time I’m through this way. Mayhap I’ll give him a tip next time. Mayhap he’ll play “Piano Man” for me . . .

2004/12/07

The Wavering Misogynist

-or- “A tame, vacant, doll-faced, idle gal!”

I came to the realization yeterday that there are no women worth any time whatsoever. Time is a most valuable commodity — even more so than heart, I think — and I refuse to bestow it where it would be wasted. (Heart may be wasted with more validity than may time, since a true bestowing of one’s heart precludes the tedium of waste — who’s to complain about truly enjoying something, even if it may not be the best thing to enjoy?) I cannot spend my life talking down to a beautiful, vacant woman.

That was yesterday. Today, I found that (even if this is deceiving myself) some women may be worth my time. You see, I’ve always been a sucker for a pretty girl (and might I cite Hemingway on “pretty, rather than beautiful”*), so when I saw two such (whom I happened to be lucky enough to know) walking ahead of me, I naturally took notice. Picking up my pace, I caught up with them and greeted them in the name of Trouble. A quite enjoyable walk ensued, and I parted company in a graceful sense of satisfaction.

So women may not be so tedious after all. If I can find one truly at my level — one who will not ask condescension, the one boon I steadfastly refuse to grant — my time could I easily bestow, and that “unto the half of my kingdom.”


*The Snows of Kilimanjaro, by Ernest Hemingway, included a story by the name of “The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber,” in which Mrs. Macomber was described as “pretty, rather than beautiful”. I might add that, though the allure of “pretty” is that it is more trustworthy than is “beautiful” (see Ben Johnson’s “Still to be Neat”§), Mrs. Macomber ended up killing her husband.

And when the daughter of the said Herodias came in, and danced, and pleased Herod and them that sat with him, the king said unto the damsel, Ask of me whatsoever thou wilt, and I will give it thee. And he sware unto her, Whatsoever thou shalt ask of me, I will give it thee, unto the half of my kingdom.

Mark 6:22–23

◊ In 1873, Judge Thomas Chandler Haliburton wrote The Sayings and Doings of Samuel Slick, Esq., together with his opinion on matrimony (available from the University of Michigan’s Making of America division of their Humanities Text Initiative. While this book has been largely lost to time, Sam Slick's “sayings and doings” do deserve some consideration. Without further ado, I leave you to peruse an excerpt I have entitled “A Woman Worth Having”.

While musing on this subject, my attention was directed by Mr. Slick, who suddenly reined up his horse, to a scene of a different description. "There," said he, "there is a pictur' for you, squire. Now, that's what minister would call love in a cottage, or rural felicity, for he was fond of fine names was the old man." A neat and pretty little cottage stood before us as we emerged from a wood, having an air of comfort about it not often found in the forest, where the necessaries of life demand and engross all the attention of the settler. " Look at that crittur," said he, "Bill Dill Mill. There he sets on the gate, with his go-to-meetin' clothes on, a-doin' of nothin', with a pocket full of potatoes, cuttin' them up into small pieces with his jacknife, and teachin' a pig to jump up and catch 'em in his mouth. It's the schoolmaster to home, that. And there sets his young wife a-balancin' of herself on the top rail of the fence opposite, and a-swingin' her foot backward and forrerd, and a-watchin' of him. Ain't she a heavenly splice, that? By Jacob's spotted cattle, what an ankle she has! Jist look! a rael corn-fed heifer, that, ain't she! She is so plump she'd shed rain like a duck. Them Blue-noses do beat all in galls, I must say, for they raise some desperate handsome ones. But then there is nothin' in that crittur. She is nothin' but waxwork -- no life there; and he looks tired of his bargain already -- what you called fairly onswaggled. Now, don't speak loud, for if she sees us she'll cut and run like a weasel. She has got her hair all covered over with papercurls, and stuck thro' with pins, like a porcupine's back. She's for a tea-squall to-night, and nothin' vexes women like bein' taken of a nonplush this way by strangers. That's matrimony, squire, and nothin' to do; a honeymoon in the woods or young love grow'd ten days old. Oh, dear! if it was me, I should yawn so afore a week, I should be skeerd lest my wife should jump down my throat. To be left alone that way idle, with a wife that has nothin' to do and nothin' to say, if she was as pretty as an angel, would drive me melancholy mad. I should either get up a quarrel for vanity sake, or go hang myself to get out of the scrape. A tame, vacant, doll-faced, idle gall! O Lord! what a fate for a man who knows what's what, and is up to snuff! Who the plague can live on sugar-candy? I am sure I couldn't. Nothin' does for me like honey; arter a while I get to hate it like sin; the very sight of it is enough for me. Vinegar ain't half so bad; for that stimulates, and you can't take more nor enough of it if you would. Sense is better nor looks any time; but when sense and looks goes together, why, then a woman is worth havin', that's a fact.

§ Still to Be Neat

Still to be neat, still to be drest,
As you were going to a feast.
Still to be powdered, still perfumed.

Lady, it is to be presumed,
Though art’s hid causes are not found,
All is not sweet. All is not sound.

Give me a look, give me a face
That makes simplicity a grace.
Robes loosely flowing, hair as free,

Such sweet neglect more taketh me
Than all th’ adulteries of art.
They touch mine eyes, not mine heart.

— Ben Johnson