Personal Update: Time Count Zero.zero & Baal Victim Celebration Day*

God has been pleased to grant strength to keep my nose to the grind-stone.

All time is going into home projects and various other neglected needs.

I may get back to writing soon.

Life energy leaking away in to the abyss of the cost of existence.....

Personal Update: Time Count > zero

I've recently been yanked about with responsibilities to detriment of my reading and thinking life. I am glad to have work in these bad-for-the-worker times, but let me tell you:

Daily average time usage:

{Time at work+commute=10.5hrs.} + {Preparation for work, misc. maint. et al.=1.5hrs} + {Sleep=7hrs} + {Social, familial activities, home projects=2hrs.} + {Worship=1hr.} + {Reading, writing, learning, blogging, information consumption, entertainment=2hr.} = 24 hours per day.

There can be much overlap in the above categories, and I am sure that the Worship/Bible portion should probably increase, and "ministry" work should be added.

This means that just "reading" has all the above to compete with it. So, yesterday's competition got the best of me just when I was about to dash off something entertaining and relate how I don't have time to even write my own blog, when I began and was instantly pulled away by my wife, I could only transmit incoherence. However, it is really more than necessary to be sure to spend time with her since she must travel to and stay in Anchorage with her mother for most of the summer to help with the medical issues of her mother's husband.
(He has third stage congestive heart failure--I'm not sure how long God has ordained him continue upon Earth--do offer prayers, as far as we all know, he is not saved--and we would like to affirm that "God desires all men to be saved and to come to the knowledge of the truth".--do pray.)
In a few hours the daylight portion of the Lord's day will begin, and I have a brief moment that I have snatched from the "sleep" portion of my busy dying day.

I have not done many entries on my reading projects since the "read" time is severely abbreviated. This slows progress to a crawl.
(Despite my ability in my youth to really "put away" the novels, I was never a fast reader--I like to read 'in depth' and I enter a contemplative state where I most often can mentally construct the universe of the idea I am thinking about, this tends to slow the work portion of the reading process. But even if I'm slow I mostly get a higher retention rate on what I've just read.)
I decided to add an N.T. Wright book into my "currently reading" stack, and since what I've read so far of Wright's prose is quite readable, I figured that in my time-limited reading time that I would breeze through one or two of his books and move on. Progress was not to be, since I find that there were a good many things to write about from the many well-said things in his books that need commenting upon. I may try to write up a paper or long blog entry on the Wright book that I am reading currently. Anyway, stay tuned...

Personal Update: Time Count Zero

May God have mercy on the pettiness of my life, but I've got to relate my lesser self.

...fail...

ping.

W: ORP: NTW: "Simply Christian"

In a discussion of good books to read about Christian living with my friend Bob, the following book caught our eye: "After You Believe: Why Christian Character Matters" by N. T. Wright. But as I was reading the introduction I noticed that it was a third book in a series that NTW has been writing as introduction to and summary of the Christian Faith. Being a concrete sequentialist in learning style especially to deal with abstract-random or philosophical thought, I naturally wanted to read the book series in the order they had been written. My friend Bob is likely more than half done with "After You Believe...", but I will eventually catch up to have discussions about the book.

This book introduces the Christian Faith from a philosophical approach using a few examples that point to the eternal longings of most of humanity. It makes me wonder if he had read Don Richardson's "Eternity in Their Hearts" as part of his preparation for this approach. I won't go into a massive analysis of the text because of lack of time and one can piece together the gist of what the book is about from all the reviews on Amazon or Goodreads. The problem of my usual approach of quoting passages from works that I consider here, is that with NT Wright, like CS Lewis, there is so much one would like to put down that one may as well quote the entirety of the work and be done with it. NTW does write better for the average reader in America than CSL, but he still says some important things and has familiarity with philosophy and culture that I find refreshing.

Here is a small lesser passage that shows how easy and relaxed NTW's prose can be:

The real problem with Epicureanism in the ancient world, and Deism in ours, is that it has to plug its ears to all those echoing voices we were talking about earlier in this book. Actually, that's not so difficult in today's busy and noisy world. It's quite easy, in fact, when you're sitting in front of the television or hooked up to a portable stereo, one hand glued to the cell phone for text messaging, the other clutching a mug of specialist coffee...it's quite easy to be a modern Epicurean. But turn the machines off, read a different kind of book, wander out under the night sky, and see what happens. You start wondering about Option Three.

W: LP: GRP: FD: PFOS: Razor's Edge

After I finished reading "Poor Folk" by Fyodor Dostoevsky (transl. by David McDuff; ISBN 9780140445053) I listened to an Audible Books purchase of the story in a different translation. As I listened to this story so soon after reading the text, I was struck over and over again by how completely at the mercy of the "fickle hand of fate" (what I would call, Providence and Anti-Providence in the face of faith) to which the 'poor' are subject.

When you are poor, and you are lucky enough to have a job, you still have anxiety, because any stable situation can be overthrown in a moment! In the following passage we have an example of the whole mental trip of being in dire straits.
At this point in the sequence of events recounted in the correspondence between the two protagonists, the writer of this letter is still at least ten days away from when his salary is to be paid, and has taken an advance on his pay, owes money, is overdue on his rent and clothing repairs.....

September 9

Varvara Alekseyevna, Little Mother!

I am beside myself as I write this to you. I am thoroughly agitated by a terrible thing which has happened. My head is whirling round. I feel as though everything were spinning around me. Oh, my darling, what a thing I have to tell you now! This we did not foresee. No, I do not believe that I did not foresee it; I foresaw it all. My heart sensed it in advance! I even dreamed of something similar the other night.

This is what happened! I shall tell you without regard for style, just as the Good Lord puts the words into my head. I went to the department today. I arrived, sat down, and started to write. I should also tell you, little mother, that I had been writing the day before as well. Well, it was like this: Timofey Ivanovich came to me yesterday with an order for a document which was required in a hurry. 'Please copy it cleanly, swiftly and carefully, Makar Alekseyevich,' he said. 'It's to be signed today.' I should observe, little angel, that I was not quite myself yesterday, and had no interest in anything; such were the sadness and depression that had overtaken me. My heart was cold and my soul was dark; my memory held nothing but you, my poor little treasure. Well, so I got down to the task of copying; I did the work cleanly and well, except that--I don't know how to explain it to you, whether it was the work of the Unclean One, whether it had been preordained by some secret Fate, or whether it simply had to happen that way--I left out a whole line; Lord knows what sense it must have made, it simply didn't make any. There was a delay over the delivery of the document, and it wasn't handed to His Excellency for signature until today. I reported for work this morning at the usual time and stationed myself beside beside Yemelyan Ivanovich. I should observe to you, my dear, that I have recently begun to feel twice as ashamed and apologetic as I used to. I've recently begun to find it impossible to look at anyone. If anyone's chair so much as gives a creak, I feel more dead than alive. That was how it was today: I sat huddled up, not making a sound, like a hedgehog, with the result that Yefim Akimovich (there never was such a bully) said so that everyone could hear: 'What are you sitting there looking so scared for, Makar Alekseyevich?' And he made such a face that absolutely everyone near us split their sides with laughter, at my expense, of course. They laughed, and they laughed! I stuck my fingers in my ears and shut my eyes, just sat there, not moving. That's what I usually do; that way they usually desist sooner. Suddenly I heard noise, the sound of running footsteps, fuss and bustle; I listened--surely my ears must be deceiving me? My name was being called, someone was asking for me, for Devushkin. My heart began to quiver within me, and I still don't really know why I was so scared; all I know is that I was more scared than I have ever been in my life before. I became rooted to my chair--as though nothing were wrong, as though I were not even there. But again the voice started up, coming nearer and nearer. At last it was right next to my ear: 'Devushkin! Devushkin! Where's Devushkin?' I raised my eyes: before me stood Yevstafy Ivanovich; he said: 'Makar Alekseyevich, you've to go to His Excellency, at the double! You've made a mistake in a document!' That was all he said, but it was enough, little mother, don't you think! I went numb, froze, lost all feeling; and began to walk, more dead than alive. I was escorted through one room, through a second, then a third, into a study--I stood before His Excellency! It's impossible for me to give you a positive account of the thoughts that passed through my mind at that moment. I saw His Excellency standing there, and they were all standing around him. I don't think I bowed; I forgot. Struck dumb, I merely stood there, my lips trembling and my legs shaking. And I had reason to be struck dumb, little mother. For one thing, I was ashamed of myself; I took a glance in a mirror to the right of me, and what I saw in it nearly sent me out of my mind. And for another, I have always tried to do my job as though I myself were not actually there. So that it was hardly likely that His Excellency could know of my existence. Perhaps he might have heard in passing, as it were, that there was a member of the staff named Devushkin in the department, but he would never have had any close dealings with him.

Angrily, he began:'What's the meaning of this, sir? Where was your concentration? An important document, urgently required, and you go and spoil it. What's the meaning of it, eh?' At that point His Excellency turned to Yevstafy Ivanovich. I could only hear certain isolated words and phrases: 'Negligence! Indiscretion! You will get us into trouble!' For some reason I suddenly had an urge to open my mouth. I wanted to beg forgiveness, but could not, I wanted to flee, but dared not attempt to, and then...then, little mother, something happened that even now makes the pen want to fall from my hand. One of my metal buttons--the devil take it--a button which had been hanging from my uniform by a thread--suddenly fell off (I must have brushed against it by accident), bounced on the floor with a ping, and rolled straight, just like that, the accursed object, to His Excellency's feet--and this while everyone was completely silent, too! There went any hope I might have had of excusing myself, of making an apology, of accounting for my misdeed--all the things I had been preparing to say to His Excellency! What happened next was dreadful. His Excellency at once fastened his attention on my appearance and on what I was wearing. I recalled what I had seen in the mirror: I rushed to retrieve the button! I lost my head! I stooped down and tried to get hold of the button, but it spun and rolled, in short, I couldn't catch hold of it, and gave a fine display of dexterity in the process. Then I suddenly felt the last of my strength desert me, and knew that all, all was lost! My entire reputation was ruined, I was finished as a human being! And then, for not reason at all, I started to hear the voices of Teresa and Faldoni, and my ears began to ring. At last I managed to retrieve the button, got to my feet, straightened myself up, and had I not been such a fool I would have stood to attention and kept still. But oh, no: I began pressing the button against the torn off threads, as though that would make it stay on again; and, what's more, I smiled, and smiled again. At first His Excellency turned away, but then he glanced at me again--I could hear him saying to Yevstafy Ivanovich: 'What on earth?...Look at the state he's in!...How does he...What does he...' Oh, my darling, the sound of those words! I heard Yevstafy Ivanovich say: 'He has a good record, has never put a foot wrong--exemplary conduct, draws a reasonable salary, in accordance with his grade...' 'Well, do something to ease his position,' said His Excellency. 'Give him something in advance.' 'But he's already been paid,' Yevstafy Ivanovich replied. 'He's been paid in advance for ages now. He must be having some difficulties or other--but he's always shown good conduct, and he's got a good record, a spotless record.' I burned, my little angel, I burned with the fires of hell! I died inwardly! 'Well,' His Excellency said in a loud voice, 'it must be copied out again, and quickly; Devushkin, come here and copy it out again, without mistakes this time; and listen...' At that point His Excellency turned to the other people present and issued various instructions; then they all went their separate ways. No sooner had they dispersed than His Excellency hurriedly took out his pocketbook and produced a hundred ruble* note from it. 'Here,' he said. 'It's the least I can do, look on it as you please...'--and he shoved it into my hand. My angel, I gave a start of shock, my whole being was shaken; I don't know what came over me--I tried to kiss his hand. But he blushed all over, my little dove, and--I depart from the truth by not one hair's breath, my darling--he took my unworthy hand and shook it, shook it properly as though it were the hand of someone who was his equal, someone equal in rank to himself, a general. 'Off you go,' he said, it's the least I can do...Don't make any more mistakes, but on this occasion we'll manage to get by.'

Now, little mother, this is what I have decided: I ask you and Fedora--and if I had any children, I would ask them, too--to say your prayers henceforth in the following manner: to pray, not for your fathers, but for His Excellency, and to do so each day and every day until the end of your lives! I also want to say this, little mother--and I say it solemnly, listen carefully, little mother: I swear that no matter how afflicted by mental agony I was in the cruel days of our misfortunes when I looked at you, at the miseries you had to suffer, and at myself, at my degradation and my incompetence, in spite of all that I swear that the hundred rubles are less dear to me than the fact that His Excellency himself deigned to shake my unworthy hand, wretch and drunkard that I am! By doing that he restored me to himself. By that action he has resurrected my spirit, has made my life sweeter for ever, and I am firmly convinced that, no matter how grievously I may have sinned in the eyes of the All-Highest, my prayer for the happiness and prosperity of His Excellency will reach His throne...

Little mother! I am now in a dreadful state of mental disarray and agitation! My heart is thumping as if it wanted to leap out of my breast. At the same time, I seem to have lost all my energy. I am sending you forty-five paper rubles; I am giving the landlady twenty, and leave thirty-five for myself: I'll spend twenty on setting my clothes to rights, and keep fifteen for daily expenses. The only thing is that all these events which took place this morning have shaken my being to its foundations. I am going to go to bed. But I feel peaceful, very peaceful. Only there is a crack in my soul, and I can hear it trembling, quivering, stirring deep inside me. I shall come and see you: but for the moment I am simply intoxicated by all these sensations...God sees it all, my little mother, my priceless little dove!

Your worthy friend,
Makar Devushkin

____________

Anyway, that does it for "Poor Folk"; I am almost done reading the second story in the collection, entitled "The Landlady". This next story is an intense character study in almost Gothic style; the descriptions and dream-like texture of the story had me expecting the whole thing to turn into a vampire story--it hasn't as of the 95% point in the story. So I'm liking the mood created by this story, and I may make use some of the elements of this story for one of my science fiction stories.



*100 rubles was slightly more than three month's wages.

Novo Visum,
Neue Ansicht.

Ephemera: Non-Liturgical Special Holiday: Mother's Day & Personal

A quick twitter-like message about Mother's Day (But at the beginning of the day before an adequate time to meditate on the greatness of {as Dostoevsky in Poor Folk had the protagonist refer to the love of his life...}_as I say my Little Mother.)

This is an American Haiku (7,11,7 syllable scheme; bring nature or creation into the word picture; add some element as appropriate): Here is a grouped series.


Oh Little Mother of mine,
Like a red, red, rose, or a sweet kind brandy-wine,
A pillar of all the good.

How lush our sacred garden,
In green, green walls, Doors of Paradise opened,
Precepts drop from your sweet mouth.

Colorful, floating, burst free,
Life casts off the bonds of earth, past the round sea,
Souls riding the words of life.

Mercy's image in my wife,
Sweetly singing around, quickly ending strife,
Music-shaped, this gnarled pine.

I rise with you my love,
Through golden, blue skies, soaring, fluttering dove.
Aloft, incense vanishes.

W: LP: Literature: CSL vs JRRT, misc.

Hat tip to one of Mark Horne's commentators for the following link:

Conflict and convergence on fundamental matters in C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien by John C. Wood.

There is so much in the article to digest that I recommend everyone to read it and think about it. These men were both geniuses in their individual ways. Some of the points in the article re-enforce my long held contention that JRRT was a better fiction writer in general than CSL, but CSL was a better essayist. Scholastically, CSL might have been more prolific but I contend that they were both excellent in their respective fields.

These men were both Christians, and I find my ecumenical outlook more alike to CSL than to JRRT, with reservations on certain theological issues. There are such great insights from both these great men. This is one of the reasons that though I may not be a great scholar of literature, I dearly love to read the great writers of history, because the extraordinary creativity and insight can inform my life and faith. Even a writer like Dostoevsky who was so profoundly different from these two great writers informs my faith and provokes my thoughts to a higher plane. Even as I read the article referenced above, I have been closing in on the end of FD's story, "Poor Folk" and I can see that FD is more of a modernist than the two medievalists CSL & JRRT. I couldn't help but think that as JRRT described the great conflict in Middle Earth against the forces of darkness, FD was describing the life of humans in thrall in Mordor and showing that even in misery, the little glimmers of God shine through in the human image bearers of Christ.

Social Philosophy: National ID again

These guys just won't give up.

W: LP: GRP: FD: PFOS (Poor Folk & other stories)

There are plenty of write-ups on this story, so I won't go into heavy analysis. I find this story interesting because Fyodor Dostoevsky creates a romance using the technique of correspondence between two people to create the story in the mind of the reader. This story is what I would almost call an anti-romance or to use the Greek classification, a tragedy. The two main characters, an older writer and a young seamstress, are both profoundly poor, and they live across a courtyard from one another in what we would call a tenement. The courtyard is not that large but it still serves as a metaphor for the gulf between the two that prevents them from coming together to form a couple and a family. The barriers are insurmountable, but the affection can't die.

I don't know if FD intended to purposely make a social commentary, but because of the realism of the story about the sordid conditions of those on the bottom of society, this short novella serves to slap the complacent in the face about "how the other half lives" or in the real nature of the case, how the other 90% lives. Perhaps almost depressing, nevertheless, the story shows the real humanity of the characters and how they grasp at so little for hope and comfort. If one can take it, the story is a "must-read".

Social Philosophy: Today is Int'l Labour Day: Some thoughts...

I was meditating on the relationship between labor and capital, I think the division is artificial.

Capital is resources plus labor. The resources require labor to make them available; for example, if one wants metal, one must exert labor and energy to mine the ore, refine and mold it into usable form, then there is the need to transport the finished product to the end user. In every case labor must be used, and labor is tied closely to energy.

If cheap energy is available and labor plentiful and allowed to keep its remuneration...you could make anything.

Or as an alternative, and even if you don't like Abraham Lincoln, I do like the sentiment behind the following quote:

Labor is prior to, and independent of, capital. Capital is only the fruit of labor, and could never have existed if Labor had not first existed. Labor is the superior of capital and deserves much higher consideration. Working men are the basis of all governments, for the plain reason that they are more numerous. To secure to each laborer the whole product of his labor, or as nearly as much as possible, is a worthy object of any good government.

Anyway something to think about