"you fancy me mad. could a madman have outsmarted the greatest electronica/techno artists of our generation? next to fall will be Roderick Usher's house/trance band. "

via xkcd

For his anger is but for a moment, and his favor is for a lifetime. Weeping may tarry for the night, but joy comes with the morning.


Psalm 30:5

O Lord, do not your eyes look for truth? You have struck them down, but they felt no anguish; you have consumed them, but they refused to take correction. They have made their faces harder than rock; they have refused to repent.

jeremiah 5:3 esv

Modern Westerners cannot seem to grasp that anything beyond economics and politics could motivate contemporary acts of terrorism or the internal and international policies of other cultures. We have forgotten that our own forefathers quite willingly killed and accepted death on the basis of religious commitments.

from the european reformations by carter lindberg

Some weeks I think I have it tough.. but then I think.. "at least I don't have a maggot living in my head." It's all a matter of perspective.

this exactly captures my thoughts for this week so much better than i ever could have.

quoted from erin h

His Wife

My wife is not afraid of dirt.


She spends each morning gardening,


stooped over, watering, pulling weeds,


removing insects from her plants


and pinching them until they burst.


She won’t grow marigolds or hollyhocks,


just onions, eggplants, peppers, peas –


things we can eat. And while she sweats


I’m working on my poetry and flute.


Then growing tired of all that art,


I’ve strolled out to the garden plot

and seen her pull a tomato from the vine


and bite into the unwashed fruit


like a soft, hot apple in her hand.


The juice streams down her dirty chin


and tiny seeds stick to her lips.


Her eye is clear, her body full of light,


and when, at night, I hold her close,


she smells of mint and lemon balm.

— Andrew Hudgins

via among the pines

Forty-five years ago Lyndon Johnson was President of the United States. Art Buchwald wrote the following:

“As soon as the President finished his State of the Union speech, I was ordered to get some public reaction. So I immediately called my father in Forest Hills, New York, and asked him what he thought of all the things the President wanted to do (The Great Society).

“If he’s got the money,” my father said, “let him go ahead.”

“I don’t think he has the money, Pop.”

“I knew there was a catch to it.”

via Pastor Jim Wilson

Scenes From "Loomis The Apophatic."

On Valentine’s Day of the following year, two men dressed as British colonial soldiers arrived at the hotel to deliver Loomis a large black velvet box wrapped in layer and layers of white ribbon, pink ribbon and one frail strand of gold rope, tied in a small bow at the top.

A table from the restaurant was cleared and brought quickly to the lobby, the box placed on top. At three o’clock in the afternoon, the guests of the hotel had finished eating, gone off to see Los Angeles, leaving the hired help with their hands free. A small crowd of chefs and waitresses, bus boys, bell hops and maids gathered around as Loomis began untying the ribbon. Someone called for him to use scissors, but Loomis looked horrified at the suggestion. Everything she gave him must be preserved perfectly.

For half an hour he unwound, then fitted the ends back through their knots, until finally the box lay bare. He lifted the lid and the congress of onlookers compressed around him, on the heights of their tip-toes, like ballerinas.

Loomis pulled out huge fists of basil leaves, heaping them on the floor for several minutes, and then he jangled his index finger at the concierge, who stepped forward. Together, they lifted out a massive leather bound book that smelled of the herb, but of mint, too. The volume, recently oiled for sheen, was twice as thick as the hotel guest book and broad enough to use as a shield.

“Oh, mon dieu,” yelled a chef, stepping back aghast.

“What?” said Loomis, setting the book down.

“I’ve seen that book before,” said the chef, removing his toque.

Loomis stepped back so that all could see. He bent over to look at the spine, his face very near the book.

“It’s a Gutenberg Bible,” said the chef, and the crowd began to mutter and chat to itself regarding this claim.

“It is worth more than this entire hotel.”

“Quiet!” called Loomis suddenly and the crowd complied.

The little troupe of workers stared at Loomis, their mouths shut. He leaned down and rested his ear on the cover of the book, in much the way a spy listens through a door. His eyes narrowed in concentration, then he announced, incredulous of his own words, “I hear wings.”

Standing aright, he grabbed hold of the cover and threw it open, then sprang forth from the book’s hollowed out guts a great gust of moths— broad winged Atlas moths larger than crows, and pale green Luna moths, Death’s-head Hawkmoths to terrify and Madagascan sunset moths to delight, White Witch moths, Emperor Gum moths, heavy Bogong moths that fled off immediately to restaurant candles and returned in the lobby moments later aflame yet flying, slowing burning into ashes and fluttering to the floor, elegant Polyphemus moths, Titan Sphinx moths and schools of Rosy Maple moths no bigger than your thumbnail that dashed around the room like tiny fish in the ocean.

via the great gibsby