“Schools today, we say we’re preparing our kids for the 21st century,” said Jacqueline DeChiaro, the principal of Van Schaick Elementary School in Cohoes, N.Y., who is debating whether to cut cursive. “Is cursive really a 21st-century skill?”

via the nytimes

disgust, i think, is the word i'm looking for.

"Because here's something else that's weird but true: in the day-to-day trenches of adult life, there is actually no such thing as atheism. There is no such thing as not worshipping. Everybody worships. The only choice we get is what to worship. And the compelling reason for maybe choosing some sort of god or spiritual-type thing to worship--be it JC or Allah, be it YHWH or the Wiccan Mother Goddess, or the Four Noble Truths, or some inviolable set of ethical principles--is that pretty much anything else you worship will eat you alive. If you worship money and things, if they are where you tap real meaning in life, then you will never have enough, never feel you have enough. It's the truth. Worship your body and beauty and sexual allure and you will always feel ugly. And when time and age start showing, you will die a million deaths before they finally grieve you. On one level, we all know this stuff already. It's been codified as myths, proverbs, clichés, epigrams, parables; the skeleton of every great story. The whole trick is keeping the truth up front in daily consciousness."

-David Foster Wallace

via gibbs

If you ignore God in order to love something else - well, he made that too. Anything, I repeat, that you love at the cost of ignoring God, was created by him. If it wasn't beautiful, then you wouldn't love it. But where does its beauty come from if it wasn't created by God, whose beauty is invisible? You love gold. Well, God made it. You love beautiful bodies, you love flesh. God made them. You love your delightful estate. God made it. You love the precious light. God made it. If you ignore God in favour of something he made - well then, please love God himself as well. How much does he deserve to be loved, how much does he deserve to be loved, when he created everything that you love? Love him like this - and your love for him will grow.

I am not saying that you should have no loves; I simply want your loves to be properly ordered.

augustine, sermon 335c: on the feast of a martyr, p.59

i give up criticizing augustine for platonism. not only has the debate gotten ridiculously old, it's a question that shouldn't need answering if you've read enough augustine carefully enough. he loves creation, he just loves God more.

Ecce autem elapsus Pyrrhi de caede Polites,

unus natorum Priami, per tela, per hostis

porticibus longis fugit, et uacua atria lustrat

saucius: illum ardens infesto volnere Pyrrhus

insequitur, iam iamque manu tenet et premit hasta.

Ut tandem ante oculos evasit et ora parentum,

concidit, ac multo vitam cum sanguine fudit.

Hic Priamus, quamquam in media iam morte tenetur,

non tamen abstinuit, nec voci iraeque pepercit:

'At tibi pro scelere,' exclamat, 'pro talibus ausis,

di, si qua est caelo pietas, quae talia curet,

persolvant grates dignas et praemia reddant

debita, qui nati coram me cernere letum

fecisti et patrios foedasti funere voltus.

At non ille, satum quo te mentiris, Achilles

talis in hoste fuit Priamo; sed iura fidemque

supplicis erubuit, corpusque exsangue sepulchro

reddidit Hectoreum, meque in mea regna remisit.'

Sic fatus senior, telumque imbelle sine ictu

coniecit, rauco quod protinus aere repulsum

e summo clipei nequiquam umbone pependit.

Cui Pyrrhus: 'Referes ergo haec et nuntius ibis

Pelidae genitori; illi mea tristia facta

degeneremque Neoptolemum narrare memento.

Nunc morere.' Hoc dicens altaria ad ipsa trementem

traxit et in multo lapsantem sanguine nati,

implicuitque comam laeua, dextraque coruscum

extulit, ac lateri capulo tenus abdidit ensem.

Haec finis Priami fatorum; hic exitus illum

sorte tulit, Troiam incensam et prolapsa videntem

Pergama, tot quondam populis terrisque superbum

regnatorem Asiae. Iacet ingens litore truncus,

avolsumque umeris caput, et sine nomine corpus.

virgil's aeneid, 2.526-558, the mors priami.

call me blasphemous, but the fact that a human being wrote this is proof that we are made in the image of God.

the suspension of saucius until the fourth line, past even the third, makes eliot himself (the master of suspension) look amateurish.

"nunc morere" may be the first time anyone in literature conveys this idea this succinctly. bruce willis has no clue what he's doing compared to virgil.

550-553 are arguably the crowning glory, with an image mary flannery could only dream of creating: the father slipping in his son's blood as he's dragged to the altar by his hair. capulo, in addition to hilt, also means coffin. the resulting double meaning ought to have made every poet since tear his hear in frustration.

if all of philosophy is a footnote to plato, all western poetry is a footnote to virgil. not that i really grant either, but if you grant the first i'd call you names if you didn't admit to the second.

Late have I loved you, beauty so old and so new: late have I loved you. And see, you were within and I was in the external world and sought you there, and in my unlovely state I plunged into those lovely created things which you made. You were with me, and I was not with you. The lovely things kept me far from you, though if they did not have their existence in you, they had no existence at all. You called and cried out loud and shattered my deafness. You were radiant and resplendent, you put to flight my blindness. You were fragrant, and I drew in my breath and now pant after you. I tasted you, and I feel but hunger and thirst for you. You touched me, and I am set on fire to attain the peace which is yours.

augustine, confessions, x.38

this passage is to my soul what bright light is after hours in the pitch black. after 1700 years, augustine's love for God is as fiery in the darkness of the world as it was while rome crumbled into black ruins. this has made me create a new category for the common-blog: "most beautiful things ever written."

I loved beautiful things of a lower order, and I was going down to the depths.

confessions, iv.20

My desire is for you, justice and innocence, you are lovely and splendid to honest eyes; the satiety of your love is insatiable. ... As an adolescent I went astray from you, my God, far from your unmoved stability. I became to myself a region of destitution.

confessions, ii.18

taken on Pensacola Beach. and we think our oil is important.

hats off to JGib10.

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

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

GQ recently did a slideshow of the 50 most stylish cars in the last 50 years. with a few of their choices i quibble. most of them, not so much.

but these cars ... these cars. absolutely gorgeous. i make no apologies for this list. it is obviously my taste, disirregardless of what time period they come from. and so it probably reveals some character flaw that three of the five are from the

last 15 years.

the ferrari 308 GTB

the jaguar XKE (1969), called by Enzo Ferrari "the most beautiful car ever made."

the bmw z8 (1999 - 2005)

the audi a5/s5 (2008 - present)

the aston martin db9 -- perhaps my favorite car of all time

something i wrote on the road between Wenatchee and Moscow. while watching one of the more stunning sunsets i've seen. on a Sunday.

to write, one must have been loved. to write well, one must be a lover.

writing about life, now, in the 21st century, is to write about things that have been written about, at best, a dozen times. the better bits of life: the sunsets, the sunrises, the lovers' kisses over morning coffee, they have all been written about too many times to even think about, much less count. but boredom is only done by the bored. it's the trivializing, the quick-to-look-away, the all-too-easily-pleased-by-flashing-things, in short, the cool teenage boys among us, who are the only ones to think that a sunset is a sunset is a sunset.

it's easy to know in your head that each sunset is different. every night a different ray of light hits different water particles at different angles. seems like a ridiculous waste of creative energy and time.

many girls have good legs. it took the wisdom of Solomon to see that the Shulamite's were unlike others girls' because they were carved out of ivory. it took him several chapters to describe them. and you get the feeling that he never really was satisfied with his attempts. he kept going back to the legs with different approaches. and then he gave it up all together. vanity of vanities, indeed.

if you love, you will see. if you want to love, you must see. it's one of those vicious cycles life seems to be full of. if you want to appreciate sunsets, you must watch them. again and again. and to truly watch them, you must appreciate them. you can watch them one way, the way you usually do, or you can watch and choose to appreciate. and, after a few weeks or perhaps, if your soul is still delicate, a few days, you will realize that the sky wasn't quite that shade of pink yesterday, that the clouds weren't fiery like that last week, and that the sun looks more like a drop of God's blood tonight than it did on Monday. when you choose to love something, you get acquainted with it, you understand it, and in the end you know it. even, no, especially in the King James sense of the word.

my father knows my mother well. he knows her like a connoisseur knows his favorite wine, like a student knows his favorite painting, like Adam knew Eve in that time full of blinding wonder and incredulity before he ate the fruit. there is between them all the familiarity of more than half a lifetime spent together and all the nervous joy of newlyweds. my mother once told me that a detective looking for counterfeit currency said, "i look at the real bills all day long so that when i see the false stuff, i know it's different right away." my father knows his wife like that. he's watched her so much, stared so often, lost himself so many times, that when anything changes, he knows.

my Father knows His bride like that, only more. my Father knows His spoken world like that, only more. my Father knows me like that, only more.

if you love it, it will become lovely. but you have to love every good thing about it. every little detail that changes day by day, every little bit that stays constant. and if you do, the whole thing becomes beautiful. that's why our Father is going to win.

We Are A Letter For An Entity Unlikely To Respond.

Dear Cat's Eye Nebula,

Now Eva-Marie laughs! You are rivaled. We have met your exuberant colors where we are.

All the best,

Josh and Paula

via the Notorious G.I.B.