Creative Monotony
I’ve been reading the seminal Orthodoxy by G.K. Chesterton. The start was a bit shaky, I must confess. I felt indignant at his polemics; the opening chapters seemed written so gruffly that they bruised opponents and friends alike. All who might face such words, whether friends or foes, were beaten back by dogmatic passion. I felt that I might heartily agree if not agreeing were more permissable, but since the only place of right standing was complete adoption I could not agree. The tone has become more genial and Mr. Chesterton and I may be close friends yet–I’ve always had a warm place in my heart for Father Brown, and The Man Who Was Thursday is another dearly loved classic. A certain passage from Orthodoxy reminded me of a similar (and yet...
Formula 1
I could feel the acrid smoke in my nostrils, not to mention the sharp pressure of the molded plastic as I was forced against it in various ways. Yet there was an even greater pressure, and like most greater pressures it had nothing to do with physical discomfort. With a squeel of angry tires and a glare of fierce ecstasy I set my sights on my archnemesis and rival–whomever was directly in front of me. Bank hard around the turn, don’t brake too hard, hit the gas, but not too soon…compensate for the powerslide…there! At about $20 a pop, I’m guaranteed to stay free of an addiction; that and the fear of succumbing to the awful fate of perhaps someday wanting a #3 on my car, err truck… Alas, the incredible psychological pressure...
Serving in Pharoah’s Court
I was walking out to my car when I noticed it. A stately Cadillac (parked directly next to me) straddled firmly over a parking obstacle–the yellow concrete ones designed to prevent your car from going past them. The motorist, I thought, must have either been absent minded or utterly determined to get a close parking spot. Shaking my head I opened my door and sat down. Just as I settled into my driver’s seat the Cadillac’s owner shuffled between our cars. He was an older gentleman and was stout like so many of his contemporaries. I watched, expecting to enjoy the sight of him backing over the large bumper to get away; but instead of entering his car he leaned over towards me and rapted his knuckles against the window– “What do you...
Requiem Revisited
I found myself clipping coupons out of the Sunday paper yesterday afternoon; that was the first clue. Later, shopping for a shower hanger for shampoo and such at Bed Bath And Beyond, I realized the significance of the day’s activity. I am married. Single men don’t clip coupons or frequent BB&B. It’s wonderful: Not coupons and BBB, but marriage. We’re trying to get our house in order; sorting through the papers lying here, the boxes over there. Sometimes I find things. Like the following idea I found I had scribbled on an old church bulletin: Innocence –> Experience –> Reintegration The first two bits of the equation come from Blake’s psychological dialectic, or perhaps they could be viewed as a binary (though...