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29 December: Civilitas
Thanks to this whole "Iowa caucuses" business I have a unique opportunity to make my opinion matter more than the suckers in, say, Illinois. But I'm still not happy with all of my choices. None of the candidates are serious enough about environmental issues, for one thing. Who among them has suggested that Americans, instead of attempting to find new energy sources, use less energy? All of the Democrats--and I'll warn you, you might find this statement inflammatory--are far too supportive of the "right" of a mother to terminate her child. And all the Republicans but one are far too supportive of the continued occupation of Iraq. The exception is the charmingly quixotic Ron Paul, who, though he is a crazy libertarian, at least supports the consistent life ethic. But he also wants to get rid of PBS, an unspeakable idea. And apparently he wants to institute a gold standard, an idea which was last popular with L. Frank Baum, if I recall correctly. If, by some miracle, he were the Republican nominee running against Hillary, I would probably vote for him anyway. But not were he against any other Democrat.

If I am to caucus, which I am considering, I suppose I've narrowed my options down to three compromises: Obama (the most optimistic but probably least experienced), Biden (the candidate least afraid of insulting people), or Dodd (whose perspective on foreign policy and emphasis on national service I like very much). I am not thrilled about any of the three, and I doubt the latter two have much of a chance to be the presidential candidate--though I realize a strong second-tier finish could propel one of them into vice-presidential status. Is this what politics is supposed to be like?--finding the candidate I hate the least? Sometimes I wish we had a parliamentary, multi-party system. Oh well.
 

22 December: Carmen ad festum nativitatis Christi
I sometimes wonder what Dickens's publisher thought when he pitched him the idea of A Christmas Carol; "A Christmas ghost-story? What are you thinking, sir?" It's a novel concept, I suppose, but the novelty is not why the novel (heh) is so successful. The book, like How the Grinch Stole Christmas, works because we can relate to the main character, who happens to hate Christmas. Every year it becomes easier and easier to hate Christmas. What, indeed, is good about a "holiday" in which we are forced by convention to spend far too much time with our (over)extended family and give worthless presents made in China and wrapped in paper which we promptly dispose of? What is Christmas now but the high feast day of Mammon? I especially cannot fathom how secular Americans can stand to celebrate it. There is at least something of redemptive suffering in sitting through a sermon on Christmas morning; I mean the sermon causes suffering--a good counterweight to the receiving of presents--not that it speaks of it.

I happen to like A Christmas Carol quite a lot myself. There are many many film adaptations for our illiterate friends, some of them rather good. My favorite is the 1951 version with Alastair Sim, whose performance is just about perfect. The 1984 version with George C. Scott is quite good as well. I must also mention the Muppet version with none other than Michael Caine, which is also worth seeing.

Unrelated: Soups | Vocabulary for Rice | The Grinch in Latin | Santa Claus and Creationism
 

17 December: De gustibus non est disputandum
It's much easier to be productive when we have time specifically set aside to do nothing. I don't mean time set aside to waste, be it watching television or entertaining oneself with computer games (two of my favorite vices), but rather time spent alone, thinking. Meditating, if you will. Not necessarily religious meditation. (Indeed, sometimes it is better to avoid the explicit attempt to think religiously. It is an unnecessary strain; besides, if it is God's whim when to give us his presence, there's very little we can do about it.) C.S. Lewis tells us that the world in which we live is "a world starved for solitude, silence, and private: and therefore starved for meditation and true friendship." (The use of the colon there must be some peculiarity of the British; I've seen it elsewhere in other British authors as well.) If I may offer advice, I might suggest you find a quiet place to think. With patience, I think it may prove to be a beneficial experience.

(And what's this productivity I mentioned in the first sentence? Well, I'm happily working on a translation of a Borges lecture on the Book of Job, an "infinite book", as he calls it. I shall offer it up for your consideration when it is finished; bear in mind though, that "translation is the art of failure". Heh.)
 

13 December: Humility
FUN FACT: According to the Online Etymology Dictionary, the Latin word humilitatem is translated in the Mercian dialect of Old English as eaðmodnisse. I don't know what that word would look like in modern English, but I'd wager it'd be better than the latinate word we use, "humility."

I try to remain somewhat aware of how absurd I am, but sometimes I guess God delights in showing me that I underestimate the length and breadth and depth of my absurdity. I shan't bore you with the details. Oh dear, have I finally lost it entirely? Talking as if God were personally concerned with my welfare. It is an offensive idea to Jefferson and his fellow deists, I admit--and I happen to like Jefferson and most of his fellow deists. But you may at least rest assured that I don't believe I'm taking orders from God (like the current occupant of the White House. He clearly isn't, anyway, unless God had a great desire to prosper the military-industrial complex and meet thousands of Iraqis and soldiers prematurely). It's one of the more dangerous delusions.

Progress on Chesterton's biography of St. Francis continues. Chesterton contrasts his subject with "most of us, who are ordinary and selfish men whom God has not broken to make anew." That's probably a very good description. The idea that a man must be broken to be remade strikes me as true. Certainly there is something in the vast majority of mankind that keeps us all from sainthood; our daily selfishness distracts us. I suppose humility (divinely sent, perhaps) is one way of assuaging, in some small part, that selfishness.
 

7 December: Sidewalks and Mormons
Walked to the Belgian Village today. On sidewalks. Much of the route was still covered in yesterday's snow. It's easy to tell which houses' residents have their priorities straight: theirs are the shoveled sidewalks. Some portions had been "snow-blowed" instead (is that the proper word for a sidewalk cleared by "snow-blower"? It is an inelegant name for an inelegant machine). The machine may do a job quicker, but it certainly doesn't do it better: anywhere where the sidewalk is uneven, the snowblower leaves a packed-down film of snow. I tell you, it will be the end of civilization when nobody shovels their sidewalk anymore. That's how I want to die, shoveling my sidewalk. (It seems a good many middle-aged men get heart-attacks that way.) It wouldn't be so bad--at least it's brief, not drawn out, like drowning or cancer. To die in the service of home and pedestrians, that is a noble thing. Or perhaps I'd like to be struck by a falling icicle. As long as my demise is sudden and outdoors.

Unrelated. If you keep up at all with this presidential race thing the news keeps mentioning, it might interest you to read what Mr Hitchens has to say about "Mitt" (heavens, is that his real name?) Romney's speech defending his Mormonism. (Romney is defending his Mormonism, I mean; Hitchens certainly isn't. I'm not sure how I would diagram that sentence...) Hitchens makes some very good points: Romney is most certainly wrong that faith and freedom are somehow inextricably linked. It is stunningly ignorant of him to claim a president merely needs a faith, though it apparently shouldn't matter which one. (Would Romney vote for a faithful Scientologist over a qualified atheist?) Hitchens has some quite harsh (possibly true) words about Mormonism. But how much should we really make of the obvious absurdity of the Mormon religion? I mean, it is absurd to believe that a con-man in upstate New York found some golden plates that dictated to him the basis of a "religion". But is it more absurd than the idea that a virgin peasant girl gave birth to the son of God in Roman Judea? I am not sure. Is there a line to be drawn somewhere? Or must we accept all (like the Mormons) or nothing (like Hitchens)? I'm not comfortable with either option.
 

6 December: Thanksgiving in All Things
There's a certain satisfaction gained from manual labor. It may just be the pride of doing something oneself (without the assistance of those infernal machines, with their wheels "with cogs tyrannic/ Moving by compulsion each other"). Or, I admit, it may be a feeling of moral superiority over those who would seek to live fully in the realm of the mind. ("Manual labor? Oh, no, we're too educated for that. Far better to let the machines do it, or, failing that, underpaid immigrants.") In any case, I enjoyed mopping today. The salt from shoes (now verboten in the apartment, by my decree, posted upon the doors) is rather difficult to get rid of--even after mopping, it leaves an unwelcome residue. But no matter. It's just some more manual labor to do.

I have probably been too happy lately. There's something to be said for being miserable. (Our friend Kierkegaard and his sad dark Lutheran brethren surely know something about it.) But I have, I hope, been experiencing the right kind of happiness, not the kind that comes from willful ignorance of the world's problems, but rather the kind that comes from acceptance of them. I could not bear to get out of bed in the morning if I attempted to face the enormity of injustice and waste out there in the world--or even just the injustice and waste here at Augustana. All we can do is live our own lives as well as we are able. There are beautiful things, if we know where to look, even amid the garbage and the flowers.
 

3 December: "Shall mortal man be more just than God? Shall a man be more pure than his maker?"
I've been reading Chesterton's Biography of St. Francis. Chesterton is (er, was) quite a clever guy. It's rather interesting, in a postmodern way, to read the biography as a product of its own time; it's quite difficult to have the (uh, figurative) death of the author when the author was such a character in his own right. And besides, his voice is too distinctive to forget about him, even if the book is supposed to be about St. Francis (who was, of course, quite interesting in his own, rather different, way).

But the problem is that Chesterton reads a bit too much like early Merton. (Early! I must emphasize that later Merton is almost a different personality entirely.) Both have a certain combativeness, a certain vituperativity (or: vituperativeness?) towards non-Catholics. Both were converts; this explains some of it. I have a theory that the newly-converted are always the most zealous believers. And, of course, both can be seen as products of a Church still in Counter-Reformation mode, a Church on the defensive. (Such Catholics still exist today; they prefer to ignore Vatican II, I suppose. Perhaps... the current Pope is one of them?) It seems to me rather silly that such a personality should write about St. Francis, that most humanistic of the saints. Well, we shall see. I've only read two chapters, anyway. We shall see.
 

27 November: A Fable
We usually leave the garage door open a crack so that cats can get into (or out of) the garage, especially during the winter, when it's so much warmer in there. We have a refrigerator in our garage, mostly used to store various drinks and leftovers. Our neighbors have many children, and a dog; they don't take particularly good care of either, as far as I'm concerned. Today, the dog slipped under the garage door. This wouldn't be entirely unusual, since the animal is fond of barking at our cats. What is unusual is that the dog somehow opened the refrigerator door and got a hold of the remains of our Thanksgiving turkey. It was an ignominious end for a magnificent bird. I chased the dog away; I attempted to throw a few rocks at it, though all I ended up hitting was my car. I took the turkey out to the barn, where I am sure the cats made quite a feast of it. There's probably some sort of lesson to be learned here. I wonder what it is.
 

19 November: Oh, the Places ... I'll Go?
There is such a thing as too many mentors. I'm probably getting too much advice on what to do with myself, and it doesn't help that I read books advocating one lifestyle or another. (Wendell Berry, anyone?) I should go into academia. No, I should be a church musician. No, I should write books. No, I should farm the land. No, I should join a monastery. Well, I can't do all of those things, thank you very much. And even in the shorter term, I'm awash with choices: I should go and see the world. No, I should find a community and stay put. No, I should go to grad school immediately out of Augustana. No, I should go to piano-tuning school. (Yes, my mother thinks I should learn how to tune pianos, so that I have a real marketable skill, unlike a degree in music.)

I was once very ambitious. I wanted to write the great American novel. I wanted to be a concert pianist. I wanted to out-Chomsky Chomsky. (In terms of being good at linguistics, that is; not in terms of being a crazy anarchist.) Now, I don't really want any of those things. I want something much more simple: I want to be happy. But then, that's not simpler at all. It's much more difficult.
 

16 November: Done
Finally finished with exams, essays, etc., etc. (Yes, that was the end of the sentence. I wish there were a better way of marking sentence endings when there's an abbreviation involved. Oh, what's that, you say? It was a sentence fragment? I suppose it was, since English is not a pro-drop language. Sometimes I wish it were. Pronouns are overrated.) I have found that I tend to be most productive of things I like to make during the times when I'm supposed to be doing something else. It was quite an effort to not do any bloggery. Instead I wrote a hymn--well, a hymn tune; no words. Writing hymn tunes is more difficult than you'd think: there's all the voice-leading to consider, and you must fit a certain meter, and the notes must accentuate the proper syllables of the words.

I think I chose the right major. Music is the only thing that's kept me sane during the last week. Does anyone go to church for the sermons? I certainly don't (or, er, wouldn't, if I weren't paid to go to church). No, the music is the good part.

We're planning on starting an early music society on campus; it should be neat. People are woefully ignorant of that which we call, for convenience, "classical" music. But even most well-educated people who enjoy the more popular classical stuff--Brandenburg concertos, Don Giovanni, Beethoven's sixth--are quite unaware of any music from before Bach. What came before Bach? Well, quite a bit. We hope to explore some of that rich, unappreciated repertory.
 

6 November: I Am Justice (and So Can You!)
Jury duty yesterday. Jury duty is almost as fun as church: you get to sit on an uncomfortable wooden bench (are they called "pews" in a non-religious context? Someone should look into it), and you don't even have a sermon to fall asleep to. They did show us a short film made in the sixties, "You: the Juror", produced by the Iowa justice department. The production values were about as spectacular as you'd expect. The very campness of it made the whole experience worthwhile, in fact. Unfortunately, both of the trials in which I might have participated were canceled for some reason or another, so we all just ended up waiting for two hours only to be told to leave. Oh well. It's still better than school.
 

3 November: The Sponge is Wrung Out
I have just realized why I am not satisfied with any of my writing from the last several months: I have not been reading enough. Good prose does not leap fully formed out of my skull like Athena. I must read, digest the reading (but not Reader's Digest!) and percolate; only then am I able to write something that satisfies me. Perhaps it'll be better next term--I'm taking a modern poetry class. What is modern poetry? It's a rather broad term. Do they mean "modernist" poetry? That would be alright. Or (shudder), do they mean that wretched avant-garde stuff? No, the instructor has both wits and taste--I cannot see him inflicting that on students. We shall see.
 

30 October: Whereas the last entry was entirely ironical, this one is perhaps embarrassingly sincere
Two more weeks, then the term is finally ended. We are occupied becoming "educated", whatever that means. Oh, but we are so busy. We must be content, for now, with the little things that make life beautiful--the smattering of white against a blue sky, with the red oak leaves in the foreground. The moon rising above the valley of the Mississippi. The sun shining in through the slats in the venetian blinds at morning. The unnaturally intense pink of those two last roses outside Old Main; have we not had a frost here yet?

It's altogether too easy to concentrate on ugly things, to pay attention to ugly people. (Surely you realize that I mean not physically but spiritually ugly people, the sowers of discord and gossipers and people who talk too loud and much.) Such folk will always have their own places to congregate and practice their faults: in politics and multi-lane highways, for example. We can least endeavor to make islands of good--places of beauty--in this increasingly ugly world of ours. Let's practice real vocations; in other words, let's do real work. Let's practice grace and good theology.
 

25 October: A Paean to Science
Isn't Science great? Think of all the wonderful things it's given us, like cars and cell-phones and computers and nerve gas. I especially appreciate how science has given humanity new confidence in its own achievements--where would we be if we still felt limited by the constraints of nature? Oh, in caves, surely. Without our glorious suburbs and landfills and tenements and oil spills, it is certain--and what sort of barbarian would want to live without those? Scientists (like that brilliant Nobel laureate James Watson) are especially enthusiastic about what they'll be able to do with the continually-advancing technology that'll we'll always have: thanks to all that research on embryos (which, we must remember, are simply clumps of genetic matter--nothing resembling human beings), we'll eventually be able to screen out those troublesome traits such as Down Syndrome, homosexuality, and ugliness. Yes indeed, the world of tomorrow will be a wonderful place.

It is especially fortunate that our scientific research can solve all of our problems for us. This "Peak Oil" thing you might have heard about? Science will take care of it! Innovators have dreamt up miraculous new inventions in the past to solve problems, and, by gum, they can do it again. No need to get rid of that SUV! It's your right as an American to drive whatever you want. Fuel taxes are just more evidence of the foul specter of Communism that haunts our great nation. Global warming? If it exists, at least there's a short-term solution: simply pump some sulfates into the atmosphere--that oughtta do the trick, for at least a hundred years. Remember, Science has all the answers!

(Hat tip to Dr Jason Peters.)
 

23 October: The Walgreens Expedition
I walked to Walgreens today. It's a lovely day: if I were a poet I'd write something about the trees turning colors. I'd use a alchemy metaphor, I would I would, probably with the word "transmutation" in there somewhere. Experience has taught me I'm better off not writing poems, but I still have a knack for metaphors, if I do say so myself.

Anyway, I went to Walgreens in order to purchase some Excedrin (which, it may interest you to know, is 250 mg of acetaminophen, 250 mg of aspirin, and 65 mg of caffeine, "about as much caffeine as a cup of coffee"). Upon reaching the store I found pain-relievers in the back of the store (much like milk and bread are put in the rears of grocery stores--they put the most essential things behind the unnecessariables). Imagine my dismay to find that every box of pain-reliever was labeled "extra strength". I had a slight headache, to be certain, but nothing to that degree. I very nearly asked a clerk, "Pardon me, ma'am, but do you have any regular strength Excedrin? I don't really need this extra-strength variety." If I could work up the resolve to say such things to clerks then I'd have a more interesting life. Alas, I did not.

At the checkout I observed a package of gummi bears. I haven't had gummi bears in a good long while, and I was momentarily tempted to buy them. For one thing the packaging was just so deliciously retro. There was a slogan, "Enjoyed by children and adults alike." Ain't that the truth! Meanwhile, a cartoon bear beckoned on the front of the package with a wide smile, happily offering up his brethren to be devoured. I now regret not buying those gummi bears. Perhaps I should walk back to Walgreens and purchase them.
 

22 October: Music as Semiotics
I sometimes regret not going into Literature; it certainly is easier to write about, and more edifying (as of now) to read about. Music tends to defy philosophical musings. It is, of course, much easier to write about words than to write about non-words. That is not to say that words are simple; many a career has been made out of interpreting them. But music is even more unsimple. Whereas a novel uses words directly to get a point across, a symphony relies much more on inexpressibilities. How can we describe how Beethoven's sixth makes us feel? We are forced to attempt to translate our feelings into words--and "translation is the art of failure", as Dr Eco tells us. Music theorists know that a flatted sixth chord in the first inversion serves a certain purpose in a piece, but they are quite unable to tell us why it makes us feel how it does. Even worse for those who feel compelled to label and categorize and explain, the same chord doesn't make everyone feel the same. The semiotics of music are as rich, if not richer, than those of writing. They are also much more neglected, probably because the most brilliant musicians are busy doing rather than making meta-discussions.

Eh, oh well.
 

21 Oktober: Mit Fried und Freud ich fahr dahin
They say that unfortunate events make the best stories, but it does not follow that something unfortunate is necessarily interesting. Getting four hours of sleep, for example, is unfortunate, but it is not interesting. So I don't even have that going for me. Oh well. It was still a good week, all things considered. Very busy, yes, but the thousand small obligations that make us busy at least serve to help us forget about those big obligations about which we are inclined to worry.

There are, after all, good things to be grateful for: oatmeal with brown sugar and blustery autumn days and Anglican choral music.

I don't believe I've mentioned yet here that I got a second job: more organistry, of course. It's another Lutheran church, but they don't seem very Lutheran to me. They enjoy what is known as "praise music" (which, fortunately, I have not yet had to provide) and use a projector in services. (If you are ever in a congregation that is considering obtaining one of these machines, I must advise strongly against it. Not only does it require electricity to do something entirely unnecessary, but it also serves very well to distract the congregation. If a sermon is not effective without visuals, then it's not a very effective sermon, is it? And projecting words in lieu of a hymnal has so far failed miserably: the screen doesn't change at the right speed to fit the music, and nobody--besides, hopefully, the organist--has any idea of the rhythm or tune of the hymn.) I am, however, paid very much more for this gig, so I will keep my quibbles to myself (and, transitively, to my faithful web-log). The people, at least, have been very friendly. And I suppose that's quite important.
 

17 October:
Sometimes religion is one of the most worrisome things in the world for me. Other times it is what makes life worth living. (Sadly, it also inspires usage of horrid clichés like that one there. Hopefully the benefits of religion outweigh the propensity of its adherents to speak thusly.) I don't understand this; I must be content, I suppose, to take it as it comes.

Oh, I mentioned that recital which transpired yesterevening: it went alright. (Uh, "alrightly"?) The worry beforehand must've taken a month off my life, I swear. But at least it's over. Until the next one.
 

11 October: Ich hab' Wanderlust
I'm considering going on Vienna term next year. (It is one of the reasons ich studiere Deutsch nun.) It would be an interesting experience, don't you think? I could lounge around at some Viennese café, drinking kaffee und eating sachertorte, discussing Freud and Mahler. Or, perhaps more likely, I'd get lost in one of the seedier sections of the city and get pickpocketed (that is a transitive verb, is it not?) by a gang of gypsy children with gold teeth. But then, I suppose there are plusses and mini to all places, aren't there? Walker Percy says travel is a way of transcending the ordinary, of bearing it (life, that is). I suppose he's right; certainly, many people keep traveling to avoid re-entry into a normal life. For this reason I feel a bit guilty about wanting to go; am I merely trying to avoid my problems by going somewhere else? Perhaps. But I would like to go. I get tired of feeling vaguely guilty all the time. One of these days I'm going to just ignore that voice in my head that's always telling me to stop enjoying myself. It certainly seems most other people don't have the problem of an overactive sense of dread.

Oh, by the way: if you're reading this it might interest you to know that I'm performing (half of) a piano recital this coming Tuesday at 8:00 pm. Bach will be played! By me.
 

7 October: A Grab Bag O' Blog
(That title looks likes some sort of failed palindrome...) In lieu of a proper web-log entry, I shall instead paste several aborted beginnings together. (For some reason I feel vaguely unsettled about not writing enough web-log entries. I suppose this feeling will pass eventually.) You can pretty much get the gist of what I was thinking about from the first few sentences, anyway.

I sometimes wonder whether we're meant to be happy. Our Declaration of Independence stresses our right to "the pursuit of happiness", but are we exercising it? Happiness is a surprisingly difficult thing to obtain. There are, of course, many feelings that are deceptively close to happiness, but these largely prove ephemeral and ultimately disappointing.
...
It occurs to me that I've been complaining quite a bit lately. (Actually, this thought was spurred by a story in The Onion that I read. I hope I don't end up like that guy.)
...
Rather than another tiresome entry regarding morality or ethics, or some armchair sociology, I think I'll just provide an interesting link to elsewhere: Perhaps you are aware that the English accent used in Shakespeare's day is not particularly similar to those in which his plays are performed nowadays? Well, the BBC tells us of some clever director who has decided to perform one of the Bard's plays in the original Elizabethan accent. There are audio clips!
...
I think I'll be happy when I'm done with college. I enjoy learning and all, but there is something of the contrarian in me: it's never as fun to read a book in college as it is to do it on one's own (even if I happen to learn much more in college than I would by myself). I'm not sure whether this stems from issues with authority, or what.
...
Living in close proximity to others encourages misanthropy.
 

27 September: Inconsideratity and Malicefulness
It is very easy to be inconsiderate. You see, being inconsiderate comes naturally to us, as it is merely the failure to be considerate: when we cut someone else off in traffic, or don't hold the door open for someone, or say something thoughtless (and possibly rude) without thinking, we are acting according to our nature. This is no sin (though, of course, part of becoming a civilized human being is learning to be considerate. As you no doubt are aware, most people are still in the learning process, or have decided it's a skill they'd rather not have).

Inconsiderateness is to be contrasted another sort of rudeness, malice, which is something else entirely. It is problematic for observers to separate the two, as they often have the same results, but they are clearly different things within the mind. I may forget to yield in traffic because I'm absentminded, but this is not the same thing as seeing the other car, realizing I should yield, and refusing to do so anyway because I want to be first. While inconsiderateness comes naturally, malice is something that must be practiced. It's hard to make a really cutting remark when someone peeves you unless you have some experience making really cutting remarks. If I may offer a bit of advice, I suggest that you shouldn't practice such things. There are far better things to be practiced: pianos and German verb conjugations and card tricks and tangos, for instance.
 

26 September: "... work out your own salvation with fear and trembling."
Regarding the last entry: I wonder if the sort of preaching I rail against (the "be a good person, that's enough" variety) is particularly emphasized only during the first few Sundays after college begins, to convince incoming students that the church here isn't all Uptight and Judgmental and, you know, Traditional? It certainly seems like a reasonable explanation, what with all the people who finally decide during college to stop attending church services. On one hand, I can understand the desire to have a large congregation, even though many congregants might want only feel-good theology: even if they're there for misguided purposes, it's surely better that they gain something from church, eh? But on the other hand, to provide only a happy, carefree version of Christianity--the easy stuff--would be a sort of disservice; it certainly would entail omitting centuries of Christian teachings, as well as numerous bits of the Bible--which apparently Luther thought was pretty important. This is not to say I desire to hear fire-and-brimstone sermons condemning us all to everlasting torment lest we repent; to focus solely on mankind's sinfulness is as misguided as omitting the idea of sin entirely. I guess what I'd really like to see is more of a balance between the two extremes. If there's anything Lutherans should be good at, it's balance: we're too Protestant for the Catholics, and too Catholic for other Protestants. (But then, I guess Anglicans are the same way.)
 

20 September: Is this the real "Happy Lutheranism"?
I am becoming disillusioned with the church services here on campus. Well, perhaps "disillusioned" is the wrong word; it implies I was somehow enchanted with them to begin with. Anyway, the problem is that I'm not sure I agree with the ethical teachings that are preached here. You probably are aware of Socrates's two scenarios for the relation of God(s) to Ethics: either the Ethical is Good because God says so, in which case it is dependent upon the (capricious?) will of God, or Ethics are Good independently of a God. Kierkegaard basically accepts the first scenario, though with a caveat: his notion of the 'teleological suspension of the ethical' means that Ethics can be superseded by divine mandate in certain instances. (It's far too late at night to delve into a fuller discussion of Kierkegaard, but I'll merely assume you read Fear and Trembling. You should have, anyway.)

At church here at Augustana, there is a great deal of emphasis on social justice--which I approve of, of course--but nothing said about why we should act so, besides that there's a Bible verse or two that says it's a good idea. Though we are referred to appropriate Bible passages, one gets the impression that they merely corroborate the idea that we should do good. Faith is not an issue, because here, it seems, Ethics exist independently of God. There is no teleological suspension of the ethical, because the ethical is the end-all be-all. Neither are we required to believe in paradoxes; it is sufficient for the purposes of "religion" here that Christ was merely an outstanding moral teacher, and that the sacrament of Communion is really just a commemoration of what a Nice Guy he was. Why, then, bring God into it at all? What purpose does he serve? It seems that all that is being preached is a thinly-veiled secular humanism, and if I wanted that I'd convert to Unitarianism. (A Unitarian joke I heard on A Prairie Home Companion: How do you get a Unitarian family to leave town? Burn a question mark on their lawn...)

I guess my problem, then, is that there's nothing more expected of us here than that we act "ethically"--which, mind you, is not based on anything besides what our reason tells us is ethical. Atheists can act ethically (though, it would seem, they have little incentive to do so). Religion is a sham if its only real lesson is that we should be nice to one another.
 

14 September: Rudeness
Surely it's not any news to you that there are a lot of bad drivers out there. But then, there is a difference between inexperience and rudeness. While both are troublesome, the latter I find far more objectionable. You may insert a diatribe here on declining human decency, if you like. I'd rather skip it and analyze instead why this is so. Ahem:

The problem with automobiles is that, like the internet, they provide us with a certain anonymity. The only place (and I mean "place" in a figurative sense; computer screens are not a "place" any more than googling something is "searching" for it) where people are more consistently rude than on roads is on the internet. In both, it is the case that technology has provided us with a way to avoid dealing with those people we treat so shabbily. In the absence of a community, individuals can act however they please without any real fear of reprisal. This has some benefits--for example, it provides liberation from the unjust prejudices present in some communities--but, of course, it means that everyone can act howsoever they please. (The grammarians among my readers will note the usage of singular "they". If Shakespeare and Dr Johnson used it, so will I, Strunk and White be dratted.) We have lost the burden--and the advantages--of shame. Surely there's no way of getting it back now that we've lost it. I do wonder sometimes, though, whether it might be a good idea.
 

13 September: Goodness
Allow me to offer some advice: be nice to people. Be sincerely nice to people. Be generous, be merciful. But don't do it because you feel you should. In my experience, the majority of people can somehow always tell if you're only being nice out of some sense of obligation. (But then, I have always been a bad liar; perhaps I always had just given myself away somehow.) It's really a form of dishonesty, though perhaps the most agreeable kind of dishonesty. Everyone knows how easy it is to believe we're better people than we really are, and doing good deeds when we feel like it is an easy way to convince ourselves. The most dangerous lies -- and the most difficult ones to shake off -- are those we tell ourselves.

What is to be done, then, about good deeds, at all? If, as you say, we shouldn't do them when we don't feel like it, and we should be wary about doing them when we do feel like it, when can we act good? Well, that's the problem, isn't it? But it is better, morally speaking, to be honest: even if we're helping others out when we do so out of obligation, we ourselves are not one whit better. How you view this situation depends quite a bit, of course, on your world view: if you are entirely an idealist, it is only proper that beliefs matter more than actions. If you are more pragmatic, you think of the multitudes of people in the world that are helped because someone didn't want to help, but felt obligated to do so. Shouldn't they be helped? Well, of course they should. Regardless of somebody's motives, a good deed produces a good result -- but, unless it's done sincerely, only for the receiver. (Don't confuse the momentary self-satisfaction of knowing you've done something good with the true joy of doing good. You know they're two different things.) In the best of all possible worlds (which this may or may not be), an act of goodness should be good for everyone involved.

The real question, then, is this: how can we do good things sincerely?
 

6 September: Ach
Dear me, it has been a while since my last entry. I suppose that's because I'm trying to think more and say less (with mixed success). If you are, in fact, interested in the happ'nin's of my life at the moment, suffice it to say that I'm moved in to a house on campus, where I regret bitterly the lack of air conditioning. (Whatever Mr Berry might say, it is quite difficult to sleep in such weather when one is used to cooler temperatures. Sorry, Wendell.) So far the term has been one of coming to terms with other people's behavior. Chief among my quandaries is this issue: why aren't more-intelligent people better people? (Aristotle tells us that morals are habits, not beliefs. Quite right. Whatever you believe, what difference does it make if you don't act in accordance with your beliefs?) I have always assumed that one can logically deduce what is good, what is right. Why, then, are the intelligent not necessarily more moral?

The heart of the issue, for me, is the idear that morals exist a priori, independently of any particular culture (and thus are deducible, rather than arbitrary). If they in fact do not, and if morals are merely a societal construction, than I am living under incorrect assumptions. Hopefully I am not. The last thing I need now is a paradigm shift...
 

21 August: After Pouring a Post-prandial Tipple
I go up the stairs dozens of times every day. Why, then, did I have to trip for the first time while carrying a plate of cheese and crackers? (I skinned my knee, too. It's been many years since I skinned my knee--it reminds me of elementary school.) I was all set to have a nice little snack before bed. And a nightcap. Since turning twenty-one, I have been largely unimpressed with alcohol. You see, the stuff tastes dreadful. The only drinks that taste at all palatable are those with so little alcohol in them that I might as well have punch instead. The past few nights I've been trying out various wines: Riesling is no good. The Niagara stuff I had just now is alright, but now I'm a bit dizzy. Oh dear; is this my first drunken blog entry? No, not drunken. Simply a bit dizzy. It's not an unpleasant feeling, but I feel unfocused.

Unrelated. Earlier this evening I watched two more PBS documentaries, this time about Typhoid Mary and a Romanian Village where they're proposing to put in a gold mine. Concerning the former: I wonder, should the government be able to deprive a person of liberty to protect the health of others? Perhaps. It sounds dreadfully utilitarian, I know, but it certainly makes some sense. Oh, I don't know. Concerning the latter: Romanian is quite a comely language. When one knows Spanish, listening to Romanian is a bit like an English speaker listening to Dutch or Frisian, except more so: listening attentively, one can almost understand it. (Or, at least, one gets the illusion of almost understanding it...) What do I think about the topic of the documentary? They probably shouldn't put the gold mine in. I find it difficult to believe that a predatory international corporation has the best interests of Romanian villagers at heart. Predatory international corporations are rather unpleasant things.
 

14 August: DEATH
On PBS right now: a show about "home-funerals". I find the idea very palatable. (Obviously I am intending the second definition, not the first.) It is a little bit obscene that at the moment of death we are handed over to the morticians and funeral directors--those ghouls--to be made "presentable" to those attending our funerals. If you've ever read Stiff (an entertaining look by Mary Roach at what exactly is done with dead bodies), you're quite aware that the things morticians do to us after we're dead are quite unpleasant. I would much rather have a home funeral, myself. (I am aware, of course, that once I am dead I should have very little say in the matter. But one can always express a preference, don't you think?) Another one of those many things wrong with modern society is our dissociation from death: aside from those insufferable people who wear black all the time and a few readers of Edward Gorey (the two groups are not, of course, mutually exclusive), nobody thinks much about death anymore. This is a pity, and it is probably another consequence of our society's disdain for the body. There is a pernicious Cartesian dualism at work here: our esteem for the mind and eschewal of physical labor leaves us at a loss when the corpse is all that's left. (What creeps people out about funerals? The body, of course.) To think about death--to plan for a future in which we'll be not prosperous, but dead--is considered quite morbid nowadays. I think we'd all be better off if we thought about it now and then.
 

5 August: Cheers for Geraldine McEwan, Jeers for Campus Housing
For the past two Sundays now I've been watching broadcasts of Miss Marple on the PBS show "Mystery!" (They are, of course, American re-showings of a series produced in Britain--I suppose there's not enough Americans who enjoy such things to warrant production of such a thing here. It's a pity.) I like them very much; in fact, I now want to start reading Agatha Christie novels. And I want to visit Britain. No doubt I will be dreadfully disappointed if I ever actually get there, but from everything I see on PBS it seems to be a wonderful country.

I visited the house in which I'll be staying on campus this coming school year yesterday. (Sometimes I wish English were a more efficient language. Nested prepositional phrases simply don't work unless you read them more than once, methinks. Someone should look into it.) The house is rather disappointing. For whatever ridiculous sum the college is charging my family, I'll be staying in a cramped and dingy crawl-space on the third floor of some big ugly house. It's worse than the dormitories. Still, though, it will be nice to get away from home. Sometimes we pay dearly for our liberty.
 

30 July: Some Things I'm Grateful For, and, Incongruously, a Short Jeremiad
A good day, today. For lunch I had some tasty pizza (made by a local company, huzzah), heated by my new "Pizzaz" Pizza Heater Thing (which saves quite a bit of energy compared to conventional ovens, huzzah). I then had a bottle of gourmet Root Beer (though it boasts that its ingredients are imported from all over, they are at least all natural). Thus adequately sustenated, I went into town to run errands--the bank and the library, where I picked up a copy of another Sufjan album (very enjoyable, so far).

You know, I have noticed something about the residents of Eldridge and other towns around here. It is especially noticeable after spending so much time with Chicagoan suburbanites at school: there is something in the expressions of most of the people in Eldridge, especially in the faces of the high schoolers. It is perhaps best described as a lack of curiosity: an insularity. These people are set in their ways. The outside world has no ideas worth adopting. I thought at first that this might be a virtue of their more-rural existence, but then, it isn't really a virtue, is it? Eldridgeians care no more about a truly sustainable economy (in both an environmental and commercial sense) than their urban and suburban counterparts, and they certainly are more inclined to narrow-mindedness and bigotry. Just observe the good ol' boys in the administration at the high school.

The adjective "conservative", depending on whom you ask, can have powerfully negative or positive connotations. For me, the word leaves a rather bad taste in the mouth; this is the legacy of seven years of the Bush administration. But there are conservative values that are worth saving: dedication to tradition and community, for instance. (Just ask Wendell Berry.) The problem with Eldridge--and with most American rural areas, it seems--is that so many citizens have all of the faults of conservatism (chauvinism, intolerance, and an utter lack of desire for social justice) with none of its virtues.
 

26 July: Temporis filia veritas...
Yesterday I came upon a quote by Johannes Kepler (a fascinating fellow), from the introduction to his Harmonices mundi: "God has waited six thousand years for a spectator to his work." It is an interesting idea, no?--that science is the explanation of divine processes, that physicists are, in effect, looking over God's shoulder as he choreographs the universe. This is not to say that science is secondary to faith. To claim one is above the other would be to fall prey to that false dichotomy so ubiquitous today: that there is an inherent conflict between the two. (The situation is only exacerbated by extremists on both sides. There are the "God said it, I believe it, that settles it" creationists--the less said about them, the better--and then there is Richard Dawkins, whose faux-philosophy surely cannot help his cause.)

There is certainly something beautiful in mathematics and natural philosophy: they are the only fields open to us in which we can discover universal truths. Like Galileo, "I do not feel obliged to believe that the same God who has endowed us with sense, reason, and intellect has intended us to forego their use." I have yet to see the scientific method interfere with reasonable religious beliefs. Nor is scientific canon--the revolution of the planets around the sun, the evolution of species--contradicted by the idea that there is meaning to be found in the universe. Einstein was quite right in saying "Science without religion is lame. Religion without science is blind." Why do religionists insist that to be "saved" we must be lobotomized as well? And why do some atheists equate all belief with the actions of the lobotomized few? (Ah, English does not yet have a word for overzealous atheism; it could use one.) The problem in both cases, I think, is overweening pride. A little humility would help us all.
 

24 July: Some Complaints About College
(I considered writing some more about Harry Potter, but I'd rather let you draw your own conclusions about the last book. Or, if you prefer, to ignore it altogether. Well, I do have one comment: it needed more Snape!)

Sometimes I wish I had chosen a different major. I enjoy music, but I find many musicians quite irritating. (Try going to a music store some time: the clientèle is irritating. Worst of all are the guitarists and drummers.) Also, musicians keep horrible hours. How can someone get up at ten all the time? I'd go crazy.

I've always enjoyed the study of history. (Thomas Carlyle observed that "the history of the world is but the biography of great men." While I disagree, it is clearly true that the most interesting thing about the study of history is the stories of the personalities that shaped it. Peruse these, for example.) But to major in history would mean I'd have to teach. And were I to teach it must be at a college. And were I to teach at a college... no. That would not do. I enjoy college to an extent, but I could not contend with the obnoxious personalities (snobs and blowhards), the petty department politics, and the incompetent administration. Above all, I want to avoid what Mr (not Doctor) Berry discusses in The Loss of the University: "the various disciplines have ceased to speak to each other; they have become too specialized, this separation, of the disciplines has been enabled and enforced by the specialization of their languages." I have no desire to join a culture wherein incomprehensibility becomes respectability. A few among you might opine that the only way to improve our institutions of higher learning would be to join them and work from within. But I have neither the patience nor the diplomatic skills to do such a thing. One might think that a group of such obscenely overeducated people might be able to agree on things based on the merit of a good idea, but I have not seen this happen. I am thus rather pessimistic about the fate of colleges.
 

11 July: Harry Potter & the Order of the etc.
(Non Harry Potter fans may wisely skip this entry.)
Well, I just saw it. Overall, it was not bad; it certainly was an adequate adaptation of the book--the most difficult of the books to adequately adapt, to be sure. (It's really beginning to be quite interesting to see how different directors and designers have different conceptions of Rowling's creation; I don't mind at all that there are little differences between the movies.) Here are some plusses and mini:
Good:

• The three leads are actually beginning to act. They were often dreadful in past films. Distractingly so. But they're better now.
• All of the teachers are excellent; I wish they had more screen time. Trelawney, in particular, was underutilized, especially considering her very good performance in the third film. McGonagall and Snape were particularly well done, even though they had so little to do.
• The new actors are all reasonably good. Luna and Umbridge were as close as one could expect, though I fear Bellatrix was a bit more crazy than she ought to've been.
• It was a wise move to include more of Harry & Sirius's relationship than the book does. Yes indeed.
• The movie feels like a movie, not like a book adaptation. (This is especially important, if you ask me. While I am overjoyed when a book is well adapted, I feel the first responsibility of a film is to entertain as a film. Of course, if it strays too far from the source material, then it won't be entertaining, either. It's a fine line to tread, but I think this movie tread it well enough.) The pacing was especially good, unlike all four previous films.

• The three big dramatic scenes in the book--Fred & George's escape, the scene with Umbridge and the centaurs in the forest, and Dumbledore & Voldemort's "battle royale" at the ministry--were all a little bit disappointing. Of course, there's bound to be some disappointment, since the vague nebulous ideas we have in our heads when we read can never be properly done, but still, it just seemed that there was something missing.
• Why must screenwriters include silly ubiquitous clichés? Is it so the audience can "get" them? I readily admit that much of the audience I was in "got" them and enjoyed them, but then, most people are rather stupid, it seems. It's trite, and cheap, to write in such things. (This is not to say that the film relies on tired clichés, but the fact that it includes any at all is certainly not to its credit.)

7 July: Cyanococcus and Sufjan Stevens
I worked at a blueberry farm today: first I directed traffic (there was a lot! There was quite a rush by 6:30 am, even tho' the place wasn't supposed to open 'til seven), then I ran the cash register for a bit ($1.20/lb for blueberries fresh off the plant? That's why local farmers are a good idea. Well, there are other reasons, too), then I picked some blueberries myself. The unfortunate thing about blueberry picking is that, often, the greediest, rudest people get the most. Though people are supposta stay in their own assigned area, they don't. A lot of things in life are that way. (In fact, it is the essence of capitalism, come to think of it.) What can we do?--edge in on others so we get more blueberries, too? No. Or, at least, we shouldn't.

Though I don't really approve of those types of web-logs that tell you what CD their maker is listening to, I'll tell you anyway. Today I bought an album called Illinoise, by a whimsical fellow named Sufjan Stevens, and am listening to it presently. I find it somewhat difficult to admit that something so popular can be so good. Stevens is good at writing, scoring, and performing music, and he's that rare sort of musician who has something to say that's worth listening to. Moreover, the CD is a celebration of regionalism: it's all about the history and characters and quirky features that make Illinois Illinois. It's really quite enjoyable. (How did I find a selection so different from my normal habits? Well, one of the songs on the CD was in the movie Little Miss Sunshine, which I recently saw. I liked that a lot, too.)
 

25 June: The Art of the Theatrical
The past four days I've been turning pages for the accompanist of a local theatre production of The Fantasticks; it's nice. Apparently--so I have heard--it's the kind of show that people either like very much or not at all. Fortunately I am in the former camp. (Actually, I like this musical much more than most in which I've been peripherally involved. Seeing and hearing the same show night after night, usually there's a point about a third or half-way into the second act when one gets a bit bored. That hasn't happened in this show.) It's the kind of show that relies on good actors and good music: it is not about spectacle. (Or spectacles, either.)

Sometimes I wish I could act. Or, perhaps more accurately, sometimes I wish I had tried acting when I was younger: I certainly don't think I could do it now. (There's something about being an actor that requires one to project oneself--or, at least, one's character--upon complete strangers. It is not a career well-served by introversion.) Maybe someday I'll get myself a small rôle in a community theatre production. Someday.
 

19 June:
Sorry about that last entry; I try not to be usually so grumpy. (That was a misplaced modifier, wasn't it? Or was it?)

Today I am to build a windmill. Not one of those Dutch ones, but a decorative one for our yard. (Sentence fragment, there.) What we really should be installing is a wind turbine, but I haven't yet convinced the powers that be that this is a good idea. But first, I am having a pizza, or at least half of one. They're quite good. (Ouch. I just stubbed my toe on the table as I typed that last sentence.) And later this week I must try to build some birdhouses.

Oh bother; ten minutes ago I turned the stove-top on when I meant to turn the oven on. Now I've done it. Fortunately, I haven't inadvertently incinerated anything.

At the library I picked up (along with this summer's first book club selection) a CD by the Kronos Quartet (I've mentioned them before--they collaborated for the excellent The Fountain soundtrack); I'm currently listening to a track in which they are playing with a Romanian gypsy group called Taraf de Haïdouks. It's thrilling music. I think I'll get something by the latter ensemble, too. Perhaps you'd like it as well.

No, nothing profound about this entry. I hope you're not too disappointed.

Later that day:
Well, I put that windmill together; I hurt my thumb. Oh well. And I went thistle-hunting again. You know that scene in Fantasia, in The Sorcerer's Apprentice, where Mickey chops up the brooms into little pieces, only to divide them into smaller, more persistent, brooms? That's what thistle-hunting is like. A few weeks ago I killed all the big ones, but now there's a lot more of them, and they're all smaller and more difficult to spot, and they grow faster and blossom more quickly. Curse you, Carduus nutans!
 

14 June: An Unfortunate Event
The odds were against it, but I have a knack for beating the odds when it's something unfortunate. I am among the 3-5% of patients who develop alveolar osteitis--"dry socket": the blood clot failed to form properly where they took the teeth out of my head, leaving holes in my mouth which fill with detritus which I'm unable to remove. The nerve endings are left unprotected, which has kept my jaw--as well as my ears--in constant pain. The frustrating thing is that patiently enduring it doesn't help; if I had complained earlier it would be less of a problem now. (So much for stoic tenacity.) Now it will be weeks and weeks before my mouth fully heals, and I'm still in pain. I have two Vicodin left, but I don't want to use them: I still feel morally ambiguous about the drugs. I suppose this is probably just the same stubbornness that kept me from complaining about my symptoms over the last week, but since there are only two left it wouldn't make much difference anyway.

Now would be a great time to reflect upon the redemptive nature of suffering, but the vexing thing is that I don't feel I've taken anything from this unpleasantness. I don't feel my life has been enriched; I don't feel any more human. I could understand if I were meant to somehow become a better person through this experience, but instead it just seems I've been in pain for no reason at all. (Now is the time, no doubt, when someone will tell me that I merely failed to find for myself whatever the pain should be teaching me. Bah.) I'm tired and I think if God wants to tell me something he could do it a little more audibly.

This whole wisdom teeth thing has been a wretched ordeal. Go on, accuse me of complaining.
 

11 June: de profundis
I got my wisdom teeth out on Thursday (the seventh); my mouth still hurts. The oral and maxillofacial surgeon who performed the procedure (or is it an "operation"?) gave me a prescription for Vicodin, which has been interesting. Though it takes away the pain, it has left me rather slow in the head. How on earth Dr House on that television show does all his brilliant diagnosery I have no idea. (I can now understand, though, why he's so irascible: when the stuff wears off one feels worse than before. And besides, chronic pain is a very good excuse not to be pleasant. Unfortunately, I have given in to the impulse to be a little bit nasty at moments, but everyone is very understanding, precisely because I have the excuse. Whether that's really a good enough excuse--or whether there is any excuse to be unpleasant--I am not sure.) I can't organize my thoughts, nor can I form connections or think very abstractly. And I lose my sense of balance, and my reaction time is significantly slowed. I keep forgetting words. (As a matter of fact, I'm on the stuff right now. It's quite difficult to write.) There is something very unappealing about the whole business: it seems there should be an ethical matter somewhere in there. Is it worth it to trade intellectual facility to get rid of pain? To be perfectly honest, it's really quite easy to be happy while taking Vicodin, but in my more lucid moments I realize that this temporary happiness is a mere simulacrum, at the cost of real thought. I am euphoric, but I cannot produce an original idea: I am a shell of a person, right now, as I write this, but only a small part in the back of my thoughts reminds me to be vaguely aware that it shouldn't be that way. I have nothing to contribute to anything (except, perhaps a giddily happy attitude). Some people, perhaps, prefer life that way. I just hope the pain is gone soon so I can stop taking the pills and think once more.

Forgive me if this entry is inelegant; I can't very well evaluate it clearly in this condition. Please don't construe this entry as an endorsement of substance abuse.
 

6 June: What I Heard On My Cell Phone
I received a phone call on my cell phone today. Fortunately, I wasn't in the room to hear it, and thus only heard the message left afterwards. It was left by someone quite clearly (or, if you like, dimly) inebriated: his speech was heavily slurred and he failed to formulate his thoughts into discrete sentences. For your amusement and edification I present a transcript of the message:

[Incomprehensible; a salutation, perhaps?] Um, I thought that I was gonna start tomorrow, but, uh, I had it written down as today and I just checked it, um... if you could call me back at [his telephone number], I'd appreciate it, the number again is [number], um, I'm sorry about missin' that, if you could call me I'd 'preciate it. Thank--

Being the curious sort, I am left to wonder: what sort of job was this fellow hired to do? Will he ever get in contact with the person he intended to call this morning? If so, will he be hung-over when he speaks with the person? It may turn out that by the time he is alert enough to realize he called the wrong phone, he may be sober. Perhaps he will still be hired; who knows? In any case, I rather hope he's not doing one of those jobs upon which other people's safety depends.
 

5 June: Thistles
Over the past week I've been roaming throughout our pasture, hunting and destroying thistles (in this case, Carduus nutans). In many ways, it's like invading Iraq: you can kill as many thistles (Iraqi insurgents) as you like, but there will always be more. At first, a few cats (erm, Spaniards and Poles?) will follow you out into the field, but eventually they'll quit and go back to the barn (Europe). The best way to solve the problem, in any case, is prevention: to stop the appearance of thistles (insurgents), you have to get rid of the conditions that are nurturing them. (If only we could solve the mess in Iraq by better soil management!) The analogy isn't perfect, though: in the pasture it's the thistles that are an invasive species, not me.
 

4 June: Summer
For all the fretting I do about not (yet!) having a summer job, I must admit that I enjoy this time of year. Summer is the time for ice cream socials in the park, under the maple trees, with the band playing Sousa; it is the time for community theatre musicals, which, though perhaps quite mediocre, are still enjoyable because you know people in them; it is the time when I have time to read the books I want to read, when someone isn't grading my comprehension and I can truly enjoy literature and music because they are beautiful, not merely Things I Should Know. I have time to regard the endless changefulness of the clouds, to contemplate the sunset and the moonrise. The pleasures of summer are such that I am inspired to write some bad poetry; don't worry, I shall stick to prose.

Today I went over to a friend's house, and we entertained ourselves with a little spinet piano and songbooks. It's a lovely experience, to make music purely for enjoyment. I wonder if the Schubertiaden were anything like it. I could, I suppose, protest here against the commercialization of music-makery, the decline of folk music, and growing ignorance of all but the worst dreck that comes from cocaine-addled producers in New York and Los Ángeles, but I think I've done so before. All I shall do is encourage you to enjoy some music; regardless of talent, everyone should actively partake in it.
 

26 May: Books I Really Should Have Read by Now
Again and again we are confronted with the massiveness of our own ignorance. (It is my intention here to employ the pluralis modestiae; I haven't yet adopted the royal plural.) Upon reading a correspondent's 'blog I was reminded of the many books I should have read if I am to consider myself a well-informed person. The most pressing ones, which, hopefully, I will read this summer, are Brave New World, Fahrenheit 451, and Middlemarch. There's also the book club selections to consider; we might read something by Walker Percy and then some other stuff. Hopefully I have set reasonable expectations for myself. Were I to read more, I suppose I'd have to consider those authors whose names I keep coming upon, but whose works I've never actually read. Many of them are dead Englishpeople, it seems: Jane Austen, the Brontës, Chesterton, Kipling, D.H. Lawrence, Thackeray, Trollope. There are some Continentals: Proust, Marguerite Yourcenar, Goethe, Dostoevsky, Tolstoy. And last, the Americans: Flannery O'Connor, Hemingway, Steinbeck, Eudora Welty. I write these down in order to remind myself in the future that I still haven't read them; in some cases, it's rather embarrassing. If you recommend some others, or would warn me against any of these, feel free to drop me a line.

In the past, this process of better-informing my person has been at times painful; perhaps the only reason I finished Heart of Darkness was out of a sense of duty to... to what, exactly? To the guardians of Western Culture? Who on earth are they? And yet it would be indulgent to only read things I enjoy; there's far too much emphasis on enjoyment as it is. (But then, at least I'm reading things instead of watching the movie version.)
 

25 May: North Carolina, and Garrison Keillor Again
I just got back from the family vacation to North Carolina, and I was reading Lake Wobegon Days (which I bought for a dollar at a library sale) on the way. I shall deal with them separately.

We stayed near Cashiers (/ˈkæʃɚz/, not /kæˈʃɪɹz/; hopefully you have the proper font installed to read that), North Carolina, right up near the Eastern Continental Divide (Oh, how interesting are drainage patterns! I mean that sincerely). It's a nice area, certainly much better than Atlanta, to which our flight took us. (That is a ghastly city: all ten-lane highways and S.U.V.s and chain restaurants and suburbs and kudzu.) The mountain air is intensely fresh, and there are many many trees; the roads, though, are dangerously winding. All throughout an excessively fast bus tour I feared I would end up dead at the bottom of a ravine in a tour bus full of a bunch of senior citizens.

If I may be so presumptuous as to play sociologist, I observed that there are three types of people in the area: 1) natives--that is, Appalachian folk-- 2) vacationers and second-home owners--mostly old people who have far too much money-- and 3) Latinos, who do most of the menial and manual labor. Whereas the natives are deeply attached to the land, the latter two groups are placeless people: they're the sort who espouse a lifestyle Mr Bill Kauffman speaks so vociferously against. (Oh, did I mention I read his Look Homeward, America? You should read it.) Far from being invested in the area, they are either in North Carolina to enjoy the money they gained by exploiting people elsewhere, or are being exploited in North Carolina to make money to send elsewhere: either way, the communities of North Carolina are not truly benefiting from them. (I find my attitudes towards immigrants, legal and illegal, are perhaps changing. How, indeed, is our country helped by people who have no connection to any particular place here? Migrant workers are just another symptom of the deplorable rootlessness of our society.) But I digress. That area of North Carolina is quite pleasant still--I saw only one Wal-Mart--and I recommend it.

On to Garrison Keillor, again: I enjoyed Lake Wobegon Days quite a bit more than last summer's Keillor selection, Lake Wobegon Boy. (Of course, they're both pretty much about the same stuff, but I enjoy the variety of the former more than the focusedness of the latter.) It's made me laugh more than any other book in years. Whatever you think of Keillor himself, you must admit he has a deep understanding of small-town life. Whether or not his opinion of it is admirable is something I'm still working out. In Lake Wobegon we see something very close to Wendell Berry's ideal America, a real community: they grow gardens, they buy local, they all know each other and help their neighbors out in times of trouble. Under Keillor's lens, they can be foolish, repressed, hypocritical and small. (I think there is little doubt that small-town folk can be this way. But is it a necessary trade-off, I wonder?) Observing Keillor's actions, one might conclude that he's had enough of small-town America: with his third wife, he splits his time between his mansion in St. Paul and his 3.5 million dollar apartment in Manhattan. Jane Smiley has written that Keillor "seemed to set himself up in a sort of loving opposition to Midwestern values. He'd hold up these values for amusement and you had the feeling that while he was aware of their virtues, he didn't precisely share them." For all the positive qualities he gives his rural characters, his own life suggests their negatives outweigh all their positives. Berry would disagree. Should I? I don't know. I, too, am aware of the faults of these conservative country folk; can one live their way of life without adopting their worldviews?

By the way, dear reader: I hope you enjoyed this rather lengthy web-log entry; I put several hours into it as a little act of penance for the ten days of quiet. Or perhaps you enjoyed the quiet more.
 

15 May: 25 Floréal
I'm supposed to be writing my (20-page!) final paper for that European women's history class I'm taking. (The class is about the history of European women, that is; it's not intended to be taught only to European women. Though they might enjoy it more.) Instead of doing that, I'm getting sidetracked by interesting tidbits from French history. Did you know that the revolutionaries of 1789 instituted a new calendar system? It's sorta interesting. They made up their own month names and everything, and insisted on using decimal time. Viewing the Catholic calendar of saints' days as ridiculous, they proceeded to instead dedicate each day to a certain plant, animal, mineral, or farming implement. They actually did a pretty good job of assigning things, come to think of it. My birthday, the ninth day of the first décade of Thermidor, is dedicated to the blackberry. It could be worse: I could have been born on 25 Fructidor--crayfish--or 8 Nivôse--manure!
 

11 May: A Farewell to Dorms
Finally moving out of the dormitory tomorrow. I will not miss sharing a floor with a bunch of... such folk. (I thought a while for an appropriate word to sum up my especially low opinion of the majority of the people who have lived on my floor, but words fail me.) I very much am looking forward to moving back to the country: I miss the cleaner air and the quiet and my cats. Country life, I dare say, is good for one's morality. I don't mean to sound puritan, but it certainly is easier to be a better person when one isn't surrounded by worse persons.
 

8 May: Among the Greeks
Went to a Greek restaurant today with my grandmother. (Excellent gyros, but the serving size was really quite ridiculously big.) At the table next to us, rather unsurprisingly, was a bunch of Greeks. One of them was apparently a(n Orthodox) priest; he was discussing church doctrine a bit.

Allow me to digress. It is interesting to compare all the quarreling factions of Christianity. Lutherans, like all other mainline Protestants I know, have no sense of the holy. That is not to say they don't profess to believe in holy things, but one never gets the impression from them that these things are really present. The Lutheran sacraments are just another ritual, to be done as stoically as singing a hymn or putting a dollar in the collection plate. Many Roman Catholics, from my experience, have a true reverence for what they consider sacred. The Mass, for those Catholics who come out of more than a simple obligation, is a sincere rite. Whereas the Lutheran pastor is just a layman who happens to wear a funny outfit every Sunday and learnt some Greek in college, the Catholic priest is an "other". (Do Catholics go golfing with their priests?) He is respected, surely, but then, one sometimes gets the sense among some Catholics that Church is for priests, not for them. (And yet they still attend every Sunday! Why?)

I have very little experience with the Orthodox. But I got the impression in the restaurant today that, although they do indeed have a sense of the sacred, their priests are not "others". How do they do this? It is much easier to delegate holiness to a distinct class, or to do without it altogether: how do the Greeks balance a sense of the divine with the idea that priests are a part of the community?
 

7 May: The Thrill of the Hunt
The last two weekends we've been going morel-hunting; for those of my readers with adequate reserves of gumption and sticktoitiveness, I recommend it highly. The morel is indeed an insidious quarry: to hunt him requires utmost craftiness. There is not one single negative thing about the entire experience, unless you don't like to get a bit muddy. Not only were we getting exercise in springtime in the woods and some entirely natural food (sans packaging, preservatives, or a trip from Chile via cargo ship and semi truck), but we did it at the ancestral farm (which is now my uncle's). I wonder if Mr Berry has ever gone morel-hunting? (Oh, and the morels are delicious, too. Provided you wash them and fix them properly. Even then, they are still a little bit gritty, but tolerably so.)
 

3 May: Tell it, Barthes
I've been listening to Górecki's Third Symphony again. (If you haven't yet heard it, you should.) The nature of the piece is such that one forgets about Górecki himself entirely while listening to it: the music and the message of the text become primary. All the greatest art has this quality. One of the (many) reasons there are so few artists of true genius produced nowadays is that nearly everyone is obsessed with their own ego: for the vast majority of artists, creating a symphony--or a novel or a sculpture, for that matter--is a matter of expressing oneself. Expressing oneself--what does that even mean? What's so special about yourself that you feel it necessary to express it upon other people? The twentieth century (and the twenty-first, most likely, too) was filled with artists of some talent but such enormous egos that they never created anything greater than their own selves. (It seems visual artists are especially prone to this. I wonder why.) No: art is about the expression of something beyond a single self. Roland Barthes was quite right when he wrote about the death of the author. We must also have the death of the painter, and of the composer. (Not literally, of course.) Let us return to the days of anonymous geniuses. Keep Shakespeare's very identity questionable: Lear will lose none of its greatness. Let the Psalmist remain unknown: Psalm 104 will endure.
 

27 April: How Religion is Out to Get You
Whether or not you realize that Christopher Hitchens is an arrogant schmuck, you must admit he makes for entertaining reading. The quality of his writing is really quite good; it's the content I don't much care for. Over at Slate they're advertising his newest book by providing excerpts; basically, his thesis is that Religion Poisons Everything. Go ahead, read his article. (Here and here are two more excerpts, on Islam and Mormonism, respectively.) Whatever your beliefs, it's worth taking his words into consideration. I suppose the major error he makes is so wholeheartedly assuming an "us vs. them" attitude; for Mr Hitchens, it seems, all religions are equally misguided, and all religious folk are equally foolish and hypocritical.

I am certainly not prepared (or willing) to present a defense of religion; indeed, some of his objections are quite well-founded. What bothers me especially, though, is his sense of persecution: in Mr Hitchens's world, religious people (led, no doubt, by the Pope, the Dalai Lama, and their unholy alliance of all adherents of every religion united as one) are "planning your and my destruction, and the destruction of all the hard-won human attainments". Who told him? Well, the secret's out, I suppose. How will Religion achieve its plans for World Domination now?

One wonders whether Mr Hitchens is simply trying to sell his books by substituting sensationalism for reasonable argument, or whether he is truly this paranoid.
 

24 April: The Man in the Mackintosh
It is a symptom of our way of living that we see dozens of people every day whom we recognize at once yet do not know the names of. In some cases, there is a sort of nervous familiarity between two such "acquaintances"; in other cases, there is nothing but antipathy, or perhaps a mild dislike. What is to be done about this? We can't go about introducing ourselves to everyone; it's simply not done, and besides that, it's rather irritating. I don't care for the sort of person who feels obligated to be friends with everyone: such people have dangerously low self-esteem if they cannot allow themselves to have non-friends. Indeed, everyone should have enemies. Not necessarily arch-nemeses, mind you, but the only way to avoid having enemies is to avoid voicing any sort of opinion. Opinions are very important things to have!

So, to conclude, there is nothing to be done about this. In fact, there was very little point in writing about it. But there you are; perhaps I managed to distract you for a minute or two. That's just about all the internets is good for, anyway.
 

16 April: Let Us Go, Then
I'm tired of this. I'm tired of living in a dorm where the lights are always on, where I don't know the names of the people in the room next to mine. I'm tired of eating in a cafeteria where the (unsatisfying) food was grown in California and processed to last five months on a shelf and then shipped by semi-trailer truck so that some poorly-paid woman (whose name I do not know) can heat it up and serve it to me. I'm tired of how the workmen on campus can never manage to drive their trucks on the sidewalks without driving over and destroying all vegetation alongside the concrete. I'm tired of the beer cans I see in the Slough every morning. I'm tired of being taught how to identify the first inversion of a secondary dominant chord but not knowing how to prune a fruit tree. I do not want to have wasted four years of my life here at college if I am being trained for a job that will require me to move away from all the people I know. (How inappropriate that I should learn the value of community at an institution full of people most of whom I shall never see again! It is farcical.)

So yes; Mr Berry did have some effect on me. It is a matter of waiting, now, I suppose, until I can go and do something. (Something besides turning lights off and growing a garden, that is.) Church music is not a labor-intensive career: it would be possible to do both that and some agriculture, I think. But, how to start?
 

14 April: Wendell Berry Tomorrow
I am quite excited to tell you that tomorrow, if all things go according to plan, I will be attending a lecture by Mr Wendell Berry of Kentucky. If I am thoroughly convinced by him, this shall be my last web log entry; doubtless I shall get rid of my computer, quit college and buy some acres of farmland. Failing that, I hope at least to hear an interesting speech by one of the few people alive today that has something worth saying. I suspect that, as half of the people who read this blog will also be going to the lecture, it would be silly to promise a summary and some reflections on my part after the event. We shall see.

It so happened that, as I was browsing the internet to refresh my understanding of Mr Berry, I stumbled upon a quotation--there, see, I do know the proper word--of his:

Distraction is inimical to discipline.

I recently discovered the music of Edward Elgar; it's really very good. (Yes; he's the one who wrote that one march you always hear at graduations, but don't hold that against him.) His "Variations on an Original Theme" (called in ordinary parlance the "Enigma Variations") are remarkable; you've probably heard the ninth one somewhere or other. In any case, if you're ever able to pick up a value-priced recording of Elgar works you should do so without hesitation. Perhaps Berry would forgive us that distraction.
 

13 April: So it goes
Had breakfast in the cafeteria this morning, alone. (Why is it that so many people consider eating alone sure proof of unpopularity, anti-social behavior and depression? I like eating alone; I'm getting a little bit tired of well-meaning individuals who ask me to eat with them because I "look lonely".) Anyway, I was listening--against my inclinations--to the conversations of my fellow breakfast-eaters. I present here, for what I hope will not be your amusement and edification, a transcript of the majority of these conversations. The dialogues between males and the dialogues between females were nearly the same, except males append the word "dude" to the end of every other sentence.

Scene: Vladimir and Estragon are seated at a table, eating breakfast.
Vladimir: What's up?
Estragon: Nuthin' much. You?
Vlad.: Aw, nuthin'.
[Vlad. et Estr. remain seated for fifteen more minutes, chewing noisily.]
Exeunt omnes.

What bothers me most is that these are, without exception, college students; college should be teaching these people how to make good--or, at least, interesting--conversation. Kierkegaard purportedly said, "It is not enough to be wise, one must be engaging." (Searching the internet, I have been unable to find a source for the quote; irredisregardless, it is a good quote. Or, erm, quotation.) But Augustana has failed to make the people I heard during breakfast either wise or engaging: they have nothing worth saying, but they are saying it. ("And that is poetry", as John Cage would say. But it isn't, though.)
 

7 April: Eostre
I happen to like the liturgical year. In today's modern society, what with its food processors and automatic garage door openers and Game Boys and fondue pots, we often tend to lose the rhythm of the seasons. Sure, we notice when it's too hot or cold outside, but the seasons don't really affect us much. We aren't in tune with these natural processes, and that's a pity. The church year serves, at least, to remind us of these rhythms.

The problem with being a church musician is that this calendar is a bit skewed: we're always required to be practicing for the next holiday that comes around; during Epiphany, I was learning Lenten pieces. While everyone was in Lent, I was already at Easter. And so on. Now, on to the Ascension and Pentecost.

Well; tomorrow's the big day. Easter, so far, has largely escaped most of the crass materialism that took over Christmas. Bunnies just aren't as marketable as Christmas trees, I guess. I wonder: why do people who don't usually go to church bother coming at Easter? At Christmas they come for the sentimental value, I suppose, but why Easter? It's not nearly as important a holiday in American culture--precisely because it isn't as marketable, presumably.

Tomorrow we'll see if those Lutherans have any life in them: if they can't sing loudly on Easter Sunday then I shall have to give up hope on them.
 

31 March:
I wish I had a camera; the scene outside my window is absolutely surreal. It's raining heavily, with lightning, but looking westwards one sees the sun, brightly yellow under the dull purple clouds. Ah; now it's done.

What it is about us humans that makes us capable of wonder? I've never seen a cat pause to watch a sunset. It seems that mankind is capable of a whole range of emotions that are absent from the animal kingdom. Why? Simply some more complex neurological processes in our brains? But why, then?-- what evolutionary purpose would that serve? (Mind you, I fully support the teaching of evolution; "intelligent design" is an insult to the intellect. Not a good insult to the intellect, either, like Kierkegaard's paradoxes; it's just stupid.)
 

23 March:
Well, this certainly has been a horrible week. (Though they're certainly better-behaved than, say, actors, musicians can be huffy, too. This week, and this day especially, has been an exercise in dealing with such behavior.) But school's over now, at least 'til Monday. And that CD I ordered has arrived. And I went to Wendy's again; oh well. However much we may disdain aesthetic pleasures, they certainly are nice after a week such as this. Did Kierkegaard ever treat himself to a nice meal and a concert? I wonder.
 

19 March: A Sloe Gin Fizz, Please
I'm re-reading Walker Percy's Lost in the Cosmos. Few books I have read have been so remarkably apt. Yes, that's the word. Apt. If you don't already have it, you must buy it. Now. I'll wait.

...

Well, now that that's taken care of, it'll be a few days before your copy arrives. In the meantime, I might as well discuss it a bit. (There was once a time when I thought "discussion" means two people are involved. However, etymologically, the root di- has nothing to do with it. Thanks, Online Etymology Dictionary!) The fascinating thing about Walker Percy is that he knows a great deal about semiotics; much of Lost in the Cosmos concerns this. (Don't worry, it's not at all tedious. He manages to make semiotics relevant to everyone.) Basically, humans are unique because we can form triadic relations between objects: in comprehending things, we assign a semiotic value to objects. A tree is not just a tree; it's also the word "tree". But then, there is a very big problem in this, he says: there is no ready-made signifier to apply to our own selves. Semiotically, the human self is the most foreign thing in the cosmos for us. Where Percy goes from here is really quite fascinating; I won't spoil it for you. I will merely say that very many pages of Lost in the Cosmos contain a "why yes, that is true!" moment. The ratio of "why yes, that is true!" moments to pages is remarkably high when one considers how eminently readable the book is. So I'm sure you'll be very happy when your edition arrives in a few days since you just took the time to order it. Or, I guess you could go to a bookstore or something.
 

11 March: Peripateticism

All this walking has made me think: you know, it wouldn't be such a bad job, being a mailman. (Hmm. What a redundant job title...) The walking must be good, and I already don't care for dogs much. People are always complaining how civil servants are overpaid; I wonder, are mailmen?

I may be peripatetic, but I'm not Peripatetic. The capitalization makes a big difference, no?
 

9 March: Majors, Evaluated
Well, new term: new classes. I'm in the sixth (and final!) installment of Musicianship, a Spanish conversation class, and a history class: Women in Europe since 1800. Why women need their own history class I do not yet know; doubtless I shall find out. With every class that is specialized for one major or another that I take, it becomes more and more evident that the vast majority of students are far too specialized (to use a term that might sound complimentary. A more accurate term might be "ignorant"). History majors know facts and dates, but lack the philosophy and literature needed to put these dates in any sort of meaningful context. Spanish majors, if they can speak the language, have little, if anything, worth saying in it. Music majors can (sometimes) play one instrument or another, but don't know the historical context of each music period, nor do they know the philosophy of art. Philosophy majors, though perhaps better off as a whole, are unprepared by their education to do anything outside a college campus: how many philosophers become scientists, or architects, or farmers? Not many, it seems. In my experience it is the English majors who are most culturally literate, and they can do something useful--if reading and writing are useful. I daresay they are. I should have been an English major; I would have, I think, were it not for the essays. Writing essays is perhaps the most unpleasant thing I must do with any regularity. Por lo menos los ensayos que se requieren en la especialidad española son más breves.
 

3 March: Of the crooked timber of humanity, no straight thing can ever be made
I am starting to hate going out in public. My family and I went to Azteca (one of my very favorite restaurants--Mexican, of course--), but it was full of drunks and urchins. Honestly, why can't people control their children? It's not that they were unable to do so; they weren't even trying. And how can people be drunk in public--have they no dignity? We then went grocery shopping: more stupid people. Ugh. (On a related note, did you know that the first google result for misanthropy is its Wikipedia article? Does that mean that most people googling the word are looking for its definition? Man, people are idiots.) Perhaps I should read some Schopenhauer.

Unrelated. You know, we tend to take gravity for granted. I was ruminating today that gravity, though it limits us in a way, is far more beneficial than inconveniencing. I propose a Gravity Appreciation Day, when we can sit back and reflect upon the many years of useful service that gravity has given us. The date for this celebration is, logically enough, Newton's birthday, the fourth of January. (Surely there can be no greater climax to the holiday season than, uh, Gravity Appreciation Day?) Searching Google, I was dismayed to find that I am not the first to propose such a thing; however, the others who have typed the phrase don't seem to have quite the same thing in mind. Besides, they don't seem as articulate, either.

Unrelated. It seems Switzerland's plans to take over the world have begun to be enacted. So it begins...
 

21 February: Miércoles de Ceniza
Ash Wednesday today. Ever since I read One Hundred Years of Solitude I always think of those fellows in that story whose ashen crosses somehow become permanent; as it so happens, they are eventually hunted down and killed for some reason. I hope that never happens to me.

I'm in a mysteriously happy mood, for it being the beginning of Lent and all. Perhaps it's the spring-like weather we've been having. I don't know whether I'll give up anything in particular for Lent. Some guy they mentioned in today's service apparently had some pretty good advice to give about fasting and such: "When you fast, do not look gloomy like the hypocrites. They neglect their appearance, so that they may appear to others to be fasting. ... But when you fast, anoint your head and wash your face, so that you may not appear to be fasting, except to your Father who is hidden." (I wonder, it is some sort of sacrilege to skip over part of the words of Christ? One presumes it's all supposed to be rather important...) There you have it: Jesus says it's okay to dress nicely during Lent. Which I intend to do. (Too many college students are slobs, have you noticed?) Lent shouldn't be about giving something up (which, if I do, I have no intention of telling anyone about; even you, dear reader). It should be about focusing on what's important. Whatever that happens to be.
 

19 February:
What am I doing? I feel like I'm not really living life. Well, let me clarify: of course I am alive, that is, living, and thus partaking in life, but I feel that I could be doing this better. What have I been doing for the past six months that I'll look back on and say, "ah, yes, those were the days"? Not much. I'm more knowledgeable now than I was six months ago, of course, but in the grand scheme of things that seems rather unimportant. Perhaps I should have joined the Peace Corps. No, that's a terrible idea; I cannot imagine doing well in some miserable little village in the Nicaraguan jungle, helping out at a clinic somewhere, batting off the flies that keep pestering me, sick with dysentery from bad drinking water, trying to put on a brave face for the dirt-poor malnourished villagers even though their nation is being exploited by huge American fruit companies who are supporting the dictatorial règime that continues to oppress the working classes while dining upon fine pineapple on crystal plates in a palace in Managua built by enslaved Mayan labor for the Conquistadors who conquered the region in the 1520s as a part of their efforts to link the two great Spanish colonies of México (Nueva España) and Perú, in order to shore up control of the southern Americas for Spain with the notable exception of Brazil (though that was eventually absorbed into the Spanish Empire with the dynastic union of Spain and Portugal in the year 1580). No, the Peace Corps is not for me.
 

15 February:

Richard Dawkins sez faith is the great cop-out. Is it? I certainly find faith more difficult than non-belief; for me, it seems far easier to accept that the universe is devoid of meaning. What cause is there for pain in a universe without meaning? None: in such a place, our thoughts and feelings are merely random firings of neurons. A hopeless, joyless nihilism, though perhaps unpopular, is quite sustainable.

The sort of blind faith in dogma--without true charity, or even respect for our fellow human beings--is nothing I want to be a part of. But then, these asinine scientists, who ridicule religion to sell books, are no better. (There's a good quote attributed to Umberto Eco [an agnostic]: "one should not have the arrogance to declare that God does not exist.") I want a tertium quid: a medium between fatuous belief and fatuous unbelief.
 

13 February:
There are few beverages like chocolate milk, especially if it's natural, non-treated-with-artificial-growth-hormones milk. And it's served in a glass bottle, which really does make a difference. I examined this bottle to find there's a website on it: http://www.heartland-ministries.org/. Turns out it's some sort of religious organization that also happens to, uh, be a creamery on the side? I don't know what to make of this.
 

5 February: "There is no intellectual exercise which is not ultimately useless."
Been reading Borges again; it's a shame nobody else does. Then again, there is a certain private satisfaction in reading something excellent that no one else around me takes any interest in. (Er... in which no one else around me takes interest?) Nevertheless, I shall recommend these short stories to you, dear reader. They aren't very long, and if you dislike them then simply never mention it. These three are probably Borges' best-known works, so you should have read them anyway. Or, if you are lazy, pass them over. In silence, if you like. Or noisily.

• The Library of Babel (or, here, the original Spanish version)
• Tlön, Uqbar, Orbis Tertius (Spanish)
• Pierre Menard, author of The Quijote (Spanish)

I'm supposed to be thinking of a topic for another seven-to-ten-page paper, but I can't think of anything. I know there are good topics, but the inspiration hasn't come. It's frustrating: there are vast unexplored landscapes and cities and seas of thought and I am stuck here in this rut, without a sensible idea. I fear I shall end up writing on Borges and ruining his works; few things take the fun out of a book like writing a mediocre essay on it.
 

3 February: Hobnobbery
Yesterday the college music faculty here put on their little concert for prospective music honors scholarship students. (I was the page turner for the pianists, who made up a good four-sevenths of the program. It is a glorious job, page turning; one gets all the applause without having to do all the tedious practicing. The only things one must be good at are turning pages and being inconspicuous, so one must be careful not to have sticky fingers or brown shoes and black pants. If only there were a salary...) The parents of these honors scholarship students are wealthy suburbanites who want their progeny to go to some nice liberal-arts school. Obviously the students themselves are not extremely talented, or else they'd be going somewhere more prestigious. While Augustana's music program isn't bad, it certainly is no conservatory. Observing the parents, one gets the impression that they are confident--if not arrogant--people who are accustomed to having their way. They also are ignorant of music etiquette, it seems: they clap between movements of pieces. I don't know whether I'm glad or not that my own origins aren't like this. (Of course, my family also is largely ignorant of music etiquette, but they are at least humbler than the suburbanites. Not to mention poorer.) I suppose it is better not to take anything for granted. Adversity can make us better people, it is said. But then, how much adversity should one undergo? Should we give up our money and become homeless?
 

30 January: The God Who Loves You
I'm depressed for two reasons: 1) I wrote (that is, I wrote, with a pen) a clever blog entry I intended to type up but I lost it. Maybe I'll find it someday, but by then it will be stale. 2) I am pessimistic about our species; it seems like the impact of bad people will always outweigh that of good people. Three. Three reasons. 3) I feel like I am wasting countless opportunities. Who knows how many choices I make every day are for the worse? Read this poem; you might understand. Oh, don't worry: I didn't write it myself.
 

17 January: But enough about you; let's talk about me
I find myself talking about myself in conversation far more than I really like. But then, oftentimes I don't know what else to discuss. That must be the problem: I don't have enough material going into conversations. I must remedy this. I'll hope you don't mind my mentioning it here (the whole blog is all about me, right?); I need to commit such thoughts to some medium to give them a reality outside my head. Otherwise I forget them. That's mostly the reason I write these journal entries, anyway: I'm rather curious what I'll think of them in a few years.

I went to a recital tonight: the pianist looked unnervingly like Virginia Woolf (or, at least, she would have if she'd dyed her hair darker and worn brown contacts). And a few years ago I saw a man in traffic that looked an awful lot like James Joyce. I wonder if this is some sort of insanity that I have, seeing modernist authors wherever I go...

I dislike it when entries have an overabundance of colons and semicolons. This one does.
 

14 January: Snow
The people who live above my room are idiots. There is no nicer way to put this. They are very loud and rude and inarticulate and they stay up very late and keep me from sleep. But now, as I sit alone in my room, listening to good music, looking through the window while the world outside is covered with snow, I am still content. There are still small pleasures, even if there are people who make this world a worse place. There will always be.

Ah; my roommate has returned. I guess I should try and get some sleep. We cannot live for ourselves alone, after all.
 

12 January: Opera
Went to the opera this past evening. It (Carmen, performed by the local opera company) was pretty good. Musical entertainment certainly is an effective way to forget oneself, if only for a few hours. Nearly all the clientele that the opera attracts appear to be well-to-do, intellectual, college-educated people who are forty or older. They are almost all quite pleasant; it makes one wonder whether an education does make people better people. (But then, I'm sure educated Nazis went to their [non-degenerate] opera and were polite, too. Except to Jews, I suppose.) Or perhaps it's just that people who like opera happen to be pleasant.
 

8 January: Flatland and Plato
I firmly believe that it is in the reading of good writing that we ourselves become better writers. While I make no claim as to the quality of my writing, I must say that I certainly am compelled to write more since I've been reading (and writing that essay on) Flatland. It is, quite simply, a friggin' brilliant book. As this is the fourth time I've mentioned it on my web-journal, I shall refrain from doing so in the future. But, anywho, it's made me think. I present here a few thoughts I managed to get down on paper (for, believe it or not, I actually planned this log entry in the corporeal world before committing it to the ether).

Flatland is, in my reading, as much a spiritual quest as it is a mathematical one. Of course, the nature of books is such that we read our own desires and prejudices into them. (One measure of a book's excellence, like that of a fine piece of music, is how many varying interpretations it can undergo and yet still remain ineffable.) In any case, it has encouraged in me certain latent Platonist tendencies.

I sometimes take comfort in the idea that all the unpleasantness of this life is but a dream, a perturbation on the lid of a sleeper's eye. It is in the apprehension of ideas that we glimpse reality, if only imperfectly. I myself am happiest when contemplating the ideal forms of existence. God is indeed an abstraction; his presence is approximated to us through our religions. Whether Christ was indeed as dogma states, we cannot know, except by faith. But as a representation he is our epitome of goodness, mercy, and love.
 

4 January: Regarding an Essay Which I Am, at Present, Writing
I'm in the process of writing an essay; it's not as bad as it sounds. I am, at least, interested in the topic I chose: a discussion of Flatland (which I've mentioned twice before on this blog, if my memory serves). When I thought of the topic I'm writing about (how the book is useful for us as we try to wrap our heads around higher dimensions, though not, of course, literally), I was excited because it's the sort of thing I don't often think of. But upon researching for the essay, I find that many many math nerds have already written books on exactly what I thought was so interesting. I am thus reduced to rehashing what someone else has already said; it's a bit discouraging. My only hope, then, is to write it better than the math nerds. It wouldn't be a bad job, writing books about complicated or dull subjects for laypeople in order to make such things interesting for such people.