Thanks for Frog Hospital.
"Gavin is 28 and the world is still young."
Wish I had written that.
Wish I had written that.
14th century Bologna.
Ahh....
Bring on the vino rosso!
But the devil is in the details...
Until 1750, half of humankind died by age 8.
Until 1850, humans lived half their lives with toothache.
I doubt there is an Armageddon Cheerleader who can hold these facts in steady view. (Such inconvenient truths conjure too many theological quandaries.)
Jenny McCarthy: Poster Girl For Self-Terrorization
"The Saved!" believe that when Jesus' returns, he will sweep them into heaven. (My former Catholic pastor said that when Jesus returned he would not visit our church but would make a bee-line to "the other side of the tracks.")
Better yet (?) Jeus will thrust "the others" (the infidels, the non-believers) into The Unquenchable Lake Of Fire where their fourth degree burns will be renewed, instant-by-instant, in perpetuity.
Thank you Jesus!
Thank you Jesus!
We are continually reminded that "God loves you."
But would not a God worthy of respect (much less love) let "the damned" pass out of existence?
Do not compassion and mercy require it?
James' Epistle: "Judgment Without Mercy Will Be Shown To Anyone Who Has Not Shown Mercy"
Gehenna - "the Jewish hell" of Jesus' time -- was a 12 month period of purgation corresponding to Kaddish and the prescribed year-long mourning cycle. http://www.myjewishlearning.com/article/heaven-and-hell-in-jewish-tradition/
G.K. Chesterton On Charity, Hope And Universal Salvation
G.K. Chesterton On Charity, Hope And Universal Salvation
I should read a chapter of Knausgaard's book but even now suppose my preference for "The Quotidian."
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/My_Struggle_(Knausg%C3%A5rd_novels)
What Is The Struggle In "My Struggle?"
The New Yorker
Great reflection on Ernest, the Bulawayo Garden Boy!
Elsewhere, I was surprised by your simple reference to "Precious Mataka, the African woman I should not have married."
Elsewhere, I was surprised by your simple reference to "Precious Mataka, the African woman I should not have married."
Please publish Ernest's photo.
Pax tecum
Alan
PS It is highly advisable to read the great Russian novelists. Increasingly, my friends turn to Audible.com as an enjoyable way to visit the world's literary giants. With that in mind, I also believe that citizenship obliges study of the madness, paranoia, denial-of-truth, ubiquitous conspiracism, epistemology's demise and America's ferocious determination "to be lied to" - a phenomenon that cannot be understood in the absecne of Their Satanic Majesties, Trump and Putin
PS It is highly advisable to read the great Russian novelists. Increasingly, my friends turn to Audible.com as an enjoyable way to visit the world's literary giants. With that in mind, I also believe that citizenship obliges study of the madness, paranoia, denial-of-truth, ubiquitous conspiracism, epistemology's demise and America's ferocious determination "to be lied to" - a phenomenon that cannot be understood in the absecne of Their Satanic Majesties, Trump and Putin
Conspiracy Thinking, The Death Of Shared Identity And The Collapse Of Common Purpose
Conspiracy Thinking, The Death Of Shared Identity And The Collapse Of Common Purpose
"Crisis Acting": A Standard Conspiracist Hoax That Supposedly Reveals Hoaxes (Snopes)
Discussion With 9/11 Truther Friend About Epistemology, Belief, Certainty And Purpose
The 9/11 Truth Movement: Where Does It Lead?
"The Death Of Epistemolgy"
On Wed, Jul 12, 2017 at 7:45 PM, Fred Owens <froghospital911@gmail.com> wrote:
This week's rendition of the Quotidian is still inspired by Knausgaard, but it jumps around a little. That would be the difference between his prose style and mine. Knausgaard likes to start his story in the middle and then later on tell about the beginning and the end. He makes these transitions very smoothly. But I jump around. It's not a good way to write, but I can't help it. My mind jumps around from topic to topic and I write it down.... Knausgaard says to write badly, just write.So maybe I was colluding. Maybe I was conspiring, aiding and abetting. I surrender all my emails here and now. Accuse me. I'm guilty.Why waste your time reading about Putin and Donald Trump, Jr.? Read Dostoyevsky and you will touch the Russian soul.I didn't do nothing. I never colluded with no Russians. I don't even know any Russians. I did read a paperback edition of the Brothers Karamazov in 1996. I brought it with me on a cross-country bus journey. I took the Greyhound Bus from Boston to Seattle and back again. I took this journey because I wanted to see the land, and you can do that on a long bus ride. See the land and clear my head a little. Just watch the miles roll by. For reading I had the Karamazov family story -- 800 pages of sustained Russian intensity.FROG HOSPITAL -- July 12, 2017 -- By Fred OwensNo Collusion Here
Three rules for young men.
1. Get up before they tell you to get up.
2. Get to work before they tell you to get to work.
3. Leave before they tell you to leave.The Quotidian Continues
Do that and it all gets better.
I had a particular young man in mind when I wrote this, but I thought a general statement might serve......
I remember the time we slept in the park..... Audobon Park in New Orleans..... just rolled out our sleeping bags on the grass and slept out. That was in 1967. Well, we should have gotten up at daylight, but being stupid we slept in and a cop rousted us about nine a.m..... It was not pleasant ...... Better to get up before they tell you to.The Quotidian
Tuesday afternoon. I was resting in the living room in the recliner underneath the picture window. The fan was on high. Laurie was resting on the couch flipping through her iPad.I was sleepy but I managed to get through a dozen pages of Karl Ove Knausgaard’s six-volume novel titled My Struggle. I am in the first part of Volume Three, subtitled Boyhood. Karl plays in the forest as a child and he lives in fear of his Father who is very strict and mean. His family lives on a beautiful island off the coast of Norway and young Karl rambles and roams for many happy hours with his friend Geir, just as long as his Father doesn’t find out that he stole a box of matches and almost set the woods on fire.I was reading that in the recliner. It’s not engrossing, not in a compelling way, more like enjoyable and involving. Naturally, going into the third volume, I have become invested in the characters, but I can put it down and do something else.This morning I worked at the Italian garden. The owner is a professor of medieval history at the University of California in Santa Barbara. She makes an annual summer journey to Italy for research purposes – studies on the Italian Renaissance, hours spent in libraries poring over musty documents. She said she was writing about college life in Bologna in the 14th century. I said I bet it was all about parties and beer back then. Is it so different from now? She said some things never change.I call it the Italian garden because it is laid out formally with a clipped boxwood hedge that borders a small fountain. The hedge also rounds off a stately collection of tree roses, and one enjoys this garden while walking on a path of pea gravel.It is my pleasure to maintain this garden. Pleasure – that’s a guarded term. I have spent days and days complaining about the boredom of my work, hating the trowel and the rake. If I never see a stinkin’ garden again! I have been doing this kind of work for years and I do not love plants that much. After a while it all gets to be just dirt -- dirt with roots and dead leaves and nasty little bugs.I do not fear the insects and crawly things. They exist in large numbers everywhere on the earth. I once read a book about ants and took some interest in their complicated lives. It was a famous biologist who wrote the book about ants -- E.O. Wilson. And he was a happy man. So I figure if I studied the ant world I would be happy too.And that reminded me of when I lived in Texas and worked as a reporter for the Wilson County News. It was a weekly paper of 10,000 circulation and I was one of three reporters on the staff. I covered the farm and ranch news and wrote all kind of stories about cattle auctions and the price of hay. But one time, for the general amusement of readers and staff, I hit upon a weekly contest called Name That Bug.Each week I would find a photo of a bug, one that was common in Texas, but not too common. Then the readers were challenged to identify the bug, and the first person to call into the newspaper with the correct name would win a free Wilson County News coffee mug and get their picture taken for next week’s edition of the paper.There was a quite an interest in this little contest. That surprised me, but bugs – when they don’t bite or destroy your roses – are kind of fun.That was eleven years ago when I managed the bug contest. Now I am in Santa Barbara, no longer working as a journalist, but scraping by on what I can earn as a gardener. I’ve been complaining a lot. I don’t make enough money in this occupation. Gardening is a lowly occupation.This reminds me of the time I lived in Africa and met the Garden Boy. He was a lowly and humble man. All garden boys are humble. I am a garden boy and perhaps I should accept my status with a natural pride. That is what I do and what people pay me to do and there is no shame in it.The Garden Boy in Africa was named Ernest. He wore blue overalls and black rubber boots. He tended the corn patch at a home on Airport Road in Bulawayo in Zimbabwe -- at the home where I stayed for a week or so -- stayed with Precious Mataka, the African woman I should not have married.Whether we got married or not was no concern for Ernest the Garden Boy. He seemed hopeless. He was paid very little and he worked very slowly if at all. He was not a jovial man, nor somber, more neutral. He did not stand up straight and swing his hoe. He merely held it lightly and he seemed slightly puzzled as he squinted into the sun.I have his photo in my photo collection. That was in 1997. Ernest is very likely still tending the corn patch on Airport Road today.Gardening is a lowly occupation. Ernest confirmed that. Garden boy. That’s what they call him in Africa. In all Africa it is a crime to call a man a boy. Not since the colonial British were thrown out. You cannot call a man a boy, or say Hey, Boy, come here, chop chop. No you cannot say that or you will get arrested or attacked,Except the fellow who lives in the shed in the back of your plot. You call him a Garden Boy. He has not yet been elevated.I remember these things, bugs and garden boys.I worked at the Italian garden this morning, to trim the boxwood hedge. That needs to be done twice a year, clipped nice and square. I do not object to the task, but it pains me to spend several hours bent over the hedge. I like a hedge that is waist high, but a low hedge that is knee high means you bend over to trim it and I am getting too old for that.So I asked Gavin to help me. He lives in his van, which is parked on the street in front of our house. We can’t seem to get rid of him, but I have found him garden work to do, and he is willing to work, so he is not a bum -- although close to being a bum and I keep an eye on him for that – I don’t care for too much idle hippie drifting.But he was eager to come with me and see the Italian garden, and he took a great interest in being chosen to shape and trim the boxwood hedge. Gavin is 28 and the world is still young. So I brought him with me. The professor came out from her study and she was glad to see me and glad to meet Gavin. We had a team! We would whip that hedge in several hours. Gavin would run the electric hedger over the rows and I would rake up the trimmings.We did it in less than three hours. The professor wrote Gavin a check for $50. She will pay me later. I enjoyed it. At least I didn’t hate it. Gavin can be the new Garden Boy. I will dig out the photo of Ernest, the African man, and share it with Gavin. This is our fraternity.thanks for reading this,Fred
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