28 Sep 2007

the longing in me sings a singular note
where bathes the spirit realm in desire
i tire of the constant drive, the fever
knee deep in conviction, i speak of love
i open a new door in the wind, outside
inhale the ink of darkness and dream
now a vision (here) now without depth
the mirror reflects shadow and motion
i am within my own self a stranger
exhale the dreaming i do not remember
the longing in me finds the slowing
i forget why i sang, i forget darkness
i remember dawn a horizon opening

posted by John H. Doe @ 12:01 am

25 Sep 2007

The task is not, in essence, the securing of uniformity, or cooperation, or Church reunion, or any of the external forms, through which nevertheless the unity may be manifested. Within the wide bounds of the Christian Church there is abundant scope for the multiplicity of races, languages, and social conditions; room also for separate organizations with different traditions of faith and order, and much diversity of operation. But there is no room for strife or hostility, for pride or self-assertion, for exclusiveness or unkind judgments, nor for that kind of independence which leads men to ignore their fellowship with the great company of believers, the communion of saints. These things are contrary to the revealed will of God, and should be made at once to cease. As these disappear, the outward manifestation of unity will come in such ways as the Spirit of God shall guide.

– G. T. Manley

posted by John H. Doe @ 12:02 am

I’ve been working on a refutation of Anselm’s ontological argument for the existence of God. What I have is short and sweet.

  1. By Anselm, if it can be imagined, the greatest, then because existing is greater than nonexistence, it must exist.
  2. Therefore, if it can be imagined, the least, it cannot exist. Therefore there is no least AT ALL, by the same argument.
  3. Reductio ad absurdum.
See if you can tell if this works or not.

posted by John H. Doe @ 12:01 am

22 Sep 2007

[Book.]

Where was I again? In the middle of a sleeping city, lost in myself. Or so went the tune. If I think about it, now, I suppose that any place and time, however lost you are, has elements within it to hold onto a hope — even if you have to carry every one of those elements with you. If there is light where you are and there is no candle held aloft ahead of you, then you, my friend, are the lead candle wherefrom that light emanates. Go on, now. Any minute the streets are going to awaken, trickles of people will become a current strong enough for waves, breaking upon the storefronts and offices. But wait — it’s Sunday, isn’t it? Only the moderate tides of holy water then, we might forecast. Shortly. Today, though, might be just arbitrary enough for something remarkable to happen in it. Don’t you think? Some cities have that air: like at the next moment, anything could happen.

I’m still looking at all the hopeful faces. A morbid thought then runs through my mind: I wonder how many of them are dead? As Ecclesiastes tells us, “Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might; for there is no work, nor device, nor knowledge, nor wisdom, in the grave, whither thou goest.” How many of us have done so, that whatever our hands found to do, to do it with all our might? The book does not go on to tell us that such noble effort will necessarily be rewarded; it follows to say, “I returned, and saw under the sun, that the race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, neither yet bread to the wise, nor yet riches to men of understanding, nor yet favour to men of skill; but time and chance happeneth to them all.” Yes, a cheerful little chapter.

posted by John H. Doe @ 12:01 am

19 Sep 2007

All hate is misguided.

posted by John H. Doe @ 12:02 am

stark white still the doors of death stand, incontrovertible
auguries of age begin the approach into that shared secret
how long the suffering, yet how fleeting is it all, to be

posted by John H. Doe @ 12:01 am

16 Sep 2007

Love is careless in its choosing
Sweeping over cross a baby
Love descends on those defenseless
Idiot love will spark the fusion
Inspirations have I none
Just to touch the flaming dove
All I have is my love of love
And love is not loving

Soul love — the priest that tastes the word and
Told of love — and how my God on high is
All love — though reaching up my loneliness evolves
By the blindness that surrounds him

– David Bowie

posted by John H. Doe @ 12:02 am

Max Ernst: The Night — Prowling Fish

Click on the pic for a larger version.

posted by John H. Doe @ 12:01 am

13 Sep 2007

Like many of the leaders and teacher [in the church], perhaps I failed to prepare people for the way of suffering. I had not suffered much myself and did not help people to be ready for it. But the fact is: when you follow Jesus, what happened to Him happens to you.

– Todd H. Wetzel

posted by John H. Doe @ 12:02 am

[Book.]

I have heard tell that this is my story.

Once upon a time, time began, and it lined all sequences up, from all which had been the primordial chaos. But you can’t get there from here anymore: infinite detail skipped over, from then to two weeks back: rises and falls, fire and space, distance and trees. And one thing: we do not know if we are alone. When I came into this world, it was as if I had entered a great river, whose source I could never fathom, and its destination only hinted at, ever, in the days where I swam these rapids — trying with dear might just to keep my head above the water…. And what happened to happen two weeks ago, that I put it in the league of cosmic time? Nothing. People shoved and yelled and kicked and fell, just like any other day; it is arbitrary. Therein is the mystery: destiny will take a random value and subject it to such withering heat it cannot help but become alchemical gold. All days were arbitrary, once — all that you hold dear.

posted by John H. Doe @ 12:01 am

10 Sep 2007

[Book.]

I say just take it and run: “Hello, I am Everyman.”

Where am I? I am nowhere I want to be, in continual traveling to where I should be. What is the clue? To know you are clueless. What is wisdom? To realize one is a complete idiot. I once heard said that what is unfair about life is that it is fair. For a moment, it sounded as if I’d heard the meaning of life — but such ideation usually comes to very little. And now, I think that is merely a dangerous way of considering what justice in this universe truly may be. Here, this city has no name: it is as when one looks out the window of an airplane and sees a landscape of clouds, and one believes that if he stepped lightly, he could be a citizen of the sky: we do not name these fleeting places, and in the scheme of eternity, all is as having existed infinitesimally. Indeed, all finites are negligible in the face of the endless. ...and the dreaming: it is a land that borders death.

posted by John H. Doe @ 12:01 am

7 Sep 2007

Never despair.

posted by John H. Doe @ 12:02 am

i have saved enough pain to get through the day
most shiny things are not worth the cost
truly, we squander the day, no refund or warranty
the merchantability of the experience varies
myself, i feel as if i’ve paid for priceless things
the story of it all truly does it no justice
(and the teeth of justice are loose in their sockets
nothing as cunning as the cold steel of logic)
all love is priceless, yet you claim to have a deed
vast sums of torment do we wish only to liquidate
sunbeams cannot be bought in such currency
we are hemorrhaging dreams like no yesterday
in my pocket the coined misery, desire’s pay
what story have i bought? at least it’s sad

posted by John H. Doe @ 12:01 am

4 Sep 2007

We are of secondary importance, tertiary, the best of us. We are peripheral. How is it that those who were the primary, those who were of the primal space-time and imagination, passed through this world like we do? Or what did they themselves seem as to be when they walked the earth? Could it truly have been that Jesus, and to a lesser extent, Alexander and Shakespeare and Einstein — how could they breathed this ordinary air? Or is it something that is imbued upon we side-goers as time goes on? That perhaps those alpha humans were like us, until the shadow of the long year passing cast them in some special glow? ...I wonder who of us shall be so named as the luminaries of yesteryear. Could it be me, too? Could it be you?

posted by John H. Doe @ 12:01 am

1 Sep 2007

Stone love — she kneels before the grave
A brave son — who gave his life
To save the slogan
That hovers between the headstone and her eyes
For they penetrate her grieving

New love — a boy and girl are talking
New words — that only they can share in
New words — a love so strong it tears their hearts
To sleep — through the fleeting hours of morning

– David Bowie

posted by John H. Doe @ 12:02 am

Anselm Kiefer: Nuremberg (1982)

Click on the pic for a larger version.

posted by John H. Doe @ 12:01 am

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