Dear Reader,
It occurred to me late in my undergraduate studies that I might be a Writer. I sought ways to discern this, to "tease" out its verity (hence the url and purpose of this blog). After a lot of internal dialog, and a little external use of my closest friends as sounding boards (earning myself no little amount of ridicule--"Poet with a capital P, huh?"), I finally came to the conclusion that it was, in fact, my vocation to be a Writer.
"So," I wondered to myself, "when can I begin writing?" Having discerned that I was a Poet and that the means to this was through letters, I set myself to patiently waiting for the right words to come (a sort of impatient patience). Sure, I practiced in my journal, or in letters, or in writing projects I gave myself, but none of it really seemed like the material for sharing. I read everything, many different authors, and closely studied their styles. I'd think of ideas for books, and two chapters in I'd lose interest (my favorite was a pseudo-autobiographical novel in the style of "Portrait of an Artist as a Young Man" seeking to demonstrate that the young man of poetic disposition can find fulfillment in religious life. I was gonna call it "A Dry Weary Land Without Water" or just "Thirst"). I waited and waited for inspiration to strike me and nothing came and angst transformed my patience into impatience and I rued the fact that I am a Writer with no words and I dubbed myself the Curséd Poet. I felt called to assemble the beautiful, but wasn't given the right parts.
I have, until now, considered my lack of inspiration to be a cruel joke on the part of the Giver of Inspirations. I have incredulously clung to the misnomer Curséd Poet, outwardly denying what was whispered in my heart: this is a blessing. How many Writers die in silence, their gifts wasted on none but the eyes of the Lord! These Writers are truly held close to His heart, for their craft solely benefits Him who reads the verse in their souls. They are the reed that hums in the Desert Palace, the wildflowers that grow in the Private Royal Gardens. "Curséd" is the furthest adjective from describing them. At first I thought that maybe "Blesséd" would be better, but that seems unfair to those reeds planted in the public city garden. No, I've finally settled on "Belovéd", because this fittingly captures the unique intimacy of the Silent Writers. They are Belovéd Poets, for their earthly silence is heavenly polyphony! I am grateful to be counted in their number, that, like David, I play in the courts of the King.
Which brings me to the point. I am a Belovéd Poet, whose craft (for the time being) has been given no call for earthly expression. Therefore, this blog (which was created for the purpose of discerning my Poetic telos, and helped immensely in that effort) has now become an occasion of temptation. See, when given the means for the public expression afforded by this blog (despite its readership of 3 individuals), the angst that sometimes seizes me to publish my thoughts is, in fact, an abuse of my vocation as a Belovéd Poet.
This blog could cause me to become prolific when I ought to be silent. The danger is that I will lack very many unpublished thoughts, raining words on people that are meant for Him alone. It is a great horror to consider that this blog could be means for abusing my vocation. The words might, from time to time, be pleasing, but in their perversion this attraction would amount to little more than literary sophistry, and ought not to have ever left the pages of my journal. I must be silent until bidden to speak, if that bidding ever comes!
So this is goodbye, at least for now. This blog has outlived its purpose, so the time has come to bring it to an end. Thank you for reading!
Goodbye [forever?],
J. P. Jeremiah
p.s. So as to take a dump on everything I've just written: a poem!
The Pillow Prayer of a Saint
For though, the way, I can't be faring,
And find, I can't, a path more wearing,
I find in Thee, Lord, none more caring,
And You in me, Lord, none more daring.
Each step, from me the world is tearing,
And dangers round me, flint strike, flaring,
Still I, to You, in dark am pairing,
Alone I'm left with You, Love sharing.
Showing posts with label A Maxim Of Mystery. Show all posts
Showing posts with label A Maxim Of Mystery. Show all posts
Thursday, April 23, 2015
Tuesday, February 10, 2015
lol pos h/o brb
Today I found an AIM conversation saved and buried in my email. excerpt:
Celestial Juliet (9:31:57 PM): You might understand this one quite well.
Celestial Juliet (9:32:07 PM):The shadows around me
are no longer sleeping
they dance and they speak of
the secret they're keeping
joshthetitan929 (9:33:50 PM): you've basically dug into my heart and and grasped my life and exposed it to all(ok us)
joshthetitan929 (9:35:52 PM): with your permission, i'll add it to my myspace
I am so grateful for the find. So much learning about myself.
what did I learn?
i've danced from poet to poet.
i consumed them, each one.
"you are what you eat"
it's a lie.
you taste what you eat,
you feel what you eat,
you grow from what you eat,
but you don't become what you eat;
it becomes you.
i've danced from poet to poet.
i count four in all.
each broke open the world a little farther
by breaking me a little more
without even trying.
and i'm grateful.
because what they broke wasn't me.
they broke an image,
a facade.
and left behind something a little realer.
freer.
better.
i've danced from poet to poet.
feeling where they felt and
reaching where they reached,
and, once broken,
i reached a little straighter
in the direction
that my hands were made
to reach,
without inhibition.
I have danced from poet to poet, and each of them has given me freedom.
the scary thing is, freedom looks so different from what i want
for me.
Celestial Juliet (9:31:57 PM): You might understand this one quite well.
Celestial Juliet (9:32:07 PM):The shadows around me
are no longer sleeping
they dance and they speak of
the secret they're keeping
joshthetitan929 (9:33:50 PM): you've basically dug into my heart and and grasped my life and exposed it to all(ok us)
joshthetitan929 (9:35:52 PM): with your permission, i'll add it to my myspace
I am so grateful for the find. So much learning about myself.
what did I learn?
i've danced from poet to poet.
i consumed them, each one.
"you are what you eat"
it's a lie.
you taste what you eat,
you feel what you eat,
you grow from what you eat,
but you don't become what you eat;
it becomes you.
i've danced from poet to poet.
i count four in all.
each broke open the world a little farther
by breaking me a little more
without even trying.
and i'm grateful.
because what they broke wasn't me.
they broke an image,
a facade.
and left behind something a little realer.
freer.
better.
i've danced from poet to poet.
feeling where they felt and
reaching where they reached,
and, once broken,
i reached a little straighter
in the direction
that my hands were made
to reach,
without inhibition.
I have danced from poet to poet, and each of them has given me freedom.
the scary thing is, freedom looks so different from what i want
for me.
Monday, February 9, 2015
increase the decrease
"He must increase, I must decrease."
-The Voice
I didn't say this. I would never say this. At least, unprovoked, I would never say this.
No, the guy who said this was insane. He ate bugs and didn't shower. And he gave himself a nickname: the Voice. And not one of those soft, sensual, lovely voices that whispers truths into your ears and causes you to shiver with warmth. This voice was crying out, crying out so obnoxiously that it even did so in the womb.
But the most remarkable part of his self-proclaimed nickname is not that he called himself the voice, but that he called himself the voice. He wasn't just a voice crying out in the wilderness, he was it.
The big kahuna.
The main man.
In a Gospel that claims God to be the Word, being the voice is a pretty fricken huge deal.
Just think of the intimacy. The voice is what gives life to the word, that sets it on its way to people.
But there's a humility to it. The voice isn't the word; it is simply the medium by which it travels. John was in no way the center of it all. He was simply a vehicle; a medium. By him, the Word first floated across the plain and into people's eardrums.
But can you think of a more intimate way to be with the Word?
The answer is no.
Which is why we have to be the voice too.
Duh.
This is unbelievably easy to screw up.
You start off so well, being the voice. You do it better and better, decreasing and decreasing.
But one day you say to yourself, gosh isn't that voice lovely?
You just...forget...forget that you're not the word but the voice.
And it's all downhill from there.
Forgetfulness means exile, the Oldies remind us.
The most annoying thing about growing up is discovering all the new ways to forget.
And forget.
And forget.
Just be the voice--THE voice.
It's so simple, just don't forget it.
Just increase the decrease.
Just be free,
silly novice.
-The Voice
I didn't say this. I would never say this. At least, unprovoked, I would never say this.
No, the guy who said this was insane. He ate bugs and didn't shower. And he gave himself a nickname: the Voice. And not one of those soft, sensual, lovely voices that whispers truths into your ears and causes you to shiver with warmth. This voice was crying out, crying out so obnoxiously that it even did so in the womb.
But the most remarkable part of his self-proclaimed nickname is not that he called himself the voice, but that he called himself the voice. He wasn't just a voice crying out in the wilderness, he was it.
The big kahuna.
The main man.
In a Gospel that claims God to be the Word, being the voice is a pretty fricken huge deal.
Just think of the intimacy. The voice is what gives life to the word, that sets it on its way to people.
But there's a humility to it. The voice isn't the word; it is simply the medium by which it travels. John was in no way the center of it all. He was simply a vehicle; a medium. By him, the Word first floated across the plain and into people's eardrums.
But can you think of a more intimate way to be with the Word?
The answer is no.
Which is why we have to be the voice too.
Duh.
This is unbelievably easy to screw up.
You start off so well, being the voice. You do it better and better, decreasing and decreasing.
But one day you say to yourself, gosh isn't that voice lovely?
You just...forget...forget that you're not the word but the voice.
And it's all downhill from there.
Forgetfulness means exile, the Oldies remind us.
The most annoying thing about growing up is discovering all the new ways to forget.
And forget.
And forget.
Just be the voice--THE voice.
It's so simple, just don't forget it.
Just increase the decrease.
Just be free,
silly novice.
Saturday, February 7, 2015
the test of obedience
"The obedient man shall speak of victory." Proverbs 21:28
I don't mind speaking of defeat, if it means I get to go to New York.
Stupid brain, that is not how it works.
But Josh, lighten up. You know that this trip will be good for you. You know that it's alright.
Shut up. I think I'm going to take a nap.
Sometimes, naps are good for temperance.
Priests and nuns and brothers consistently say that obedience is the hardest vow to live. Which is an absolutely ridiculous claim until you live the vows.
No, people of the world, chastity is not the toughest. In the inward turn from complication to simplicity, you start giving up simple things for complicated ones. Easy and shallow pleasures are denied; difficult and profound ones embraced. This takes a lot of work, but is rather doable.
Like seriously, totes doable.
Here's where it gets interesting. Poverty and chastity are fairly straightforward. Once you cross from the pursuit of freedom from to the pursuit of freedom for, you are capable of some rather heroic acts of self-giving sacrifice. Love starts to overcome desires, and you start becoming saintly for the first time.
But a wild PROBLEM appears! All this growth can start to make you feel rather self-sufficient. Look at all the things I don't need anymore. Isn't my life so simple? Aren't I soooo disciplined? Oftentimes along the way, you forget that you accomplish all these things in Christ, and you begin to think that you accomplish all these things in Josh.
Enter the test of obedience. After a while, you've started being obedient to yourself. And it's gotten you places, making you so disciplined, so you start to trust yourself. You trust yourself to know when to sacrifice and love, and to know the best choice for your life.
Then your superior makes a decision that is not the one you made and all of a sudden your righteously accomplished will is leading you into sin. Because he doesn't know what's best; obviously it's you that does, because you've grown so much in holiness on your own.
And that's how growing in poverty and chastity can make obedience way harder if you don't know what you're doing or get lazy for even a moment or you forget the place that God has in all of this.
And if I've learned anything from the Bible, it is that forgetfulness leads to exile and awareness leads to the Promised Land.
I just keep forgetting that lesson. #annoying
And I reeeealy wanted to go to New York.
Oh well, I guess I'll be hanging out in NePa.
I don't mind speaking of defeat, if it means I get to go to New York.
Stupid brain, that is not how it works.
But Josh, lighten up. You know that this trip will be good for you. You know that it's alright.
Shut up. I think I'm going to take a nap.
Sometimes, naps are good for temperance.
Priests and nuns and brothers consistently say that obedience is the hardest vow to live. Which is an absolutely ridiculous claim until you live the vows.
No, people of the world, chastity is not the toughest. In the inward turn from complication to simplicity, you start giving up simple things for complicated ones. Easy and shallow pleasures are denied; difficult and profound ones embraced. This takes a lot of work, but is rather doable.
Like seriously, totes doable.
Here's where it gets interesting. Poverty and chastity are fairly straightforward. Once you cross from the pursuit of freedom from to the pursuit of freedom for, you are capable of some rather heroic acts of self-giving sacrifice. Love starts to overcome desires, and you start becoming saintly for the first time.
But a wild PROBLEM appears! All this growth can start to make you feel rather self-sufficient. Look at all the things I don't need anymore. Isn't my life so simple? Aren't I soooo disciplined? Oftentimes along the way, you forget that you accomplish all these things in Christ, and you begin to think that you accomplish all these things in Josh.
Enter the test of obedience. After a while, you've started being obedient to yourself. And it's gotten you places, making you so disciplined, so you start to trust yourself. You trust yourself to know when to sacrifice and love, and to know the best choice for your life.
Then your superior makes a decision that is not the one you made and all of a sudden your righteously accomplished will is leading you into sin. Because he doesn't know what's best; obviously it's you that does, because you've grown so much in holiness on your own.
And that's how growing in poverty and chastity can make obedience way harder if you don't know what you're doing or get lazy for even a moment or you forget the place that God has in all of this.
And if I've learned anything from the Bible, it is that forgetfulness leads to exile and awareness leads to the Promised Land.
I just keep forgetting that lesson. #annoying
And I reeeealy wanted to go to New York.
Oh well, I guess I'll be hanging out in NePa.
Wednesday, January 28, 2015
sunsets
Steel and glass afire 10 stories high. Every tower an inferno.
Cars dancing in and out of shadows, tossing beams of blinding light your way for split seconds at a time.
Slivers of sky sneaking glances of the ruby and amethyst cloud necklaces that hang between buildings.
You see it without seeing it. You see its effects: its breathtaking hues and scenes that prick you in a million places to just stop a moment and be.
Yesterday, I sat in the chapel in the early evening. It's a small chapel on the top floor of a building atop a hill overlooking the Wyoming Valley of NorthEastern Pennsylvania. Two of the walls are mostly window, including the one facing west. I stand at the window, alone in this holy place. In the distance are the modest peaks of mountains, many of them hollow from a century of coal mining. As the sun sank down behind them, they are suddenly bathed in fire. I think about how one of them burns inside and out, and chuckle to myself at this loose image for a homily some day.
With a smile I sat down in my seat for a little contemplation before vespers. I hadn't turned the lights on, but the room was aglow nonetheless. A soft penetrating light, and you could almost sense in it the fatigue of another day almost gone. Long grotesque shadows stretched across the walls, but in the brilliant burnt orange glow of the room their edges were gentle and their bodies not very dark. The shadow on the wall from the crucifix was unrecognizable and faint, like an oil stain in a tablecloth from years ago.
I let Him in, and rested there in those Arms. I felt the warmth deep within and realized that in the evening glow I and the burning mountain are one and the same. And I knew that like that mountain, the sun will fade and the gentle snow will cover me with its heavy and encompassing poverty of purity, weighing down the branches of the trees that cover me. But like that mountain, I will still burn inside as I once did without.
This is a special time, it occurred to me. Then thoughts danced in and out of my head until the chapel was filled; thoughts of the nature of mercy, the difficulty of discipline, and how virginity is the flower of the Church. Then I stood and invoked God's assistance, and found whispered words of gratitude escape my lips, thanking Him for helping me start to learn how to be.
Why are sunsets the best time of day? There is no end to their beauty. There is no end to their application to life's most tender moments.
I wonder if the other Times of Day complain about the Sunset's monopoly on beauty and imagery. I know I would, selfish brat that I am.
Silly sunrise, learn to be. Silly midday, learn to be. Silly midnight, learn to be.
Silly novice...
Slivers of sky sneaking glances of the ruby and amethyst cloud necklaces that hang between buildings.
You see it without seeing it. You see its effects: its breathtaking hues and scenes that prick you in a million places to just stop a moment and be.
Yesterday, I sat in the chapel in the early evening. It's a small chapel on the top floor of a building atop a hill overlooking the Wyoming Valley of NorthEastern Pennsylvania. Two of the walls are mostly window, including the one facing west. I stand at the window, alone in this holy place. In the distance are the modest peaks of mountains, many of them hollow from a century of coal mining. As the sun sank down behind them, they are suddenly bathed in fire. I think about how one of them burns inside and out, and chuckle to myself at this loose image for a homily some day.
With a smile I sat down in my seat for a little contemplation before vespers. I hadn't turned the lights on, but the room was aglow nonetheless. A soft penetrating light, and you could almost sense in it the fatigue of another day almost gone. Long grotesque shadows stretched across the walls, but in the brilliant burnt orange glow of the room their edges were gentle and their bodies not very dark. The shadow on the wall from the crucifix was unrecognizable and faint, like an oil stain in a tablecloth from years ago.
I let Him in, and rested there in those Arms. I felt the warmth deep within and realized that in the evening glow I and the burning mountain are one and the same. And I knew that like that mountain, the sun will fade and the gentle snow will cover me with its heavy and encompassing poverty of purity, weighing down the branches of the trees that cover me. But like that mountain, I will still burn inside as I once did without.
This is a special time, it occurred to me. Then thoughts danced in and out of my head until the chapel was filled; thoughts of the nature of mercy, the difficulty of discipline, and how virginity is the flower of the Church. Then I stood and invoked God's assistance, and found whispered words of gratitude escape my lips, thanking Him for helping me start to learn how to be.
Why are sunsets the best time of day? There is no end to their beauty. There is no end to their application to life's most tender moments.
I wonder if the other Times of Day complain about the Sunset's monopoly on beauty and imagery. I know I would, selfish brat that I am.
Silly sunrise, learn to be. Silly midday, learn to be. Silly midnight, learn to be.
Silly novice...
Monday, January 19, 2015
I came, I saw, I venti'd
(this reflection is from a couple weeks ago, at the novitiate)
A free spot on a couch outside Starbucks in the surprisingly warm early-evening sun of a balmy January day in Colorado Springs. I saw it and pursued it. Vini, vidi, vici, with a venti in my hand. To kick back in such a way, my flannel shirt mocking the unnecessary coats around me, is a luxury that not even South Carolina often provides in the first week of January.
Stolen moments like these are gifts.
Who would have thought in the intensity of silent recollection I would ever have the opportunity to pour over a good history of Germany in front of a Starbucks on a Thursday afternoon? I sure wouldn't have. Moments like these are stolen. They aren't an escape, but a brief detour to collect the good in the day-to-day that would have been otherwise left scattered.
Little bits of grace dust, blowing in the winds or unrecollection until they end up in dark corners.
But these unusual moments, offered and seized, allow me to collect that grace dust. I scoop it up in my hands on that couch and savor it, like a spoonful of Nutella snuck on the way back from a midnight bathroom trip.
Moments of detour from the regularity and discipline of a well-lived life, it is in these where gratitude seizes me most profoundly, reopening my eyes to the electric flow of grace that would otherwise be taken for granted.
These moments are the scenic overlooks in the mountain passes of life's journey. Traversing mountains is a grueling task that requires constant attention to the road ahead. You can't do more than sneak a glance or two in your periphery through the openings in the trees, especially if your eyes have to stay on the constant twist and turn and incline and decline of the road. These glances are brief and incomplete, and frankly they rob the majesty of the mountains their due.
Because mountains are made to be gaped at.
They were designed to steal your breath and make you feel that perhaps you could waste away staring at them, and in doing so you would have somehow accomplished everything that was possible for you on this earth. The half-second partial glances from the road fall short of the very purpose of the mountains.
Enter: the scenic overlook. This is a simple place, a turnoff and a parkinglot next to a break in the trees. But it is in this simple place that you accomplish that impossible task of appreciating the fullness of the mountains. It is here that the magnificence of the journey is appreciated. It is here where gratitude is won. And it is here that you are able to reorient yourself, discovering again why you set out and rediscovering the need to continue the journey.
Even Christ stopped at the scenic overlooks. Think of the most important journey he made, from praetorium to Golgotha. A moment for His mother, a moment for Veronica, a moment for the women, none of these the purpose of the trip, but still necessary stops along the way. The job was to haul the wood up the hill in order to win His life's victory over sin, but He stole a few moments along the way to see those He loved, to accept and give a few gifts, and to put the whole journey in perspective for someone else. In these stolen moments, I like to think that He was able to stop and admire the magnificence of the whole journey, reminding Himself why He was there and maybe even having a little gratitude for it. Yes, in these moments He made the periphery the focus.
And by doing so, He proved that it's ok to do the same.
To imitate Christ is to stop at the scenic overlook. To imitate Christ is to steal a half hour at Starbucks on the way home from voice lessons, that momentary gift of reprieve that can only cause growth in gratitude and resolve.
To imitate Christ is to be in each moment, not to just travel through it.
A free spot on a couch outside Starbucks in the surprisingly warm early-evening sun of a balmy January day in Colorado Springs. I saw it and pursued it. Vini, vidi, vici, with a venti in my hand. To kick back in such a way, my flannel shirt mocking the unnecessary coats around me, is a luxury that not even South Carolina often provides in the first week of January.
Stolen moments like these are gifts.
Who would have thought in the intensity of silent recollection I would ever have the opportunity to pour over a good history of Germany in front of a Starbucks on a Thursday afternoon? I sure wouldn't have. Moments like these are stolen. They aren't an escape, but a brief detour to collect the good in the day-to-day that would have been otherwise left scattered.
Little bits of grace dust, blowing in the winds or unrecollection until they end up in dark corners.
But these unusual moments, offered and seized, allow me to collect that grace dust. I scoop it up in my hands on that couch and savor it, like a spoonful of Nutella snuck on the way back from a midnight bathroom trip.
Moments of detour from the regularity and discipline of a well-lived life, it is in these where gratitude seizes me most profoundly, reopening my eyes to the electric flow of grace that would otherwise be taken for granted.
These moments are the scenic overlooks in the mountain passes of life's journey. Traversing mountains is a grueling task that requires constant attention to the road ahead. You can't do more than sneak a glance or two in your periphery through the openings in the trees, especially if your eyes have to stay on the constant twist and turn and incline and decline of the road. These glances are brief and incomplete, and frankly they rob the majesty of the mountains their due.
Because mountains are made to be gaped at.
They were designed to steal your breath and make you feel that perhaps you could waste away staring at them, and in doing so you would have somehow accomplished everything that was possible for you on this earth. The half-second partial glances from the road fall short of the very purpose of the mountains.
Enter: the scenic overlook. This is a simple place, a turnoff and a parkinglot next to a break in the trees. But it is in this simple place that you accomplish that impossible task of appreciating the fullness of the mountains. It is here that the magnificence of the journey is appreciated. It is here where gratitude is won. And it is here that you are able to reorient yourself, discovering again why you set out and rediscovering the need to continue the journey.
Even Christ stopped at the scenic overlooks. Think of the most important journey he made, from praetorium to Golgotha. A moment for His mother, a moment for Veronica, a moment for the women, none of these the purpose of the trip, but still necessary stops along the way. The job was to haul the wood up the hill in order to win His life's victory over sin, but He stole a few moments along the way to see those He loved, to accept and give a few gifts, and to put the whole journey in perspective for someone else. In these stolen moments, I like to think that He was able to stop and admire the magnificence of the whole journey, reminding Himself why He was there and maybe even having a little gratitude for it. Yes, in these moments He made the periphery the focus.
And by doing so, He proved that it's ok to do the same.
To imitate Christ is to stop at the scenic overlook. To imitate Christ is to steal a half hour at Starbucks on the way home from voice lessons, that momentary gift of reprieve that can only cause growth in gratitude and resolve.
To imitate Christ is to be in each moment, not to just travel through it.
Saturday, January 17, 2015
We will now pause for a brief intermission...
Intermission.
Necessary, of course. But why?
The curtain drops and the lights go up. You stand and stretch your arms like you just woke up. The dream is still vivid on your eyelids when they close against the brightness. You squeeze down the row, sorry, excuse me, pardon. Circulation finally starts returning to your legs. Pressure, pinpricks, then that rush of coolness. Hobble to the bathroom.
You've enjoyed the first half. At the sink, you wash your hands and look at the smile in your eyes. It's the show that caused that smile. You wink at yourself, just for fun.
A couple people in the bathroom heatedly discuss the third scene. Well, that's new, you think, as you begin to see the characters in the new light of your Comrades of the Loo. In the hallway, the fancy carpet is new. It has to be. Somehow, the show has started to change you. New eyes look at the world around you. Eyes with more perspective. You like it.
Settle back down snugly into your seat. It's still warm. A smile. Open the program, and your mind begins to dance around Act 1. A few more connections are made. Another smile. A prediction about this or that character springs up in your head. Yet another smile. You fondly remember that one musical number, and hope you hear her voice again in Act 2. Why so many smiles?
Lights dim. You move your shoulders back and forth to set yourself firmly to launch once more into a different world. You are ready now.
Intermission is not a break from show, but rather a necessary component of it. Through it the audience can decompress, loosen the tension in the legs and bladder, walk around and get a little oxygen to the brain. But this time is not a vacation from the show, since the scenes and characters and songs swirl around in your head, all of it connecting in new places and becoming ever more brilliant. Themes are discovered that were missed in real time. Real appreciation for the first act begins to settle in, and excitement sprouts in this garden bed of gratitude.
Yes, intermission is an essential part of the show, making the whole experience more profound and complete.
Now, for my next trick:
Intermission is to a stage show, as Winter Placement is to a Novitiate.
Splise!
Surprise: I'm back.
No, I've not left the novitiate.
No, I've not broken any rules.
No, I'm not lying.
I'm in Northeastern Pennsylvania for a month, working at a school called King's College. This is part of a program of the novitiate called the Winter Placement.
Here's what happens. The provincial designates the college as a "second novitiate" so everything is canonically kosher. I get on a plane and fly to a place. I work at that place for a month, applying the lessons from my novitiate to apostolic ministry. I will then return to the novitiate for the second half of the year to learn from this experience.
This is the hinge of the year. I am literally inside of a hinge.
SQUEEEEEEAK
Why am I back here?
Well, firstly, because blogging is allowed at Winter Placement. Secondly, because blogging is a recollective experience for me and recollection is essential for the Winter Placement. Thirdly, because I feel like it.
So hello again, internets.
No, I've not left the novitiate.
No, I've not broken any rules.
No, I'm not lying.
I'm in Northeastern Pennsylvania for a month, working at a school called King's College. This is part of a program of the novitiate called the Winter Placement.
Here's what happens. The provincial designates the college as a "second novitiate" so everything is canonically kosher. I get on a plane and fly to a place. I work at that place for a month, applying the lessons from my novitiate to apostolic ministry. I will then return to the novitiate for the second half of the year to learn from this experience.
This is the hinge of the year. I am literally inside of a hinge.
SQUEEEEEEAK
Why am I back here?
Well, firstly, because blogging is allowed at Winter Placement. Secondly, because blogging is a recollective experience for me and recollection is essential for the Winter Placement. Thirdly, because I feel like it.
So hello again, internets.
Friday, August 8, 2014
looking West
A storm is actually coming. No, my elbow isn't acting up.
Then how do I know?
They say you can smell ozone before a storm.
Burning ozone from thousands of lightning strikes in the sky.
I can smell the ozone burning.
It whispers of immanence; a violence that curls my nostrils in terrified pleasure.
I can see the dark clouds swirling. I smile at their magnificent ferocity.
They are so quiet from here: my perch in the path of the storm.
I can feel the temperature drop. Small bumps on my skin fill the air where heat used to be.
The air is wet with the sobering cold sheets of rain. Waiting, waiting for me.
I can hear the rumble. It's in the clouds and in my stomach.
We hunger; me and the vaporous cinnamon swirls. They crave to devour and I to be devoured.
I can taste the electricity. It vibrates the air around me
with the intensity of a new father waiting for the screams of his first child to echo from the other room.
The moment is pregnant with the untold tale that will be told in due time. A brief story about my
death. And
birth.
A new birth from a violent death. A flash of lightning told in slow prose.
So slow it takes a year to tell the tale. A labor of months always hinting at a promise.
But never tells. A secret promise:
Petrichor.
A promise of new life so abundant that its obnoxious odor infects everything.
I will smell petrichor.
My nostrils will curl with delight.
I will see petrichor.
I will gaze on swirling mists around my ankles.
I will feel petrichor.
The warm humidity will refresh my rain-battered skin.
I will hear petrichor.
The hymns of satiation from the living all around me.
I will taste petrichor.
An airborne tonic inhaled by the tongue.
People call petrichor an ending; a climax; an aftermath.
I will know otherwise:
Petrichor is not a resolution, but a commencement.
Then how do I know?
They say you can smell ozone before a storm.
Burning ozone from thousands of lightning strikes in the sky.
I can smell the ozone burning.
It whispers of immanence; a violence that curls my nostrils in terrified pleasure.
I can see the dark clouds swirling. I smile at their magnificent ferocity.
They are so quiet from here: my perch in the path of the storm.
I can feel the temperature drop. Small bumps on my skin fill the air where heat used to be.
The air is wet with the sobering cold sheets of rain. Waiting, waiting for me.
I can hear the rumble. It's in the clouds and in my stomach.
We hunger; me and the vaporous cinnamon swirls. They crave to devour and I to be devoured.
I can taste the electricity. It vibrates the air around me
with the intensity of a new father waiting for the screams of his first child to echo from the other room.
The moment is pregnant with the untold tale that will be told in due time. A brief story about my
death. And
birth.
A new birth from a violent death. A flash of lightning told in slow prose.
So slow it takes a year to tell the tale. A labor of months always hinting at a promise.
But never tells. A secret promise:
Petrichor.
A promise of new life so abundant that its obnoxious odor infects everything.
I will smell petrichor.
My nostrils will curl with delight.
I will see petrichor.
I will gaze on swirling mists around my ankles.
I will feel petrichor.
The warm humidity will refresh my rain-battered skin.
I will hear petrichor.
The hymns of satiation from the living all around me.
I will taste petrichor.
An airborne tonic inhaled by the tongue.
People call petrichor an ending; a climax; an aftermath.
I will know otherwise:
Petrichor is not a resolution, but a commencement.
winterize my life
When I was young we had a pool. In the late autumn, after all the leaves had changed from glorious paint strokes to interactive carpet fibers, we had to winterize the pool. The pool had to be drained below the filter. The lines had to be flushed out. The surface of the pool was skimmed and the bottom of the pool was vacuumed. Finally, we put special chemicals in the water to protect from algae and covered the pool with enormous, unruly plastic blanket. It was long, arduous work that took several days, which is like an eternity of freedom lost for a 10-year-old.
I remember that my dad had a checklist, and we had to do every single item on the list. Most of it involved running around to fetch him tools or pulling the hose over. Unfolding the pool cover always involved a lot of yelling and flipping and swearing. The whole time, a sense of urgency and the necessity of accuracy was hanging in the air like an oppressive odor. If we did something wrong, the pool would break. And if our error didn't break the pool, it would always surprise us with some job in the spring that was long and horrible and even worse than the task of winterizing.
Like the one year that we didn't clean up all the BBs from the bottom of the pool before putting the cover on. When we pulled the cover off in the spring, the bottom was covered in little rust spots. We had to dive down for 10 seconds at a time (in the cold spring water) with toothbrushes and slowly scrape the rust off the liner. It was horrible.
In a couple days, I will do something really crazy and radical. I'm going to extract myself from everything that is familiar, and will plant myself in a world where even the rules are foreign to me.
And this is actually very hard to do.
The world has gotten used to having me as a link in a chain, and there will be times in the coming year where that chain will pull, expecting me to be there. So I have had to start anticipating all the times that the chain will pull, in order to let the links around me know to link up in my absence.
I need to unsubscribe from all the different sites that send me email. I have to let people know. I have to figure out my insurance and loans. I have to find out ways to contact people ahead of time. I have to turn off my cell phone. And I have to put away my books, fold up my clothes, and pack a very small bag to sustain me for the year. The process has involved a lot of running around and mostly a lot of yelling about things not being set up properly.
And if I do these things incorrectly there will be consequences. It could harm my experience next year by drawing me out of it. Or if I make it through without breaking, there could be things that need attention when I return that could have been avoided if I had just finished the job now.
It occurred to me last week that, in a very real way, I am attempting to winterize my life.
I remember that my dad had a checklist, and we had to do every single item on the list. Most of it involved running around to fetch him tools or pulling the hose over. Unfolding the pool cover always involved a lot of yelling and flipping and swearing. The whole time, a sense of urgency and the necessity of accuracy was hanging in the air like an oppressive odor. If we did something wrong, the pool would break. And if our error didn't break the pool, it would always surprise us with some job in the spring that was long and horrible and even worse than the task of winterizing.
Like the one year that we didn't clean up all the BBs from the bottom of the pool before putting the cover on. When we pulled the cover off in the spring, the bottom was covered in little rust spots. We had to dive down for 10 seconds at a time (in the cold spring water) with toothbrushes and slowly scrape the rust off the liner. It was horrible.
In a couple days, I will do something really crazy and radical. I'm going to extract myself from everything that is familiar, and will plant myself in a world where even the rules are foreign to me.
And this is actually very hard to do.
The world has gotten used to having me as a link in a chain, and there will be times in the coming year where that chain will pull, expecting me to be there. So I have had to start anticipating all the times that the chain will pull, in order to let the links around me know to link up in my absence.
I need to unsubscribe from all the different sites that send me email. I have to let people know. I have to figure out my insurance and loans. I have to find out ways to contact people ahead of time. I have to turn off my cell phone. And I have to put away my books, fold up my clothes, and pack a very small bag to sustain me for the year. The process has involved a lot of running around and mostly a lot of yelling about things not being set up properly.
And if I do these things incorrectly there will be consequences. It could harm my experience next year by drawing me out of it. Or if I make it through without breaking, there could be things that need attention when I return that could have been avoided if I had just finished the job now.
It occurred to me last week that, in a very real way, I am attempting to winterize my life.
Monday, August 4, 2014
24 hour Champagne diet
What would you give a young man about to embrace a life of poverty so extreme that he's closed his bank account and forsaken all forms of monetary wealth?
A prayer card? A rosary? Some stationary? Maybe deodorant? Certainly something useful that he'll have more than 6 days to use. Like pretty much anything else besides money.
Well, several people disagree with you, and saw fit to generously bestow their wealth upon my wallet. A week before I enter the monastic setting of the novitiate and I am living with an unprecedented amount of highly disposable income. I didn't even know that money came in increments of $50! But apparently it does, and we even saw fit to put one of our nation's worst presidents on the bill.
So tonight, for one night only, I decided that I would be rich. I picked up my friend Alex, and we went downtown for a fancy dinner and an evening on the town.
We walked into the first restaurant and moments later walked out. Greenville, I know I said fancy, but that was too fancy. We settled on a nice place on a terrace over Falls Park, drank luxurious cocktails, and had meals with French names that I couldn't pronounce.
Thankfully, the riches couldn't invade our conversation, and we enjoyed one anothers' company like old times. The conversation danced from future plans to mind palaces to poly-amorous relationships. Our dialogue yielded delicious new phrases like "the Justin Bieber Revolt of 2014" and insightful anecdotes like "college was the shortest eternity that I have ever lived through."
But the best part of my day with Money to Burn wasn't the out-of-the-ordinary situation of sitting on a terrace nursing a well-made drink, but was instead the end of the night when we sat on a rocky ledge above the falls and joked about embarrassing stories and mused on future ones.
I'm just not cut out for the Rich Lyfe.
the Pretensions of a Poet
I open my eyes to the warm touch of the suns rays, crepuscular through the blinds of my room.
"OHMYGAWD SHUT UP" I think softly; my humble greeting to the celestial lord.
Turning over to face the dead white wall, I remark to the inside of my head that the sun is like an annoying younger sibling who just can't wait any longer and needs you to get out of bed so the playday can begin. A long grumble and an angry throwing back of the sheets is my consent.
The sun: nefarious foil to the sacrosanct Progress of sleep.
What happens next I most certainly brought upon myself.
A shower would do me some good, I thought. So I grabbed the towel and dragged it through the hall.
A Wild Sister appears.
And she's ornery. Standing in the bathroom next to the mirror drawing on her face with a pencil. So I got my face as close to hers as possible and generously shared my halitosis with her and the now fogging mirror.
But she's the smart one, so I was in for real trouble. Without skipping a beat she began retelling a story from a few months ago that we had decided was better left between the two of us. It involved a car and some lights and a responsible interaction with a man of the law. She began at a very hushed pace, slowly embracing a crescendo that would soon bring the story to the ears of those who would be better off ignorant.
I had one discourse, and I seized it. I began playing some smooth jazz on the Stomach Drum, and yelled a haunting hymn like Yoko Ono at an art show.
Oh, the eye roll was glorious.
The story ceased and the pencil went back in the bag. She stormed to the door (me still playing my Ono tribute), turned around, and shouted "that's not how adults handle their problems!"
I ran to the door and yelled down the stairs, "HOW WOULD YOU KNOW?!" and slammed the door.
Family is the seedbed of all life.
"Poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world."
"Prayer is the inner bath of love into which the soul purges itself."
Percy Blysshe Shelley and John Marie Vianney. Two men I admire greatly. One was a Poet, and the other was a Poet. One lived a Romantic life, while the other lived a Romantic life. However, one understood things as they are, and the other struggled against them. Though both lived and breathed Poetry, only one of them understood what it actually was.
Today we remember them both. One of them was born today, and the other died today. To be honest, I'd rather be the kind of person that is remembered on the day of his death rather than the day of his birth.
"Poetry is a mirror that makes beautiful that which was distorted."
"Prayer is to our soul what rain is to the soil. Fertilize the soil ever so richly, it will remain barren unless fed by frequent rains."
"OHMYGAWD SHUT UP" I think softly; my humble greeting to the celestial lord.
Turning over to face the dead white wall, I remark to the inside of my head that the sun is like an annoying younger sibling who just can't wait any longer and needs you to get out of bed so the playday can begin. A long grumble and an angry throwing back of the sheets is my consent.
The sun: nefarious foil to the sacrosanct Progress of sleep.
What happens next I most certainly brought upon myself.
A shower would do me some good, I thought. So I grabbed the towel and dragged it through the hall.
A Wild Sister appears.
And she's ornery. Standing in the bathroom next to the mirror drawing on her face with a pencil. So I got my face as close to hers as possible and generously shared my halitosis with her and the now fogging mirror.
But she's the smart one, so I was in for real trouble. Without skipping a beat she began retelling a story from a few months ago that we had decided was better left between the two of us. It involved a car and some lights and a responsible interaction with a man of the law. She began at a very hushed pace, slowly embracing a crescendo that would soon bring the story to the ears of those who would be better off ignorant.
I had one discourse, and I seized it. I began playing some smooth jazz on the Stomach Drum, and yelled a haunting hymn like Yoko Ono at an art show.
Oh, the eye roll was glorious.
The story ceased and the pencil went back in the bag. She stormed to the door (me still playing my Ono tribute), turned around, and shouted "that's not how adults handle their problems!"
I ran to the door and yelled down the stairs, "HOW WOULD YOU KNOW?!" and slammed the door.
Family is the seedbed of all life.
"Poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world."
"Prayer is the inner bath of love into which the soul purges itself."
Percy Blysshe Shelley and John Marie Vianney. Two men I admire greatly. One was a Poet, and the other was a Poet. One lived a Romantic life, while the other lived a Romantic life. However, one understood things as they are, and the other struggled against them. Though both lived and breathed Poetry, only one of them understood what it actually was.
Today we remember them both. One of them was born today, and the other died today. To be honest, I'd rather be the kind of person that is remembered on the day of his death rather than the day of his birth.
"Poetry is a mirror that makes beautiful that which was distorted."
"Prayer is to our soul what rain is to the soil. Fertilize the soil ever so richly, it will remain barren unless fed by frequent rains."
Sunday, August 3, 2014
Snapshots
Two passengers jostled left and right as leaves whipped their fingers. The Gator bumped up and down through the trees. The path twisted towards the sound of rushing water. Soon, the trail touched the river, and the Gator slowed down so the passengers could enjoy the sights and sounds of the rapids. A great deal of water rushed around rocks only to crash into other rocks with terrifying force.
Years before, some fine individual realized the aesthetic beauty of the spot and placed a small wooden chair next to the flowing water. The shoots from the bushes and weeds had twisted up around the legs, making the chair look as if it grew from the earth.
Satisfied, the vehicle turned and plunged into the trees. The skilled driver navigated a well-known course that had little room for error; one wrong move could throw us from the narrow path into the dense brush.
We reached the crest of a hill and shot out of the trees into an open clearing. The Gator slid to an abrupt stop. The faces of some 30 deer looked out at us from all across the field. Neither they nor we could move. We all just froze in stunned silence at the unexpected company. They looked at us with enormous round eyes while their wet noses pulsated in the effort to understand us. Every ear was turned in our direction.
One white tail went up, and then the rest followed. A stampede! 30 deer scrambling at once, crashing around one another as each hastily picked their own line into the trees.
Within moments they were all gone, and we sat alone in the field. It was a sunflower field. The sun was going down beyond the distant hill, painting different parts of the lazy clouds in different lazy shades of pink and purple. The sky burned orange behind it, the color of a ripe grapefruit. The sunflowers had already begun turning their heads downward for the evening, seeming to hum a song of sorrow at the departure of their namesake. Crickets already claimed the stage and sang a chorus from the trees. The air was positively electric.
The Gator sprang to life again, and this time the gas pedal was pressed to the floor. The vehicle raced around the perimeter of the clearing and the top speed was reached. We could barely keep our eyes open because the wind was so tremendously violent. I couldn't smile (despite my impulse to grin and even scream out in approval) because the groups of tiny flies and mosquitoes collided with our faces at an alarming rate.
The freedom of the moment was unreal. We decided to head home, darting back into the forest having changed a little. For some reason we were suddenly more ourselves than when we began our joyride.
Why it is that we thought to recreate this trip several hours later will never make sense to me. Such is the nature of alcohol.
For some reason, three of us found ourselves running through the dense blackness to our off-road craft. We buckled in, turned on the headlights, and pulled into the trees once more.
On our way to the clearing, we stopped by the rapids and got out for a moment. Inebriated playfulness took command, and I darted off into the blackness. I crashed through the brush, and stopped behind a large trunk. I listened for my companions.
Victoria discovered my absence first. Then they began calling out for me. I put my hand to my mouth to keep the laughter from becoming too audible. My intention was to wait for their search to pass my tree so I could jump out and scare them.
But they didn't come. They wandered around the Gator with their cellphone flashlights wildly dashing about them. Suddenly, the Gator started and they sped off into the forest. I watched as the headlights disappeared into the trees. I was swallowed in total blackness.
Shit.
Why did they leave? Surely they'll come back! Right? RIGHT?! My mind tried to race for answers, but everything was working slower with the buzz of Belgian Beer about my mind.
After a few minutes, it occurred to me that I didn't even know where the path was. But, remembering that the path meets the river, I decided to walk in the direction of the roaring water. It was slow progress with my hands out to protect me from smashing my face into a tree, but eventually I arrived at the water. Through the darkness out could barely make out the white, frothy foam of the rapids beneath me.
In this moment, I had two separate and vivid thoughts: #1 am I going to die here? and #2 yes, the wolves will get me. I don't even know if wolves prowl that stretch of South Carolina wilderness. It didn't really matter; at that moment I was suddenly sure that they did and that they would be here immanently.
At that moment, I heard the sounds of the Gator. Off in the distance, I could barely make out the headlights through the trees. They were on some other path looking for me. I yelled in their direction, despite my certainty that doing so would definitely attract the wolves, but the rapids ate my words instead of letting them roam free amongst the leaves and bark and South Carolina red clay.
I began pacing back and forth to weigh my options. I didn't have my cell phone so I couldn't call for help. I couldn't walk back because I couldn't find the path without light. All I could do was wait to be found, or wait for the morning to find my way back. At that moment, I stumbled into the chair I saw earlier. Relieved, I remembered that the chair was on the path, so if anyone came by they would definitely see me. I plopped down into the soft and wet wooden throne, and laid my head against the back of the chair.
At this moment I saw the stars for the first time. Thousands of them peaking through every little hole in the canopy of the forest. And each one told me to be quiet and rest. This moment, a just climax to my own colossal stupidity, was a gift. The forest whispered in my ear and told me it loved me, and it wanted me to sit there and bask in its beauty.
So I sat in the chair and listened to the water beat at the rocks for 25 minutes. I decided that if they didn't find me I'd simply sleep in this wooden throne. And I almost dozed off, before the Gator twisted around a curve and happened upon me.
I sighed, got up from my chair, thanked the forest for the intimate time we shared, and climbed into the Gator. "No more shenanigans tonight," I said to myself quietly as we pulled away into the trees and back toward the house.
Friday, August 1, 2014
the East Wind is coming
Sherlock Holmes identifies himself as a High Functioning Sociopath.
Preston McAfee, a brilliant mathematician and economist, took the liberty of profiling a HFS for me:
-a HFS exhudes superficial charm.
-a HFS has a grandiose sense of self.
-a HFS lies pathologically.
-a HFS feigns emotion to meet the need of the present circumstance.
-a HFS has an incapacity for love.
-a HFS is impulsive and has a deep need for stimulation.
-a HFS is unreliable.
-a HFS readily changes their life story as is needed.
Challenge: prove why it is that you identify yourself closely with Sherlock Holmes.
Challenge accepted, my good friend.
This list is daunting. Imagine yourself identifying with it, for a moment.
(I imagine you can't)
Don't worry, it's completely normal if you fail to identify with this profile. Personally, I have never paused to consider myself completely normal. Never (I believe not even once) have I thought to project my own experience on the general public, assuming that my experience is "universal" in any way.
However, I have done my best to identify what is normal. In conversation, I have attempted to make my own thoughts appear similar to others, in an attempt to have ease of communication.
Don't think for a second that I've assumed my thoughts actually parallel to the "normal human experience".
Which is partially why, for some reason, this list hits uncomfortably close to home.
Uncomfortably.
Sherlock Holmes is a HFS. But here's the problem: according to Preston McAfee, he doesn't fit. How so? Don't trouble yourself; I've already pointed it out to you. Sherlock obviously has a capacity for love.
Back up. The proper place to start? "Josh, how would you define Sherlock?"
Now we're asking the right questions.
Sherlock is a HFS that is a bit more human than he anticipated. He matches the profile of a HFS in all ways but the important one: Sherlock can love.
This should be a shock to no one. WEREN'T YOU PAYING ATTENTION?! Sherlock obviously loves. His life is not a coolly calculated game. It is a confusing game of love. A game so complex that only rarely is he forced to reveal his entire hand. And that shocking, revealing card? Always an admission of love.
Sherlock loves. It's painfully obvious, isn't it? Sherlock loves. Mycroft belittles him for it. Moriarty realizes that the only way to beat Sherlock is to threaten the people he loves. Of all the possible things that Magnussen locks onto as a pressure point, it's the people that Sherlock loves that causes any real concern for the consulting detective.
Sherlock's weakness is people. Consistently. Predictably. But not just people; it's the people he loves.
So my definition of Sherlock? A HFS that has the capacity for love, and whose intellect is properly utilized via a Memory Palace.
Ah, the memory palace. Thus far, inaccessible to me. Originally attributed to a Roman Poet (of course), it is known as the Method of Loci. In other words, you store memories in specific mental locations so they are more readily accessible.
(Sounds an awful lot like the Interior Castle, don't you think?)
Not for lack of trying, the "mind palace" has thus far proved inaccessible. I have tried and tried (for literally more than a decade) and have been incapable of producing such a rich mental field of memory.
No bother. It will come.
But imagine, for a second, a HFS without a mind palace. Thoughts occur rapidly: constant reactions to constant stimuli. Without a mind palace to store them, imagine how a high functioning sociopath would react.
A situation begins. Thoughts immediately and continually occur in the mind. They swim around anxiously, but without a proper place to go (like, perhaps into a mind palace), they simply fester in density and chaos.
Suddenly, a question is asked. The situation calls for a response. Without a mind palace to quickly and concisely search for the most proper (read: most genuine) response, the swirling cloud spits back the things that most resemble the prompt.
This is, in the clearest manner, how I would describe my brain in a social situation. Swirling thoughts cloud the present consciousness, and rather than choosing a calculated response, most often a response is returned that simply resembles the tone, the identified hoped-for response, and/or the original purpose of the question asked.
It is not an exchange of character, but rather a reactionary response of likeness.
And it tends to work (superficial charm).
But Sherlock loves, and there's my hope. This whole meaningless system of knowledge has an axis: the love he experiences towards those closest to him. Thus, his HFSness is, first and foremost, human. Human in a basic and beautiful way. He doesn't lack love; instead, love is the very thing that he rotates around. Love is his weakness (read: his strength).
It is for me as well. Now, I lack a mind palace. The method of loci is lost on me. However, love is still the most obvious and identifiable catalyst I can identify for most of my actions. So much so that the whole concept of love terrifies me.
I am afraid to use love in normal conversation, because it seems much too big to simply parallel a prompt. In fact, the ONLY place that I will (reasonably) apply the word "love" is in my prayers. In those times when I know that the word simply cannot be too big, I'll use it to express genuine feeling. It is the card closely guarded, just as it is with Sherlock.
So, even though the Method of Loci has been fruitless in my own life, the Method of Foci has been largely successful.
And the Foci is, undeniably, love.
So yes, profile the high functioning sociopath. It will bear a striking, shocking, and downright unsettling resemblance to my inner life.
But, like Sherlock, I am set apart by love. And so are many great saints. Living saints. The kind that are currently moving this world a little closer to its telos. The kind of people that will bring about the Kingdom Proclaimed.
"Good old Watson! You are the one fixed point in a changing age. There's an east wind coming all the same, such a wind as never blew on England yet. It will be cold and bitter, Watson, and a good many of us may wither before its blast. But it's God's own wind none the less, and a cleaner, better, stronger land will lie in the sunshine when the storm has cleared."
-Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, His Last Bow (the last appearance [chornologically] of Sherlock Holmes), set in September 1914.
Preston McAfee, a brilliant mathematician and economist, took the liberty of profiling a HFS for me:
-a HFS exhudes superficial charm.
-a HFS has a grandiose sense of self.
-a HFS lies pathologically.
-a HFS feigns emotion to meet the need of the present circumstance.
-a HFS has an incapacity for love.
-a HFS is impulsive and has a deep need for stimulation.
-a HFS is unreliable.
-a HFS readily changes their life story as is needed.
Challenge: prove why it is that you identify yourself closely with Sherlock Holmes.
Challenge accepted, my good friend.
This list is daunting. Imagine yourself identifying with it, for a moment.
(I imagine you can't)
Don't worry, it's completely normal if you fail to identify with this profile. Personally, I have never paused to consider myself completely normal. Never (I believe not even once) have I thought to project my own experience on the general public, assuming that my experience is "universal" in any way.
However, I have done my best to identify what is normal. In conversation, I have attempted to make my own thoughts appear similar to others, in an attempt to have ease of communication.
Don't think for a second that I've assumed my thoughts actually parallel to the "normal human experience".
Which is partially why, for some reason, this list hits uncomfortably close to home.
Uncomfortably.
Sherlock Holmes is a HFS. But here's the problem: according to Preston McAfee, he doesn't fit. How so? Don't trouble yourself; I've already pointed it out to you. Sherlock obviously has a capacity for love.
Back up. The proper place to start? "Josh, how would you define Sherlock?"
Now we're asking the right questions.
Sherlock is a HFS that is a bit more human than he anticipated. He matches the profile of a HFS in all ways but the important one: Sherlock can love.
This should be a shock to no one. WEREN'T YOU PAYING ATTENTION?! Sherlock obviously loves. His life is not a coolly calculated game. It is a confusing game of love. A game so complex that only rarely is he forced to reveal his entire hand. And that shocking, revealing card? Always an admission of love.
Sherlock loves. It's painfully obvious, isn't it? Sherlock loves. Mycroft belittles him for it. Moriarty realizes that the only way to beat Sherlock is to threaten the people he loves. Of all the possible things that Magnussen locks onto as a pressure point, it's the people that Sherlock loves that causes any real concern for the consulting detective.
Sherlock's weakness is people. Consistently. Predictably. But not just people; it's the people he loves.
So my definition of Sherlock? A HFS that has the capacity for love, and whose intellect is properly utilized via a Memory Palace.
Ah, the memory palace. Thus far, inaccessible to me. Originally attributed to a Roman Poet (of course), it is known as the Method of Loci. In other words, you store memories in specific mental locations so they are more readily accessible.
(Sounds an awful lot like the Interior Castle, don't you think?)
Not for lack of trying, the "mind palace" has thus far proved inaccessible. I have tried and tried (for literally more than a decade) and have been incapable of producing such a rich mental field of memory.
No bother. It will come.
But imagine, for a second, a HFS without a mind palace. Thoughts occur rapidly: constant reactions to constant stimuli. Without a mind palace to store them, imagine how a high functioning sociopath would react.
A situation begins. Thoughts immediately and continually occur in the mind. They swim around anxiously, but without a proper place to go (like, perhaps into a mind palace), they simply fester in density and chaos.
Suddenly, a question is asked. The situation calls for a response. Without a mind palace to quickly and concisely search for the most proper (read: most genuine) response, the swirling cloud spits back the things that most resemble the prompt.
This is, in the clearest manner, how I would describe my brain in a social situation. Swirling thoughts cloud the present consciousness, and rather than choosing a calculated response, most often a response is returned that simply resembles the tone, the identified hoped-for response, and/or the original purpose of the question asked.
It is not an exchange of character, but rather a reactionary response of likeness.
And it tends to work (superficial charm).
But Sherlock loves, and there's my hope. This whole meaningless system of knowledge has an axis: the love he experiences towards those closest to him. Thus, his HFSness is, first and foremost, human. Human in a basic and beautiful way. He doesn't lack love; instead, love is the very thing that he rotates around. Love is his weakness (read: his strength).
It is for me as well. Now, I lack a mind palace. The method of loci is lost on me. However, love is still the most obvious and identifiable catalyst I can identify for most of my actions. So much so that the whole concept of love terrifies me.
I am afraid to use love in normal conversation, because it seems much too big to simply parallel a prompt. In fact, the ONLY place that I will (reasonably) apply the word "love" is in my prayers. In those times when I know that the word simply cannot be too big, I'll use it to express genuine feeling. It is the card closely guarded, just as it is with Sherlock.
So, even though the Method of Loci has been fruitless in my own life, the Method of Foci has been largely successful.
And the Foci is, undeniably, love.
So yes, profile the high functioning sociopath. It will bear a striking, shocking, and downright unsettling resemblance to my inner life.
But, like Sherlock, I am set apart by love. And so are many great saints. Living saints. The kind that are currently moving this world a little closer to its telos. The kind of people that will bring about the Kingdom Proclaimed.
"Good old Watson! You are the one fixed point in a changing age. There's an east wind coming all the same, such a wind as never blew on England yet. It will be cold and bitter, Watson, and a good many of us may wither before its blast. But it's God's own wind none the less, and a cleaner, better, stronger land will lie in the sunshine when the storm has cleared."
-Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, His Last Bow (the last appearance [chornologically] of Sherlock Holmes), set in September 1914.
Thursday, July 24, 2014
a letter to a prince
My Dear Child,
Let me tell you how to rule:
Small moments where beauty collects that could have been missed but aren't:
these are gifts, young man.
Cherish them while you have them and dwell on them a little while after they're gone.
Then put them away with all the others.
You may pause for a moment to marvel,
to behold the great sight of all these moments together,
but move on.
Don't hold them in your hand after they spoil.
Set them down and step on top of them, for they are your throne;
they cannot lift you higher if they're still in your hand.
If you clutch them to your breast,
you will never see any more than those few you can hold.
Wandering around with your hands full like an fool;
like a sinner.
Just let them go
and be free.
Look to the sky, my beloved, and see.
See the way it all works;
things as they are.
In the top floor of the tallest building,
there sits the richest man in the world.
He looks across the land,
and thinks that it is his.
He sneers a challenge at the sky,
and waits for his answer.
Waits until death.
But look higher,
and see the brave who fly amongst the clouds.
They, though higher than the rich man,
understand the power of the Heavens,
and respect the wind, the clouds, the lightning, and the rain.
Though these brave souls soar above all lands and men,
they do not venture to possess them.
For they know that a single breeze,
a single strike from a cloud,
or even the mere presence of ice,
could send them careening from their throne.
Some day, my son, you will inherit my kingdom.
And when that day comes, I implore you:
heed the wisdom of the men of flight.
And you will be fit to rule.
-your loving Father
Let me tell you how to rule:
Small moments where beauty collects that could have been missed but aren't:
these are gifts, young man.
Cherish them while you have them and dwell on them a little while after they're gone.
Then put them away with all the others.
You may pause for a moment to marvel,
to behold the great sight of all these moments together,
but move on.
Don't hold them in your hand after they spoil.
Set them down and step on top of them, for they are your throne;
they cannot lift you higher if they're still in your hand.
If you clutch them to your breast,
you will never see any more than those few you can hold.
Wandering around with your hands full like an fool;
like a sinner.
Just let them go
and be free.
Look to the sky, my beloved, and see.
See the way it all works;
things as they are.
In the top floor of the tallest building,
there sits the richest man in the world.
He looks across the land,
and thinks that it is his.
He sneers a challenge at the sky,
and waits for his answer.
Waits until death.
But look higher,
and see the brave who fly amongst the clouds.
They, though higher than the rich man,
understand the power of the Heavens,
and respect the wind, the clouds, the lightning, and the rain.
Though these brave souls soar above all lands and men,
they do not venture to possess them.
For they know that a single breeze,
a single strike from a cloud,
or even the mere presence of ice,
could send them careening from their throne.
Some day, my son, you will inherit my kingdom.
And when that day comes, I implore you:
heed the wisdom of the men of flight.
And you will be fit to rule.
-your loving Father
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