21 November 2009
14 November 2009
are not enough to bring the rain
and the fire in the sunset
lit up your eyes
for a moment,
but kept burning,
to your detriment.
proclamations of the truth
are not enough to bring the rain.
09 November 2009
When it is dark for more hours than it is light, and one sleeps for 4 hours...the days meld together. I am not sure if this is good, or if it is bad. I like those dark hours. But, there is less definition for "what day is it?"
In philosophy today, the professor spoke of the squirrel that broke the ac unit.
But he also spoke of immortality, the resurrection of the soul and body, or was it just the idea of "completeness"--resurrection of the self?
John Updike's "Seven Stanzas at Easter"
Make no mistake: if He rose at all
it was as His body;
if the cells’ dissolution did not reverse, the molecules
reknit, the amino acids rekindle,
the Church will fall.
It was not as the flowers,
each soft Spring recurrent;
it was not as His Spirit in the mouths and fuddled
eyes of the eleven apostles;
it was as His flesh: ours.
The same hinged thumbs and toes,
the same valved heart
that–pierced–died, withered, paused, and then
regathered out of enduring Might
new strength to enclose.
Let us not mock God with metaphor,
analogy, sidestepping, transcendence;
making of the event a parable, a sign painted in the
faded credulity of earlier ages:
let us walk through the door.
The stone is rolled back, not papier-mâché,
not a stone in a story,
but the vast rock of materiality that in the slow
grinding of time will eclipse for each of us
the wide light of day.
And if we will have an angel at the tomb,
make it a real angel,
weighty with Max Planck’s quanta, vivid with hair,
opaque in the dawn light, robed in real linen
spun on a definite loom.
Let us not seek to make it less monstrous,
for our own convenience, our own sense of beauty,
lest, awakened in one unthinkable hour, we are
embarrassed by the miracle,
and crushed by remonstrance.