The End of All Things

It’s undeniable, this vein snaking its way through the mind of the world: This is the end of all things. Repent or party. Do what you have to do.

I don’t buy it. Yes, the end might be near for you or me. Who knows? Our illnesses might suddenly overtake us, throw us out of the game. But I believe in modern medicine. I want to believe.

We are such small, self-absorbed creatures, constantly mistaking the end of our lineage for the end of all things. There is a certain Tower of Babel atmosphere, hubris chased hard by cacophony. And yet, in the corners of the universe, far from the city, people with hands like ours are building things.

Different Point of View

Still breathing. Still thinking. The Tobacco River, flooding in May.

One Way to Look at Things

The Tobacco River, flooding in May.
I'm not dead, just thinking. This could take awhile.

And no, the last blog was not an endorsement of Pete Townshend and/or his "research." Jeez.

Misunderstood

Sometime today, perhaps even as these words hit the blog, Sirius Channel 10 is going to an all-Who format, which is great. You can pop in anytime and get a hit of The Who. No, don’t stay there forever. That would get a little odd. But do stop in. I’m hoping they’ll stray just a little and play some straight Pete Townshend (if there is such a thing.) It feels like that sort of day.

JJ Gallaher

I haven't had time to wrestle my computer to the ground and make it show links on the side as I would like it to do, but I've been wanting to put this link up: http://jjgallaher.blogspot.com/

What will you find there? I won't tell you. Just go.

Car Shopping

Mr. Wegg

"Professionally he declines and he falls, and as a friend he drops into poetry."

Charles Dickens, Our Mutual Friend

The Beckoning Fair One

I certainly cannot tell why I make the choices that I do. Something just strikes me, sticks with me, and I set it aside. So it is with Oliver Onions’ ghost story The Beckoning Fair One. It’s old, 1911-ish, and resides inside the torn and faded red cover of A Treasury of Short Stories that I picked up someplace in the U.P. The book has many engaging stories, but when I look at it, sitting on my headboard, it is always The Beckoning Fair One that comes into my mind.

September Afternoon

A Taste of Hoagland

A friend recommended I read some essays of Edward Hoagland, so that’s what I’m reading today. I’m not far into it, too many voices surrounding me right now. And we’re going apple picking, wine tasting… There is this very interesting mixture between reading, writing, and living going on right now. Forget about arithmetic. I realize the numbers on my paper are all askew. I add when I should subtract, that sort of thing. I’m not sure who made all the number rules. I plan on talking to them, try to get them to see reason.

But back to Hoagland. Here’s a little piece from Compass Points:

“…I grin at seeing a one-year-old, or will approach someone elderly, optimistic at the prospect of talking with him. A basic faith kicks in. It’s automatic, not ideological, though I believe life has meaning. I find diversity a comfort in the wilds and in the city—that there are more species than mine, more personalities than me—and believe in God as embodied in the earth and in metropolises. I believe that life is good.”

Amen. Or let it be.