Sunday, March 30, 2008
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Saturday, March 15, 2008
Friday, March 14, 2008
Davis, "Another Parable of the Talents"
There once was a village chief with three sons. Each of them had been given a special gift.
The oldest knew all about raising olive trees. The people of the village traded olive oil to passing peddlars in exchange for tools and cloth. With the eldest son's knowledge and love for the trees, their orchards thrived and the village prospered.
The second son was a shepherd. If the sheep became sick, he knew better than anyone else how to make them well again. Under his care, the village flocks grew healthy and numerous, and the wool they produced was much sought after for its fineness.
The third son was a dancer. When the villagers were down on their luck or bored from the tedium of work, he could raise their spirits better than anyone else. He loved to dance, and when he danced the joy of the dance filled the people and refreshed their weariness.
Now the village chief had to go on a long journey, so he called his three sons together. "My sons, the villagers are depending on you. While I am gone, see that you use your gifts as wisely and well as you can, so that when I return I will find our village even more happy and prosperous than it is now." With these words he embraced his sons and confidently departed.
For a while things went well, but when the cold winds began to blow, the village fell on hard times. No one could remember such a bitterly cold winter. The buds on the olive trees shrank and cracked. Seeing them, the first son knew that it would take the trees a long time to recover.
Eventually it got to the point where the villagers had no choice but to go to him.
"Please. We beg you. We have no wood for our fires. Cut down the trees."
At first he would not hear of it but finally he relented. "Very well. You cut them down." He knew it would be foolish to save the trees only to lose the village.
Now, the ice and snow made it impossible for traders to travel on the river or get through the mountain pass, so the villagers hadn't enough to eat. "Please. We are starving. Our children go without food. The sheep must be killed."
"I am a doctor to your sheep. How can I bear to have them killed?" But they pleaded and pleaded with him. So finally he consented and gave the sheep to the hungry villagers, for he knew that the only purpose of healing sheep was to help the village prosper; and what good would it do to spare the sheep only to have the villagers perish?
In this way the villagers got just enough wood for their fires and food for their tables. Nevertheless, the bitter winter had broken their spirit, so they began to think things were worse than they really were. They lost hope, became desperate, and family by family they deserted the village in search of a better home.
Just as spring was beginning to loosen the cold grip of winter, the village chief returned to find smoke rising from only one chimney - his own. Astonished and troubled, he rushed into the house, surprising his three sons. "What have you done? What has become of the villagers?"
"Oh please, father, forgive me. I have forsaken my gift. The people were freezing and they begged me to cut down the trees, so I did. I am no longer fit to be an orchard keeper."
"Don't be angry, father. It grew so cold that the sheep would surely have frozen anyway. And the villagers were starving, so I gave them the sheep. My gift went for naught, for I had to send the flock to slaughter."
"My sons, don't be ashamed. True, the village is not happier and more prosperous than I left it, but you did your best to make it so. And you did use your gifts wisely, for you tried in the only way you knew to save your people. But tell me, what has become of them?"
"Welcome home, father. We had so little firewood and food while you were away. It hardly seemed proper to dance during such suffering. And besides, I wanted to conserve my strangth so that when you returned I would be able to welcome you with my dancing."
"Then dance, my son. For my village is empty and so is my heart. Fill it with joy and courage once again. Please, dance."
But as the third son went to get up, he grimaced and fell. His legs were so stiff and sore from sitting that they were no longer fit for dancing.
With so much sadness in his heart that there was scarcely room for anger, the father went over to his son. "Ours was a strong village. It could have survived the want of fuel and food, but not without hope. And because you failed to use your gift, our people gave up what little hope they had left. Now the village is deserted and you are crippled. Your punishment has already befallen you." And with these words he embraced his sons and wept.
by William C. Davis
The oldest knew all about raising olive trees. The people of the village traded olive oil to passing peddlars in exchange for tools and cloth. With the eldest son's knowledge and love for the trees, their orchards thrived and the village prospered.
The second son was a shepherd. If the sheep became sick, he knew better than anyone else how to make them well again. Under his care, the village flocks grew healthy and numerous, and the wool they produced was much sought after for its fineness.
The third son was a dancer. When the villagers were down on their luck or bored from the tedium of work, he could raise their spirits better than anyone else. He loved to dance, and when he danced the joy of the dance filled the people and refreshed their weariness.
Now the village chief had to go on a long journey, so he called his three sons together. "My sons, the villagers are depending on you. While I am gone, see that you use your gifts as wisely and well as you can, so that when I return I will find our village even more happy and prosperous than it is now." With these words he embraced his sons and confidently departed.
For a while things went well, but when the cold winds began to blow, the village fell on hard times. No one could remember such a bitterly cold winter. The buds on the olive trees shrank and cracked. Seeing them, the first son knew that it would take the trees a long time to recover.
Eventually it got to the point where the villagers had no choice but to go to him.
"Please. We beg you. We have no wood for our fires. Cut down the trees."
At first he would not hear of it but finally he relented. "Very well. You cut them down." He knew it would be foolish to save the trees only to lose the village.
Now, the ice and snow made it impossible for traders to travel on the river or get through the mountain pass, so the villagers hadn't enough to eat. "Please. We are starving. Our children go without food. The sheep must be killed."
"I am a doctor to your sheep. How can I bear to have them killed?" But they pleaded and pleaded with him. So finally he consented and gave the sheep to the hungry villagers, for he knew that the only purpose of healing sheep was to help the village prosper; and what good would it do to spare the sheep only to have the villagers perish?
In this way the villagers got just enough wood for their fires and food for their tables. Nevertheless, the bitter winter had broken their spirit, so they began to think things were worse than they really were. They lost hope, became desperate, and family by family they deserted the village in search of a better home.
Just as spring was beginning to loosen the cold grip of winter, the village chief returned to find smoke rising from only one chimney - his own. Astonished and troubled, he rushed into the house, surprising his three sons. "What have you done? What has become of the villagers?"
"Oh please, father, forgive me. I have forsaken my gift. The people were freezing and they begged me to cut down the trees, so I did. I am no longer fit to be an orchard keeper."
"Don't be angry, father. It grew so cold that the sheep would surely have frozen anyway. And the villagers were starving, so I gave them the sheep. My gift went for naught, for I had to send the flock to slaughter."
"My sons, don't be ashamed. True, the village is not happier and more prosperous than I left it, but you did your best to make it so. And you did use your gifts wisely, for you tried in the only way you knew to save your people. But tell me, what has become of them?"
"Welcome home, father. We had so little firewood and food while you were away. It hardly seemed proper to dance during such suffering. And besides, I wanted to conserve my strangth so that when you returned I would be able to welcome you with my dancing."
"Then dance, my son. For my village is empty and so is my heart. Fill it with joy and courage once again. Please, dance."
But as the third son went to get up, he grimaced and fell. His legs were so stiff and sore from sitting that they were no longer fit for dancing.
With so much sadness in his heart that there was scarcely room for anger, the father went over to his son. "Ours was a strong village. It could have survived the want of fuel and food, but not without hope. And because you failed to use your gift, our people gave up what little hope they had left. Now the village is deserted and you are crippled. Your punishment has already befallen you." And with these words he embraced his sons and wept.
by William C. Davis
Thursday, March 13, 2008
One of those emails that people forward to you
Just a sentimental Guideposts / Readers Digest type story, I suppose, forwarded to me by a friend. But I can't help but think there's something here about the role of the artist. (Of course, being an artist, I'll leave off the part where the author spells out the life lesson. You'll have to do that bit for yourselves, you lazy sods.
Two men, both seriously ill, occupied the same hospital room.
One man was allowed to sit up in his bed for an hour each afternoon to help drain the fluid from his lungs. His bed was next to the room's only window. The other man had to spend all his time flat on his back.
The men talked for hours on end. They spoke of their wives and families, their homes, their jobs, their involvement in the military service, where they had been on vacation.
Every afternoon, when the man in the bed by the window could sit up, he would pass the time by describing to his roommate all the things he could see outside the window. The man in the other bed began to live for those one hour periods where his world would be broadened and enlivened by all the activity and color of the world outside.
The window overlooked a park with a lovely lake. Ducks and swans played on the water while children sailed their model boats. Young lovers walked arm in arm amidst flowers of every color and a fine view of the city skyline could be seen in the distance. As the man by the window described all this in exquisite details, the man on the other side of the room would close his eyes and imagine this picturesque scene. One warm afternoon, the man by the window described a parade passing by. Although the other man could not hear the band, he could see it in his mind s eye as the gentleman by the window portrayed it with descriptive words.
Days, weeks and months passed. One morning, the day nurse arrived to bring water for their baths only to find the lifeless body of the man by the window, who had died peacefully in his sleep. She was saddened and called the hospital attendants to take the body away.
As soon as it seemed appropriate, the other man asked if he could be moved next to the window. The nurse was happy to make the switch, and after making sure he was comfortable, she left him alone.
Slowly, painfully, he propped himself up on one elbow to take his first look at the real world outside. He strained to slowly turn to look out the window beside the bed. It faced a blank wall.
Two men, both seriously ill, occupied the same hospital room.
One man was allowed to sit up in his bed for an hour each afternoon to help drain the fluid from his lungs. His bed was next to the room's only window. The other man had to spend all his time flat on his back.
The men talked for hours on end. They spoke of their wives and families, their homes, their jobs, their involvement in the military service, where they had been on vacation.
Every afternoon, when the man in the bed by the window could sit up, he would pass the time by describing to his roommate all the things he could see outside the window. The man in the other bed began to live for those one hour periods where his world would be broadened and enlivened by all the activity and color of the world outside.
The window overlooked a park with a lovely lake. Ducks and swans played on the water while children sailed their model boats. Young lovers walked arm in arm amidst flowers of every color and a fine view of the city skyline could be seen in the distance. As the man by the window described all this in exquisite details, the man on the other side of the room would close his eyes and imagine this picturesque scene. One warm afternoon, the man by the window described a parade passing by. Although the other man could not hear the band, he could see it in his mind s eye as the gentleman by the window portrayed it with descriptive words.
Days, weeks and months passed. One morning, the day nurse arrived to bring water for their baths only to find the lifeless body of the man by the window, who had died peacefully in his sleep. She was saddened and called the hospital attendants to take the body away.
As soon as it seemed appropriate, the other man asked if he could be moved next to the window. The nurse was happy to make the switch, and after making sure he was comfortable, she left him alone.
Slowly, painfully, he propped himself up on one elbow to take his first look at the real world outside. He strained to slowly turn to look out the window beside the bed. It faced a blank wall.
Monday, March 10, 2008
Saturday, March 08, 2008
Sunday, March 02, 2008
Percy, Salinger, Tarkovsky, Harling, Kael, Lewis, "The Movies"
Our neighborhood theatre in Gentilly has permanent lettering on the front of the marquee reading: “Where Happiness Costs So Little.” The fact is I am quite happy in a movie, even a bad movie. Other people, so I have read, treasure memorable moments in their lives: the time one climbed the Parthenon at sunrise, the summer night one met a lonely girl in Central Park and achieved with her a sweet and natural relationship, as they say in books. I too once met a girl in Central Park, but it is not much to remember. What I remember is the time John Wayne killed three men with a carbine as he was falling to the dusty street in Stagecoach, and the time the kitten found Orson Welles in the doorway in The Third Man.
Walker Percy, The Moviegoer
I can understand somebody going to the movies because there's nothing else to do, but when somebody really wants to go, and even walks fast so as to get there quicker, then it depresses hell out of me. Especially if I see millions of people standing in one of those long, terrible lines, all the way down the block, waiting with this terrific patience for seats and all.
Holden Caulfield, in Catcher In The Rye
The allotted function of art is not, as is often assumed, to put across ideas, to propagate thoughts, to serve as an example. The aim of art is to prepare a person for death, to plough and harrow his soul, rendering it capable of turning to good.
Andrei Tarkovsky, filmmaker
I don’t see movies ‘cause they’re trash, and they ain’t got nothin’ but naked people in ‘em.
Ouiser Boudreaux, in Steel Magnolias
Good movies make you care, make you believe in possibilities again.
Pauline Kael, film critic
Enter the dream-house, brothers and sisters, leaving
Your debts asleep, your history at the door:
This is the home for heroes, and this loving
Darkness a fur you can afford.
Cecil Day-Lewis, poet & father
Walker Percy, The Moviegoer
I can understand somebody going to the movies because there's nothing else to do, but when somebody really wants to go, and even walks fast so as to get there quicker, then it depresses hell out of me. Especially if I see millions of people standing in one of those long, terrible lines, all the way down the block, waiting with this terrific patience for seats and all.
Holden Caulfield, in Catcher In The Rye
The allotted function of art is not, as is often assumed, to put across ideas, to propagate thoughts, to serve as an example. The aim of art is to prepare a person for death, to plough and harrow his soul, rendering it capable of turning to good.
Andrei Tarkovsky, filmmaker
I don’t see movies ‘cause they’re trash, and they ain’t got nothin’ but naked people in ‘em.
Ouiser Boudreaux, in Steel Magnolias
Good movies make you care, make you believe in possibilities again.
Pauline Kael, film critic
Enter the dream-house, brothers and sisters, leaving
Your debts asleep, your history at the door:
This is the home for heroes, and this loving
Darkness a fur you can afford.
Cecil Day-Lewis, poet & father
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Friday, February 22, 2008
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Cardinal Suhard, "A Living Mystery"
To be a witness
does not consist
in engaging in propaganda,
nor even in stirring people up,
but in being a living mystery.
It means to live in such a way that one’s life would not make sense if God did not exist.
Emmanuel Célestin Cardinal Suhard
It means to live in such a way that one’s life would not make sense if God did not exist.
Emmanuel Célestin Cardinal Suhard
Monday, February 18, 2008
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Saturday, February 16, 2008
J.R.R. Tolkien, "This, I deem, is our duty."
"Concerning this thing, my lords, you now all know enough for the understanding of our plight, and of Sauron’s. If he regains it, your valour is vain, and his victory will be swift and complete: so complete that none can see the end of it while this world lasts. If it is destroyed, then he will fall; and his fall will be so low that none can foresee his arising ever again. For he will lose the best part of the strength that was native to him in the beginning, and all that was made or begun with that power will crumble, and he will be maimed for ever, becoming a mere spirit of malice that gnaws itself in the shadows, but cannot again grow or take shape. And so a great evil of this world will be removed.
"Other evils there are that may come; for Sauron is himself but a servant or emissary. Yet it is not our part to muster all the tides of the world, but to do what is in us for the succour of those years wherein we are set, uprooting the evil in the fields that we know, so that those who live after may have clean earth to till. What weather they shall have is not ours to rule. ...
"We must walk open-eyed into that trap, with courage, but small hope for ourselves. For, my lords, it may well prove that we ourselves shall perish utterly in a black battle far from the living lands; so that even if Barad-dûr be thrown down, we shall not live to see a new age. But this, I deem, is our duty. And better so than to perish nonetheless--as we surely shall, if we sit here--and know as we die that no new age shall be.”
J.R.R. Tolkien, Lord Of The Rings: The Return of the King, “The Last Debate”
"Other evils there are that may come; for Sauron is himself but a servant or emissary. Yet it is not our part to muster all the tides of the world, but to do what is in us for the succour of those years wherein we are set, uprooting the evil in the fields that we know, so that those who live after may have clean earth to till. What weather they shall have is not ours to rule. ...
"We must walk open-eyed into that trap, with courage, but small hope for ourselves. For, my lords, it may well prove that we ourselves shall perish utterly in a black battle far from the living lands; so that even if Barad-dûr be thrown down, we shall not live to see a new age. But this, I deem, is our duty. And better so than to perish nonetheless--as we surely shall, if we sit here--and know as we die that no new age shall be.”
J.R.R. Tolkien, Lord Of The Rings: The Return of the King, “The Last Debate”
Sunday, February 03, 2008
Saturday, February 02, 2008
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Sunday, January 20, 2008
Wendell Berry, "Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front"
Love the quick profit, the annual raise,
vacation with pay. Want more
of everything ready-made. Be afraid
to know your neighbors and to die.
And you will have a window in your head.
Not even your future will be a mystery
any more. Your mind will be punched in a card
and shut away in a little drawer.
When they want you to buy something
they will call you. When they want you
to die for profit they will let you know.
So, friends, every day do something
that won’t compute. Love the Lord.
Love the world. Work for nothing.
Take all that you have and be poor.
Love someone who does not deserve it.
Denounce the government and embrace
the flag. Hope to live in that free
republic for which it stands.
Give your approval to all you cannot
understand. Praise ignorance, for what man
has not encountered he has not destroyed.
Ask the questions that have no answers.
Invest in the millenium. Plant sequoias.
Say that your main crop is the forest
that you did not plant,
that you will not live to harvest.
Say that the leaves are harvested
when they have rotted into the mold.
Call that profit. Prophesy such returns.
Put your faith in the two inches of humus
that will build under the trees
every thousand years.
Listen to carrion - put your ear
close, and hear the faint chattering
of the songs that are to come.
Expect the end of the world. Laugh.
Laughter is immeasurable. Be joyful
though you have considered all the facts.
So long as women do not go cheap
for power, please women more than men.
Ask yourself: Will this satisfy
a woman satisfied to bear a child?
Will this disturb the sleep
of a woman near to giving birth?
Go with your love to the fields.
Lie down in the shade. Rest your head
in her lap. Swear allegiance
to what is nighest your thoughts.
As soon as the generals and the politicos
can predict the motions of your mind,
lose it. Leave it as a sign
to mark the false trail, the way
you didn’t go. Be like the fox
who makes more tracks than necessary,
some in the wrong direction.
Practice resurrection.
from "The Country of Marriage"
by Wendell Berry
vacation with pay. Want more
of everything ready-made. Be afraid
to know your neighbors and to die.
And you will have a window in your head.
Not even your future will be a mystery
any more. Your mind will be punched in a card
and shut away in a little drawer.
When they want you to buy something
they will call you. When they want you
to die for profit they will let you know.
So, friends, every day do something
that won’t compute. Love the Lord.
Love the world. Work for nothing.
Take all that you have and be poor.
Love someone who does not deserve it.
Denounce the government and embrace
the flag. Hope to live in that free
republic for which it stands.
Give your approval to all you cannot
understand. Praise ignorance, for what man
has not encountered he has not destroyed.
Ask the questions that have no answers.
Invest in the millenium. Plant sequoias.
Say that your main crop is the forest
that you did not plant,
that you will not live to harvest.
Say that the leaves are harvested
when they have rotted into the mold.
Call that profit. Prophesy such returns.
Put your faith in the two inches of humus
that will build under the trees
every thousand years.
Listen to carrion - put your ear
close, and hear the faint chattering
of the songs that are to come.
Expect the end of the world. Laugh.
Laughter is immeasurable. Be joyful
though you have considered all the facts.
So long as women do not go cheap
for power, please women more than men.
Ask yourself: Will this satisfy
a woman satisfied to bear a child?
Will this disturb the sleep
of a woman near to giving birth?
Go with your love to the fields.
Lie down in the shade. Rest your head
in her lap. Swear allegiance
to what is nighest your thoughts.
As soon as the generals and the politicos
can predict the motions of your mind,
lose it. Leave it as a sign
to mark the false trail, the way
you didn’t go. Be like the fox
who makes more tracks than necessary,
some in the wrong direction.
Practice resurrection.
from "The Country of Marriage"
by Wendell Berry
Tuesday, January 08, 2008
Oscar Wilde, "The Life of Christ"
The whole life of Christ - so entirely may sorrow and beauty be made one in their meaning and manifestation - is really an idyll, though it ends with the veil of the temple being rent, and the darkness coming over the face of the earth, and the stone rolled to the door of the sepulchre. One always thinks of him as a young bridegroom with his companions, as indeed he somewhere describes himself; as a shepherd straying through a valley with his sheep in search of green meadow or cool stream; as a singer trying to build out of the music the walls of the City of God; or as a lover for whose love the whole world was too small. His miracles seem to me to be as exquisite as the coming of spring, and quite as natural. I see no difficulty at all in believing that such was the charm of his personality that his mere presence could bring peace to souls in anguish, and that those who touched his garments or his hands forgot their pain; or that as he passed by on the highway of life people who had seen nothing of life's mystery, saw it clearly, and others who had been deaf to every voice but that of pleasure heard for the first time the voice of love and found it as 'musical as Apollo's lute'; or that evil passions fled at his approach, and men whose dull unimaginative lives had been but a mode of death rose as it were from the grave when he called them; or that when he taught on the hillside the multitude forgot their hunger and thirst and the cares of this world, and that to his friends who listened to him as he sat at meat the coarse food seemed delicate, and the water had the taste of good wine, and the whole house became full of the odour and sweetness of nard.
from "De Profundis"
by Oscar Wilde
from "De Profundis"
by Oscar Wilde
Monday, January 07, 2008
H.A Williams, "Written in blood"
Theological truth is the truth of God's relationship with man and it is the fruit not of learning but of experience. In this sense all theology, properly so called, is written in blood. It is an attempt to communicate what has been discovered at great cost in the deepest places of the heart - by sorrow and joy, frustration and fulfillment, defeat and victory, agony and ecstasy, tragedy and triumph. Theology, properly so called, is the record of a man's wrestling with God. Wounded in some way or other by the struggle the man will certainly be, but in the end he will obtain the blessing promised to those who endure.
The theologian in this respect is no different from the poet or dramatist. All of them must write in blood.
- H.A. Williams CR, Foreword to "Love's Endeavour, Love's Expense" by W.H. Vanstone
The theologian in this respect is no different from the poet or dramatist. All of them must write in blood.
- H.A. Williams CR, Foreword to "Love's Endeavour, Love's Expense" by W.H. Vanstone
Friday, January 04, 2008
Jennifer Warnes & Leonard Cohen, "St. Bernadette"
St. Bernadette
St. Bernadette of Lourdes was very VERY fortunate. When our lady appeared to her in the grotto the first time, Bernadette was full to the brim with faith. No-one would believe her because they could not see the things she saw, but Bernadette would not change it. The special virtue of the well-known St. Bernadette is faith. I am going to imatate her by praying the rosary and believing that Our Blessed Lady will save the world from Communism.
By Jennifer Warnes
November 29, 1956
*
APRIL 02
Dear Jenny,
It is quite clear now that your imitation of St. Bernadette, praying the rosary, and your belief in Our Blessed Lady, did save the world from Communism.
A special Papal Commission has been convened to study your case, and the rumor in the Vatican is that your grade will be elevated to A+.
I hope that you will keep on praying for the safety of the world. To tell the truth, I depend on your efforts.
Much love,
Leonard
St. Bernadette of Lourdes was very VERY fortunate. When our lady appeared to her in the grotto the first time, Bernadette was full to the brim with faith. No-one would believe her because they could not see the things she saw, but Bernadette would not change it. The special virtue of the well-known St. Bernadette is faith. I am going to imatate her by praying the rosary and believing that Our Blessed Lady will save the world from Communism.
By Jennifer Warnes
November 29, 1956
*
APRIL 02
Dear Jenny,
It is quite clear now that your imitation of St. Bernadette, praying the rosary, and your belief in Our Blessed Lady, did save the world from Communism.
A special Papal Commission has been convened to study your case, and the rumor in the Vatican is that your grade will be elevated to A+.
I hope that you will keep on praying for the safety of the world. To tell the truth, I depend on your efforts.
Much love,
Leonard
Tuesday, January 01, 2008
Sunday, December 30, 2007
Friday, December 21, 2007
Brad Bird, "The work of a critic is easy"
In many ways, the work of a critic is easy. We risk very little yet enjoy a position over those who offer up their work and their selves to our judgment. We thrive on negative criticism, which is fun to write and to read. But the bitter truth we critics must face is that, in the grand scheme of things, the average piece of junk is more meaningful than our criticism designating it so. But there are times when a critic truly risks something, and that is in the discovery and defense of the new...
Food critic Anton Ego, in Brad Bird's "Ratatouille"
Thursday, December 20, 2007
S'Mores Nativity Set
S'MORES NATIVITY SET OF 4
SM-617830
$15.95
This four-piece S'mores nativity set includes S'more Mary wearing a blue head piece with her arms outstretched welcoming the new S'more King lying in the manger. Joseph stands back observing the scene before him traditionally dressed in a green head piece and holding his staff. The 5.5” S'mores nativity crèche makes a magnificent backdrop for this display. This set of S'mores collectibles by Midwest of Cannon Falls is a unique way to remember the reason for the season.
Available at Santa's Depot
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Thursday, December 13, 2007
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