Thursday, August 21, 2014
Renewal is not, and cannot ever be, something statistical and quantitative. The economy of grace abounding all the more where evil abounds is a challenge to us more than it is a comfort.
It puts a new horizon on our boundaries, just when we had nicely measured wine skins all set out, of the finest leather too. Reactionaries love their goods in contradistinction to evils, so much so, that they often cannot actually enjoy them without the evils somehow nearby; they will do this to the point of fixating on evil at the expense of denying grace. What they cannot stand is their goods in relation to a greater good. They seem to positively hate that. Thus, they don't appear to be above making the greater good into an evil against which they posit their little goods.
Figures, ledgers, charts: these are data imprints for those with a mistaken notion of the hermeneutic of continuity. The mistake lies in thinking that a hermeneutic must necessarily be equivalent to slow, incremental development. Thus, if anything is jolting and rapid it must be discontinuous, a rupture. This is false. Take from nature, the cross-section of a tree's rings:
Some trees of course are more generally and continually round, from their inception to their death. If anyone would like to imagine the Church as a perfectly smooth, cylindrical bole without deep flutings and corriscated bark, then good luck with that fantasy. The point is this: you can see that from the center, the rings begin more or less concentric, easily identifiable emanations in their relating to each other, both looking back and looking ahead. But even then there are little differentiations occurring, which later on become more and more pronounced, until, behold, there is one ring that quite suddenly, from the one preceding it, looks radically different; it is veering with velocity off the concentric course; it looks like rupture, except that it is not, because it is in continuous fluence with the previous rings. It carries into itself all those previous differentiations in concentricity.
To misinterpret that radical-looking emergent ring is to misinterpret all the rings previous. The main thing is that it is going ahead, it is going forward. The point is not the shape but the thrust. Not the shape the tree is making but the inner thrust of the tree. To have that, is to be in continual connection with the life of the tree from its very beginning. That is tradition.
Sunday, August 17, 2014
Saturday, August 16, 2014
|“The film companies, I won’t miss. It markedly changed over the past 10 years.”|
The Cloverdale Reporter has a good article.
67 years old. Family owned and operated since 1996. The first film the theatre showed was Dead Reckoning in 1947. The Clova Cinema made that film its last before closing.
I remember sometimes on the first screenings for new films, an elderly lady of the family would stand at the front before the film started, and she would talk to the audience for a little while about the films to be shown. It was familial, comfortable, seeing movies there.
I never went to their annual or biennial Rocky Horror Picture Show showings. I've never seen that movie, but I know it has always been a wannabe "cult classic" - a fake from the beginning.
I remember going on some Saturday afternoons with my younger brother to the matinee.
The night shows were always a double-billing. I've seen so many films at this theatre. First time seeing Braveheart was here. First time seeing a lot of movies: Saving Private Ryan. Pulp Fiction. The Sandlot. Sneakers...
I hate the way digital technology - or its improper use - is consolidating everything for everyone. I hate it like hell.
Trivia: The Clova Cinema provided the small town cinema theatre for the setting of what television series?
Wednesday, August 13, 2014
Tuesday, August 12, 2014
Monday, August 11, 2014
Try not to understand the need for
small dogs to bark - upon friend or foe,
mattering not: there is one I know
that I've been passing for four years
on and off, the low fence between us:
by rote sight and smell, would they not
supply the mutt enough to know me?
On days when I catch him silent,
him deciding not to bark, but content
with his head down on his king's cushion,
aware of me passing and letting me pass,
I turn and extend my hand with benevolent
gesture, cooing and beckoning kindly enough,
and he flings himself into immediate alarm,
barking his chestnut brain to a fine and dandy duff,
and I sigh, roll my eyes, and continue on, remembering
he will let you pet him, and begrudgingly at that,
only when his owner is present.
How can you get inside the mind
of such critters - the reasons
for his snotty button nose, snorting anxiety
and fierceness according to his kind, his pincher mouth snapping:
is it like a neurotic king, fearing his throne
will be supplanted?
What is the strange attachment
that keeps them so riddled through?
Is it a dim extension of the behavioral
habits of the owner? That would be
an uncharitable assessment - and untrue.
Gilbert Keith Chesterton owned such a one;
nasty to the maid, a vociferous snapper,
who after snapping, would flee to his master
and from that great bulwark would look out with
insolent gloating, as though to say, "Just try it,
just try and kick me like a football through the door
into the neighbour's front yard - I'd like to see you try."
Max Beckmann and his Quappi
kept one also. I don't know what this all means.
But Lord help me if I ever own one,
and Lord help you too. And Lord help the snappers
with a mistaken sense of size,
ejecting their internet canards
in an anonymous bundle of white curly fluff
like an eighteenth century pompadour
powdered wig of the court
that hides their rat-like forms;
critics of Francis, boors of the net,
instead of truth, put across this pet;
insular, freakish, wound-up little snappers
with a hidebound, intransigent God complex
the likes of which to make Nietzsche look sane,
tuned only to their excellent guardianship,
blind to how their solemnity's inane,
like the little barkers that are suffered,
who bark at those aboard the barnacled barque,
especially at the helmsman, steering them to harbour.
How prolific are the sides of roads,
tansy-teeming, space-surrounded, full-ways grown;
lank-headed, broaching their own horizons,
tossing nectar-celled tiaras, potent
on the wayside, ditch-side, drive-by,
gravel-eating, house-drowning, bat-playing
greenery of the mountain-watched flats,
pondering the early moon. That sky surprise
on the east's territory, sudden, has gained,
for the eve-time whispering, pullover trance,
where the man seated on his truck's back
points a camera's unwieldy, forearm-long lens,
expanding pylon-wide towards the end.
He protracts a wyrd weed-eye, so to capture
the full-blown escapee: bare, the flat face
blushes gold like a ripened field of grain
over the babyish earth - moon, moon, moon,
like a glory boon we could not take,
but stare we must, stare, and thus we wake.