The Little Friar

It seems like no matter what Donnie says or promises, there are voices that will caution us from jumping to the conclusion that he has embraced fascism .  Denying election results and fomenting mob violence against Congress?  Surely that's merely authoritarianism , not yet fascism.  Referring to rivals as vermin and promising to round up undesirables in camps?  Okay, yeah, maybe we're getting close to fascism, but we don't want to be hasty in making that generalization ... All that reminds me of something I experienced just as the so-called American "War on terror" was ramping up.  Particularly the debate around torture .   A whole new plethora of euphemisms were invented on the spot to avoid calling the Bush administration's policy of using pain to extract confessions by the name of torture .  Sure, they were enhanced interrogation techniques , but were they really torture ?  In some cases, people came up with ad hoc standards for proper tor...

 In the heart of November's grasp, A symphony of raindrops clasp. Cold whispers weave through the air, As frost-kissed petals begin to bear. Grey clouds don their somber attire, Droplets dance in a frozen choir. A chill descends, a silent refrain, In the hush of cold November rain. Leaves, once vibrant, now subdued, In the quiet storm, solitude pursued. A canvas painted with shades of grey, As nature bows to November's sway. The breeze, a shiver in the spine, A tale of winter, a story divine. Through barren branches, raindrops play, A frosty waltz in the fading day. Footprints echo on pathways cold, Stories untold in the mist unfold. November's rain, a whispered song, In the solitude where dreams belong. Yet in the chill, a beauty lies, A quiet grace beneath the skies. Through the mist and icy refrain, Nature finds solace in November's cold rain.

 I have a new favorite translation of Augustine's Confessions ; it's the one by Williams . The famous opening passage of the Confessions captures the structure of the work.  It's a story about the journey from restlessness to rest, a journey that is structured by praise.  This helps, I think, to understand the ways in which the book is not quite an autobiography; it is, rather, an exploration of the restlessness of the human spirit, in which Augustine uses his own life as an example.  It begins, of course, with Augustine looking back to his birth and childhood.  He discusses how as an infant he struggled to express his desires, and how as a student he struggled to learn what was most important.  Both of these are just aspects of the restlessness of human life, always wanting something more and beyond, not merely from mere immaturity but, as becomes very clear when we grow older, we confuse the restful and the merely temporarily satisfactory.  As a tee...

Nestled in the autumn's embrace, Orange hues paint the landscape's grace. Vivid memories of leaves that fall, Ephemeral beauty, nature's call. Misty mornings, a crisp chill in the air, Berries and pumpkins, symbols everywhere. Eager winds whisper tales untold, Reveling in November's colors bold.

The Prince of Peace will forever take away hell on earth. He will establish heaven on earth.  The thick darkness shall flee for the brightness of his morning-light.

Today I paused by fresh graves, just a few feet from my own little piece of rented "resurrection ground", and had a few choice words with Death.  Laughing in his face, I said, "Stings don't it? To know you’re already beaten." And I left him standing there, cold and silent.

 In the whispering arms of the autumn breeze, The wind hums a tune through the swaying trees. It beckons the leaves, in their golden attire, To join in a dance, an elegant satire. "Oh, leaves," the wind murmurs in gentle delight, "Come twirl and whirl in the fading light. Let us weave a tale of the season's embrace, As we sway together with effortless grace." With a rustle and a sigh, the leaves descend, Their journey akin to a ballet, without end. "We'll pirouette and flutter, embracing the ground, Painting the earth with hues profound." The wind, a maestro orchestrating the scene, Guides their descent with a touch so serene. "Softly now," it whispers, "lay down your dreams, For the earth awaits you with welcoming streams." As the leaves settle in a rustling bed, Their conversations with the wind now shed. A tale of harmony, in nature's sweet reprieve, A symphony of whispers, for those who believe.