20210919.0430

Trying once again this faith thing
Because they seem to benefit from doing so and
I support them in their endeavors
They give enough to me
As I do not for them
And that I struggle to believe is
Another way I fail them

20200930.0430

They balk at such words as speak of lust
Swellings of breast and cock and clit
Claiming their faith inveighs against them
When the song of their wisest king of old
Says her breasts are like deer too young to hunt
And other verses speak in their holy text
Of donkey dick and horse cum
The Tijuana show of old in the temple book

20200122.0430 "Inspired by One Hussar"

He said

"Let the water god eat away the material realm

Or something"

And I searched out that something

Some other destruction than the flexing, gaping maw

Blood rising and falling with the work of the moon

Swallowing untold ages of people's works

Beasts that never saw the light of day

Sand and stone and stranger things

That may lie drowned, dead, dreaming

I found much

In presence and in absence

As the Antipodes attest

Like any god, the water god

Is not one to pray to for solace and succor

For in its absence is death

But when it returns

It returns in force

And its return is death, too

Raging in a risen river

Or in the slow and steady dripping of

A pipe poorly placed

The smaller part of the mouth of Jormungandr

Girdling the world to swallow it again

20191120.0430

I remain a man of no faith
Not one who cannot be trusted to do what he says he will do
For which reason I do not say often that I will do a thing
Or not as often as might be hoped
But one irreligious or areligous
And wondering wherein the difference lies between the two
Or atheist
A word many find hateful
And a label applied to many who are less than pleasant
Though the same is true for
"Professing devout belief"
As many know who have been where I have been
And am

20190625.1630

Clearly, I missed my normal time with this post. My buffer is gone, as I think I might have motioned towards a couple of days back. Part of the reason is that I have not had the time over the past days to write that I normally do, having been away. That being as it is, I do need to work to catch myself up; I'm not abandoning the project yet.
I note that several of the previous posts I've made on this date have been notes in verse about the half-year of Christmas; 2015, 2016, and 2017 saw me remark on the holiday being half a year away today. The first of them is the best of them, I think, the poetic form tighter and the references more focused. It also reads to me as angry, though I read it from the perspective of knowing the writer well. (I hesitate to call him an author or a poet. It'd give him ideas he probably ought not to have.) How much is satire and how much is sarcastic anger is an open question; knowing the writer, it's more the latter than the former, especially since events at present suggest no change is coming.
Christmas decorations aren't up quite yet, at least not in stores, at least not that I've seen. Admittedly, I do not go shopping much, and I begrudge the expense when I must do so, unless it's going after food. On that, I'm happy to spend money, certainly. I like to eat, after all. That aside, though, I don't know that I have it in me to be so angry about that kind of thing at the moment. There's a damned lot else and worse to be angry about, though I wonder if it is not in the same vein; I am not sure I seek to understand, for fear of becoming too much like that I would have to study to come to understand. And such things as the incarceration of children without basic sanitation, of people without regard to circumstance or dignity, and who have made only the mistake of trying to make a better life for themselves in such a time as this and in such a way as millions in generations past have done, deserve no understanding.
They deserve censure. They deserve rebuke. They deserve resistance. They deserve to be stopped and the people who perpetuate them and encourage them to be mocked and chastised and forgotten, made as nothing save in the trauma they have already too much done and which we can hope will be healed in time once it ceases to be inflicted. And one wonders what kind of worse will have to happen to make any of it come to pass, because it is clear that no gentle measures will prevail.
It has always been clear that no gentle measures will prevail. Those who would act as they are now who put people into cages and make them in their own minds less than human refuse to understand any but the most blatant arguments--fallacies in the utterance, no less than ad populum or ad hominem, but ads the same. And perhaps they ought to be introduced thereto, repeatedly and with heavy, blunt objects. They seem fond of applying them to others, after all; they can't have too much a problem with them, can they? After all, doesn't Matthew 7:12 apply in ostensibly Christian nations?

20190613.0430

As I continue to look back at this webspace, I note writing in it on 13 June in 2010, 2014, 2015, 2016, 2017, and 2018. The 2010 was the text of a sermon I delivered--yes, I have done such things, and I am still struck by the similarities between that genre and the conference paper, though it has been long enough since I was a regular attendee of a church that I have forgotten how long sermons tend to run. (I do recall, though, that they tend to restrict their sourcing more than many conference papers--at least those I am prone to writing. Then again, I am not at all certain my conference papers are "normal" by the standards of the genre; given my professional circumstances, I have to think they are generally substandard. But that's as it is.)
The 2014 and 2015 pieces both note family coming to visit at Sherwood Cottage. They are largely expository posts, noting then-current circumstances and my reactions to them. I know I make much in one of them about adjusting to having company, and I'm better about it anymore, though I still prefer to meet people at other locations than my home--or theirs, to be fair. I do still put on a mean cookout, weather and resources permitting, and I largely enjoy doing so. (I need to do one again soon, actually; it's been too long.) I know, too, that it's an easier thing for my wife and daughter to see much of our families now than it was then. We live closer to more of them in the Hill Country than we did in Sherwood Cottage, and we have happier lives that allow us more flexibility. So that much is good.
The last three years have each been taken up with poetry on this date. I seem to write quite a bit of it in this webspace, though I know better anymore than to flatter myself that much of it is any good--if any is. Much of it is occasional or introspective, and I have to think that the work in the former line loses its import with the repeated incidence of what occasions the comments in verse. The 2016 piece was a comment on the Pulse shooting, but there is not enough in the poem itself to confirm that; only the dating makes it obvious, and there have been so many such at this point that they threaten to blend together for those fortunately spared their direct effects. That is a failing of mine and of the cultures in which I am enmeshed, not of the victims of such events. I remain the wrong kind of doctor to prescribe a solution, though, or one that might actually be taken up...

20190609.0430

9 June has been another decently diligent writing day for me, with posts made in this webspace on this date in 2013, 2014, 2015, 2016, 2017, and 2018. The last three are poems, and I find once again that I do not want to focus my attention on my own verse at the moment. The 2013 piece is a musing on LinkedIN that I had forgotten I had done, though it is in my frequent model of summary and response and so presents nothing particularly compelling. The 2014 piece is a rumination on an expression of faith that, even then, was waning--and which is now exhausted. I will not say I saw no benefit to my life from participating in organized religion, but I can say that the benefit was more than it has since become, and I am trying to be better about not continuing to do things that don't help me. (Even this webspace, masturbatory as it is, offers me something; it offers me practice in writing for a generalist audience, which I always need.)
As yesterday, then, I return to 2015. In the post, I reflect upon a brief and partial return to bachelorhood; my wife and Ms. 8 had been away to attend a wedding, while I had things that needed doing at Sherwood Cottage. I note in the piece that I was able to keep body and soul together decently enough, that I had not atrophied as much as is commonly ascribed to married men and become dependent upon my wife as a second mother. I am not sure why I took pride in it then; I am not certain that I do so now, even if it does remain the case that I am able to cook meals and keep a clean house. There is no reason why I ought not to be able to, really.
I also note in the piece that "my tendency is to withdraw from things," that even when I have the opportunity to go out on my own and unencumbered, even when I have a bit of money in my pocket that I can dispose of with impunity, I stay in. I have worked at getting better about it in the past few years, and I have had some success at doing so, but it is still a struggle for me to convince myself that it is okay for me to go out and that I can actually occasionally have some fun while I do it. I am not always even partly successful; there continue to be times I stay at home when others in my family go out. And even when I have some success, I find myself counting the cost and looking at how I will be less able to do what I need to do when I need to do it as a result of going out and having fun. Rarely am I able to fully relax in the moment, and even more seldom am I able to avoid regret afterwards.
At the same time, I still feel as I note feeling in the 2015 piece. I know that acting as I do is not to my benefit, but I do not feel that I am making much progress towards improvement. Not having much changed in the four years in it does not make for the best feeling.

20190125.0430

Many years ago, when I was an undergraduate, I treated roleplaying games for coursework and a curricular requirement I still make tongue-in-cheek reference to from time to time ("I got into grad school off of D&D"). While doing the reading to do that work, I came across arkelias's "Dice Obedience School" on Gamegrene.com, a site that gets occasional updates but seems not to be terribly active anymore. It's a shame, because the piece itself is an interesting read, one I might return to for one of my more "teacherly" posts, in which I summarize and respond to article others have written. (I've had reasonably good luck doing so with "non-standard" pieces in the past. I can expect that I would again.) But that's not the point of things this time.
No, this post looks at a strange thing. As I've noted, I think, I'm taking part in two online roleplaying games. Both emulate tabletop games in that they are primarily narrative, using paper-and-pencil rules to adjudicate what needs "impartial" adjudication. Those rules call for dice rolls; the online games use electronic dice rollers. And those dice rollers appear to be immune to such prescriptions as arkelias and others make--and which, in my experience, have some value. That is, I've put them into practice with my own physical dice, and they have tended to roll better than average for me--and not for others whom I have allowed to use them. Electronic dice cannot be punished for their failure; they are bits and bytes stored on computers far removed from the rolling done, so they cannot be found by hammers for smashing, and they are not present to watch their fellows suffer. Nor can they be stored in comfort, not being things. Nor yet can they be kept with their preferred faces up, so that they get used to the position and seek to return to it for comfort and familiarity.
No, other methods must be found, and not to command the virtual dice, but to appease the mighty figures that are embodied in them. Pantslessness is recommended when approaching one roller affectionately referred to as the Fortune of Dung. Movements of Carmina Burana are played as audible and outward signs of veneration and the acceptance of fate's machinations and the randomness of outcomes in an attempt to persuade the randomness to greater favor. Ritual readings of Camus cannot be far behind, and I can see my way clear to pantsless incantations recited and set contrapuntally over Orff as the Fortune of Dung is appeased--or not, for the fickle fortune's false factota flail about freely, as they will or not, but never as we would have them who are subject to their power in the small and secluded spheres where we roll dice and tell lies online.
Pray for us sinners, now and in the hours of our characters' travails, and deliver us from the evils set against us, that we might enact others of our own choosing, for our amusement. Amen.

20181125.0430

With Thanksgiving past in the United States, attention turns towards the ostensible Christmas holiday, and it does so once again in the form of hypercommercialization and the reinforcement of putative traditions that have only grown up within the last generation and have altered their forms even within so short a time, although they tend to be held up as unaltered and inviolable. And I suppose it has become something of a tradition, too, that I complain about such things in this webspace; my curmudgeonly self has written about such vexations any number of times, although not necessarily on a regular schedule, such that I am not about to try to plumb my archives (2,052 posts prior to this one, if it can be believed, including one on nearly every day of the year since 2014) to find them all.
It will suffice to say that I am not overly fond of the way the United States marks such occasions--or it would were I not certain that some who will read this will think that I am not bound to honor such customs. When I try not to do so, I am rebuked, and by many. Both at home and away from it, I get to hear people tell me that I should do things a certain way, that I am expected to do them certain ways, despite having no desire to do so--and, indeed, active desires not to do so. And perhaps I grouse about others doing so, and I might deserve some castigation for that, but it chafes to be told on the one hand that all I need to do is not and on the other that I had damned well better. But I have long known that I am in abundant company as a hypocrite.
In the end, I usually win such arguments as happen. All I need to do so is nothing; no act secures my victory, but simply not doing as I am exhorted to do by those who repeat across years that I do not believe what I say even as I have said it for just as long and have tried to believe but cannot get myself to do so. I have tried to profess the belief, thinking that I can "fake it 'till I make it," but I wearied of the lie soon enough, and I have not been able to maintain it even in places where social expectations make it easier to go through the motions of belief than not to do so. And even if I did believe, knowing what I know about how things have come to be, I do not think I could reconcile myself to the way things are done; I know they are done as they are, and I know that nothing I am likely to be able to do will change how they are done, but that does not mean that I am pleased with the state of affairs or that I have to, by my participation, actively encourage its continuance. And I have no intention, this year as in years past, of doing so.

20181122.0430

Today is Thanksgiving in the United States, and my wife, my daughter, and I will be joining my parents for a large meal and a fun time. My grandmother is down from Iowa for a visit, and I expect my brother, his wife, and my nephew will be at my parents' house for the meal, as well. That's the plan, anyway; it's still a bit early to know how it's going to go--or, really, even if it's going to go.
I do not recall if I have commented on the matter previously, but I feel that Thanksgiving is a vastly underrated observance.
While I am aware that there are some fraught issues with it--typical depictions of invading Puritans and their interactions with the various Native American tribes are wildly inaccurate, including in their depictions of friendliness and enlightenment, and hypercommercialization both suffuses it and elides it--the root of the celebration is to eat a large meal, which seems a good thing and uncomplicated. No gifts are really expected, save the small ones given to hosts at any visit. Cooking and cleanup are chores, to be sure, but far less so than decorating a whole house and navigating around the decorations for weeks associated with Xmas, or cleaning up the candy-induced vomitus or teenager-induced vandalism associated with Halloween. So while there are problems with Thanksgiving, there are fewer than for many or most of the other observances common in the US--and there seems to me to be just as much good.
Admittedly, I am not big on holidays, generally. I'm pretty sure I've noted it before, but I react poorly to the expectation and enforcement of good cheer. I react poorly, too, to the disruption of comfortable routines that get things done, as well as the obligation to take time off not to catch up on things that need doing but to attend to those disruptions. Yes, it makes me something of a curmudgeon; I have long known myself to be one. And that's another part of Thanksgiving that I appreciate; the demands and expectations are somewhat less than for other holidays. There's not much, if any, dressing up for me. There's not much of decorating to do. There's cooking and cleanup, but those happen most days, anyway. There aren't songs to sing or expectations of protestations of faith and fellow-feeling. And if, after the meal is done and the dishes washed, I want to slip away for a quiet bit, I can. And that is worth celebrating.

20170626.0442

He liked to sing of mountain railways
Driven by brave engineers,
And now he has disembarked from that ride
On which he had been for some years.
Those of us who still ride yet
Are saddened to see him go,
And what he is seeing at his station stop
Is something we cannot yet know.
The track that we travel twists, and it turns,
And it dips, and it rises through hills,
And it's said that its passengers might meet again
As its brave engineer wills.

20170410.0515

It is all too often expected
That laughter is by sage neglected,
That mirth by scholars is rejected,
That weighty matters are inspected
By those whose lives are introspected,
And that the doing thus perfected
Of joy does not admit.
Yet it's joy that drives the looking
For the ways the world is cooking
And the universe is working
Such that searchers, near-berserking,
Find themselves the public irking
By away their notions jerking--
And learning's funny shit.

20170324.0516

I am still looking to find a way out,
But that there's a way, I anymore doubt,
Unless I am hindered, though I am devout,
By the onus of Stupid God's blessings.
It's to be avoided, whenever I pray,
That I seek with devotions offered each day,
To divert the notice, turn that face away,
And gather no Stupid God's blessings.
But, evidently, my prayers all go wrong,
And I am in-gathered, though I don't belong,
Among the great masses who sing the damned song
That revels in Stupid God's blessings.

20170322.0513

Again I sit on that throne that I share
And write as if a reader e'er will care
About the word-work in which I do bare
Thoughts I have and how my mind might work.
I know that what I say will often irk,
For I am often called far worse than "jerk,"
Yet even in the irking, I will mean,
And in the meaning ensure I am seen,
And only in the seeing can I glean
A chance to better where I now do stand,
To make a better place in new-strange land
Where the Stupid God has free command.
But if I will perform my little show,
How it will end is a good thing to know.

20170302.0515

The Stupid God is working in the land
With wrinkled citrus avatar at hand
To ensure that we do not understand,
For in the understanding there is hope,
As those unknowing do not know to cope
With all the wrong into which they are roped.
In greater numbers, they occlude the noose
That swings about them, widely since still loose,
But soon to tighten so 'twill be no use
To fight. What matter any struggles be
When done suspended from the standing tree,
The soiled oak that spreads for all to see
The horrors it has worked? It is no dream
Select most, though to some it will so seem.

20170301.0458

Since still the wrinkled citrus avatar
That Stupid God has sent here from afar
The work of hands and minds will seek to mar,
And still a throng will cheer for every move
The avatar will make and thereby prove
That Hobbes was right and it would behoove
To know Machiavelli better yet
So that some cynic vision still may get
Ahead and perhaps itself firmly set
Against the foul, unthinking, rushing tide
Of ignorance. All I can do is hide
And wait for its recession. I but bide
My time, although I know I'm like to drown,
And the avatar to show its crown.

20170228.0516

The shortened second month comes to its end,
And I am unsure that I can defend
What I have done as I sought to wend
My way through each of the month's too-few days
That, although few, have stood tall as a maze
And hindered passage. I've been in a daze
As I have walked about and done too little well,
Doing nothing to avoid the hell
To which I seem bound upon death's knell--
For I have not fought Stupid God's desire
Or th' wrinkled citrus avatar on hire,
Not fought against the building fun'ral pyre
That even now is kindling. Soon, the blaze
Will leap up and devour all our days.

20170224.0515

I often think about the passing days
And how I spend them, all the many ways
In which I waste my time by seeking praise
Instead of doing what deserves the laud.
In doing so, I serve the Stupid God,
And that one's power needs no further prod,
Nor yet the wrinkled citrus avatar
Thereof that casts Stupid God's influ'nce far
And hot and churning gassy as a star
Example offers of praise-seeking's fault.
But still, I find I'm unable to halt
The search for commendation. By default,
Innate or trained I would not care to guess,
I need more said of me in praise, not less.

20170201.0521

The Stupid God is by too many heard
And heeded. Every single stupid word
The wrinkled citrus avatar, that turd,
Will speak, an audience abundant has,
And every lie therein is made to pass
As broken wind and so us all harass.
Who is like Absolon to Alisoun,
Who, farted on, return in anger soon
And answers those who think to act the loon
With heat and piercing point in driven deep?
Few. Too many still will think to keep
Themselves outside the fray and only weep.
The Stupid God forever must be fought,
Lest by inaction we all lose our lot.

20170131.0604

The sending of the Stupid God will rage
Against the narrow confines of the cage,
But being out does not seem to assuage
The wrinkled citrus avatar its ire.
It seems instead to seek to build a pyre
And cast what many value into fire.
And, what is worse, so many think them cold--
They think them frozen solid by the mold--
That they think the destroyer is the bold
And follow mindless what they think is brave,
As if the wrinkled citrus one will save
Them. They still sit and stew in Plato's cave,
But fewer are the shadows on the walls.
No light can enter when outer night falls.