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Monthly Archives: January 2013

Observed high.

It was the BEST MOST BEAUTIFUL day EVER today, this morning, in sixty-degree fog and rain.

“You don’t do anything halfway, do you?,” John observed yesterday.

No. I don’t. There could absolutely never be anything better. Rapturous.

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Re — .

Remain true to yourself, but move ever upward toward greater consciousness and greater love! At the summit you will find yourselves united with all those who, from every direction, have made the same ascent. For everything that rises must converge.
Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, explaining his theory of the Omega Point

I keep thinking of the Flannery O’Connor title: Everything That Rises Must Converge. It’s a funny, complicated little bit of prose.

Everything does seem to be converging lately, and I guess it is a kind of ascent.

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Slow down the time.

Do you know how few words are in Woods?

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The soil, the clime.

Is this the region, this the soil, the clime,
Said then the lost archangel, this the seat
That we must change for heaven, this mournful gloom
For that celestial light? Be it so, since he
Who now is sovereign can dispose and bid
What shall be right: furthest from him is best
Whom reason hath equalled, force hath made supreme
Above his equals. Farewel happy fields
Where joy forever dwells: hail horrors, hail
Infernal world, and thou profoundest hell

Receive thy new possessor: one who brings
A mind not to be changed by place or time.
The mind is its own place, and in itself
Can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.
What matter where, if I be still the same,
And what I should be, all but less than he
Whom thunder hath made greater? Here at least
We shall be free; the almighty hath not built
Here for his envy, will not drive us hence:
Here we may reign secure, and in my choice
To reign is worth ambition though in hell:
Better to reign in hell, than serve in heaven.
But wherefore let we then our faithful friends,
The associates and copartners of our loss
Lie thus astonished on the oblivious Pool,
And call them not to share with us their part
In this unhappy mansion, or once more
With rallied arms to try what may be yet
Regained in heaven, or what more lost in hell?
John Milton, Paradise Lost

Yes, Sarah and I said, art is grotesque; it is. Art is the recognition of brokenness. It is intense or distilled humanity: brokenness, despair, and (created, imitative, creative) beauty. Who art?

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I miss summer.

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