Crux Ansata

I've been reading a little book on S Augustine. If I did return properly to the Church on an alternate timeline, I would have been a very different Catholic without Ss Augustine and John Paul. I find remarkable being reminded how many things I see the same way as Augustine, possibly because of having read him so well and so long ago I had forgotten where I first came across some ideas.

There is one thing I do not believe him on, at all. And it is weird, since I don't think I have ever come across a commentator who questions it.

I don't believe the pear story.

If you have forgotten your Confessions, there is a story in there where Augustine claims, as a child, he climbed a wall and stole a neighbor's pears from a pear tree in the garden, despite not even being that into pears. Decades later, he is beating himself up over it, remembering it as a proof of his young depravity. The thought among writers seems to be that he was so scrupulous that this still bothered him, or that he was so virtuous all his life that this was all he could come up with to seem relatable.

I don't buy it. Knowing what little I do about Augustine it doesn't ring true. To me, an enclosed garden with a stolen fruit sounds, on the one hand, too much an echo of Eden, and on the other too erotic. To me, this reads as a regretted seduction. I wonder if it is of the mother of Adeodatus, and if so might be a clue as to why he is cagey about it. For unknown reasons he never names her in any of his writngs, and I have read -- and can believe -- it was to avoid exposing her to shame, having been sent back to her home community in Africa.

Obviously, I can't say for sure. It is likely that if we were ever to know we would already. That is my theory, though.

Feast of the dedication of the Cathedral of S John Gualbert in Altoona

May God smile on Rev Rudolph Silberhorn

I need to do something about my internet connection. The hours I have spent trying to get a good connection means I am drunk, when I wasn't when I meant to write.

Anyway, a couple of notes.

Today I learned the animals in the Chinese Horoscope are a modern innovation, maybe 1200 years old, and a foreign import. And also that someone like me, a Dragon, should never never never get with a Horse, like, say, Henry's mother.

I have been reflecting on Satanism, for various reasons. It occurs to me I have no real knowledge of Satanism within the Islamic civilisation. They have a concept of God and a concept of Satan that are similar enough to Christianty and Judaism that it seems to me there should at least be legends of Satanists or demonic sorcerers. The Yezedi I think are a mistranslation. I suppose there is the story of Sulaiman, but that seems an exception. Why no concept of an underground Satanic faith? Can it merely be that Islamic sorcerers have djinn as another option? It cannot be that the Islamic community did not overcome non-monotheists. Or perhaps I just don't know enough of Islamic occult stories.

I have the sense there was a third idea. I have no idea what it might have been.

Another entry, so soon.

One of those thoughts Henry says I should note somewhere.

I have often noticed that there are those in the pagan worlds that seem to me a type of Christ. At least so far as we see in the Hebrew Scriptures. For example, Odhinn or Siva.

Some see Catholicism as adopting the pagan ways. Others see this as indications of something universal in the subconscious, as something that manifests in varied ways in varied contexts. Still others see these other beings as distortions of Christ, even daemonic apes to mislead.

I suspect there might be another way to understand it. As I come to see time more and more nonexistant, and as I come to see the Cross as the centre of reality, as the dramatic spear thrust through reality, I see Odhinn and Siva not as apes or as lies, but as shadows, almost reflections. No one doubts entities post-Christ may reflect Him. Or novels may draw inspiration or thinkers may contemplate. I come to suspect entities "before" Christ reflect Him in the same way, not as parodies but as ripples.

... priest, and Companions, MM

The 120 Martyrs of China

Henry came up to me the other day confused about something he had heard on YouTube. He was telling me he heard someone claim S Thomas Aquinas claimed animals have souls and he didn't know what to think.

It would turn out later he had a different worry, and like many diffcult conversations, he had found a sideways way to approach discussing machine souls.

Anyway, we talked about the influence of De Anima on S Thomas. We talked about vegetative and animal souls, and how, as Catholics are not forbidden from accepting evolution, in some sense these souls can be understood to develop. We talked about the Catholic obligation to believe in the special creation of the human soul, and about how the vegetative and animal souls are not immortal and hence not subject to salvation. We talked about how when the New World was discovered the question of whether all humans descend from the same two people and whether Christ came to save all humans was open to debate, but that as Catholics we are obligated to believe in a common humanity and the presence of an immortal soul in all humans. We talked about how should we discover extraterrestrial sentience or observe the development of artificial sentience that such questions would arise again, but that as these questions are not settled, to my understanding one can be a faithful Catholic without being bound to a particular conclusion.

His concern turned out to be less the nature of the soul, however, than the idea of "praying to the machine spirit" a la Warhammer. He seemed concered it was sinful.

So we talked of dulia, hyperdulia, and latria. We talked of veneration and the meaning of prayer. We talked about how to pray to a saint as if they were a god or as if we implored them to use their own power would be idolatrous, but that to pray to a saint as if they are a human worthy of respect and to request their intercession is conversation. We talked about how Catholics can, privately, pray to the dead who are not recognized by the Church, so long as we don't presume to judge someone's worthiness against the Church. We talked about how to "pray" in the sense of to speak to another person who does not happen to be dead yet that they intercede for us is also not idolatrous, though to worship a living person as if they were a god would be. And I told him he could talk to a priest but that if there is no intention to worship or sense of believing in a second god, to "pray" to a machine would be no more sinful in my estimation than to talk to a dog or to turn an ignition key muttering "please start please start please start".

He was visibly relieved. So what I'm saying is: Talk to your kids about the influence of Aristotle on Thomistic anthropology, because if you don't, they'll pick it up on the streets and risk being misled by Protestant misuse of the language into scrupulosity.

Now to figure out how to fit that onto a motivational poster.

I like to joke with people: Nature hates us and wants us dead. It certainly seems that way, when I contemplate, say, the diseases ticks gift us with. But I come to think it is not just nature. YouTube hates me and wants me dead.

Having decided it is too subtle, I suppose, with self-destructive songs, about a week ago YouTube recommended a song titled "I Should Kill Myself." Today, it upped the ante with a short animated film called "Suicideland" about a young girl in the space after killing herself. If I had been searching for suicide-related media, that might make sense, I suppose. But I have not.

I have been looking for -- in the past couple of days, after YouTube decided I had offended the honor of it's mother and motherland and needed to pay -- material on the Order of Nine Angles.

Henry and I were watching some true crime video. (I pretend it was just some video, but I know it was a MrBallen video.) It was talking about Matthew Hale and the attempted assassination of a federal judge, and I commented, "Oh yeah, I have his books." As it turns out, I don't. I have one of Klassen's books. But anyway, Henry answered, "Why?"

When I was his age, I'd been reading RAWilson for a year. Doubting everything was just what I did. He is a nicer person than me, and probably will so stay.

I told him, because I read everyone. White nationalist, Black nationalist, anyone. Which he knows.

But Order of Nine Angles keeps coming up, and I never read them, and really, when was the last time I read something really unusual?

Other books I have been reading these past couple of days: A book about feng shui and a biography of Gandhi.

The world is so boring. I was listening to a video which talked about the nineties and the extreme people, Adam Parfrey, Boyd Rice, Nicholas Schreck, and Daniel Moynihan. And I was just, like, yeah, I know them.

At another point I found myself thinking: "Oh yeah, I know that person they are referring to! We were Facebook friends and talked once or twice." Then, I thought, "Uh-oh."

Anyway: tl;dr: Life is boring. So very boring. Boring boring boring.

Henry tells me I should write more so my ideas will just be out there for the future. In a way that makes sense, of course. Though writing is a pain. There have been things on my mind, though.

I had time at work today. But LJ seemed to be down.

For Fathers' Day, Henry got me a local history book about a town called Tyrone. When he was small, and even later, we have taken random day trips. One of those trips has been taking 45, the main road down the valley, to see where the end is. In one direction is a T-intersection and a card shop, though they didn't sell the cards he played. In the other direction, something of a loop near Tyrone. The completion of the gift was to go there together, which we did on Tuesday. It was fun. Sounds boring now. Hard to make myself write.

I'm not a normal tourist. Our idea of a good time is to go to some town, drop off the car, and walk the town. We go in and out of shops, talk about architecture and history, check out the churches. He seemed amused I could tell the Lutheran church from the Presbyterian church from down the block. We didn't see the Catholic church, though we were near it. We did find a game shop, where they are starting to play Killteam. This is Henry's preferred game, though he says he hasn't played it in months since he has been test playing the game he designed himself.

Lots I have been not writing about. What the social construction of the Amish tells us about the Middle Ages. AI considered in light of the concept of the bodiless powers. How about a simple demonstration of parallel universes?

Henry had an annual check up. His mother and I were both there, not at all because we don't trust each other. The appointment was for 3:30 PM. The numbers don't matter; just that there was a time. His mother had set up his records so she was the primary contact person, so she got the emails and the phone calls. (When he found out this appointment he had them change it to his phone.) While we were navigating there, she got a text, and contacted him. The hospital had contacted her to say it was 3:15 PM and she was late. (None of us were there after 3:30 PM.) She had access to the confirmation text, so she knew the real time. I talked to each of them individually about it later.

To me, as someone sensitive to structures of oppression, I saw it in terms of power. I saw expecting people to show up fifteen minutes early as an action showing the doctors, who have the position of power, consider their time to be more valuable than that of their patients, who can be expected to accomodate the doctors' schedules.

To his mother, as a bourgeois small business owner herself, it was an action of efficiency, a way of making sure appointments flow in an efficient manner.

Henry? He says, to him, it is just a fact that people can't be depended on to be where they say they are going to be when they say they are going to be there, so the doctors just tell people to be early assuming they will be late.

Same data, three, nonconflicting, worlds.

YouTube still wants me dead. Today it went from recommending music that touches on themes of self destruction to recommending a song called "I Should Kill Myself". Rude. Did I insult the algorythm's sister or something?

Controversial idea: I have been thinking about how the Amish are socially constructed here. One facet in particular that has been nagging at me: The mention in that book about Amish funerals that talked about how non-Amish guests might feel offended sitting at a separate table. I don't recall the Pennsylvania Dutch term, but it referred to the table for those who are shunned, since the Amish, properly, should not eat with non-Amish. Though I find it odd they are rendered ritually impure -- in a soft sense -- by eating with a non-Amish person, but not by engaging in commerce. How is it being unevenly yoked to hook up to the electrical grid but not to integrate into the cash economy? But I digress.

It occurs to me, the social construction of the Amish in this region is probably not dissimilar to the social construction of the Jew in a rural Medieval setting.

There is a temptation to think of Medieval construction of the Jew to basically be a back propagation of the Third Reich. I suspect the social construction varied wildly at different times, subject to, among other things, economic pressures. There undoubtedly were pogroms, while here stresses are more peaceful. (Perhaps because we live in a land of plenty, so far, where stresses are less fatal.) There are those here who compete with the Amish community for farmland; they have a more negative view of the community. The Amish community famously clashed with the non-Amish-dominated state when they tried to take away the Amish ability to school their children as desired. But I suspect in most Medieval rural areas, the Jewish community was a distinct but parallel one, with an inward looking economy and distinctions of ritual and dress, an obvious other among the masses, tolerated. The greatest distinction I suspect most would claim is that, among the Medieval, presumably the non-Jewish communities would desire, on some level, conversion, and look down on, on some level, the primitive -- i.e. pre-Christian -- atavism. But that actually is the closest parallel. The bourgeois-consumerist does look down on the Amish as primitive, even if he pretends otherwise. And I have even known some with privilege and access who have worked to undermine the Amish culture in an attempt at "progress" -- the salvation of the bourgeois-consmerist. The sacrament of latex, salvation through the condom.

Why does this matter? Well, it won't change attitudes today. The dreadfully enlightened folks aren't going to change. But I think it might help people become more empathetic to the Medieval peasant.

But what would I know?

(Huh. Ever sit there, writing and listening to YouTube Goth music, and suddenly realise they are singing in Aramaic?)

Anyway, off I go. I have a date with the algorythm's sister. She's so naughty!

My speculations on the bodiless powers shall wait.

I was able to watch the Consecration live on YouTube. Not the whole Mass; I was at work. I still consider it a blessing.

I should go back to journalling to please my therapist. When I did that, I journalled before I started drinking. Were I not drinking, I would stop here.

The only place I feel at peace in this world is in Mass. I'm no child. I know one is supposed to feel at peace with a lover or post coital or even when medicated. But the only place I feel at peace is in Mass.

I mean, I am grateful I did some yoga and meditating when young, because my half-century old body struggles sometimes with kneeling all through a rosary or something. But there is that point after the Consecration...

When Henry was a child, I made sure to sit in the front of the church so he could see what was going on. Because of that, he prefers sitting in the front anyway. We have been moved back a pew or two as our parish has reserved some pews for the infirm. Should have known better, what with the Book talking about he who takes too high a place. But whatever.

As a side effect, we came to be joined to a certain group.

Anyway, there is that point when I feel at peace, when the pain slips away, and when there just is. And sometimes I am just in His presence. And sometimes He talks with me. When I finally am allowed to die I suppose I shall be separated for all the time in purgatory, so I try to appreciate it now.

Sometimes I fancy I talk to Him. Because I am a couple of fingers short of an Old Fashioned. It might be hallucination. But who cares?

A few weeks ago, we were talking about vocations, and about how I understand there are only three, and my concern I had messed up my life by missing mine. I fancied, I hallucinated, I imagined He told me I had not. He told me that to those who have more will be given, and from those who have not, what little they have will be taken from them. Once upon a time, when I thought I would never have a child, I realised all the kids I served at Covenant House were the children that he who had not was given. He told me it is a matter of spiritual dryness. He takes away the feeling of His precence that those He loves can love Him wihout the consolation of His presence, and I have "no" vocation because it has been taken from me that I may serve without a role, to be present without a place. I have the grace of elbowing myself into the Church, being a member through being present.

What does that mean? Nothing. I hallucinate. Or all.

Today the Bishops will consecrate the nation to the Sacred Heart, perhaps the first time this has ever been done to a majority-Protestant country. The Solemnity of the Sacred Heart is, of course, Friday. Take a moment to reflect on religious liberty and on reparations for the spiritual coldness that leaves some unbelieving of the miracle of the altar.

I don't much want to journal. I'd rather just drink myself to sleep and then pick Henry up in the morning. But I guess I am trying.

You'd be amazed all the insights you don't get to hear.

I guess now I will force a brief entry. I could write more about my poor decision in that hike. Or about how my therapy appointent is leading me to contemplate that the verb "to trust" indicates two different, if related, concepts. But instead.

The weekend was the Feast of the Holy Trinity. It occurs to me, despite the reality of S Joseph the Worker and Christ the King, that this is the most fundamentally anti-Liberal of the feasts. One tends to get glib, talking about how beyond reason is the Church and how one plus one plus one equals one. But that misleads. It is one person plus one person plus one person equals one substance. Like I told Henry, it is length plus width plus depth equals one existence.

So how is this anti-Liberal? Well, if Liberal means anything in the real world, it is that philosophy where the individual is the active subject. It is a massively leveling philosophy, where every individual lump of manflesh is equal.

The Trinity refutes that. The Trinity tells us there are other dimensions.

Consider the family. To the Liberal, one person plus one person plus perhaps one more person makes three people. Mommy and Daddy and Baby make three. They can call it what they will. Whereas, in the eyes of Faith, man and woman become one flesh. One man plus one woman plus an openness to children equals something new, something never seen before, a family.

Liberalism is a philosophy of atomisation. The Feast of the Trinity is a celebration of integration, that we may be individuals, but that only matters in communion.

Time to pass out. Thankyoudrivethrough.

So yesterday I walked 15.8 miles, more or less. According to Google Maps, anyway.

It had started the night before. Or earlier, perhaps. Henry's xBox has an HDMI connection that seems to be damaged, and while the skills to repair it are not that intense, I don't know how to solder and desolder. So I was looking for an expert. I thought I was doing something nice.

I dropped Henry off at a friend's house where they are playtesting a game Henry designed. (I've played it, too. Seems quite professional.) I went to drive into State College, where there were a couple of businesses I thought might be able to point me in the right diretion.

Anyway, as I drove into town I drove over some sticks that had been left in the road by a nearby landscaper. I heard something start to scrape, but I couldn't figure out what it was. I pulled into a nearby parking lot to examine why, whenever I turned right, I heard a scraping sound, like hard plastic being dragged across asphalt. I could see nothing, though.

I pulled back onto the road, and I could hear that scraping sound when I turned right and no other time. Endless optimist that I am -- and I was just talking to my therapist this week about how I need to stop hoping as hopes are so predictably crushed -- I hoped it was something wedged somewhere and would work itself out, both literally and metaphorically.

I limped along to my first stop -- Best Buy, if you must know -- and the sound continued. I went to my second stop, Iyar Games, which was more self-indulgent. I wanted to pick up a book I had seen the last time Henry and I were there. It gave me the opportunity to make more turns and verify that the issue was only when I turned right. Finally, I pulled into my third stop, Cartridges Galore, when I started to notice the same sound when I applied my brakes.

Now I'm not a greedy person, I like to think. I don't expect a lot from my cars. I went a winter without heating. I make do whenbthe radio is not functioning. I am a fan of brakes, though, and when they start acting up I sit up.

I was low on gas and limped into the gas station to get some gas and to check if I could find anything that would explain the expanding symptoms. When I popped my hood I could smell something was leaking, and when I looked under my car I could see something. There was not enough to be a punctured radiator and it did not smell like oil, but by this point I was concerned enough I crawled to the nearest mechanic with whom I have experience, over at Firestone. I suppose I seemed desperate, as the guy behind the counter, Gavin, actually came out to look at my car right then and there. We couldn't see anything, until he pulled out his phone and took some photos from the back of my wheel where we could clearly see a broken caliper on my brake line and brake fluid that had sprayed out all over the underside of my car. He said there was a decent chance I would lose brake fluid, so brake pressure, so brakes. And, worst case scenario, brake fluid sprayed over hot brakes can combust. It was near closing time, but he said it was fine if I left my car there and someone could fix it about eight the next morning.

I made some calls and made sure Henry was taken safely back to my house. Then I started walking. The friend who took him home offered to pick me up, so I didn't walk a long way that night. Maybe a couple of miles.

The next morning, I got Henry on the school bus for the first time ever. I have had some pride in managing always to drive him to and from school on the days I have him. But this time I needed to ask his cooperation, and he was cooperative. I probably should have started walking right then. I took a shower and gathered my will, however. I had only a vague idea of what was ahead of me and I thought I could manage the walk in three to four hours. Based on nothing but hope. So it took me about an hour to get going, and I left my driveway at 8:45 in the morning.

Writing about it is exhausting. More later.