Victor Davis Hanson, "Post-election Thoughts," Works and Days. 22 January 2010.
"PC (which serves a variety of purposes from stifling free expression to claiming some mythical higher moral ground through gratuitous censure) ends only when we collectively shrug, and sigh, “Linguistic extortion has zero influence on me.”
I like the original lyrics far better than those created later. One of the great things about Gospel Music is that one can be part of a singing congregation, part of a swell of voices in harmony, a person among friends, all moving toward one great and deep emotion, redemption optional. This kind of music, as far from Bach as one might get, is intuitive-- and neighbourly. It's not personal, for the most part; it's communal. When I hear a lone voice singing Gospel I here a very lonely man.
Hope you have someone to share this with so the circle won't be broken.
There are loved ones in the glory, Whose dear forms you often miss; When you close your earthly story, Will you join them in their bliss?
Refrain
Will the circle be unbroken By and by, by and by? In a better home awaiting In the sky, in the sky?
In the joyous days of childhood, Oft they told of wondrous love, Pointed to the dying Savior Now they dwell with Him above.
Refrain
You remember songs of heaven Which you sang with childish voice, Do you love the hymns they taught you, Or are songs of earth your choice?
Refrain
You can picture happy gatherings Round the fireside long ago, And you think of tearful partings, When they left you here below:
Refrain
One by one their seats were emptied, One by one they went away; Here the circle has been broken— Will it be complete one day?
The Jewish Defence League is holding a support rally for Geert Wilders.
On January 20th, the honourable Geert Wilders, Dutch Member of Parliament, will stand trial in Amsterdam for our collective rights to speak the truth about the spread of political Islam in the free world.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010 7:30 pm – 9:30 pm at the Toronto Zionist Centre, 788 Marlee Avenue
The picture is a railroad company logo on the side of train cars that used to pass through my home town in the Rocky Mountains.
The mountain goats in the area were mighty rare to see and a joy to behold when one got so lucky. They have a majesty few other animals in the mountains have, hooves clinging to the sides of precarious ledges, the bulk of the beast poised with supremely measured confidence gazing across across his domain like a Titan. Rocky Mountain Goat.
I'd see the rail-cars sometimes, the trains swaying on the rails, pasted the rolling grasslands, telephone poles flying by, the train passing outside of our town limits, and me being out fishing or so, the train logo flashing past, raising in my young mind the fantasy of the freedom and the glory of the mountain goat. I loved the romance of the jagged grey mountains and the huge blue sky and the daring but confident leaping mountain goat. And the train whistles in the dusk, low, lonely strands of sound floating across the valley, it made me long to explore every hidden place beyond my little town in the forest, me moving like the train whistles so far away, fleeting like a mountain goat.
I think of trains and motion and the world as I knew it as a boy in the mountains. I think of cresting the road, a boy from those rocky mountains, and looking down, suddenly, I see Jerusalem shrouded in a brown sand-storm. I've gone so far....
You'll have to imagine the sense of standing in a field of chest-high hay swaying in the breeze, a field that from child-size perspective goes on for miles till it reaches the hard black mountains peaked with snow in the summer time. If you can see the Monarch grasshoppers as dusk comes, then you'll know that along the far horizon at the base of the mountains will come the train, blowing eight long toots as thin as ghosts as the reaches the crossing too far to walk to in a day, so says my dad. And if the sun goes behind the mountains and casts the world into night time as you walk with your dog back to the house, a few minutes after the train has let out its first blasts, you'll hear a long wail as he leaves and trundles into the pass and beyond your experience of the world.
Some times I'd see the train up close, the decal of the mountain goat in bright yellow, as I recall it, painted on the sliding door of freight cars. Always loved the sound of train whistles in the far distance, the ones that echo in the dusk and fade into the night. "And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave,/Awaits alike th’inevitable hour."
It is my sincerest wish to die in a ditch, to lay down under snow and be forgotten till spring when my bones peek out from the thaw to a full sun, perhaps a wandering child finding me a curious thing on the road side, stuff to play with and show off to friends, to put parts of on a shelf and forget about in the course of growing up, learning the hardships of living, crying into a pillow at night over some young tragedy, cursing Fate, hating the world that could so meanly let him down. And let him too lie down in a ditch and die in time. It's what's meant for a Fighting Man. It is, in fact, fair. I can't think of a fairer fate. Life, though, is not fair. Some men die in bed.
I returned, and saw under the sun, that the race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, neither yet bread to the wise, nor yet riches to men of understanding, nor yet favour to men of skill; but time and chance happeneth to them all.
Ecclesiastes, 9:11, King James Bible
Epiphany
For a while my mom used to walk with me to school, taking me past the equestrian statue of General Slocum at the park; and I loved it so much, thinking there could be nothing finer in life that to be a statue of a man on a horse. Slocum. Just a name, and sort of a memory. Days walking with my mother better forgotten. I don't forget. I remember quite vividly some things.
I remember the horror of learning about gladiators. They died for the amusement of others, in public, as a game, pointlessly and passively. It's infuriated me for a life-time that men could just lie down and let themselves be killed without protest; that men could die without raging at the Fates and the Furies, silently accepting murder without a qualm while a mob critiqued their demise, good or ill. Now I get it. This night I understand. That to die after a deadly defeat is a solemn and noble thing; and that the cheering, jeering, puking and stupid mob is dross; that the gods know deeply. That the Fighting Man is fighting even then, even as he kneels and shows his throat to cut; as he slowly lowers himself to the wet sand. That is the biggest "Fuck You" of all. That man laughs, if silently. The gods laugh too. I laugh. Now I know.
The gods are stone cold silent this night. There is no ragged rejoicing in the dusky demise of a man who lies down and dies with a whimper. Our comfort: to be laid down under a quilt of meat-eating birds.
Fires in the night, when London burned, when Chicago burned, San Francisco, Dresden, Auschwitz: This is our time, not so bright. In the Great Burnings of history, our time is tiny and fleet. Our Twin Towers burned, and now they are shunted away as memories better forgotten, like chipped and faded plaster mothers we've set aside in dark parts of the mind, too distant and unloved to recall. Not a candle burns. No cairn. Not a wind. Not a whisper. All is forgotten. The fire is ash. We rush to forget. The cold, dark pyre. It is a cold, dark night.
Metanoia
"Where is the Life we have lost in living?"
Though it blinks and flickers like the faintest farthest star, my light still shines for me to seek. I will follow such a light, dim as it might be and unseen by others, till it leads me into the shadows of the Valley of Death and to die in a ditch. I turn to the light, laughing.
It is a time to turn. Will you turn? Turn. Kyrie eleison, we could die in bed.
My friend died in bed. Kyrie eleison, we could die in bed. We could die in bed, or we can turn to the light and die in a ditch, forgotten.
Time and chance happeneth to us all. There is no mercy.
Up-date. It's been a few days now and the shock has worn off somewhat. I recall Brian saying he didn't like the idea of being in a wheel-chair. He could hardly walk and was in terrible pain, and he knew he had to get a wheel-chair or be stuck. He'd say, "I don't want to go in the cart!" It's a line from the Monty Python movie, Search for the Holy Grail. In memory of Brian, then, another video on a happier note, The Life of Brian.
We will probably get through the current reign of the sons of America with little more than a wild distaste for Democrats. They seem bent on outright rebellion and the destruction of our nation; but we won't rejoice in their defeat.
Christmas used to be a big deal at my family home as a boy, when we got lots of presents and we had a big tree with lots of ornaments and tinsel. We'd have a big dinner and make lots of noise and stay up late. We'd sing carols and someone would say something that another didn't like and there'd be an argument and a bit of shouting that would lead to a fight on the living-room floor, the tree crashing down and the bulbs breaking, my mother screaming and my father smashing everything in sight. They'd throw things at each other, push me and others, the whole lot of them going nuts till everything was broken and ruined and most of us standing in frozen terror till someone grabbed and started beating me or my sister or both. There was a big hole in the door that never got fixed, someone punching and missing, the door taking the blow. They ripped the plaster off the wall once, and that stayed wrecked till I finally got out of there, maybe still wrecked to this day.
I was long gone and Christmas came around, still a kid, far too young to be on the road so far from home. We'd all been captured at various places over the preceding months and were held in a small bunker, most of us nervous, anxious, even scared that we might at any time be taken out and shot. But Christmas came and there was a delivery of mail. Guys got letters and candy and socks and things from home. It was almost OK for a day. I sat and waited till the mail call was over. My mates were embarrassed, I being the only one who didn't get any mail.
Christmas ain't about family for me. It's certainly not about presents and candy. It's about you. I get to live in a reasonable world of decent people. Thanks to those who make this world as good as it is, I get to come and go as I please and do my own thing without harm from the state or the lords, and I thank you all for that. Thank God for democracy, and thank you for keeping it alive. Thank you for having happy families and making this a wonderful world. Thank you, and Merry Christmas.
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The picture is a railroad company logo on the side of train cars that used to pass through my home town in the Rocky Mountains.
