Halcyon Flies Blog

Adios

2009-03-23T16:14:00.003-05:00

Well, it was fun while it lasted, but I'm over here now: The Hopeful Midwife. Update your RSS if you're still in the mood.

Cheers!
-b

STEORN IS ALIVE!!!

2009-02-05T06:39:00.002-06:00

The Irish Men that Will Change the World.

22LG30 Contrast Flickering Problem

2008-11-13T23:16:00.003-06:00

I bought a 22" LG LCD TV (model 22LG30-UA) at Best Buy earlier, and to my utter disappointment, when I got it installed in my entertainment center, I noticed that when a dark scene in a movie cuts in, the contrast on my screen dips way low so that I can barely see the picture. Apparently this has something to do with the Intelligent Eye nonsense they stick on there to adjust to daylight, etc. This feature might work if you didn't have it boxed in an entertainment center (formerly an armoire) like I do.

Anyhoo, after searching forums for hours and spending a fruitless 20 mins of conversation with LG tech support, I finally discovered the fix on my own, thanks to my mad hacking skillz.

***DISCLAIMER***
What I've done involves accessing the hidden service menu and tinkering with a setting that may have other affects I'm not aware of. I've been using it like this for days now, and so far I'm very happy...

INSTRUCTIONS

1. Hold down the Menu button on the top of the TV while simultaneously holding down the Menu button on your remote control for about 10 seconds. A "Enter Passcode" box will appear. The code is all zeros.

2. Strangely, after bringing this menu up (and closing in with the Menu button on the remote), when you bring it up again sometimes it shows an entirely different menu. The menu you'll want has a "Factory Setting" option on it. You can either set this to "on" or "off." I set mine to "on," and after closing the menu, I noticed that the contrast flickering junk was completely gone.

3. If you're like me and you tinkered with the Picture settings to try to mitigate the contrast problem you might want to go to the normal menu and choose "Reset" and start adjusting your picture from scratch.

I hope Google picks up on this fix so that you don't waste the hours I have trying fix this.

THIS IS HIGHLY SIGNIFICANT

2008-10-23T12:03:00.000-05:00

Free-IQTest.net - Mensa IQ Test

Do or Die

2008-10-07T18:19:00.003-05:00

My friend Jonathan Reinhardt is writing a novel, and he had the idea of using Wordle.net to create a montage of the most frequent words found in his novel.

I too am writing a novel:

In fact, if I don't finish it by the 31st of October, I don't graduate. This (graduation) is kind of key given that the part-time teaching position I've been offered is contingent upon my Masters degree. My evil plan is to transition into teaching full-time and never have to touch a computer again.

Dear Constituents Who Oppose the Bailout Bill:

2008-09-30T11:07:00.000-05:00

if i understand correctly, you see the greatest drop in the stock market in two decades as a good thing?

if you're going to point me to Ron Paul and his Austrian School economics, and expect me to swallow that the financial market crash is not only inevitable but somehow part of the cleansing that must take place before healing can occur, i'd like to point out a few things that, in my opinion, ought to be taken into account before we celebrate congress' inability to pass the bailout bill.

have we, as the US sinned? very much so. kudos to "the good doctor" for predicting this perfect storm, and i couldn't agree more with him that the gov shouldn't print free money and we shouldn't keep charging things to this pie-in-the-sky national credit card.

the problem is that the perfect storm _has_ occured. the consequences of our sin have reared their ugly heads and we're heading for a cliff. can we wave a magic legislation-wand and *poof* all our problems away? no. no matter what happens in congress somebody's going to have to pay for this mess. the question isn't IF we're going to pay; it's WHO is going to pay.

on our current trajectory, the world's largest financial institutions are going to take a nasty plunge. who does this most directly affect? the constituents who are opposing this bill shout "WALL STREET," thinking that these executives with their golden parachutes are the ones who will bear the brunt of this fall. they couldn't be more wrong. the executives have already stored their parachutes in places that won't be touched by this mess. the people who will pay for this will be baby boomers. our country's largest demographic is getting ready to retire, and unfortunately the vast majority of their retirement is tied up in wall street through big financial institutions. in other words, the majority of the united states just watched as a quarter of their retirement got tossed out the window, on the brink of retirement. now, at 65 years of age, they can either sell their homes (at record low home values) or find a new job.

and remember: this isn't just US citizens we're talking about. because of Ron Paul's beloved Free Trade, the countries of the world are all tied up in this mess together. the united states has once again become the scurge of the international community.

so how would congress' bailout plan change things? if it's done right, it means that the consequences of our sin will be spread out over us as a nation. it means taxes across the board will go up, and instead of forcing the old to bear the brunt of this collapse, we as a nation will bear the burden together. instead of dumping our toxic debt onto international shoulders, we'll nut-up and take responsibility and ownership of our sin.

Brace Yourself Like a Man

2008-08-29T11:21:00.002-05:00

On this post, which is the poem I wrote about the toddler who was beat to death, I received the following comment:

God said:
That kid didn't pray enough.

This is my response:

God,

I'm truly humbled that you, in your infinitely busy day, took the time to become Logos on my blog! I never thought I'd witness a theophany before my death. I've truly been blessed. My sandals are off as I enter into this holy comment box.

I must say, however, that like Job questioning you after learning of the death of his children, I too question you--why you would let something so horrendous happen to an innocent child! After all, aren't you all-seeing and all-powerful? Couldn't you have stayed this man's hand?

Job's friends accused him similarly: he must have sinned. He didn't pray enough, so to speak. But that wasn't true! Job _knew_ he'd committed no sin big enough to warrant your injuries, God. So Job, in his sackcloth and ashes, called out to you. WHY? WHY GOD? WHY?

Your answer was very impressive in form, but not very satisfying in content. Though you appeared as a storm and reminded Job that you were the one that framed the Earth, you completely ignored the question! Instead of answering WHY you answered WHO!

You kind of did the same thing to Jesus when he was hanging on the cross. "WHY have you forsaken me?" he cried. Your answer was to shake the Earth and block out the sun. There too, you appeared as a storm. There too, you answered WHO instead of WHY.

Maybe you're trying to tell us something. Maybe you're trying to tell us that there is no answer to the WHY, at least not an answer we could comprehend. Maybe you're trying to tell us that what matters is the WHO. Who are you God? A storm. The framer of the Earth. Jealous. Angry. Merciful. Good. Love.

Sincerely,
Bryan

West Eden

2008-08-15T11:21:00.001-05:00

Tex appears like a ghost from the mirage, the wind tossing hair over his weathered forehead. His right hand hangs beside the gun at his hip; fingers twitching.

Maximo watches him approach. Bunched up in his left hand is a shirt, and languishing in that shirt is the Pinkertons man, the barrel of Maximo's six-shooter pressed viciously into his ear. "Any closer, Tex, and I'll send this man to--"

Tex's hand flashes and the dessert fills with thunder. Maximo looks down. The Pinkertons man is dead. "You damn rattlesnake!" Maximo's gun is now trained on Tex. In their heads they play out the battle. Each of them would stumble off into the dunes, a bullet rotting in their chest. "What're we gonna do now? Ain't enough bullets in this world to kill me dead without me killin' you first." Tex says nothing. "Hell, I wonder what makes men like us, willin' to kill men like this one here," he gestures at the bleeding man at his feet, "just to get at each other."

Tex's voice creaks like dry leather: "Shiva. The god of death. From our pistols spring the headwater of the Ganges, the water bearing the dead unto the heavens."

"Is that so? Well what in tarnation are we doin' shootin' at each other? Hell, there's a whole town down there, folks just waitin' to be sent to heaven."

Tex and Maximo bust into the Sick Dog Saloon, fire spitting from their guns. They lay waste to the sherrif and his posse. Tex picks up a spent shell. "The vessels of the herem."

"Huh?"

"In the time of Joshua the Lord spoke unto the nation of Israel, commanding them to consecrate the promised land, to annihilate the Midianites, the Amalekites, the children of Jericho."

"I ain't killin' no children."

"Suit yourself."

Tex and Maximo blaze a trail of blood from Ticonderoga to the rainforests of Tikal. Deep beneath the Mayan ruins Tex's dagger unearths a golden vial. He drinks half, hands the rest to Maximo. "Drink up. If we're the flood that cleanses the earth anew, we'll need to live forever."

With liquid gold coursing through their immortal veins, Tex and Maximo ride horses and railcars and camels and elephants, all manner of beast and mechanical conveyance into the hearts of civilization. In Washington their Gatling guns perforate the timber frames of the White House. As a single drop of rain alights upon the cenotaph of the Taj Mahal, Tex and Maximo slay the princes of Agra. Their cannon balls crash through the yellow glazed tiles of the Forbidden City, the whizzing round of a .22 silences the last emperor of China.

In England, in Russia, in France, in Spain; no army holds them back, no words win purchase on their hearts. They are as inexorable as the setting sun, death blossoms as red lilies on the chests of all men. The women and children have taken to boats, and all are lost at sea. At long last only Tex and Maximo remain, teeth blackened by gun powder, hands arthritic from the pulling of triggers.

Tex and Maximo rest alone upon the earth, sheltering beneath a bower of marsh, cradled between the Tigris and Euphrates. "Whew boy! That was some mighty fine shootin' Tex." Tex grins. Says nothing. "Say, why do they call you Tex anyhow?"

Tex removes his hat, wipes the sweat from his brow. "I suppose because I was born in Shreveport, Texas."

"Shreveport? Hell, Tex, that ain't in Texas! Well I'll be a suck-egg mule, I reckon that makes you Louise!"

Louise's eyes grow wide, she looks down, and for the first time notices breasts beneath her red gingham shirt. She unbuckles her holster, lies back against her salt marsh bed. "Be fruitful, and multiply, and replenish the earth, and subdue it: and have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over every living thing that moveth upon the earth."

Maximo smiles.

Elysian Fields

2008-07-26T15:08:00.001-05:00

i surrender
i forfeit this fight
place a coin on
each of my eyes

take my armor
take my shield
lay me down in
elysian fields

to my wife i leave this song
to my mother: i won't be long

Horrifying

2008-07-18T10:41:00.001-05:00

The spread of cancer.

Everybody Wants to Save the World

2008-07-16T09:09:00.002-05:00

Madness or genius? Scam or salvific? You decide.

Steorn's Orbo
Thane Heins' Parepiteia
Genepax's Water Fuelled Car
Denny Klein's Aquygen Gas
The Methernitha Christian Community's Testatika
Luc's Ganga Shakti

I found this in a shoebox...

2008-07-09T15:38:00.003-05:00

I cleaned out my office in the library about six months ago and took home a shoebox I thought was mine. When I found out it wasn't mine at all, I tried to find out who the box could've belonged to. I haven't had any luck yet. If you or anyone else has lost a shoebox with the contents I'm about to describe, let me know.

CONTENTS
1. A matchbook.
2. A photo of a girl.
3. An index card with a phone number and address.
4. A manuscript for... a novel? Hard to tell.
5. A green hair bow.

I feel like I'm violating something by posting this, but I read the first bit of the manuscript and thought it was so interesting that I'd post it here.

THE WINDOW

I was thirteen the first time I saw her. It was one of those prohibitively hot days in July when the light of the sun glints menacingly off of every piece of metal or glass. It makes you want to shield your eyes, or not look outside at all. I was bored, so I sat on the couch in front of the window and watched as cars negotiated the tar of the melting street.

It was her dress I noticed first. It was pale green and polka dotted. It looked anachronistic given that the other girls her age were wearing Daisy Dukes and tank tops. Her hair was something between brown and red, and she had it done up with a matching green bow. She was walking past my house on the sidewalk. When she was almost past, she turned and looked at me. How did she know I was there? Her face was dark. She had black eyes like almonds. Indian descent? I wasn't sure that she was beautiful. Her face was certainly attractive. She looked nice in her dress. But something about her kept me from falling in love with her the way I fell in love with every mildly pretty girl I saw at that age. For whatever reason, her face has left a scar on my memory that cannot be erased.

She turned around and stepped into the street, right in front of a silver Tahoe whose chrome blinded me with an explosion of reflected light. I heard tires squeal against soggy road. I ran out the screen door shouting. The driver was a middle aged woman, pale as a sheet. We approached the front of the car hesitantly. Looked. Nothing.

It was as if she was never there. No green dress. Nothing. The driver got on her knees. Looked under the car. Searched the neighbor's yard. Asked me repeatedly if I'd seen her. She eventually got back into her car and drove off. She looked angry, like I'd played a trick on her.

I watched her go. Turned around to go back inside. On the ground was a green hair bow. Hadn't we looked there earlier? I picked it up. Looked into the oak trees above my head. Nothing.

That night I didn't sleep. Or if I did sleep, I dreamt of her face, her dark face, looking directly at me.

The HalcyonFlies Mixtape

2008-07-07T16:38:00.000-05:00

IF YOU DON'T LISTEN TO THESE SONGS AND LIKE THEM YOU'RE STOOPID:

The HalcyonFlies Annual Mixtape

Can I See You?

2008-07-06T13:56:00.001-05:00

Thanks Dad!

2008-07-04T12:23:00.002-05:00

I Went Fishing

2008-07-03T10:28:00.003-05:00

The water wasn't compliant. The oar would cut, plow, push and suck water back but the current was stronger, relentless. It had other plans. It took me to this shore. Big deal? I thought. Just a shore. Just trees acting like they're the depth of existence, as though nothing hid behind their garish leaves. And then she appeared. Or she was always there and my eyes learned to see deeper. She was near the water, on one leg. Her beak turned; offering me her profile. I fumbled with my pocket. Thought surely she'll be gone before I get it out. My awkward camera phone made it's cachick sound and the bird was captured. There she is, a dot on the shore.

What next? I thought, for the water held me there; caught in eddies. She heard me. She held out her wings like the folds of a bathrobe; launched effortlessly into layers of air. Cachick! The camera shot her out of the sky, shattered into a billion pixels on a photograph. Here she is. RIP.

And the water bore me on. A point on the mud. Fallen branches made hidden kingdoms under water. Surely fish live here! There's my beached canoe. I threw the lure out, watched failing sunlight gleam off the wet line like a spider web in the rain.

Did I catch anything? Did any fish open wide and swallow my barbed hooks? No. There was an understanding between us. They knew it wasn't in me on this day. They knew I would just reel them in, let them off, toss them back. What I really wanted was to sit on a mound of mud. Take out the lone beer I brought sloshing in a bag of ice. Let the waves lap like dog kisses on my sun burnt feet.

When we were done, the lake and I, I got back into my canoe and she bore me back. We said our goodbyes and I drove home with a smile on my face.

I'd gone fishing. I only caught a bird.

Fun With Articles

2008-07-02T12:19:00.002-05:00

Read this.

Then read

this.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

On Reading and Writing

2008-07-02T08:29:00.003-05:00

"Desire is neither the appetite for satisfaction nor the demand for love, but the difference that results from the subtraction of the first from the second." --Jacques Lacan

Recently I have been doing some thinking on the nature of reading and writing. This thinking has been informed by JM Coetzee, Paul Auster, and Umberto Eco among others. I'd like to start by making an analogy for the human mind by comparing it to a 3D jigsaw puzzle like the one below.

Usually these puzzles, in their completed form, represent some kind of famous structure, such as the Notre Dame cathedral, the White House, the Taj Mahal, etc. Just as the architecture of each of these buildings reflects the culture from which it arises, so the human mind reflects the environment in which it is shaped. If we considered the mind of a Tibetan Buddhist, for instance, perhaps the most analogous structure for her mind might be a high-altitude monastery.

Comprising this mind-monastery are innumerable puzzle pieces of varying size and shape. Some of these pieces are very foundational, used to support the entire structure. Others are small pieces which, once employed to build the structure, are more or less forgotten, as they become swallowed up by the pieces surrounding them. Still others are chiefly ornamental, used to adorn, to stir up complements or controversy. In terms of the human mind each of these pieces represents an idea, a concept, a tiny particle of thought.

Where my analogy begins to depart from the idea of the 3D puzzle is that with a traditional puzzle you are given a set number of puzzle pieces which can only be used to buttress or adorn the final structure in a very specific way. The thought-pieces of the mind-puzzle, however, are in a more or less constant state of flux, with certain pieces (especially surface-level pieces) being discarded or added on a regular basis. This constant changing or re-arranging of pieces, however, is always done with the final product in mind. Changing pieces or adding new pieces is always done in terms of the preexisting structure. Our Tibetan monk, for instance, with little or no exposure to Western architecture, would be mostly uninterested in installing on her mind-puzzle fluted columns with capitols. Such ideas don't resonate with her. Instead she will install the things which "go well" with her monastery, such as gilded, upward tilting roof tiles.

Another manner in which my analogy departs from the traditional puzzle is the way in which mind puzzles are produced. Where the traditional puzzle is mass produced in a puzzle factory such that each puzzle box displays the same finished product on the front and contains the exact same pieces, the mind-puzzle cannot be mass produced. The closest approximation to such mass production is what we call brain washing and systemic indoctrination. For the most part, each mind puzzle is entirely unique, consisting of thoughts or concepts which, though potentially acquired through something as concrete as a culturally shared mathematic proof, will always be subjective, always colored by previously acquired thought-pieces, by an unquantifiable emotive state, by the mental faculties of the receiver, and by the manner in which the information is presented.

The result is that no matter how similar two people's culture and upbringing, they will each be entirely unique, will each acquire new information from a distinct slant.

Having drawn a crude sketch of the human mind using the metaphor of a puzzle, I will next speak of communication between two minds, or more specifically, language. One might define language to be a collection of words which mean something. What, exactly, do these words mean? One answer is that words correspond to objects in the world. The word "rock" for instance, refers to the small, hard objects that children pick up and use to smash windows. Or does it? Doesn't it also refer to a style of music, or the motion a boat makes when passing over a wave? And what, exactly does the word love refer to? And so we see that words do not refer to objects in the world. Instead, words are signs which correspond in the mind of the speaker to puzzle pieces (or groups of puzzle pieces). Due to the nature of the unique puzzle pieces in each person's mind, this means there is no guarantee that the words will be received with the same intended meaning as the author. In fact, words are never fully received in the manner they are intended. For this to happen, the minds of the author and reader would have to be exactly the same, an impossible situation.

To call attention to the amorphous, subjective nature of the human mind, to note the fact that words do not correspond to objects in the world, and to conclude that messages are never received with the full intent of their author is one of the objectives of the postmodern project. This has been an important step for those who still subscribe to the human project. For sometimes it is necessary, on a millennia long journey, to stop the car, turn off the engine, pop the hood, and disassemble (then reassemble) the engine so that it might run more efficiently. Post-structuralism, modernism, and postmodernism have successfully disassembled the engine. It is our job, as the heirs of a broken motor, to innovate a new kind of motor, whose very construction takes into account (and even expects) future deconstruction. To rely once again on analogy, we must affix engine parts to one another with Velcro, not with welded metal. We must punctuate very statement of fact with an implicit question mark. But unless we resign ourselves to paralysis, unless we give up the human project and toss out the idea of progress, we must keep affixing, we must keep making statements, we must keep journeying down our millennia-long road in the best direction we can discern.

In terms of language, the act of reassembly, from the perspective of the author, might look like being bold enough to make absolute, totalizing statements, but to make them hypothetically, in order that their implications might be explored, tested, and employed to revise the original statement. This might also look like, as much as possible, placing statements within a context by constructing a narrative framework, giving examples, and explicitly laying out the implications of an idea through plot. Consider, for instance, the parables of Jesus. Each parable makes a statement placed within the context of a narrative. A narrative can most simply be described as introduction, conflict, and resolution: a structural manifestation of the most universal human experience: Desire.

If Desire is indeed universal, the narrative becomes the most universal structure, the means by which to deliver clues about the intent of the author across cultures and unique human minds bound by time, distance, and disparate environments. Consider specifically Christ's parable of the shrewd manager found in Luke 16:1-15. In this parable a man appears to gain the favor of God through dishonest behavior. The core statement of the parable is found in verse 9: "I tell you, use worldly wealth to gain friends for yourselves, so that when it is gone, you will be welcomed into eternal dwellings." In a vacuum, left outside of its narrative context, the statement seems to be advocating something like bribery. Via the narrative context we learn that the money being exchanged for favors doesn't even belong to the manager, it belongs to his boss. We also learn that the boss is a wealthy land owner, and the people who owe him money (whose bills the manager is slashing) are tenant farmers. The narrative alone has not solved our problems. We are left with Christ advocating the actions of a man who is a dishonest thief.

Without any narrative clues at all, however, we would not have learned that our shrewd manager is caught between a wealthy landowner and his tenant farmers. With some surface level research into the socio-economic history of the first century, we learn that when the Roman Empire conquered Jerusalem, it imposed its taxes on otherwise self-sufficient farmers. These farmers were forced to either abdicate their land to the Roman Empire or sell their land to Jewish landowners and become tenant farmers, an arrangement under which they were typically exploited. In this light, suddenly other sayings of Christ become relevant. "Blessed are the poor," "you brood of vipers" (referring to the Pharisees), "I desire mercy, not sacrifice." Suddenly it becomes clear that, like David allowing himself and his men to violate the temple by stealing its food, or like Christ himself who gathered wheat for his disciples on the Sabbath, the manager is allowing social justice to override penal justice; the law of the land is being trumped by the law of Christ's Kingdom. This is an ethical situation which has Kant rolling in his grave. Christ, however, is not Kantian. He desires mercy, not sacrifice; an awareness of context, not categorical imperatives.

This examination of a parable began as an example of how an author might embed a statement in narrative in order to deliver clues about an intention that might have otherwise never been recovered. The exercise ended, however, in the kind of reading I would now like to advocate:

Be creative.

Be context sensitive.

Begin by giving the author the benefit of the doubt.

Understand that while no reading is ever absolute or totalizing, bold statements need to be made.

Of the bullet points above, the third would likely be most contested. Much has been made of Roland Barthes "Death of the Author," a seminal essay whose main thrust was to emphasize the irrelevance of an author's biography to the meaning of a text. According to Barthes, if fragments of the author's original intent can be recovered, it doesn't matter, because this original intent limits the potential for other meanings. I certainly agree with Barthes. There is no contract between author and reader. Once a text leaves the author's desk, it becomes words on a page to be construed however the reader sees fit.

Instead of a contract, however, might we imagine a more dialectic relationship between author and reader? If fragments of the author's original intent can be recovered, might we declare the author innocent until proven guilty? To rely yet again on analogy, a text is like a mechanism purchased at an electronics store--a complicated instrument with an integrated circuit board.

The authors intention (to the extent that it can be recovered), is like the instruction manual accompanying the gadget. A 'reader' of the gadget might set about trying to determine all of the possible uses for this gadget by flicking switches at random, twisting arbitrary dials, and tediously recording each result. An expert reader might even remove the plastic casing and, using a voltmeter, trace the flow of electricity down every possible path.

Another way to begin would be to consult the instruction manual, not as a definitive, absolute, totalizing reading of the gadget, but as a shortcut, an important initial reading of the gadget which serves as a platform to either tear down or build upon. The author's claim on the text is placed on trial and declared innocent until proven guilty. And just as hackers discover new and unintended uses for gadgets, so must readers unlock new and unintended readings for a text. But declaring the author and her intentions dead is as foolish as tossing the instruction manual in the trash bin.

20

2008-07-01T15:52:00.002-05:00

i translated neruda's poema 20. hasn't everybody?

tonight i write the saddest lines.

i write: the stars throw blue across the astral depths,
and the wind of night stirs heaven and sings.

tonight i write the saddest lines.
i wanted her, at times she wanted me.

on these nights i held her,
kissed her ceaselessly under ceaseless sky.

she loved me, at times i loved her back.
who wouldn't love her fixed gaze?

tonight i write the saddest lines.
about how she isn't mine, about losing her.

i listen to abyssal night, more boundless without her
and this verse on my soul is as dew on morning fields.

who cares that she slipped through my strongest love?
the sky is starred and she isn't here.

that is all. in the distance someone sings. in the distance.
my soul never settles without her here.

i summon her with my eyes
my heart searches, but she does not appear

as night has blanked out all the trees,
so time has changed us both

of course i do not love her! but God i loved her then
my voice rode drifting air to touch her ear

he possesses her! as once my kisses possesed:
her voice. the curve of her hip. her infinite eyes.

of course i do not love her! or maybe i do
love is as short as the fog of time is deep

because on these nights she was in my arms
and my soul never settles without her here.

she has inflicted her last wound!
for these are the last lines i write of her.

Bored?

2008-06-27T13:19:00.001-05:00

So was I a week ago:

Halcyon Flies Dual Monitor Wallpaper

the world is broken

2008-06-17T09:41:00.002-05:00

WHY DIDN'T THEY STOP HIM?!?!?

"multiple people tried to stop him..."

REALLY? How many people does it take to keep one man from beating a toddler to death? The world is broken.

the world is broken

2008-06-16T09:48:00.000-05:00

http://www.cnn.com/2008/CRIME/06/16/toddler.killed.ap/index.html?eref=rss_topstories

it hurts
teeth hurt
belly hurt
cry
cry
it hurts
it's hot
chair hurts
daddy yell
daddy say:
no cry
but
it hurts
daddy yell
daddy yell
car stop
chair hurts
belly hurts
teeth hurt
daddy come!
daddy hug?
daddy take
daddy yell!
daddy yell!
cry
cry
daddy hurt
daddy hurt
daddy hurt
cry
daddy hurt
daddy hurt
daddy
daddy
can't cry
daddy
daddy
dad

Missing Them

2008-06-03T14:40:00.003-05:00

Dog

2008-06-02T22:01:00.003-05:00

It is not a coincidence that the words Dog and God are related. Much has been made of this reversal of letters. All manner of philosophers, who would stand proud atop the knowledge that God is dead, have played, have called God a cur, a lesser being fit to wallow in the stench of dead fish. The philosophers are wrong, of course. If I know anything tonight, tonight when I'm alone, when I'm trolling the depths of an ocean of depression where oxygen must be fought for, I know that God is alive. I know that while I'm bleeding internally, this God bleeds with me. I know this because, half drunken with beer and lack of sleep, I fell to the floor. I fell, not on accident, but because I had no where else to go. I fell on soft carpet, a cowardly fall. I closed my eyes, just expecting to fall asleep. Instead, I began to hear sniffles. I began to feel the wet lap of a tongue on my salty cheek. I felt fur, a cold wet nose. I didn't have to look up. I knew my dog, Lego, had walked up to me and begun to do the thing which comes most naturally to him: to love. He bathed me in his kisses. Kisses full of saliva. Kisses I would normally be revolted to receive. But this night each one was a quiet sentence containing the word I needed to hear most: Love. Love, lego said. Love love love love, as many loves as his little tongue was able to impart. I realized that animals, like all of God's creation, are manifestations of some aspect of God. God is creation. And tonight, Lego was God to me.

Gotta Love the Onion

2008-05-09T11:09:00.001-05:00

McCain Vows To Replace Secret Service With His Own Bare Fists