I will be taking a bit of a break from this blog for the next couple of months, doing little more than occasionally posting some odd bit of flotsam that amuses me, as I need to dig in and complete a couple of fairly large projects. The project most on the front burner right now is the presentation I’m committed to for the 2015 International Whitehead Conference. Continue reading
Americans have long exercised a vexed relationship with the Christmas season; and I say “Americans” here, because the vexation has long preceded the existence of the “United States.” If one takes seriously the tales told in the Gospels, then the Winter Solstice bears no possible connection to the birth date of Jesus. The stories very clearly state that shepherds were minding their flocks in the hills when the Star appeared. But shepherds would never permit their flocks to wander about the hills in the late days of Autumn, early days of Winter. So by irrefutable Biblical evidence, we know that Christ’s birth would never occur at “Christmas” time.
So, it turns out, my cat is dying.
This isn’t big in the way of surprises – he’s 18 years old – but it is hard nonetheless: I’ve known him for 17 of those years, and he’s been my companion for 16. There aren’t many people I’ve known as long, and I include on this list most of my family. (We’d been cheerfully estranged for many years, then started reconnecting for various reasons, with the final train-wreck coming in the form of FaceBook. Classic “don’t do it, wuss.”)
Canfield Drive is a pretty, residential street. Nestled up against a drainage creek on one side, and the Northland Golf Club on the other, the houses up by the main avenue are older, but well kept and trim. The only clutter in the yards are such toys as one would expect in houses that are homes to families with small children. Further down the narrow, winding lane are relatively new apartment complexes. These are handsomely laid out with carefully manicured yards and balconies, ample parking spaces for the tenants, pleasantly shaded by mature trees all along the way. The cars one sees are all in good condition; there are no rusty beaters laying about, but solid, well maintained vehicles.
This one is rather more personal than most of my entries, so I beg your patience.
The title above is based on a pet saying of a friend of mine; the meaning is a little more complicated than a first reading might suggest.
It has to do with something most of us have witnessed – and many have not only participated in, but actively brought about – when exactly the wrong person, at exactly the wrong time, takes exactly the wrong stand, for exactly the right and noble reasons, all without the slightest hope of “survival,” much less success. (Usually they/we literally survive, but with physical and emotional scars that are added to an already long list.) Witnessing such a train wreck, you say to yourself (because the disaster is too overwhelming to even say it out loud): “Oh dear god; don’t do it wuss …” But you can see that it is already too late; even though it has not yet been done, it certainly is going to be.