21 April 05
Stalino-Papism
Marc Cooper’s take on Pope Rottweiler.
20 April 05
God’s Rottweiler
“Insofar as Vorbis got any pleasure in life, at least in any way that could be recognized by a normal human being, it was in seeing the faces of humble members of the clergy as they rounded a corner and found themselves face-to-chin with Deacon Vorbis of the Quisition. There was always that little intake of breath that indicated a guilty conscience. Vorbis liked to see properly guilty consciences. That was what consciences were for. Guilt was the grease in which the wheels of authority turned.”—Terry Pratchett, Small Gods“It’s Ratzinger. Be Jewish.”—My Friend Barbara, minutes after the Habemus Papam announcement
Here we go. Why do I feel like I’m back in the sixteenth century?
Here comes a guy who declares relativism the greatest threat to the Catholic Church (and, by extension, to the World As We Know It). No compromises, everyone. No compromises on the role of women in the church, no compromises on married priests, no compromises of course on homosexuality or abortion or contraception (including condoms, in an age when AIDS is pandemic), no compromises on anything, especially not on any kind of silly Marxist preoccupation with poverty. Vatican II was an embarrassing aberration, a blip, an Error. We are in the land of No Compromise. This sounds awfully like last November. When people are so certain they’re right, compromise is unnecessary. (They don’t care that history has shown these people to be tyrants.)
John Paul II was a skilled communicator, a politically savvy actor (and, I believe, a profoundly devout man) who was able to navigate turbulent waters with finesse and diplomacy.
He left the details of dogma to his buddy Ratzinger, is why.
This is why I’m especially grateful for a welcome to a friend’s Seder this Saturday. We are all invited to bring a visual representation of freedom from something that enslaves us. Since I seem to be unable to wrench myself entirely from the clutches of the Catholic Church, I might ponder something along those lines.
Does God really need a rottweiler?
19 April 05
La Rata
Congratulations to all of you who made the correct picks in the Papal Conclave Brackets; for the rest of us, do hurry on over to Pharyngula for discussion of the selection of Joseph Ratzinger as Grand Inquisitor Pope. Somehow it seems fitting that I got an emailed pdf today of last week’s editorial in Science entitled “Twilight for the Enlightenment?” Oh well — maybe Pope Benedict XVI will have the decency to bring back the Latin Mass. Or at least ban guitars.
18 April 05
Quill Knives
Ten years ago today, I posted a message to the calligraphy usenet list asking what the best knife was to cut goose quills, since I was a birder in Boston and all the geese on the Charles River were dropping their primary feathers. I got the name of a knifemaker in Minnesota and bought one of his beautiful quill knives.
I also got a note from a graduate student in geography at UC Santa Barbara saying he knew nothing about quill knives but just wanted to say hi from another birder-calligrapher.
The rest, as they say, is history…
17 April 05
Imaging A Treasure Trove
Classicists are rejoicing now because a new infrared imaging technique is enabling scholars to decipher a massive and previously illegible collection of papyri of Greek and Roman texts. This collection of 400,000 fragments was found at the end of the 19th century in an ancient rubbish site in a town in central Egypt. It is possible that deciphering these texts will lead to a 20 percent increase in the number of classical works in existence.
16 April 05
Picnic Day Duty
Today we spent most of the day at the Wildlife Health Center booth at Picnic Day, folding and distributing Cootie Catchers (we were left with about five at the end of the day, so about 250 of these things are wending their way to preadolescent bedrooms as we speak) and posters and magnets and teaching children how to clean oiled birds (they were practicing on rubber duckies that had a good coating of nontoxic black paint on them).
Numenius’ sister and her boyfriend made the trip up from Berkeley with Hooper the dog, so we had a great visit. They were unable to join us for dinner at Davis’ newest restaurant, the New Delhi Chaat Caf, which was a shame, because it was a pretty good answer to Berkeley’s Vik’s Chaat House, famous all over the Bay Area.
15 April 05
Brush Pens
One of the things our teacher had us do in our workshop last weekend was to experiment with a brush pen. The first exercise in our journal was to make brush depictions of ponderosa pine needles. Later when we got outside, she had us using them to sketch the midribs of leaflets and leaves.
I’ve decided to learn my way around brush pens better and have since bought two of the six-pen sets of Faber-Castell Pitt brush pens, the landscape color set and the shades of gray set. Here is a little tryptich I did this evening — that’s Charlie in the window on the right.
14 April 05
Tango
Natalie of Blaugustine has recently started selling her art online through Photobox. I bought this GORGEOUS print and it arrived a few days ago from the UK. I don’t have my tango gear any more but here’s a photo of a photo of a print of a painting of Boca by the goddess of color, halfway around the world.
13 April 05
Eyas
— an unfledged or nestling hawk (WordNet)
All four of Gracie’s eggs have hatched! She is the peregrine falcon nesting on top of the PG & E building that we have been watching excitedly through the webcam set up by the good folks at the Santa Cruz Predatory Bird Research Group. The chicks are difficult to see in the webcam since the adults brood them almost constantly to keep them warm, but there are pictures of them here in the nest diary.
12 April 05
On Seeing More Butterflies
Spaghetti-strapped, I see them flutter by
Their nasal twangs submerged in pony tails
They yearn for depth, these quiet butterflies.
They clutch their tomes, where passion’s in supply
An exercise routine beyond the pale
Spaghetti-strapped, I see them flutter by.
From Donne to Plath, they read, they sink, they sigh
The bell jar beckons with its lonely veil.
They long for depth, these quiet butterflies.
They see the book. They smile. They pay. They buy.
The vortex draws them louder than a gale:
Spaghetti-strapped, I see them long to die.
Profundity ensnares them: mirror, spy.
The oven-abyss calls – it’s so female.
They whisper “death,” these quiet butterflies.
I rail, unheard, against the sylvan lie
Whose petulance bores into wings so frail
This yen for depth will kill my butterflies:
Protruding ribs, preparing soon to die.