Category Archives: Blabber

Bishop Robert Barron, Popularity, Blog Stats, Father Elijah an Apocalypse

I have noticed that I have provided links to two of Bishop Robert Barron’s articles or videos in the last month or so. I have noticed that those links have not been used. Even when yesterday’s post would have been better understood with the requisite background. I believe that is because most people’s thought nowadays are “Priest? What the hell do they know?”

Hilariously, I have seen this said about love or relationships – what would a priest know about it? After I clean my pants from laughing too hard I would say – a lot than you would think.

Now, the “logical” thing for me to do, given modern ways of thinking, is to look at my stats and say, “hmm, this Barron guy isn’t very popular with my audience such as there may be (Hi Mom!), he will have to go.”

But, unless you are new here, I detest modern ways of thinking. So, I am going to bump up my links, weekly, of related topics Bishop Barron covers. I may even see if I can find an esoteric blogger of Christology.

Heh heh heh, my thinking may seem to not make sense, stand on your head and it will be clearer…

Sometime in the whirlwind that was early last year Mr. Wright at his blog was praising a book he was reading during Lent instead of what he was supposed to be reading for Lent. I have a strange memory where I will remember such a thing as such a post, what was said in it and the comments, and the book author and title.

So, last Thursday I was back at one of my old haunts Half-Priced books in Bellevue WA (East Side!) and came across the title sitting on top of the Hindu section under “religion.”

I am hoping it is a good read and not a Left Behind clone. Not that I’ve read the latter and not that I will – yuck. I think I have read every sort of genre out there except this one. And yes, I have read Westerns. Alright no Romance novels… But what man has?


Bishop Robert Barron and Chuck Jones

Bishop Robert Barron (and I am not sure why I am writing this as I suspect most everyone turn away once encountering the word ‘bishop’ – your loss – writers read the article, I will tie it up nicely to writing) had an excellent article a few weeks ago.

I’m sort of taking it somewhere else.

In it he is talking about the distantiation inherent in the social media age. The habitualized mental experience of basically experiencing reality “once-removed” as experiencing it self-consciously, through the lens of an expected audience – modulated by others. It is basically living the psychology of the class clown.

The article is based on another article written by a modern writer of the social media age who became a mother.

To quote from Barron’s article:

Most millenials never simply had experiences; they were conditioned to record, preserve, and present those experiences to a following who were invited to like what they saw, to comment on it, to respond to it. To be sure, she acknowledges, the social media, at their best, are powerful means of communication and connection, but at their worst, they produce this odd distantiation from life and a preoccupation with the self. Here is how Menkendick puts it: “I’ve come of age as a writer at a time when it is no longer enough just to write. A writer must also promote her work and in the process promote herself as a person of interest…I learned the snarky, casually intellectual voice of feminist and pop culture bloggers, the easy outrage, the clubby camaraderie.”

This, I believe, is why the next generation of writers are going to (to be blunt) suck. They play to an audience. This I think is bad. This is why you get luke-warm Star Wars sequels like The Force Awakens because the writer’s concern is other people’s experiences of the subject matter and not the subject matter itself. They are not immersed in the reality of the material, but in the reality of people’s perceptions.

They are going to suck (as a whole, not each individually) because their whole orientation is non-artistic. Now granted, a writer gets feedback, usually, while writing. But not from every Tom, Dick and Harry out there. A trusted spouse (writers usually come in pairs, or, the other is not a complete tube-zombie) an editor, a writer friend, etc. Not ‘ClenchedBeaver47’ that has ‘hearted’ a few of your FaceBook pics of your dog. Or some random stray anonymous person.

When I was a young teenager I wanted to do either cartooning or animation. I read the autobiography of Chuck Jones (Chuck Jones was the big Warner Brothers cartoon man, he did all the great ones – Rabbit of Seville, etc). The single one thing that stood out to me was the following. He was lamenting the new young writers that sometimes would start at the studios who always seemed obsessed with everyone else thought of their ideas.

I am paraphrasing him here (because it has been over thirty years since I have read the book): “I write for myself. I write what I think is funny. After I write I will see what others think of it, but not before.”

Now the article Barron is referencing is about a woman’s experience as a mother and the contrast to a life on the social media. But, I think the same principle holds true here.

The story is the baby. You must experience it first hand, viscerally. You must jump into the river of life, let it wash over you. You, your anxieties, self-consciousness – they don’t matter. How others will see it, how it will reflect on you (are you trending, baby?) all of that is preoccupation with the self and not reality – reality here being the story.

Because as unintuitive as it may sound (but actually sounds a truism) your story is not about you. It is no more about you than a court case is about the court stenographer who is dictating the proceedings.

I think this applies to almost everything. Say you are in a rock band (am I out dated, are there still rock bands?) you wouldn’t come up with a riff or chord progression, post it on Facebook and then ask, “does this sound too 80’s everybody?” Forget about it. Throw away your guitar and join me in the service industry. You are going to need a lot of alcohol… I’ll train you.


This is Fun

So I’m into the preparatory part of N.T. Wright’s The Resurrection of the Son of God. This isn’t a popular presentation but a scholarly one, so you have some thirty or forty pages of groundwork to go through: preliminaries, questions posed, general thesis, approach to objections, parts and chapters described, etc, etc.

But what fun! I know none of this stuff. Almost zero. I mean I have read the Gospels and Acts and pinches of other works (although my reading of the OT is still sparse – I mean come on, I couldn’t get through the leavened bread! what is the big deal about yeast!?). But how the Jews and pagans viewed resurrection in general? I don’t know.

In general, an atheist tends to not pay any attention to anything having to do with religion, or, spends time attacking it while still knowing nothing about it, or, knows something about it and attacks it, or knows about it and doesn’t attack it (that’s a rare specimen). I was the first. I never looked at any of it for the same reason I never sought out a biography on Santa Clause or the Easter Bunny.

It is like joining a murder mystery. But this one is two thousand years old, and, apparently, the victim got up and walked away three days after the event. Beat that Law and Order!


Yet Another Acquisition and Tommyknockers Knockin’ at my Door

This one I had to get because, at the time, it was the only available copy on the internet and I already had number two. You never know if the one on the internet is the first of forty to show up tomorrow or the only one that is going to show up for forty years. So I bit.

I have to put a temporary halt on book buying. I can no longer even pretend that I am keeping up. Hell, last Friday I decided to reread The Tommyknockers by Stephen King on a whim.

Not totally a whim. It is one of my favorites. For one it was the first book I read in my very first place on my own. No television. Just beer and piles of books. And that was when I could read for 6 hours at a spin. Now I have to start fighting a nap within a half hour. That may be because I wear x3 magnification and hold the thing up to my face.

No television, no internet, no computers. Ah, those were the days, brother, those were the days.

Another reason I like it is it is a good story. Stephen King said in an interview it was his least favorite book and he doesn’t remember a lot of the writing. It was at the height of his drinking and cocaine days. And there are places in the book where you think, “ah, man, this was an eight-ball night for him for sure.” By this time he was a lot like Lucas I would imagine – editors as yes-men.

King’s strongest story-telling has always centered around friendship and this one is no exception. That, and the man knows the throws of alcohol abuse – quite intimate on that he is.

Anyway, it is one of my favorite science fiction / horror stories. Those are two genres that haven’t always mixed well, or believably. This one is a gem in my book. Love it. And it’s fast too. There is no hidden symbolism in King’s work, no meta-anything – just straight forward storytelling, contemporary Americana, and some shots of terror.

Hey, I just started a book called The Resurrection of the Son of God – go look up the table of contents. I need some rest after some of my reading!


I LOVE THIS GUY!

{Note: I have edited a portion of this material as I was pursuing a couple trains of thought simultaneously. Also I miswrote that I have heard critics deride the technique of wet-on-wet painting, what I meant to say as I have heard critics dismiss Bob Ross as an artist. Critic being a deceased profession entirely without meaning in the realm of art for about a century now.]

I have always needed the television on to fall asleep. Otherwise the wheels keep turning and I’m tossing all night. The wife and I decided that 2017 would be murder television free – no crime shows, real or fictional. That leaves out a lot of sleeping material. Easiest thing is to stream shows that have fifteen thousand episodes and most cop dramas have about that many!

A couple of months ago my wife finds this show, The Joy of Painting, on Netflix streaming (do they still do DVD’s?) and so we give it a go. Man, you talk about drifting off to sleep. Forget Lunestra or any other sleeping aid. All you need is Ross’ soothing voice talking about happy trees and clouds with friends and… ZZZZZ…ZZZZ

Not that it is boring, mind you. Painting was one of the first things I had ever wanted to do which is one reason why I had never watched The Joy of Painting. It is quite fascinating to watch what begins as a real mess take shape in such a short time (yes, we all know he had a reference painting he painting before the show). I swear he can start with a blue smear, I turn to adjust my pillow or something – hey! where did that stream and forest come from?

It should be noted that as mesmerizing as it is to watch the process, Ross only applied it to limited number of settings and styles, basically those that interested him. Mountains, trees, clouds, streams, beaches, what they call landscape painting. Any man-made objects usually consisted of old cabins, never was there a skyscraper, jumbo-jet or any harsh modern object of industry. No, this was John Denver country here.

Ross’s technique, wet-on-wet, or Continue reading


THE VOID AND THE COLD SWEAT

Man, in some ways I really hate writing. On Sunday I decided that I would start something fresh and let my other stuff lie where they will until they call for me. I was fidgeting with some of my projects here and there but nothing new was coming off of it.

So I decided that I would start something new, and, since I was reading a ton of fantasy at the moment, it would be fantastic… with a little horror thrown in as I am not a big sword and sorcery guy. I prefer fantasy that is more weird and ghostly.

Another thing I hate is these sorts of posts where I have to say “I” all the time!

So I sat and nothing. Monday – nothing. Tuesday – nothing. Today – nothing.

It is hard to explain to someone who has never experienced it. It is not as if there is not the world in front of you, but that you become blind to it. The mind seems to keep polishing its own empty bowl of void and you cannot get it to let something in.

So, today I had my Scrivener open and I just started doodling, but it just started being another doodle of distress…Idea! Come on! Something just a kernel!

I just decided not to pursue something I went to school two years for so I could sit here and suffer in front of the dreaded white nothing?!?!!? I had better convert to Catholicism quick, I have a lot of suffering in store for me!

So, I am sitting there and then I see something next to my printer a few feet away. It is a picture of my sister and I from one of our two trips to Jamaica in ’78 and ’79. Jamaica? Wasn’t there a famous haunted house on a hill there, haunted by some voodoo witch or something like that? Who cares! Enough for me! Ah, and there are the endless banana groves that create a canopy down the river that we rafted on.

Then the race is on, but a little less time on the voided crucifix would be nice!


I READ IT IN ONE SITTING! EH, I DON’T BELIEVE YOU

I don’t know how many times I have read someone say of a book, “It was so great I read it in one sitting!” I then usually find out the work they are referring to is 390 pages or some ridiculous number. I can grant that you didn’t really mean one sitting unless you wear a catheter and don’t actually have to get up to pee.

But there must be a lot of talented speed readers out there. A four hundred page book in one sitting. Bullshit. Is it just a saying that everyone but me understands is not to be taken literally? Even finishing such a book in a day can only be called skimming. See, I wouldn’t take it as a complement if someone said that about my work.

“Ah, yes, thank you for taking the time to skim over my work!”


Sisson’s Synonyms, Setting it Right, Sad Face 2015

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One of my long time customers at my bar suggested this book to me a few weeks ago (I hate waiting for regular delivery!). Looking it over it seems the byline for the book is the real indicator for it and reads as follows (you can see above the author’s name): An Unabridged Synonym and Related Term Locator.

The related term locator is the real useful part; general entries start with common synonyms of the common usage of the entry term, but switch to other related uses as you go through the entry. It is not a general use synonym finder or thesaurus (especially since it was published in 1969 and we have only gone downhill since roughly that time), you have to have a decent command of English usage to navigate through a lot of entries. Thesauruses, usually the online types, give a lot of their synonyms through use in expressions – Sisson’s only gives related words.

For instance, if you are investigating alternative ways to express the concept of ‘focus’, you may come across the concept ‘cynosure’. Is cynosure another way to say ‘focus’? Or is it a related word? There is nothing wrong not knowing (there is in not being curious enough to look it up) so look up the term! There are probably hundreds if not thousands of words here I don’t know.

Some words just die out. I am of the opinion that if there is a thing as endangered species, the first on our list should be the richness of our language. Example: one of the entries under Fog is Brumous. I’ve never come across the word before. Maybe if I didn’t read so much lightweight space operas my vocabulary would be larger!

But we are all required to save the Space Princess!

Anyway, it now proudly takes a spot with my linguistic collection: Compact Edition of the Oxford English Dictionary, Fowler’s Dictionary of Modern Usage, Dorland’s Medical dictionary, Foyle’s Philavery, two picture dictionaries (sometimes you need a visual cue – what the hell is that knobby thing at the top and bottom of a stair rail called? or if you need the names of the parts of a sail ship), C.S. Lewis’ A Study in Words, and (because I still love the thing) The Chicago Manual of Style.

Setting it Right

I have decided, although it causes me some trepidation, to disengage myself from this pursuit of medical coding. Even if I did land the job, I don’t know what else I would have time for – especially writing.

And even though I said I was getting back to the writing (or else abandon, out of honesty, the subtitle of my blog) I would not be able to do it with the medical coding. It was a bigger line of work than I had anticipated. So I am going to ditch it –

It drives me a little insane… scared even that I wasted more than two whole years on something like that only to walk away. I’ve never felt like that over the decades of (two of them anyway) drinking and getting ZERO done. I achieved a certification and blew through roughly five thousand dollars, but I am can’t think of myself also sacrificing even more time (because getting into this line of work is a nightmare) and perhaps never getting back to writing.

I’m sorry, I’d rather be a fry cook at McDonald’s (or a greeter at Walmart). Don’t laugh, those bastards will be making $15 an hour in Seattle soon. YOU BETTER NOT FUCK UP MY BURGER IN THE DRIVE-THRU!!!!!! OTOH, I don’t know where they are going to live because rent is going to do nothing but go up, up, up!

“Yeah, I’m a fry cook at McDonald’s. I’m make $15 an hour. I commute 2 hours into work and back home every day. The liberals that run the city may say they love the little man and minorities, but only if they are of a certain class. You can feed us and clean up our poop, but you can’t live with us!”

No matter. I’ll be moving to North Carolina next year anyway.

Sad Face 2015

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In January of 2015 I wrote my last piece of writing before school. It was a vignette of a much larger idea being tossed around. Basically it was an end of time/universe story but based on a cyclical universe cosmology. No one knows they live in a cyclical universe while the world is ending.

I later introduced the idea of the last remnants of mankind being mercilessly hunted down by hordes of supernatural clowns while the heavens are descending in apocalypse. Then I came up with idea of  humans not knowing they live in a cyclical universe, but the clowns do. And basically the last man standing at the very end of the old universe and the beginning of the new one is the winner.

The whole project started to get away from me a little then so I decided to take the various ideas and do shorter pieces of them. I call it slap-dash writing. It goes a little like this: “Alright I have this idea for these evil clowns at the end of time – what are their motives, who are they? Go!”

This resulted in the piece below. Some have seen it before, but I repost it because it is my re-entry point and – just how much acid and glue-sniffing did I do growing up? No, soberly, anyone know?

While I work on slapping this piece into cohesion, I am wondering how I would execute my other vignette idea for the clowns. I had this wicked little alt-ending for the story called “Clown and Eve” where the clowns win. And the world is remade. There is a beautiful woman, alone in a garden of paradise. She is picking a fruit from a tree and –

over her shoulder rises a clown holding a knife high over his head (cue Psycho track ee! ee! ee!). Thought our current iteration started in tragedy? You ain’t seen nothin’ yet!

Anyway, I post the first draft of this again below. I’m going to work on it starting tomorrow.

Sad Face stood in the middle of the small room surrounded by his peers. The pasty white of his face was smeared with red and his frown was twice turned down. Sad Face stroked a large orange cat that he held to his protruding stomach. His inquisitors made a circle around him at tables too low and chairs too small. It was a classroom, a colorful classroom of rainbows and alphabets and numbers and construction paper cut-outs of various smiling animals.

Grimrole the Peeker, Curly the Cue, Puss in Boots, Laughing Lady, and Ralph formed the opposition to Sad Face on his right. They too were of pasty reflection and sour prism. But theirs was an arrow, an angry bow, and their frowns were for Sad Face.

Rascal, Galoshes, Hubris, and Candor the Gondor, formed Sad Face’s opposition to the left. They too were of pasty reflection and sour prism, but also of envious spectrum and malice aforethought. They were the strongest of any of the multitudinous factions that made up the group of 9. At last count there were no less than 36 factions among the group of nine, each in a war with the other. And many more factions with you let a faction consist of a single member.

The cat that sat aplomb on Sad Face’s belly was Nelly. She had lives for the each of them.

And she may need them this night.

“What have you to say for yourself, Face?” sneered Puss in Boots.

“Nothing,” said Sad Face. He petted Nelly absentmindedly and Nelly let him absentmindedly.

Hubris stood up and pointed a preposterously white and large finger in Face’s direction, “This clown is too old to be one of us! Look at the silly things he plays at! I say we dispose of him!”

There was a swell of snarling, conjecture, objection, bellowing and posing from both sides of the table. Sad Face stared at the floor. It was hard to tell if there was fear in the pancake or whether there was syrup to hit the floor. He just stood there stroking Nelly’s fur. And while Nelly may have enjoyed that absentmindedly, she did not enjoy the sudden gash of scarlet cacophony that splintered across the room and she raised her cackles and hissed at the rioters.

“Quiet!” roared Candor the Gondor. He rose as he said this and the bellow of his voice masked the breaking of both chair and table and the spilling onto the floor of his allies, Galoshes and Hubris. These two, their feet being of absurd size, struggled to get up; and their giant heads of frizzy, discolored hair bobbed up and down in their fight.

“Do we forget?” said Curly the Cue as he twirled one length of his long, green mustache, “Do we forget who Sad Face is?”

“What does that matter?” hissed Grimole the Peeker peering coyly from behind his woman’s scepter, a cream colored fan, and batted his exquisite lashes at Puss in Boots who turned away in mortal disgust (as did anyone). Peeker giggled. “We eat our young. Why not throw away the old?”

“Or eat them too!” Cried Laughing Lady and she broke into mad shrieks of laughter causing the others to cover their ears in anguish.

Ralph sprang up atop his desk and sang basso, “And just who is this Sad Face we speak of?” It was a serious question because Ralph could not remember anything that was not sung from day to day.

Ignoring Ralph except to answer his question, spoke Hubris. “He is the first of us. The first to put out a light because it lit. To dirty a puddle because it was clear.”

“But I, I was the first to stick a knife in a baby’s eye because it enjoyed its sight!” This was Rascal whose full name was Rascal Animus.

“That is all well and fine, Rascal. And surely we would not have come as far as we have unless you had brought us to such ghastly refinement. But Hubris is saying you did it because of Sad Face. He was our father.”

“Bah!” Lashed out Rascal and pulled a long knife out of his drooping drawers and plunged it into Sad Face’s belly – and through Nelly in the process.

“My Nelly!” cried Puss in Boots.

Sad Face looked up at Rascal through shaggy red eye brows, “That was uncalled for, don’t you think?” Nelly’s body sagged against the long shaft of the blade. Sad Face grabbed the handle of the knife, pulled it out of himself and tossed it ringing onto the floor. Nelly fell to the floor and Puss in Boots rushed to her side sobbing.

“Are you not going to die?” asked Rascal.

“No, I think not. I haven’t dirtied my last puddle, nor shed my last mocked tear.”

“I’ll hold a seance, a rite, a ritual, or find some patch of earth for you to spring from, my sweet.” Puss carried her off to her seat, sat down, stroked her bloodied fur and glared at Rascal with enough venom to make a coven run for cover.

“It is so odd she cares for something. Goes against our most basic objectives, does it not?” asked Rascal abstractly to no one in particular.


It is Time

Gather around, brothers, sisters. The campfire is grown now and mature, she will burn through the middle of her life for a time and keep us warm. It is time to get back to it.

To writing.

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The last time I wrote was January 21st 2015. And then I had that catastrophic idea of going into medical coding.

Still haven’t found work in that area. They do not like newcomers in that field. I might never. But, and pardon my French – fuck it – I gotta write. Over two years with not even the time to think about wanting to write. Nothing.

I fear, like a person who finds an ominous lump in the wrong place on their body (but mine would be the anti-lump, a hole, a void where flesh should be) that I may have lost what I had. Like the last two years twisted me as though through some twisted form of baptism, from poet (at least in heart, I can be quite hideous in my use of language) to logician.

But there is nothing for but to dive – not step! DIVE! with thy whole body! – back into that river and lose self to its churning flow. And to see whether I still have the scales to survive or to be torn apart by my rigidity.

It is really too bad that I had to decide such a course at the time that I did.I had just started to produce sentences, and even paragraphs, son, that I felt good about. The lack of a desire for a match tells me the prose is good. Good, at least, enough for me.

I’m still going to go the typewriter route for the first draft stuff. I did a self-taught touch typing course last month and got myself up to 49 words a minute. I imagine I can attain 60 when I am actually looking at the paper! I just can’t do it on the computer. The thing is a distraction machine.

Hold it, is that the color I want to use? Let’s Google a red color palette so we can peg the exact hue we want! Yes! Right now! I couldn’t possibly write another line without this knowledge!

Two hours later I’m checking out yurts in northern Arizona.

However such meanderings have their place in dreamland where you wander wherever ye may. And so I do not have a problem with throwing together ideas and rough outlines on the computer. In fact, with this program:

scrivener

it is optimum.

I had, before the school debacle, thought of pursuing a degree in theology. It is my humble opinion that there are more answers about man and the world to be found in theology than in modern “wisdom” or even in science. Note, that is a very limited statement referring to ultimate ends and aims and morality. Obviously theology will not inform you on how the eye works, nor on its physiology, that belongs to science. But theology will answer many of the very crucial questions that science can say nothing about.

That would be a discussion unto itself, I merely state my motivating factor and go about my way. But I had been thinking about an AA in Catholic Studies from Catholic Distance University. Two years later and I’m thinking about my approach to my 50’s. Damn me, I’m thinking cash value nowadays.

I have many things to repent.

There is a backlog of projects stored in Scrivener I haven’t looked at in over two years. That, my friends, if you don’t already know, is like going into an old family chest, the contents of which you only vaguely remember and you are not the same person you were when you first engaged these objects. Or maybe the photo album analogy is better?

If any of you play a music instrument then you know the feeling. Sometimes I get to play my guitar a couple times a week and I can get rather stale. But stay away from it for a few weeks and suddenly I’m riffing and chording from a whole new perspective.

Anyway, I am looking forward to opening the chest and looking forward to going back to Elfland, to my imagination. Lot’s of friends there.


Certified and Cast Upon the Archipelago

[I just realized the title for this post makes no sense. Upon the Archipelago? It is not a singularity. Can you be “upon an archipelago?” You can be upon one of its islands, but you can never be upon ‘it’ in the singular. Cast Amongst the Archipelago? No, that doesn’t work either. Into? That would be closer. Just as you are not “upon” America or Europe (unless you are talking specifically of being on its soil) but are in America or Europe.

Thus, you can be cast amongst the islands of the archipelago as you are cast amongst the states that make up America. But you would be cast into the noun or proper name that stands for its constituents.]

 

I got my CPC-A certification certificate (diploma certificate? sounds fancier) in the mail today. So I am technically qualified to work in the field. Seeing postings on the AAPC website of people frantically posting about having the same qualifications as I and getting nowhere, leaves me no less anxious.

Now all I got to do is find some work. That will be the hard part. From what I have heard, it can be the very hard part.

I did, however, take the exam a month after graduating my course and I have absolutely no medical experience. 50 – 60% (or so a variety of sources tell me) fail this test on the first attempt. And that includes people with years of experience in the field of coding and billing.

I hope that counts for something.

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I started this most interesting tale Sunday night. As usual, I am at a lost to explain this work thus far. It may be far too early to grasp what is going on. So far we have had introductions to several characters, some conversations, and a legendary drinking contest (you never enter a drinking contest cold, mate!)

As usual the prose is a delight in itself, and Lafferty is pulling no punches in toying with etymologies. It is a little more restrained (mature?) than the unbridled flair of other works; earlier or contemporary with the Argo series.

I am hoping I will not be too distracted with other things (like the continued study my new “career” demands) to pay this the attention it deserves. Lafferty is subtly metaphysical writer. You may think you are reading a simple paragraph describing a man’s walk to the market, but you can actually be knee-deep in the ontological speculation.

Also present here as elsewhere in his work is tiny excursions of historical fact (usually delivered as quips from a character) that you wouldn’t ever think to look up or even question.

For instance early on a character over coffee remarks how the beverage was Christianized under Clement VIII. I have consumed copious amounts of the beverage in my lifetime. I even grind my own extra dark roast beans and brew in a press – I even make cold brew coffee (yummy!).

But it never occured to me to look up a single historical fact about it. It was simply something existing in the constellation of the plenum. But the sentence was so off the wall. How do you Christianize a drink? And before I knew it I was again, thanks to Lafferty, acquiring another piece of arcana.

Is it arcana?

I find the value of knowledge to be a little scrambled today. If it has no direct, physical application, or monetary value – why bother? Or without the flair of shock and awe. After all, no one would actually watch The Mythbusters if they were really doing science. They do the scientific method in spirit, but science (most science) isn’t about blowing stuff up. Like every job, there is a lot of BORING you do not see.

So arcana. Is it?