City of God

I've been hors de combat with the flu this week, but maybe I can return to the front lines now even though I am being distracted by a young woman suckling her child. I don't find that at all offensive and mother needn't be so discreet to cover herself. Both mother and infant are very attractive and give unmistakeable signs of intelligence and alertness. And yes, they're white. Wish I was less shy as I would very much like to take their picture. So glad to see them reproduce.
So today, with the main legacy of that vicious and unmannerly virus is a set of ribs that feel as if Mike Tyson has been practicing his left and right hooks, my initial act after returning to consciousness and being out and abroad was to purchase a copy of Augustine's City of God. It's one of those tomes I always knew I would have to read and dreading it. Three factors conspired together to make this the moment: first, it was 20% off, second I had the requisite $20 in my pocket, and lastly the first paragraph my eyes fell on after opening it up at a random page which said, "Now if wisdom is identical with god, by whom all things wer made, as we are assured by divine authority and divine truth, then the true philosopher is a lover of god." This is from the beginning of Book VIII on Natural theology, so in the next paragraph he explains that theology signifies reasoning or discussion about the Divinity,
The first thing that catches the attention is that while he is speaking about something known through faith he wants to reason about it. Although he was a Latin speaker from North Africa and could not read Greek, this is an entirely Greek thought. Faith is there, certainly, but in reason, not a deity. I take this to mean that he largely equated reason with the deity, to be an aspect of it...that wisdom is identical with God. His idea of Natural Theology apparently comes from Varro (about whom I know nothing) who would "extend his 'natural' theology as far as the visible world, or the World-Soul, but no further."
With such a discussion leaping off the first page I looked at, how could I resist plunking down my 20 bucks?

I don't normally like to comment on newspaper reports...correction, I would like to comment on them but I don't have much in the way of direct knowledge of how a story makes it into the newspaper. All I know is that I've been deeply suspicious for years of the honesty and integrity of the journalistic profession. I have noticed reporters have prejudices that go way beyond their political leanings and that they have few compunctions of hiding their biases behind a smokescreen of supposed objectivity. Consequently when one of those prejudices figures in a story I read it with a jaundiced eye.
Of all the prejudices journalists are prone to one against the police seems to be built into their DNA. A recent example in Victoria concerned a car chase in which the fugitive was shot to death by the police. In spite of the fact he had a string of convictions as long as your arm, in spite of the fact that he was driving like a maniac through residential streets, despite the fact that he tried to run down the officers who shot him, the newspaper account only seemed concerned with whether the police followed all the car-chase guidelines. Further along in the story his girlfriend tearfully told us all what a kind and gentle fellow he was. Nowhere did the reporter ask the question I would like to have answered: why the hell was this guy out on the street? Why wasn't he locked up in a cage where he couldn't do any more damage? But no, the assumption of the reporter was that it was the police who needed to be investigated.
It's pretty common to hear somebody say they hate cops, but I always wonder if anyone ever thinks about what they do for a living. I have and I wouldn't want their job if they paid me a million bucks. As a cab driver I have learned how to avoid trouble by being careful about who I pick up. I don't let anybody in without getting a good look at them. But every so often somebody gets in who gives me a problem and although I prefer to defuse a situation. But if I reach a certain tipping point I'm a big guy and I will give somebody the boot. However, if the bark doesn't work I won't bite. That's when I call the cops, and when they do show up I'm very glad to see them. My problem is now their problem.
That's what they do. They handle problems that are too dangerous for the rest of us. They are in a potential life and death situation every time they respond to a call. This is a very tough job. Of course I never see what they have to do afterward. I don't get to see the paperwork, I don't see how the courts treat them. But I get the impression they are treated with the same kind of contempt given to them by the media.
But to me they are guys who do their best to do a tough job as well as they can. I have a lot of respect for them.
That doesn't mean I don't get upset when I'm the one who gets pulled over. Yes, I can swear like a leftist if I want.
Today in the Vancouver Sun an article, a long, frontpage, special report with the headline, "He had a license to kill."

Crying in my beer

Whew. Got a glass of Swans' Heritage Ale in front of me. It's in a small glass, a ten ounce cognac snifter, and it does compare favourably to an excellent cognac. When I told the waitress I'd try a glass she poured a little taste, a little smple, a bit like someone taking a prospective bungee jumper to the edge of a cliff to give him a chance to change his mind. One little sniff is enough to tell you that it's no ordinary beer. In fact, I think it's more properly called a barley wine. That's what they called it the last time they made a batch, and I thought then it was the best beer I had ever tasted, comparable to a good Trappist ale. Chris was the brewmasteer then and you would never know from its taste what kind of a punch it packed. This one is much bolder. At 11% it's the kind of nectar to linger over.
If I'm going to step into Cafe Philosophy tonight (with the intent of reporting the proceeds to my legions of readers) I need a little fortification, but not too much.
A few days ago (I can't find it now) I read a column where the writer wondered where all the beautiful movie stars went. Of course one of the reasons I like old movies is because the actresses (Not actors, for Christ sake) were so beautiful. And today I was surprised to see at A&B Sound a new old musical. The movie is "Lillian Russell" and it stars the most beautiful of all the movie stars, Alice Faye. I may think Lana Turner was gorgeous and Hedy Lamarr ravishing, but every time I see Alice Faye I fall in love. She had a certain light in her eye, impish and wanton, but at the same time a lady who guarded her virtue. To see her is to love her. There must have been some error in the structure of the universe that we lived in different generations. But in another universe I know we'll meet as we are destined. And maybe in that universe I'll be worthy of a woman like you.

Episode one, chapter 1

I think I'll start a story today. It's for boys who like to read, and although it never really happened (as far as I know) it could have happened, and that's the main thing. It will be about the adventures of Anak laki laki, a boy who lives on an island somewhere in the south seas. It's probably best if girls don't read it, even mothers, who might not care to hear stories about giant cockroaches, birds who eat vomit and so forth. Besides that Anak laki laki gets in fights and doesn't always do what his mother tells him to do..many mothers might think such stories would be bad influences on their sons. I'm not sure what the title will be because I'm not sure how the story will turn out. For now I'll just call it

The Adventures of Anak laki laki- Episode one

Chapter one
The sky was bluer than blue. That was what made Ibuku so sad. From where she sat on the parapet beside the well she could see past the village spread below, past the line of pruas pulled up on the beach by the lagoon, past the smoking island at the entrance to the bay, all the way as far as the horizon. As far as her eyes could see, and there was nothing wrong with her eyes, the sky was blue. It was a deep blue, a purple blue, different from the blue green of the ocean. Not a single trace, not the slightest hint of a cloud could she see. It made her want to cry. She couldn't help it. A little teardrop formed in the corner of her eye.
If the rains didn't come soon her garden would be ruined. If her garden was ruined months of work would be in vain. She did not complain of how much all that hoeing and planting and watering hurt her back and neck. She didn't mind because she loved her garden, her garden was her pride and joy. Her fruits and herbs and vegetables were the best on the islands. The Dutch traders paid good money for her vegetables and fruit. But without rain her garden would wither and die. And how would she feed her son and her elderly aunt without money from the Dutch Traders and food from the garden?
It was early in the morning. Only moments ago it was very dark. There was no moon that night and though the stars shone like jewels in the sky the path from her house to the well was very dark. She did not care, her bare feet knew the way. By the time she got to the well the ocean had become the colour of melted butter. It quickly coagulated into a huge ball and leaped out of the ocean in a mighty heave until it was clear of the horizon. The sun was up. It was morning. And there were no clouds in the sky. It was bluer than blue.
Anak laki laki woke up when the sun came through his window. He wondered about all the little bugs that danced in the sunbeams. How could something so small be alive, he wondered. He was very comfortable, swinging back and forth gently in his hammock thinking of what he would do that day. A bit of movement on the bamboo rafters caught his eye. Straining to see, he could just barely make out a large lizard. What colour was the lizard? Sometimes it was brown like the bamboo, sometimes dappled like the sunlight, he was whatever colour everything else was. When it moved it lurched like it was drunk. At the moment it was standing motionless on his two right legs, his other two legs stuck out to the side. Its right eye moved one way while its left eye moved another way. Something else moved on the rafters. It was a big blue irridescent beetle crawling on another bamboo pole not far from the lizard, just minding its own business. The lizard's roving right eye was fastened on the beetle. The next thing the poor beetle knew it was in the lizards jaw. Now it would never get to where it was going. Whatever plans it had for the day would have to be cancelled. Its skinny black legs wiggled while the lizard chewed. The lizard closed his eyes and seemed very happy.
"That wasn't nice of you, old lizard." Anak laki laki said. "But I guess you have to eat, just like me." When he thought about eating a beetle he didn't feel very hungry. He tried to catch one of the little dancing flies with his tongue, not very hard.
Where was his Ibuku? Where was his breakfast? Anak laki laki jumped down from his hammock and ran outside to look for her.

St. Patrick's Day

It was a rainy St Pat's Day on Saturday but the lineups at the Sticky Wicket were already forming by early afternoon, and soon afterward the sons of old blighty were using the adjacent construction pit for a latrine. Later on in the evening a visitor from Prince George was determined to retrieve his hat down there. How it got there he didn't say. A passenger in my cab had idea of such brilliance he was clearly transfixed by his own genius. "You know," he said, "On St Patrick's Day every bar in the world should be required to serve as much free beer as you want, as long as you are of Irish descent.
My Mother's mother's mother was born to the Rooney clan so I guess that make me of Irish descent. If so, something must have gone wrong. Oh, I like my beer well enough and Guiness is one of my favs. But I do not like public drunkenness. As far as I'm concerned you shouldn't be out in public if you can't handle your suds. I really, really, detest drunks of the boorish, belligerent variety. Maybe detest is not quite the word. Contempt is far better. You might detest a mobster, but you feel contempt for the lickspittles who hang around the big man hoping for a little reflected glory.
My Catholicism was inherited from the Rooneys and I guarantee my grandmother had no use for drunks either and her strict moral code woulde have been horrified by the kind of behavior these so-called Irish descendants display so proudly. I think she felt the same way I do. They shame our race. I think St Patrick would feel the same.
At one time I was rather proud of my Irishness. You know, the land of bards and all that. And Ireland does have a literary heritage disproportionate to its size. But then there are the Boston Irish, of whom the most despicable is Edward kennedy. Even from this distance I am aware of how callously he walked away from the car he had driven into a river leaving a young woman to drown. I'm still wondering why he isn't in jail for that. Then there is that fool Bono who thinks he can tell the prime minister of Canada how to run the country. Considering the prime minister in question was Paul Martin I suppose he groveled instead of telling him to stick his head somewhere the sun doesn't shine.
Who was St. Patrick? He is the semi legendary bringer of Christianity to Ireland. Ireland already had a rich religious life, and the story goes that he engaged in a contest with the country's religious leaders. By winning the dispute St. Patrick convinced them to convert to Christianity. Subsequently Ireland evolved its own distinctive version of the Faith, being isolated from other centers of European cultural and religious development. Monestaries were centers of learning and art and only the Irish Church of Western Christianity retained a knowledge of the Greek language. Asceticism was in, mortification of the flesh. Things are a little different now.
By the way, maybe this is a good place for me to trot out my explanation for the legend that St.Patrick drove the snakes out Ireland. Nonsense, we are told, there were never any snakes in Ireland. I suppose the experts are right that there are no native Irish snakes. (Unless we count the Kennedys) But if you read your Herodotus you will find a story about a certain people (I can't remember which one offhand but I think they lived somewhere above the Black Sea) who kept snakes for religious purposes. Now, if you look at the names of many of the rivers that flow from the north into the Black Sea you will note that most of them begin with the letters dan, don, dn, etc. Irish legend claims a long ago people called the Tuatha de Danaan invaded the island. That means the People of the Godess Dana. Any connection? A people who brought domesticated household snakes with them? You heard it here first.

The voyage

One of my regular web reads is The New English Journal and one of the reasons I read it is because Theodore Dalrymple often appears there. He and Paul Johnson were the main reasons I liked to read The Spectator. But while Paul Johnson, a Catholic, is very religious it turns out that Dalrymple is an atheist. This surprising (to me) news he revealed in a NEJ article in a previous issue, and now elaborates on in the current issue. It surprises me because I don't understand how an intelligent person can not believe in God. There's lots of room for disagreement on the nature of God- whether he is good or not, male or female or does not apply, omniscient and omnipotent or limited in powers and knowledge just as we are but at a higher level, but that our reality could be anything other than the product of some great thought by a great being I don't even question anymore. That our physical being is not animated by some empyrean spark is impossible for me to believe whether it's called the soul, spirit or what. John Donne put it precisely in Air and Angels,

But since my soul, whose child love is,
Takes limbs of flesh, and else could nothing do,


To me the ultimate questions revolve around why we and the world were made, and while it may be nice to benefit from scientific reasoning which brings us airplanes and computers and such, its main interest to me is to help me pursue those ultimate questions. Atheists always demand proof. If God exists, prove it, they say, and since proof of the kind they want is wanting they say gottcha. One of the reasons I have come to believe in God is precisely because I cannot prove it. In fact, I cannot prove anything by their rules of the game. Where is yesterday, for example? Can I really prove by direct measurement and observation that there is such a thing as the past? If, as so-called philosopher Daniel Dennett explains, science -ie, proof- consists of things that can be weighed and measured, then what happens when I die? I won't be able to weigh and measure anything then, will I. No, just about everything we believe we believe on faith. The only things we know are the things we feel...pain and pleasure. Everything else is a constructed image in our thoughts and we believe the truth of that image because our senses convince us.
Even the most atheistic scientist has to believe in certain principles, among them that the universe always and everywhere has a consistency of behavior that can be calculated using mathematical reasoning. I happen to believe they are right in this assumption, and I also believe science to be the most precise instrument so far invented to examine the works of God. Unlike Muslims, I am convinced that he wants us to examine his works.
I also believe that God is good and loves us all. How is that possible, some atheists ask, when even innocent children suffer? Some religions have noted that the world is filled with suffering. Animals kill and eat each other in most horrific ways. I always think of a monstrous tarantula injecting its poison into a beautifully coloured song bird, cutting short his lovely melodies. The venom is actually digestive juice that liquifies the victim's insides which the spider then sucks out. It does seem as if a principle of evil has triumphed over a principle of beauty and goodness, doesn't it? And it isn't simply an accidental, contingent event. To live on this planet one must kill to eat. It's built into the system. So the Manichees (my label for what are usually called gnostics) erected an elaborate belief system on the premise that God (the God who created this world) was an evil being, a falolen angel, Satan, but that we humans were created by him using divine sparks of the real God. This theology has survived into recent times taking the forms known as Bogomils, Cathars and others.
In his latest article, I am glad that Dalrymple is at least an honest atheist, the only honorable kind. He is suspicious of theories that try to explain everything. The subject of his piece was a lecture on neuroscience that he lauded for its excellence. But he had reservations about the professor's confidence that neuroscience would soon explain everything about human behaviour, comparing it to previous secular theories-of-everyrthing such as Marxism and Freudianism which he rightly compares to religious fundamentalism.
He ends the article thus: Ergo, self-understanding is not around the corner and never will be. We shall never be able seamlessly to join knowledge and action. To which I add, not in a religious sense: thank God.
But isn't that a circular argument that comes around and bites its tail? Acting without principle is impossible. We do what we do for reasons, never mind how strange they may seem. And do I detect a sneaky version of a liars paradox in his statement? In saying we cannot join knowledge to action isn't he doing precisely that and making a liar out of himself?
Actually, I do not really believe that the only things we know are the things our senses tell us. There is something else. Why do we want to live if life is more often than not a terrible ordeal? We do, and we know instinctively that taking one's own life is very wrong. Not only do we desire to live, but we desire certain things of life. Mere eating and screwing is not enough. Accumulating worldly goods is not enough. Achieving great power and wealth is not enough. (or so I've heard) There is something else we desire from life- beauty, fulfillment, love, accomplishment, wisdom. We have an inborn knowledge of something we cannot satisfy through worldly means. Some take that lesson to heart and renounce the world. I believe we are not meant to renounce it. I believe life is precious and important..not just my own but life itself, your life, the life of the world. And we are meant to see it and learn about it and try to understand it even though we are doomed to always fall short.

Venice Beach Lady

After owning it for six months at least I decided to learn how to use the scanner on my Epson combo kit, and this morning I think I've figured out how to get a photo on the blog. Simple enough, but computer logic doesn't agree with me. Anyway, the first picture I'm going to put up is of a little girl who I saw on a doorstep in Venice Beach in 1989. If she was four then she will be about 22 now. I would love to email it to her if by some chance she should see this blog.
We had some heavy rain last night but judging by all the broken beer bottles on the streets and sidewalks it must not have deterred partiers. A party of another sort must have taken place on the train tracks below the Bayview construction site because there must have been at least a hundred discarded syringes piled up beside articles of bedding and clothing strewn all over.
But otherwise it was a pleasant walk across the bridge to Le Vieux Montreal where I am now having one of their tasty croissants. Thanks be to iPod that I can bring my own music. French pop music has its good points but doesn't take long to wear out its welcome. One of these days I'd like to get a set of earbuds that seal off outer noise. I kind of like being out in public but the music played in most places i otherwise like is atrocious.