Authority Over Demons

Click to enlarge

I don't know the title of this Beckmann painting, but it's apparent, to the one who gives a few more seconds' pure observation, that it is of Christ expelling the demons from the Magdalene.

Beckmann is not here describing or illustrating a Gospel scene though. He rejects sinuous, nimble lines and balanced spaces and shows his spite for the too deft, too intuitive hand, that so easily turns out an oh-so-carefully manicured beauty. He renders down and compresses; makes the picture plane one solid unit. You're on your own here; the artist is not going to help you.

He does you the service of not getting in the way, paradoxically by going at it from his own unique muscularity, going ahead as it were, like a dynamiter hewing out a path through stone, and letting you do the fine tuning.

Look how serene and immovable Christ is: he is the very cornerstone of the painting's composition. Look at the Magdalene, in the instant of her release: her hands in something like the Orans position, illuminated by Christ's light. And look at those demons! These are not flighty ghosts, but contorted, nasty, massive figures now revealed with the withdrawing of a thin partition.

"My heart beats more for a raw, average vulgar art, which doesn't live between sleepy fairy-tale moods and poetry but rather concedes a direct entrance to the fearful, commonplace, splendid and the average grotesque banality in life." --Max Beckmann

Image Source

The Merciful are Impervious

It is not so hard to believe, after any perusal or casual reading of the secular media's inbred verdicts against the Pope, that before Christ's judgment seat on the Day of Reckoning the goats will be immediately decipherable from the sheep by the fact that, being charged in the light of truth, they will be accusing each other, before His very feet, for the cause of each other's own sins.

The vision is as comedic as it is horrific: what we see now in time will pretty much be the same at the feet of eternity and the opening of the books of life; the only difference being in degree - since it will be in the full disclosure of conscience: that illumination showing how culpability can be traced, by intricate, mysterious ways, to the door of every household and to the very air of a society's false normalcy.

The gamut will be run, from those bearing accusations based in out-of-context information (though for everyone, what in time really is seen in full context?), facts not even half understood, but driven on presumptions, to those bearing sharpest accusations of real injustice, but held fiercely as though God Himself could not possibly have a better way of answering to it. Thus, all their known "truths" will be little more than darkness thrown around and hurled at each other.

The noise from the goats will be such that the sheep, holding the burden of mercy, will be tempted to open their own mouths to decry the reasons for their own sins. But they will not - though they may even have the more justified accusations to make. The Catholic, the Christian, has ended the discussion before it even begins, by accepting the vitriol into his center without demanding recompense.

This mercy is a crucible that contains the truth, and within it, the truth becomes truer. Outside of it, truth becomes the exact opposite. For without mercy (mercy being besought of God on yourself and in turn showing mercy to others; not being mere leniency, but mercy being that very prerequisite which enables all life), truth becomes as dark as that corrupt thing which one seeks to expose. Further, the person no longer has the desire even for the exposing of truth; he merely wields darkness for his own ends. The catch to mercy though is this: to be merciful is to bear pain; to bear pain in rejection of something else.

Only in mercy do we gain sight of our goal; only in mercy do we gain an appreciation for the fragility of our existence and for all that is held in the balance and that is completely beyond our comprehension; only in mercy does the contemptuous, infinitely punishable nature of sin become apparent; only in mercy can one make his first step towards anything without prematurely arriving at the most stupid conclusions.

Not in enlightenment; not in a systematized greater good; but only in mercy. You must bear the seal of mercy, both as recipient and as giver, and between the two your own pending reception of the debt owed to you (with interest) must die.

This is, generally speaking, the narrow gate. We enter it of our own free will, or perish.

Nordmann Fir - Part III

Part II

Part I

Sleeper

O cat,
quite fat,
quite prone there
with naught a care
but to purr,
and clean your own fur,

and cause an unconscious fusion
that warms the sofa's cushion,
what's it like,
you bird-hungry tyke-
but you do not tell.

You never tell, never
even on the verge of it.

To Those in Mortal Sin

I'm re-posting this from April 19th., last year:

The following is part of a writing from Mark Mallett in the post To Those in Mortal Sin. If you desire, you can get it in pamphlet form in bulk for distribution right here.

To those enslaved by pornography,
Come to Me, the Image of God

To those who are committing adultery,
Come to Me, the Faithful One

To prostitutes, and those who use or sell them,
Come to Me, your Beloved

To those engaging in unions outside the bounds of marriage,
Come to Me, your Bridegroom

To those who worship the god of money,
Come to Me, without paying and without cost

To those in witchcraft or bound in the occult,
Come to Me, the Living God

To those who have made covenant with Satan,
Come to Me, the New Covenant

To those drowning in the abyss of alcohol and drugs,
Come to Me, who am Living Waters

To those enslaved in hatred and unforgiveness,
Come to Me, Fount of Mercy

To those who have taken the life of another,
Come to Me, the Crucified One

To those who are jealous and envious, and murder with words,
Come to Me, who am jealous for you

To those who are enslaved by love of self,
Come to Me, who has laid down His life

To those who once loved me, but have fallen away,
Come to Me, who refuses no soul…. and I will blot out your offences, and forgive your transgressions. I will remove your sins, as far as the east is from the west.

In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, I command the chains which hold you to be broken. I command every principality and power to release you.

I open my Sacred Heart to you as a hiding place and refuge. I will refuse no soul who returns to Me trusting in My infinite Mercy and Love.

THIS IS YOUR HOUR OF MERCY.

Run home to Me, my beloved, run home to Me, and I will embrace you as a Father, clothe you as My child, and protect you like a Brother.

To the one in mortal sin,
Come to Me! Come, before the last few grains of Mercy fall through the hourglass of time…

THIS IS YOUR HOUR OF MERCY!

Covers

At one point, about seven or so years ago, feeling as though too glutted with music, I impulsively got rid of all my CDs. Most I gave away and some I threw in the garbage. There was a genuine urge for silence and stillness. (I believe this was around the same time that I also wanted to get rid of my bed mattress and sleep on a bamboo mat; something which - alas! - never materialized.) And the fact was I listened to music too much.

Now I hardly listen to it at all, which I do not take as a virtue by any means. It used to be a staple when painting or drawing; now you couldn't get me to listen to music while art-making if you bought me the stereo and the music and said that listening to it would improve my work - which it wouldn't. A silent, sober studio is a sacred haven. The exception to this being my iconography sessions where my instructor sometimes plays sacred chant.

But I find now, that whenever I actually do listen to music - unfortunately mostly on youtube (bah!) - it is a release and a boon. Indeed, without music the human race would've ceased long ago in derelict misery. I may not listen to music nearly as much as I used to, but now when I do listen, it is enjoyed ten times more.

Update: I removed all the Radiohead stuff. It's not me, and I realized I said what I really wanted to say in the above paragraphs and revisiting that which I do not listen to anymore kind of unnecessary.

Failure, yes.

I never thought I would see the Lent - and Holy Week - in which I did not make it to Ash Wednesday Mass, or to Maundy Mass, or to confession. So there's a first. Yet it's also a first in which I stuck to my Lenten vows.

How did I not make it to those three? It's called a new job. What, how did you not make it to confession? Well, I did make it to confession, in a sense. I went on a Wednesday evening after work this holy week (I got off early) to a parish that has regular scheduled confessions at that time, but at the time I went, there was a notice posted on the doors that said there was no confession tonight because all the priests have gone to some chrism mass. I went into the church nonetheless to just make sure, and sure enough, no welcoming little green light with the door ajar, but people practising their voices for Easter vigil Mass.

I don't know how true all that "intention" stuff is; you know, if you make the effort to go to confession and something prevents it that is out of your power then the absolution still applies. Though, of course you still have to confess as you would when you get the opportunity, or make the opportunity.

Once, I lined up for confession (well, I was the only one in line) before a Vietnamese mass, and the priest came out and said to go to him after mass for confession and that I could go up for communion.

Once, I was in line for confession (at the same parish) before mass and the time for mass came about before I could get into the confessional (same priest doing confession as does the mass, and there were people before me) and the lady who was standing next to me explained that I could go up to communion, explaining the intention thing.

That the Sacraments transcend time and our linear undertsanding of it is no stumbling block to me, but I wonder. I once listened to a priest tell about how Mass has already started when you make the intention to go...very profound stuff. Yet the Sacraments operate within time.

I know this new job is God's will for me (I may explain it later), and think He has been showing me something this Lent and Holy Week (of course God is showing everybody something all the time). I'll admit that I have too often gone into confession as though the whole thing was dependent on my own strength, or my own effort; not predominantly, but there is a tinge of it; sometimes more than a tinge. But a tinge is enough.

Maybe there is a part of me that doesn't quite believe in God's forgiveness, or more accurately, believes in the forgiveness but doesn't quite own it. No, it is perhaps a matter of trusting more and more, which if we do not do, we relapse; we start to go backwards.

Recently the word that has been growing in my mind is that everything, everything, comes to naught. And that this is good news. For everything will come to naught but for a New Thing. (This is sounding more grim than I intended...words slip, slide, perish, not what I really intended and all that.) The light of the resurrection blasts away our Lenten offerings and devotions, our good intentions with the bad ones (not an excuse to cease devotions, offerings, and intentions, etc.). In the midst of our strife we are called away, and some simple questions are asked of us: what did you do for Me - clothe Me, feed Me, shelter Me, visit Me?

I love Holy Saturday, for its mixture of both Good Friday and Easter Sunday, or as a space between them both, being the silent aftermath of one and the tingling anticipation of the other. I wish everyone would speak in hushed tones on this day; this day of each-man-to-his-own, before the stone door is rolled away. Instead of getting their turkeys and hams.

Evening Poem

The nesting sun is silent as still water
in after-rain peace; the clouds about her
take the same blaze on their wan terminations.
The chain of spire trees, darksome below,
are like the naked edge of the world.

Even the birds drop their chant to listen -
listen to the large witness of the world,
that its words are with evening reimbursed
in the after-rain peace - and then harrow
out their song again; same song, newly,

while more winnowed clouds gather like shot sheets
over the fire of the world that faced us.

Garden Sprawl Friday - on a Sunday

The first day of spring, or the day after, is a good time to have a new GSF post. My small experiment with overwintering carrots, cabbage, onions and rutabagas has been, well, an experiment. Which is to say, I'm learning and observing.

I started them off at a good stage in late summer, perhaps being a bit too young going into winter, and many have pulled through, though only to get obliterated by insects or the now on-coming slugs, looking to feed; and with the record warm winter we had, there is probably a lot of them.

I have been especially impressed with the carrots (Royal Chantenay). Their tops died off of course, but now their tops are sprouting again, and their roots are immaculate; it's just how to deal with slugs. They eat the tops, and then they do their best to feed into the root from the top down. They don't go far, but it's enough to kill the carrot.

There are no onions left. I don't know if that's because all of them got harvested through fall or not or what. The cabbages do great through winter, especially this variety, January King:



I've pictured the two most photogenic. The others are smaller and fighting back after being munched down. Again, insects or slugs. The leaves I put into the beds for winter are housing them, providing shelter and warmth.

The garlic is making its way:


And I cleaned out the greenhouse (not heated)


and seeded lots of varieties of lettuce (the seed I saved from the Cos lettuce last year was the first to come up), leeks, onions, cabbages, endive and raddichio, to be transplanted in April some time. I sowed March 1 and 2. In that time we've had frosts, highs of fifteen (celsius) and lows of 0, or just below (celsius). Of course, the temperature is higher in the greenhouse.

In paradise...someone wish to translate?

Those distant objects starting at 8:25 (like the bus) are mirages by the way; people and things moving who knows where, many miles away, and their images literally transported on or near the horizon.

Sketch - Potatoes, Onions and Cloth

Joe Pesci goes back some. He's aged well.

The houses watch each other

Driving Through Sawmill Towns
By Les Murray

1

In the high cool country,
having come from the clouds,
down a tilting road
into a distant valley,
you drive without haste. Your windscreen parts the forest,
swaying and glancing, and jammed midday brilliance
crouches in clearings ...
then you come across them,
the sawmill towns, bare hamlets built of boards
with perhaps a store,
perhaps a bridge beyond
and a little sidelong creek alive with pebbles.

2

The mills are roofed with iron, have no walls:
you look straight in as you pass, see lithe men working,

the swerve of a winch,
dim dazzling blades advancing
through a trolley-borne trunk
till it sags apart
in a manifold sprawl of weatherboards and battens.

The men watch you pass:
when you stop your car and ask them for directions,
tall youths look away—
it is the older men who
come out in blue singlets and talk softly to you.

Beside each mill, smoke trickles out of mounds
of ash and sawdust.

3

You glide on through town,
your mudguards damp with cloud.
The houses there wear verandahs out of shyness,
all day in calendared kitchens, women listen
for cars on the road,
lost children in the bush,
a cry from the mill, a footstep—
nothing happens.

The half-heard radio sings
its song of sidewalks.

Sometimes a woman, sweeping her front step,
or a plain young wife at a tankstand fetching water
in a metal bucket will turn round and gaze
at the mountains in wonderment,
looking for a city.

4

Evenings are very quiet. All around
the forest is there.
As night comes down, the houses watch each other:
a light going out in a window here has meaning.

You speed away through the upland,
glare through towns
and are gone in the forest, glowing on far hills.

On summer nights
ground-crickets sing and pause.
In the dark of winter, tin roofs sough with rain,
downpipes chafe in the wind, agog with water.
Men sit after tea
by the stove while their wives talk, rolling a dead match
between their fingers,
thinking of the future.

-----

From Learning Human

Be Newly Taxed and Be Newly Consuming: Problem Fixed!

If he were alive today, Jim Varney could possibly, possibly single-handedly "resuscitate" the economy through consumerism (for a little while at least) but since he's dead (God rest his soul) that option is totally out - know what I mean?

Drawing - Redwood Grove