Erstwhile Okie on Saint Mark's Place. Frustrated novelist, satisfied father.
"And as he reasoned of righteousness, temperance, and judgment to come, Felix trembled, and answered, Go thy way for this time; when I have a convenient season, I will call for thee."
Christmas card photo shoot after church.
Morning hike at Bear Mountain. Unexpected sighting of the Manhattan Skyline. Bit crowded.
In church this past Sunday, the Psalm reading came from Psalm 90. One line of it struck me: Make us glad according to the days wherein thou hast afflicted us. The bit that struck me was in the idea that God afflicts us.
I read and enjoyed a book recently, recommended to me by my church rector: The Will of God by Leslie D. Weatherhead. The basis of it is to critique those that might, in the midst of suffering, say that it is God's will; that it is never God's will for us to suffer, but that in our liberty, we are not restrained from acts of which the natural consequence is suffering.
While I think this view has a lot to commend itself and affords us a concept of a loving God better aligned with our earthly definition of love, it replaces a God who would intentionally injure us with One who merely lets us be injured. I think both have downsides.
Either way, the verse in question leaves no doubt in a straightforward reading that God does not just let us be afflicted, He afflicts us.
It might be splitting hairs, but I personally favor a God who, seeing me running into traffic would snatch and beat me rather than watch on, determined to let me learn my lesson naturally, even if the injuries were equal in either scenario.
I don't know why I felt compelled to write about this, but I did, and in doing, went to review the Psalm in full and was struck further by how the line that had first caught my attention actually ranks pretty low in the litany of active cruelties described.
Thou turnest man to destruction; and sayest, Return, ye children of men... (read: An older sibling: "stop hitting yourself!")
I was struck too by Before the mountains were brought forth, or ever thou hadst formed the earth and the world, even from everlasting to everlasting, thou art God. but for no reason other than that it brough to mind Job; God demanding of him Where wast thou when I laid the foundations of the earth?
So it seemed especially interesting that Psalm 90 is, by tradition, the only Psalm attributed to Moses, making it the earliest, which again parallels Job, as that book is similarly cited as being the earliest written book of scripture.
What does it mean that the earliest question posed by man was why we suffer? And what does it mean that both Job and Moses, who had direct interactions with the Almighty, understood the answer to be that He willed it so?
Beats me.
But it has gotten me thinking about how dismissively I approach the Psalms, which I don't think is unusual among thoughtful Christians. They plead for God to torture enemies, they lament our unjust sufferings; all of which seems wrong through the prism of Christ's teaching. But I think it suggests that I ought to find a way to adjust my thinking rather than to somehow find clever contextualizations that bring it into alignment with how I think it ought to be.
I'm planning on trying to actively read through them with a mind for how I can genuinely pray them. I have a copy of C.S. Lewis' Reflections on the Psalms which I've never read past the introduction, but which might be a useful guide.
Fun at Spirit Halloween.
On June 26th, 1777, an officer of the Continental Line, Captain Ephraim Anderson, was killed in the Battle of Short Hills. Three days later, Colonel Israel Sheve wrote in his journal "Col. Rhea Returned with the Body of Capt. Anderson is now Gone to Westfield to Bury him with the honours of war which he Deserves as he fought Brave, and fell in a Glorious Cause." Two hundred and forty-one years later, as a living relative, I got elected to his seat in the Society of the Cincinnati, which a healthy percentage of the people I know are aware of, since I tend to talk about it a lot...
Every October, the Society meets in Washington for a series of meetings and dinners.
One of the memorable highlights of this past weekend was the election of a new representative of Captain Jonathan Phillips by General David Petraeus. As the registrar, I had the honor of introducing him at the formal dinner, and got to visit a bit, (his ancestor, coincidentally, was the executor of the will of mine, the both of them having served in the same regiment), but had more time to speak with his wife since we were seated next to each other at a dinner.
Whenever I get the chance to talk to a notable public figure, I always enjoy asking about the experience. When I asked her to pinpoint when he became known, she mentioned Tom Brokaw referring to a successful "young general" in Mosul in 2003. I said sort of blithely that I find it appealing to have people always wanting to tell you how great you are. She mentioned the security issues, how he had been the only person in Bin Laden's recovered hard drive as a target.
I'd like to apologize to Sam Rockwell. You are an actor I have a lot of respect for, and in passing you on 12th Street this evening, you deserved better than to have "Pete & Pete!" shouted in your face, regardless of my fondness for your turn as Endless Mike on that show.
In other news, today I learned that Endless Mike was portrayed by an actor named Rick Gomez, and Sam Rockwell did not, in fact, ever appear on the show.
I practically never sit in the car to wait out the street-cleaning-no-parking period, but I happened upon the closest possible spot to my apartment coming home Sunday night, and with street cleaning suspended for Rosh Hashanah Thursday and Friday, I won't have to move until next Monday night!
Weekend fragments: duck bacon, billiards, pastry.
Highlight of the weekend was a post-church garden social. Proud of Sammy for hopping into a pick-up soccer match with the choir boys. Disappointed in my head seeming disproportionately massive in an otherwise nice photo...
A stressful fourteen-hour workday, but grateful for a challenging job. And for the ability to run across the street for a great lunch at Le Fournil.
Glad to have finally visited the Russian & Turkish Baths tonight. I've walked past a million times over many years, and never without thinking what a glorious old relic it seems to be and how I ought to visit.
Funny enough, when I walked up the steps tonight, a cheery old Russian sitting on the stoop greeted me playfully: "You're finally here!"
Walking in, the proprietor was incredibly friendly and welcoming as I said it was my first visit. He took my wallet and watch and put them in a lockbox to which he gave me the key. Along with the key, on a broad rubber bracelet, was a larger key to a locker in the changing room, and a medallion with the number 13: the number of both lockbox and locker, and to which I would charge any services.
On the ground floor is a small restaurant. I got a salmon and mashed potatoes that were quite good, along with a pot of oolong green tea and a Perrier. After, I went back to the counter to order a slice of cake. Also quite good, and all of it very reasonable. Less than $50, including a tip.
Then, changed into my swimsuit and tried the steam sauna, then the dry sauna, both of which were more comfortable than I'd worried they would be; and I stayed happily in each for quite awhile. Then I hopped into the cold plunge pool which lived up to its name and I only managed for about ten seconds. Then a visit to the hottest sauna, "The Russian Room". There is a small well in the center with a bucket floating over the surface of the cold water. Along the benches as well are a number of faucets streaming cold water into other buckets.
People will grab a bucket and dump the water over their head.
Wrapped up the evening on the upstairs veranda where a pair of old Russians had a spread of fruit and crackers on a picnic table. They offered me a slice of pineapple. I turned it down, politely, and nursed another Perrier from the restaurant.
All in all, the place exceeded my expectations. I think I'll make it a weekly ritual.
Day 3 of a routine centered around waking up at 5:50 and going for a run. The first day where I didn't wake up exhausted, having got to bed at a decent time; woke up before the alarm, in fact.
But still wondered what the point of it was.
I've also had a ritual of a morning shot of apple cider vinegar mixed with turmeric and cayenne and ginger syrup. Why? They're supposed to be beneficial. They upset my stomach.
Why do anything? My genuine desire in the mornings is to lie in bed and play Two Dots until my morning meeting, then work until the day ends, then lie back down. Sure, it feels like a waste of a day, but do a couple of pre-dawn laps around Tompkins Square Park magically elevate it? What is comfort worth?
That's why it's called a Honda Fit. ๐
I knew a girl at Cambridge who was half-English and half-German and spoke both languages natively. In discussing useful German words that had been adopted into English (like my oft-used schadenfreude) she lamented that we had not taken in schweinehund which translates literally to pig-dog and refers to one's inner voice that always counsels laziness.
I tend to think I have an especially prolific one.
Working from home with a bed and a window air-conditioning unit mere inches from my workspace does little to muzzle the schweinehund.
I don't think I'm unusual in that; but I do think it probably causes me a bit more agita than the average person and ultimately makes me feel a lack of agency in my own life, which has historically been the underlying issue in any of my life crises. Because it puts my present constantly at odds with my desired future. Obviously my past-self never aspires to spend hours on my bed playing a game on my phone or watching Instagram reels. Just like my present-self never sees any appeal to getting up early or running laps around Tompkins Square Park.
All of which is to preface that yesterday I decided today would finally be the day where I force myself back into a routine of more intentional days. As much as I (or the schweinehund) try to talk myself out of early morning exercise, the inherent value of the thing itself is secondary to the initial, immediate conquest of getting out of bed much too early and doing something miserable.
I aspired to six laps around Tompkins Square Park (having calculated that each one is roughly 0.55 miles, so six would be something like a 5k), but settled for two today (with a third walked in-between) since I've gotten even more out of shape than I was the last time I settled into this sort of routine.
There wasn't any sort of euphoria in it. Nor in the breakfast afterwards, nor the Bible reading nor DuoLingo rounds, nor the shower, nor the New Yorker readings over coffee. Mostly there's just a low-level tiredness. But if there's a point to any of this, it's that the pleasure of the present-self doesn't amount to much. It isn't lasting. I know that last night's self that worried whether I would have the wherewithal to get up with the alarm would be happy. And I imagine that tonight's self, feeling deserving of the bed he crawls--exhausted--into, will be as well.
The shower drain of languages.
Currently reading.
[Pictured: Me at a low-point in 2020.]
Anyone who would cite Job or try to compare themselves would be deserving of the ensuing eye rolls, but throughout the last week I've kept thinking of the line "the Lord blessed the latter end of Job more than his beginning". I kept waking up overwhelmed with gratitude and just praying a silent, repeated thank you. It was a quiet week, but I think it was the best of my life.
In the early months of the pandemic, I deleted my social media because I didn't have anything left to share. My seventeen-year marriage had met its catastrophic end; I'd left the charming little country house I'd called home for a decade in favor of a run-down apartment in the shadow of a feed mill; my job had joined a few others on the chopping block as COVID wrecked the college's budget.
And now here I found myself, waking in an apartment overlooking one of my favorite blocks in Manhattan, its bedrooms occupied by a pair of sons that think I hang the moon. I made decisions, good and bad and most all of them reckless, that contributed to this, and plenty that should have precluded it. But somehow, in tabulating the ledger, Providence credited more than it debited and I find myself occupying a life vastly fuller than the sum of my efforts.
I recently read a book my church's rector had recommended to me: The Will of God by Leslie D. Weatherhead. A line that stuck out to me reflected on loss and hopelessness, and compared it to what the Apostles must have suffered upon the death of Christ: "But they were wrong, weren't they? [...O]ne day, like them, you'll find out how wrong you are and be sadder at your despair than at your loss."
Moving up in the world.
Cardinals at Yankees (Cardinals lost ๐)
Was stoked when I found out Nolan Ryan will sign stuff you mail to him if you make a donation to his charity.
From the chandelier.
Reading through 2 Samuel I'm struck by the similarity between David's feelings for Absalom and God's for His people.
[33] And the king was much moved, and went up to the chamber over the gate, and wept: and as he went, thus he said, O my son Absalom, my son, my son Absalom! would God I had died for thee, O Absalom, my son, my son!
Absalom had no redeeming qualities, and died justly (hanged and pierced Christlike from a tree no less) in the midst of rebellion against his good and loving king and father. Yet in spite of it, David wished he could have died in his place.
Feeling whole after next-day Amazon delivery of this $15 watch. A year or two ago, I spent months not letting myself splurge on a Fossil watch that had an analog timepiece, but also tracked heart rate, connected to Bluetooth, etc... When the band on that broke a couple of weeks ago, I realized that the "smart" elements of the watch had either never worked properly, or long since stopped, and that I hadn't cared; I just wanted to be able to glance at the time.
Just finished Graham Greene's Ways of Escape. My favorite author, along with Christopher Isherwood, I've since read all of his novels and have been reduced to his latter-day autobiographies. They sort of read like the fat cut off from the meat of his fiction. Nothing more than lovely travelogues, as from his account of Israel after the Seven Days War:
"Only an occasional group of Egyptian tanks retained a scorched, upright dignity and sometimes even faced in the direction of their enemy. Some trucks had started through a grove of date palms towards the blue still sea as though their drivers hoped to escape from war. The bouquets of dates hung overhead out of reach, brown, orange, yellow, scarlet: the trucks failed to reach the white beach before they were sent up in flames."
Got to visit American Dream (the mall, not the beau idรฉal, as evidenced by the fact that it is in New Jersey). What a nice day; what a lucky, happy guy.
I usually have to hear a song a number of times before I start to appreciate it. But once in awhile there's one that really strikes me the first time I hear it; as if I've heard it before even though I know I haven't. This ran on my playlist tonight and joined the ranks: https://music.youtube.com/watch?v=iXjUF4BBFq4
When I initially pulled in and stepped out to survey whether I thought I could pull it off, a passerby hollered: "You got this, King!"