It is a fact that the fundamental paradox of language is apparent in almost every culture. In Islamic thought, the letters of the alphabet have an independent, divinely decreed will effected before pen is put to paper and over which the scribe has no control. In the 16th century, Tulsidas, the greatest of Hindu poets, argued that the reality of fiction is always other than the reality of the material world world and overrides it. In Zen Buddhism, the instantaneous illumination, or Sartori, is always both within and beyond the grasp of words. So, in all these cases, as of course in the Judeo-Christian tradition, the rightest impossibilities appear to be essentially two: to conceive properly and to put properly the concept into words. The writer's craft is therefore twice constrained by the limits of imagination, which require faith to provide the evidence of things not seen, as St. Paul had it, and by the limits of language which require writers to rely on, what Coleridge called the willing suspension of disbelief, of their readers and listeners ...
If we’re paying attention, awe and amazement appear. The experience is, I believe, what happens when a farmer walks into the field one day and is speechless with the beauty of it all. Or a band puts together a beyond-amazing set even though the musicians and the music are, on the surface, the same as they were the week before. As Bateson says, “It’s the unseen coalescence that brings about vitality.”I know enough to know and also deeply appreciate that others will have experienced the huddle very differently than I did and that there’s great merit to their views as well. But for me, it was pretty magical. It’s possible that it might have even been what Nora Bateson calls aphanipoiesis. Bateson made up the term, because, as she says there was no word to describe it. It is, she says, “a new word for an aspect of a living process.” Aphanipoiesis, as she tells it, describes a “way in which life coalesces toward vitality in unseen ways.” The term is, itself, a coming together of two words: aphanis is from the Greek, meaning “obscured, unseen, unnoticed”; poiesis means “to bring forth, to make.” As I’ve begun to assimilate the idea of aphanipoesis, I’ve come to believe that while it's not impossible to see it, it does require us to look more deeply, to embrace complexity, context, and interrelatedness in ways that most of us have not been trained to do. A great deal of work often goes into keeping things from coming apart, but maybe we would be wise to work positively for the future believing that over time things will come together.
On his twenty-ninth birthday, as a new member of Virginia’s House of Burgesses, Henry presented a series of resolutions: the Virginia Resolves on the Stamp Act External, which opposed Britain’s Stamp Act. The Resolves were adopted on May 30, 1765. He concluded his introduction of the Resolves with the fiery words “Caesar had his Brutus, Charles the First his Cromwell, and George the Third—” when, it is reported, voices cried out, “Treason! treason!” “—and George the Third may profit by their example! If this be treason make the most of it."
Not taking selfies holding his frappucino, not staring in the mirror at himself in his Fortnite onesie, not blowing doobage out of a battery-operated cancer-stick, no, Patrick Henry was publicly dedicating himself to self-evident truths, the pursuit of opportunity, and the superiority of republican government ... bruh.
A soul in tension that's learning to flyCondition grounded but determined to tryCan't keep my eyes from the circling skiesTongue-tied and twisted, just an earth-bound misfit, I ...
Ecce Homo, which shows Roman governor Pontius Pilate presenting Christ to the people, is one of only about 60 known works by the Italian master - but it nearly escaped the attention of the wider art world, having initially been attributed to a lesser artist.It was withdrawn from sale on the orders of the Spanish government in 2021, hours before it was due to be sold at auction for an opening price of €1,500 (£1,280).Now, three years after that decisive intervention, the work is being exhibited for the first time since its true status was confirmed.Earlier this month, the Prado said the painting was "without a doubt, a Caravaggio masterpiece", calling it "one of the greatest discoveries in the history of art".
Hemingway was the captain of his own boat. He went where he pleased; he avoided places he wanted to avoid. He could admire the beauty in something that was tragic simply because it was real. He could admire and appreciate that there was more than what he could immediately see and understand. He could feel indescribably that being on the Gulf, in Pilar, gave him a part of the great flow, the greater story. This story involved all those things, known and unknown, happy and not, that he admired and that inspired his writing. Part of understanding this indefinable feeling is to understand that a stream will always flow forwards. That implies that one can never go back. There was quite a lot in Hemingway’s life that he could not go back to.Edens lost. This is a theme flowing through his life and through his work. In A Farewell to Arms, the lieutenant in Italy is thinking about a far-off Michigan, although it is never named as being so. This recalls Hemingway’s youth. A time when his family planned on making an Eden-like retreat in the Michigan woods. But this would never be, so he must return to it only in his imagination. Then there were the lost days of his youth, lost in the war. The happy days of his first marriage with Hadley, his only “true” and “pure” marriage. There were the days in Paris and the many friendships that he lost because of pride and ego. In his writing, trying to regain the Edens lost, Hemingway is caught somewhere between how he wished things to be and how he knew things were. But even so, he can’t go back. No one can.If you can’t go back, is your only real alternative to go farther out? Perhaps that is how we ought to understand Pilar and Hemingway in the Gulf. Again, it all goes on and the sun also rises.
Few Caribbean dishes are as well-traveled, or as beloved, as Jamaican jerk, a humble meal of bone-in chicken or pork parts doused in a blend of spices and hot peppers, and cooked slowly over smoldering pimento wood branches. Peppered across the island, roadside jerk stands entice passersby with wafts of fragrant smoke rising from makeshift grills encased in sheets of tin siding. Supple, juicy, and crispy in spots where the meat has been charred by the fire, jerk is an integral part of Jamaica's economy too, with restaurants like the perpetually busy Scotchies or the relaxed Pepper's Jerk Center serving tourists and locals year-round. It's typically eaten with your hands alongside fried cornmeal "festivals" (dumplings), scorching-hot Scotch bonnet pepper sauce, and cold beer.
We usually serve jerk with fried plantains and peas and rice. The plantains are bias-sliced thinly, tossed in olive oil, salt, and pepper. I do these in a cast iron skillet on the grill.
The rice and peas are a must ...
The willingness of some to give their lives so that others might live never fails to evoke in us a sense of wonder and mystery. One gets that feeling here on this hallowed ground, and I have known that same poignant feeling as I looked out across the rows of white crosses and Stars of David in Europe, in the Philippines, and the military cemeteries here in our own land. Each one marks the resting place of an American hero and, in my lifetime, the heroes of World War I, the Doughboys, the GI's of World War II or Korea or Vietnam. They span several generations of young Americans, all different and yet all alike, like the markers above their resting places, all alike in a truly meaningful way.Winston Churchill said of those he knew in World War II they seemed to be the only young men who could laugh and fight at the same time. A great general in that war called them our secret weapon, "just the best darn kids in the world." Each died for a cause he considered more important than his own life. Well, they didn't volunteer to die; they volunteered to defend values for which men have always been willing to die if need be, the values which make up what we call civilization. And how they must have wished, in all the ugliness that war brings, that no other generation of young men to follow would have to undergo that same experience.As we honor their memory today, let us pledge that their lives, their sacrifices, their valor shall be justified and remembered for as long as God gives life to this nation. And let us also pledge to do our utmost to carry out what must have been their wish: that no other generation of young men will every have to share their experiences and repeat their sacrifice.
In my case, the rye bread isn’t just a random selection. It gives me a small but meaningful way to hold on to a positive piece of my past, and strengthens my connection with my mother, her parents, grandparents, and though I’ll never know, probably many more generations before them too. While I can’t re-cross the bridge, I can still put this amazing rye bread in my toaster and on my table every day, and think about her and the world she and my grandparents came from.I certainly grew up with it. It’s clearly been a low-key connection, solidly if silently in place, between my mother and me. Unlike many things that caused conflict, rye was a culinary link that we both liked, one without hugely difficult emotional baggage, no philosophical controversy over which we needed to disagree. It’s obviously much bigger than just bread. In a way, this is a culinary unveiling—the Jewish ceremony that takes place a year after the death when the tombstone is placed on the grave that had been, until then, unmarked. By putting this down on paper I guess I’m likely committing to mind and memory what I think of whenever I eat rye bread.
McEnroe and Lendl had been swapping the world No 1 ranking for much of the past year but though the American held top spot as Roland-Garros began in 1984, he was not an overwhelming favourite for the title, thanks to his lack of love for the clay.McEnroe had only played at Roland-Garros four times before, with two quarter-final runs his best efforts. By contrast, Lendl loved the mud and had already reached the final, in 1981, when he lost to Bjorn Borg in five sets.But McEnroe had three reasons to believe this could be his year. First, he arrived at Roland-Garros unbeaten in 1984; second, he had beaten Lendl in their past four encounters, including twice on clay in the previous month. And third, because while he already owned five Grand Slam titles, Lendl was still chasing his first, having lost all four of his slam finals, leaving many to question whether he had the mental strength required.Both men had reached the final for the loss of just one set; McEnroe to Jose Higueras in round four and Lendl to Andres Gomez, a future champion, at the same stage. Opposites in playing style and personality, it was no secret that the two men disliked each other ...
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