Deus ex Machina

So, my dad called me this morning, to check up on us in the aftermath of Hurricane/super-storm Sandy.

So, this post is about, and for, my dad.

Other men, when they realize it, are blessed to have the fathers they have, and to love them, and know that their fathers loved them.

I am blessed with my dad.

Our conversation was organic, as it has developed to be over the years. One can even say, as it ranged freely over the topics both modern and ancient (cell-phones and Leonard Cohen's 'Alleluia' and the origins of the phrase 'deus ex machina'), that our conversation is 'free range.'

Oh, and to be true to that conversation, and its serendipitous nature, 'deus ex machina' is anachronistic. It is a LATIN resaying of the original GREEK phrase 'ἀπὸ μηχανῆς θεός' for, of course, 'deus' is not a Greek word at all, but a Latin resaying of the Greek word (they are nearly homophonious (another Greek word): 'deus' and 'θεός') are Dad was right there to point out that 'mekhane' is 'machine,' to be sure, but the original (specific) meaning was 'crane.'

Dad, when I explained all this to him, as he explained it all to me, was so impressed that he paused, just for a breath, and said, sadly, wisely, knowingly ... lovingly, 'Son, you are a man born in the wrong Age.'

Did you get that? My father, in his 73 years of wisdom, gave me the title of 'man.'

His son is not a boy any more, but all grown up, and he is so proud, and so filled with love.

Well, yes, all that, of course. Stiff upper lip and pip-pip.

AND ... he implored me not to use the word 'Luddite' ever again.

So, I ... 'tried' to promise that I wouldn't use the word 'Luddite' ... I paused, ... and was about to say 'today.'

But I knew I couldn't even last that long.

So, I told him that.

He laughed in shocked surprised at the unexpected joy of his son's utter and complete lack of propriety for this modern day's mores.

So, Dad, this one's for you. I will not use the word 'Luddite' in my blog or in conversation or three times in a sentence.

At all.

See me not using the word 'Luddite' at all today, Dad? I am so not saying that word 'Luddite.'

See?

'Luddite,' 'Luddite,' 'Luddite,' ... I ain't sayin' it at all!

Ah, well: a Man's a man for a' that and 'it is right and it is just,' and all that.

Or, yes, as expected (sung martially in the mode of Horace): 'dulce et decorum est ...'

Dad?

Yes, son (whispered sadly in the tone of Wilfred Owen): '... pro patria mori.'

I love you, Dad.

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Epi/post/logue:

My last post was on Mothers' Day for my mother, and this next post here is for my father ... it is indeed sweet and just and right.

What a feast!

When my dear mother visited us some time ago, my daughters continually echoed her exclamation of: "What a feast!" whenever we served a meal.

Hey, we cannot allow our guests to go hungry.

Well, this is the week where the exclamation has earned its way into the record book (the record book's name? "Clichés we know and lov-... well, we know"). Why?

Well, we just had our anniversary, and my cara spoza said it was the best one yet. Why? Because, instead of her prepping the roast chicken, I basted it with the mustard and butter and put it into the oven that I preheated, and I opened that bottle of Dom ... even though we were saving it for that big contract signing ... and it was she that found out that the bottle was vintage 1996 ... the year we were married.

And Até had the presents all figured out, and she did drag me to the store so she could buy these self-same presents, wrapped them, and then presented them when I opened the box holding the moccha cake from the Swiss bakery inscribed with "For My Sweetie."

Yes, my sweetie enjoyed the surprises, thought and effort.

Well, of course, the next day brunch had stuffed baked potatoes, hard-boiled eggs and corn beef hashi.

"What a feast!" my little one exclaimed.

Tomorrow is the little one's birthday, and the mama has already begun the preparations, sending the thoughts of sleep miles from the little kiddies heads as they helped unpack the groceries and found jell-o pudding and marshmallows.

Marshmallows, from my cara spoza?

"Who are you?" I demanded of the personification of the Mary Cassatt.

Her answering smile was small, sweet and cryptic.

It is funny in a way. This post has got me thinking about topics further afield ("What's funny about you getting off topic, geophf?" you ask. My answer is editted to keep the kid-friendly rating for this blog). And that is: words. Funny how we (cultures) adopt and transform words to describe the oddest things. We hinglish types call an article of clothing used for support a "bra" ... which means "arm," and when we wish to rave on through the night we go to a "party."

Ever think about that one? I never did, until I learnt the Swedish word for it: "fest," which is equally inaccurate. Our word means "group of people" (at restaurants you hear all the time: "geophf, party of four; geophf, party of four"), and their word means "food." Neither captures the essence: a "party" is not a mundane group of people, and people don't go to "fests" for the food (even though they say that's what brought them).

But, then again, what word captures the essence of the thing described ... I mean besides the word "abstruse" ...

abstruse: n. 1. abstruse.

Hm. Somehow we started with feasts, went to a garden party, and ended up with a meditation on the game of go.

Wait a minute, geophf, I was with you up to the go thing, but then ... ?

Come on, now, it's a `pataphor! For, after all, the word "abstruse" is defined as "recondite," and "recondite profundity" is the term Fujisawa Shuko (藤沢 秀行), one of go's three crows



(which I wrote about ... tangentially ... to nothing) and a noted calligrapher often took to study. Apparently, the term "recondite profundity" has a koan-like significance to professional go players attempting to grasp than ineffable essence of what it is to grok the game.

You do know, don't you, that "to grok" means "to eat" ... right? So that puts us back right where we started:

What a feast!

Well, this post was more a feast for the mind's eye, as opposed to something that would delight a gourmand or epicure ... but sensuum defectui ... and all that.

Catz, Ninja and otherwise

I'm not really writing a blog entry, I'm doing my civic duty right now, filling out tax forms for the Man.

My cara spoza has me on a blog-writing diet, so I won't talk about the reason for my side trip to Amherst, and I won't talk about how my entire extended family magically knew about my Amherst visit, and how they asked how it went even before I got to say hello! And how they phoned in from California to have my Aunt [my regal Aunt] inquire into the matter.

No, this blog entry is not about that.

But, as you know, I've had this constant struggle between my piratey-self and my super-secret-ninja-assassin-self. I had thought that pirates had it all wrapped up in the debate.

But then I came across this:



That, folks, is a clear win for the ninjas this round.

Speaking about Brittany Murphy, the pussycat — yeah, don't gimme that look: for I was speaking about her, `pataphorically — I had no idea that besides being a Jane Austen actress, she is a singer, too! Amazing, the things one can learn while exercising!

Back to doing the taxen ... *sigh*

Zombie Plans

I suppose, with this post, I am determined to forsake any hope of maintaining my kid-friendly rating for this blog. Ah, well, the children must be warned before the great Zombie uprising.

Actually, this post isn't actually pure `pataphor. My God-brother, Mike, lent me a film entitled Zombie Anonymous. At the very same time, we had a going away party for a teacher of Paraalang Pinoy whose husband, besides singing a mean More than Words, with his wife aca-acamp-acom ... playin' da geetar, has a Zombie plan, including bicycles for rapid escape (off-road, because the highways are a sure to become a congested zombie-fest), plenty of water, and a bokken to buy some time ... he asked if I had one as well.

Me: No
He: Huh? Why not?
Me: Because I have 38 Zombie plans!

They are off to Japan ... look out for the siafu!

Let me pontificate here for a moment: it's called a Zombie plan because it's a plan to help you survive the zombie attack. So, following that reasoning, a zombie "plan" to infect yourself (believe it or not, I've heard more than a few variations of this one) to join or to rule from the horde is not a plan at all ... you may as well grab a picket sign stenciled with the solitary word: "Dinner" and paint a target on yourself.

The usual portrayals of zombies, fast or slow, are that of automatons. The movie Zombies Anonymous, however, poses that Zombies retain full memories and cognition of their former, and current, selves, without even the benefit of death as a transition. So the choices they make, the support groups they attend, the jobs they hold, the relations and religions they cling to, eventuate to a horrifying and nihilistic view ... of everything. In the other portrayals in the media, books and movies and the web, zombies are definitely 'It', never to be considered 'Thou'. This movie makes this very counter-assertion, the Zombies are no different than you, and one day, you'll wake up, dead, as one of them. 'It' is 'Thou'. With this assertion, the movie attempts a direct attack against the eternal 'I'.

*sigh* ... funny how in each generation there're the nihilists or existentialists or objectivists, and they all propose their version of "There is no God!" [Psalms 14:1] ... note the irony for that phrase is preceded with the Truth: "The fool says in his heart ..." and the following line is telling of these prophets: "Their deeds are corrupt and vile, not one of them does right."

I add my hearty assent with the following observation: none of these "realists" have had children. Sartre's "abandonment" (which I note with glee to his acolytes, and joy for him, that he abandoned this view of "abandonment" on his death bed when he returned into the communion, receiving absolution and last rites from a Catholic priest) and Rand's "producers and moochers/money or guns" perspectives of the world, albeit true up to a (very small) point when viewed through their very distorted lenses ("... but they sound so smart!") is the antithesis of hope. Why have children, when your very philosophy consigns them, at best, to despair?

So, they don't. So I wonder how, generation after generation, there seems to spring up from the slime, these "intelligentsia"? Do they spawn?

I also wonder how anyone with sons or daughters, brothers or sisters, parents, cousins, nieces and nephews, ascribe anything other than the proper fate to these black words (which, of course, is confutatis maledictus). As a Christian [Catholic, even] apologist, I'll happily enter into dialog with you, starting from First Principles, and I'll listen to you, for you are Thou, a child of God, deserving to be loved as God loves you ... that's where I'm coming from, the Fifth Way.

But, caveat philosopher, as pater familias, if you plan to impose your world view on my wife or children, a punch in the face is what I'll lead off with. Is that too violent for you? No, one need only look at the products of these world views (Hitler's Holocast, Stalin's decimation, the Khmer Rouge's killing fields, China's "reproductive policy", and in our own back yard, the robber-baron's "human resources") to know that there's a war on, and evil prevails when the good remain silent.

So there are my first four plans: Faith, Hope, Love, and a strong right arm. For the Zombies are real, and I won't let the walking dead, or, explicitly, those who have given up hope in this life (my prayer: "God, don't let me die until I'm dead!") obstruct or divert me or mine. Walking dead, you have been warned. For the rest of you undecideds, it's time to choose sides [Deut 30:19], and make your plans.

Good luck with it.