Disposable Words

I like words. I've written or typed quite a few of them in my time. I relish the exercise of formulating a thought and laboring to fashion it in a manner that makes a concept accessible to others. I wrote poetry when I was young, Bible studies in my 20's, and a wide variety of technical and policy documentation throughout my career. I started blogging out of an innate need to write, for myself and anyone willing to suffer as my audience.

Creative writing was never really a focus during my student years. While I believe I am suitably proficient in the use of language and vocabulary, I find that the distinction between words as commodity and words as art to be a difficult chasm to span. It is for this reason and more that I find articles on the topic of the modern use of the English language so interesting. The digital age has greatly commoditized the written word, making it more and more difficult to identify true art in the preponderance of prose. In a fascinating article called "The Pros and Cons of Cyber-English," David Gelernter takes a look at some of the effects the digital age has had on the vernacular. A few excerpts:

Social networking, texting, email and digital messages have borrowed the keys to the English language and are joy-riding all over the landscape, smashing body panels and junking up the fancy interior. Many thoughtful people are worried. But it's good for English to get shaken up occasionally—by people who are using it in new ways, not by academics ordaining from on high.

In the 1980s and '90s, email saved the personal letter from extinction by moving it online. Email-writers have leaned heavily for decades on abbreviations, which suit this quick-and-casual medium. Thus the celebrated "lol," "laughing out loud," and many others.

…

When you are forced to compress your message into fewer words, each word works harder, carries more meaning on its shoulders and, accordingly, becomes more important and interesting. Digital English is no good for poetry or novels, but on balance it's refreshing.

Smiley-faces are another story. Painfully cute hieroglyphics (happy-face, sad-face) have littered email for years; they are the empty beer bottles in the literary flower garden. Anything that can't be pronounced stops the verbal music, makes the reader stumble and marks the writer as a nitwit. These pictograms are for sloppy and lazy writers: E.B. White never felt the need to draw little faces in the margin to make his meaning clear.

I confess that I have, at times, fallen into the habit of using emoticons (smiley-faces, etc.) as shorthand to convey everything from genuine emotion to simple acknowledgement in response to a message I've received. But in my regular writing, never. On to weightier matters (emphasis mine):

Digital words are disposable words. Partly the problem is technological; mostly it is psychological. Ink and paper (or parchment or papyrus) have functioned brilliantly as a presentation and storage medium for a couple of thousand years. It's easy to read a 300-year-old book or a 2,000-year-old scroll. Can you imagine booting a 2,000-year-old computer? For a technologist, "permanent" means the next 20 minutes.

Digital words are easy to write, change, send, forget. They lack the dignity of the printed word. It's hard to throw out a book, even if you don't need or want it; it's easy to delete a million bits without thinking twice. Young writers know that blogs are cutting-edge but want to see their pieces, nonetheless, in real ink on real paper in real books, newspapers or magazines.

Digital words seem cheap because they are, and they grow cheaper by the day. Consider the withering hailstorm of mail, text, social net and blog posts that assaults you the moment you go online. It's become impossible for many a normal, solid citizen to answer his email promptly. But young people seem increasingly apt to ignore uninteresting messages on purpose. If the message is important it will be resent, and if it isn't, who cares anyway? So the value of digital words sinks even lower.

Gelernter's piece is worth a read, so I'll resist citing even more of the article. The above section strikes me particularly keen. So much of our lives are wrapped up in digital mediums, more so than many of us might care to admit. After the tornado, we fretted about retrieving printed documents and papers, out of concern for identity theft and security. Books upon books were pulled out of the rubble, because they were tangible assets that could be retrieved, and perhaps more than a few no longer available in print. Yet we were also concerned about computers, tablets, PDAs and random hard drives, because of the immeasurable volume of information stored on such devices. Three weeks later, we are still not sure whether that data is recoverable, although in due time we will find out.

I consider myself fortunate that I have so much of my writing stored off in different places, including online. But in the blink of an eye, every word, every thought I have committed to digital media could disappear forever. It is almost enough to make me consider committing all of my writing to some sort of printed medium, if only as a safeguard. Yet as events have shown, there is no guarantee on even the printed word.

The truth be told, words have always been disposable. The printed word is no more permanent than the digital word - the only difference is the shelf-life and the nature of the vulnerability. A writer wishes to be read; no more, no less. Words are abundant, and therefore are commodities that have value only in the sense that when put together, they convey something of the author. Some words permeate the culture and give the appearance of immortality. But in the end, all words are temporary, no matter how masterful the formulation, no matter how wide the distribution. So perhaps the chasm between commodity and art is a wasted endeavor as a pursuit of its own aim. I will never become "known" for the things I write, but those who read what I write, they will come to know me.

More Videos - And An Empty Feeling

It is amazing what can be accomplished in a day and a half with the right equipment. I went by the property late this afternoon to find all the major debris completely gone, with only a few small piles and scattered remains littering the lot. Out there on this windy, gray afternoon, I just felt empty.

Below are a few more videos I took with my phone. I apologize if they are a bit shaky at times. I looked along the lines of the footers. I'll have to get an engineer out there to inspect the site. Right now, I'd say there's a fair chance that the slabs will have to be dug up and re-poured. I'm no expert in such matters, though.

Heavy Equipment

Today, the heavy equipment arrived on the property, working the trees on the back line. After a brief consultation, they began pulling down the remaining structure of the house, to include what was left of the kitchen and laundry room and the bonus room. Below is a 3 minute video I captured with my phone showing some of the work in action.

It was good to see the progress, but beyond that, I'm not sure how I felt. The sooner the debris is gone, the better. But after that, the harder decision awaits. All in good time, I suppose.

Space Digest

I needed a little diversion this morning, as we prepare to dive knee deep into the remains of our belongings currently held in storage. Not too long ago, I came across a site called Universe Today. UT aggregates space and astronomy news, among other features. A couple of neat items caught my attention this morning:

First, there are compiled videos of the Aurora Borealis captured from the view of the International Space Station. Here's a sample:


As have many others, I've caught myself gazing at the western sky in the evenings, watching the conjunction of Jupiter and Venus as they dance in the heavens. Their presence and their bright, steady reflection of the sun's light is mesmerizing, and stands out against the normal view of the night sky. Amateurs have captured the conjunction on camera, and the UT post has several to view. I like many of them, but below I think is my favorite (image credit Tavi Greiner):

Back to the real world, I suppose. But I admit, it's nice to blog about something else for a change.

Tuesday's Blurb

It is Tuesday, and spring is fully underway. There is a hint of pollen in the air as the leaves are beginning to unfurl on the trees. The temperature is warm, and the gnats are everywhere.

And no matter how many times I look, or how often I try to shake the image, my house remains a forlorn pile of rubble. I'm in the midst of negotiations with a debris removal company, which I hope to conclude today. Hopefully soon, we'll be able to get the property cleared enough to stop being quite the safety hazard it is now.

We have secured a new residence, and furnished it with rental furniture. My parents left this morning, and perhaps tonight we will stay at the new place for the first time. It'll take several more days to "set up house", but we are moving forward.

Insurance did come through, and although it was far from how I envisioned it, we have paid off the mortgage. In the coming months, we will have to decide whether to rebuild on the lot. Right now, it is just a little too soon to see clearly. Whatever we do, it won't come without first spending much time as a family in prayer. We have been surrounded by such grace these past 11 days, there is no way we're taking a step without prayer.

I have an idea for a longer blog post in the days ahead, but it probably won't be ready until the weekend. Other priorities must come first. In the meantime, suffice it to say, we are okay. And we will be okay.

The days are hard, but we are not alone. Thanks be to God.

Storm Aftermath - Quick Update

I thought I would take a quick moment to update on where we stand, and how we are doing. While blogging is certainly at the low end of the priorities right now, I am aware that several folks have been following the events and our circumstances.

First, allow me again to express my thanks to all for the prayers and support. We finally finished our salvage efforts yesterday. While I cannot rule out doing a little more picking around as the debris removal crews come through, for all intents and purposes, we're done looking for stuff. Our focus will now turn towards some key actions: 1) Sorting through what we have recovered, to determine what is really salvagable, and what needs to be given up; 2) finding a new residence; and 3) lots of phone calls to, well, everyone, in particular to service providers providing us services we are no longer able to use.

Today is March 7, which means this is the fifth day. It is all very surreal, and I would imagine that as the pace of activity changes, the adrenaline surge that has kept us going will fade. We are understandably exhausted, but I cannot help but to notice how tightly we are being held in the embrace of grace. As the old hymn says, "It is Well, With My Soul."

And another comes to mind: "On the solid rock I stand, all other ground is sinking sand, all other ground is sinking sand."

We are well, our family is here, and God is with us all.

Peace to you and yours, with all my heart.

When the Lights Can't Come Back On

Last year, I wrote a post here reflecting on the experience of the aftermath of a massive tornado outbreak across the south. In that storm, we narrowly avoided tornadoes to our north and to our south as close as a half mile, and as far as two miles. I shared with you about the experience of community, and my reflection of what happened When the Lights Came Back On.

On March 2, 2012, we experienced another set of devastating storms through our part of the world. This time, for me, the lights will not come back on. On Friday, our home was completely destroyed.

Nobody was home when the EF-2 twister tore through my neighborhood, leaving my home in a pile of rubble. To say that we are still in shock is an understatement. Our immediate needs have been addressed, and we are working to salvage what we can. We have already retrieved more than I thought imaginable.

In April 2011, we did what we could to reach out to neighbors, family and strangers to support relief efforts. In March 2012, I was the recipient of the generosity of my many families: immediate, church, and work. Yesterday, 60-some people descended on our property and helped us with the first phase of salvage. Boy Scouts, members of a high school football team, two church groups, FEMA, Red Cross, and numerous volunteers from a local college tackled the mess. We have been flooded with all kinds of support, kindness and care. Last year, I considered it a tremendous blessing to serve. This weekend, I consider it a tremendous blessing to allow others to share their gifts of service for me. I am overwhelmed.

With respect to my house, the lights cannot come back on. But in the eyes and hearts of those around us these past couple of days, the light is shining. We are in good spirits, all things considered. The Lord is our rock, and our refuge, in this most certain time of trouble. I will praise Him in good times, and bad, and despite our loss, we have been given much.

As I hold my family close, I cannot help but think: I have been, and remain, very, very blessed.

For those of you interested, here is a link to the interview I gave for a local TV station.

Spectacular Time-Lapse from ISS

This is cool enough that I don't really need to comment. I suggest watching it in full screen mode (the button on the bottom right of the video player). And turn up the volume. What would it be like to see such things with our own eyes?


(h/t: Aaron Miller)

Freedom From Religion Foundation Turns Sights Upon Huntsville

We live in a country with hundreds of millions of people, all of divergent views on matters of religion and politics. In communities large and small, the tradition of prayers or invocations before citizen-based meetings, town halls, sporting events and graduation has been a staple of local civic life. Perhaps for some, over time, these brief moments have become more symbolic than substantive. But for years upon years in these communities, those who don't consider themselves religious demonstrated a healthy tolerance or respect for the tradition. Until recent decades, that is. Indeed, while I would wager that the vast majority would not get their feathers in a ruffle over the matter of a short prayer or invocation before civic events, there is a tiny, anonymous minority whose intolerance of such expressions (symbolic or otherwise) creates a firestorm of controversy that ensures their victory by mere intimidation.

This minority has now brought the battle to my area. The Freedom From Religion Foundation, an organization based in Wisconsin, is bringing its mission to destroy expressions of faith in civic life against the long-standing tradition of opening prayers at the Huntsville City Council. From The Huntsville Times:

In a Feb. 16 letter to Council President Mark Russell, the Wisconsin-based Freedom From Religion Foundation argued that prayer at government meetings is "unnecessary, inappropriate and divisive" and should be stopped.
…
The letter infers that the group will sue Huntsville in federal court if the policy is not changed.

The city, of course, is taking the threat seriously. In an era of tight fiscal budgets, no local government or agency can afford to spend taxpayer money to fight such cases in court. The remarkable thing is, the city might stand a decent chance to win in court. But the cost is prohibitive, so it is more likely that the city will lay down without a fight. Oh, they'll revert to a moment of silence or the like. Because that would be the politically correct, tolerant thing to do in the face of virulent, antagonistic intolerance.

I have not been to a Huntsville City Council meeting, so I cannot speak with authority as to the typical nature of the invocation. But at various events where an opening prayer is offered, it strikes me that they are often 30-45 seconds in length, and focused more on the appeal to providence rather than proselytization. From the paper:

"The prayers currently invoked at Council meetings impermissibly advance Christianity," Schmitt wrote, "and lead a reasonable observer to believe that the Council is endorsing not only religion over non-religion, but also Christianity over other faiths."

Unidentified Freedom From Religion Foundation members who live in Huntsville complained to the national office about the City Council prayers. The group says it has more than 17,500 members nationwide, including about 150 in Alabama.

This is part that bothers me the most. Out 150, how many members of this foundation actually live in Huntsville? Suppose it is 10%. Of those 15, how many would bother to attend a city council meeting? In all likelihood, less than 5, and that may even be too high an estimate (it's not like the council meeting is heavily attended by the public). So a couple of "unidentified" local citizens decide to hide behind the skirts of a Wisconsin-based organization that operates on the basis of intimidation to tear down a local civic tradition. We'll never know who the accusers are, because this will never go to court, and the FFRF will protect the privacy and the intolerance of its members. All over the matter of an invocation or prayer that lasts less than a minute.

I want to be charitable to those with opinions that differ from mine, even on a topic like this. But I really can only shake my head in wonder at the ongoing surrender to the tyranny of the minority in our civic life.

Stray Thoughts for Thursday

I always feel guilty when I let a week go by without a blog post, which is somewhat odd given that I'm not sure exactly how much of a regular audience I have. Unfortunately, I have nothing particularly interesting to share today, so I offer instead a gallimaufry of thoughts. (Gallimaufry, you ask? It means a "hodgepodge" or "jumble." Yes, indeed, my thesaurus is indispensable to me).

A year ago today, the warranty expired on my appendix, resulting in a rupture of great proportions. In so many ways, that experience doesn't seem that long ago. I still have phantom pain from time to time. But when all is said and done, I'm still here, and I'm glad to be here. I've been blessed. I still owe my wife a cruise vacation, though. Maybe this fall?

I was outside this morning while the kids were getting ready for school. Spring is most certainly in the air - in fact, it has been nearly all winter. Last year at this time, we'd had 15 inches of snow. This year, we've seen flakes twice, with no accumulation whatsoever. I didn't even have to put insulating covers on the outside spigots. The birds are tuning up their spring symphony, the purple clover is dominating my yard, but I'll be darned if you can make me pull out the lawn mower in February. Not. Going. To. Do. It. But it is a beautiful morning, the air is moist and cool but tinged with the promise of a warm day.

I am starting to long for the day I can afford to start a second career - this one is beginning to wear on me. It still has its good moments, but every now and then I wish for something other than engineering. Of course, I don't know what else I'd do. Bottom line, it is good to be employed in this economy, so I will just have to continue to man-up.

I've been listening to a series of sermons via podcast on the topic of grace. In a strange twist, I find it much easier to extend grace than I do to receive it. On reflection, I surmise that our fallen nature predisposes us against the full embrace of grace. The dissolution of pride, I believe, is key to our transformation by grace. Because while mercy brings relief, the work of grace is far deeper when it is fully realized.

Finally, the annual Cub Scout Pinewood Derby Race has come and gone. I get great joy in letting my son design and craft his car, mostly with hand tools. When the power tools are necessary of course, I step in. Soon enough, I'll let him use the tools himself. But not just yet. His entry this year placed 23rd of 60-some cars, a small step back from last year's performance. He did well, though, and it was fun.

This concludes today's parade. Thanks for reading.

A Lesson from Twain

A few weeks ago, I discovered a neat website called Letters of Note. (To say I discovered the site is factually incorrect, as I became aware of it only through the recommendation of the author of another website. The point is, after that initial referral, I have found myself returning to the Letters of Note site almost daily). According to the proprietor, Letters of Note "is a blog-based archive of fascinating correspondence, complete with scans and transcripts of the original missives." The letters come from all walks of life, and are both contemporary and historical in context. I am enjoying it very much.

Today's entry is a letter from Mark Twain to author Edward Bok, on the subject of an interview Twain gave to Bok. The article based on the interview was never published, and Twain's letter was the primary reason. Reading the letter was delightful and fun, although to think so you'd have to appreciate Twain's mastery of the written word to understand why I enjoyed it so. Below are a few excerpts, but I would encourage you to go read the whole thing:

For several quite plain and simple reasons, an "interview" must, as a rule, be an absurdity, and chiefly for this reason—It is an attempt to use a boat on land or a wagon on water, to speak figuratively. Spoken speech is one thing, written speech is quite another. Print is the proper vehicle for the latter, but it isn't for the former. The moment "talk" is put into print you recognize that it is not what it was when you heard it; you perceive that an immense something has disappeared from it. That is its soul. You have nothing but a dead carcass left on your hands. Color, play of feature, the varying modulations of the voice, the laugh, the smile, the informing inflections, everything that gave that body warmth, grace, friendliness and charm and commended it to your affections—or, at least, to your tolerance—is gone and nothing is left but a pallid, stiff and repulsive cadaver.

…

So painfully aware is the novelist that naked talk in print conveys no meaning that he loads, and often overloads, almost every utterance of his characters with explanations and interpretations. It is a loud confession that print is a poor vehicle for "talk"; it is a recognition that uninterpreted talk in print would result in confusion to the reader, not instruction.

Now, in your interview, you have certainly been most accurate; you have set down the sentences I uttered as I said them. But you have not a word of explanation; what my manner was at several points is not indicated. Therefore, no reader can possibly know where I was in earnest and where I was joking; or whether I was joking altogether or in earnest altogether. Such a report of a conversation has no value. It can convey many meanings to the reader, but never the right one. To add interpretations which would convey the right meaning is a something which would require—what? An art so high and fine and difficult that no possessor of it would ever be allowed to waste it on interviews.

Again, go read the letter in its entirety. This latter paragraph above I find to be true and instructive. In this internet age, we are often subjected to "soulless" quotations and transcripts of what people say, utterly devoid of the manner and context in which their words were spoken. Not a few times have pundits and common folk alike latched on to spoken words in print, suffering outrageous outrage to erupt in fury, only to learn later (if they so cared to learn) that the context and manner in which the words were spoken did not fit the outrage leveled. This is true for venues like message boards and blogs (and Facebook too, I presume) - we write our thoughts, but run the risk of being misunderstood because tone and manner are often lost when posted to the digital page.

Sometimes, the printed word is all we have to go by. The transcript of a speech must stand on it own, and crafted well, the reader can capture a glimpse of the shadow of its soul. The spoken word is its own invention. To capture the spoken word in written form is shallow and two-dimensional at best. The written word has more potential for depth, but is a horse of a different color. Bridging the gap between each modus may be a nearly impossible feat. The article which Twain dismissed in his letter must have fallen quite short in its conveyance, but in contrast Twain's letter is masterful - and full of "soul."

How much of me appears in what I write? Are my compositions two-dimensional, or do they have depth? I do not know. I likely spend too much time writing "about" things, as opposed to writing "of" things. To write well is indeed "an art so high and fine and difficult" that I quail in fear at the thought that my aspirations are unreachable. But aspire to that art, I will. However, it will require effort to overcome lazy formulation and "hackery."

Cagney Weekend

As part of my recovery from the Dauphin Island expedition, I took some time this weekend to copy some James Cagney movies from the DVR out to DVD. Included in this batch were a few I had yet to watch all the way through, including Pitcher Snatcher and City for Conquest. I also enjoyed Mister Roberts, in which Cagney plays a crank of a captain on a U.S. Navy cargo ship, alongside other Hollywood greats Henry Fonda and Jack Lemmon. In Shake Hands with the Devil, Cagney plays an Irish surgeon who doubles as an influential leader in the Irish Republican Army in 1921 Dublin. In this feature, Cagney's plays a character given over to violence for its own sake, with the blackest of hearts who meets a fitting end in the final scene.

This afternoon (while I'm supposed to be cleaning up the house), I'm watching The West Point Story, where Cagney plays a Broadway director helping West Point cadets to put on a show, with an ulterior motive to get one promising cadet out of West Point into show business. According to the reviews, this was the first song-and-dance movie Cagney did following Yankee Doodle Dandy. Its star-studded cast includes Virginia Mayo, Doris Day, Gordon MacRae (Carousel and Oklahoma!). More enjoyable for me was to see Alan Hale, Jr. playing alongside Jimmy. Hale's father, (Hale Sr.) starred in 3 Cagney movies (including my favorite, The Fighting 69th), and was perhaps best known as Errol Flynn's sidekick Little John in The Adventures of Robin Hood. Hale, Jr. had his own impressive career, although he was arguably best known as the Skipper in TV's Gilligan's Island. I just thought it was kind of neat that father and son Hale both got to act with Cagney. There aren't too many scenes from this movie on YouTube, but the one linked here gives you a glimpse of Cagney, MacRae, Mayo and Hale, Jr.

As an aside, MacRae had a heck of a voice. What I wouldn't give to sing like that. Here's MacRae crooning to Doris Day:


This batch of Cagney flicks was a good one. I'm not sure when I'll get to set aside this much time again for a while, but this was good.

Dauphin Island Adventure

Every year, February's calendar ends up packed to the gills, and this year is no exception. Aside from the standard pinewood derby race preparation for Cub Scouts, and merit badge fairs for Boy Scouts, this month featured a middle school excursion to Dauphin Island Sea Lab (DISL) sandwiched between two math competitions. The first math competition was last Saturday. My oldest son placed 8th in individual performance in the pre-algebra group, out of some 80-100 students, to earn his first individual trophy in his first ever math tournament. He was the sole representative of his school (which doesn't have a middle school math team) out of 22 schools in his division. He is out again this morning, competing in a MathCounts event, again as a sole representative for his school. While he is off doing that, I'm assisting my younger son on his derby car and other Cub Scout work.

The big event of the week, however, was the 4-day, 3 night adventure to Dauphin Island. Officially called a field study, the middle school sends 7th graders down to this small island in Mobile Bay in Alabama. From here, it is about an 9 hour drive by bus, with stops. I served as a chaperone for my son and 68 other 7th graders, and not only did I manage to survive, I actually managed to enjoy the experience (although as an aside, I must confess that the social drama of 13 year olds is really something to behold - I didn't understand it when I was that age, and I don't understand it now).

The students participate in two full days of scientific discussion and activity, pertaining specifically to the unique ecology of the Mobile Bay estuary (all together now, an estuary is where fresh water systems and salt water systems meet). Activities include a trip out into the open waters of the Mississippi Sound and the Gulf of Mexico on board a DISL research vessel, several lectures on the marine and marsh life, a visit to the estuarium, a trip into the salt marsh, and the dissection of a squid. Also included is a look into the history of Dauphin Island and Mobile Bay, with a unique focus on the history of Fort Gaines and its sister forts Powell and Morgan (the site of the decisive Battle of Mobile Bay in 1864). For history buffs, this is the battle where Farragut is reputed to have proclaimed "Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead!"

The DISL program was really very good. My favorite, not surprisingly, was the few hours we spent on the research vessel. The vessel crew cast a net and trawled for a while, pulling in a variety of marine life specimens that the instructor used to educate the fully engaged students. While the trip itself only lasted a couple of hours, I could have stayed out on the water all day. Being on the water does me good, no matter where it is.

Below are a few other pictures of the trip. From the salt marsh:

Inside Fort Gaines:

Of course, I would be remiss if I failed to mention the wildlife adventure that was the boys hallway in our dormitory. Then again, perhaps I should simply be remiss. The species known as the teenage boy is something to behold. By and large though, they are good kids, and I enjoyed getting to know them. One last picture, to remember the all too brief moments of serenity:

Whence the Better Angels of Our Nature?

My day job and the calendar-filling activities of my kids often keep me from cultivating and nurturing interests new and old. Soaking in history, reading books and otherwise expanding knowledge simply seems impossible some days. One such interest that I have too little time to pursue is the study of speeches, particularly presidential speeches. Granted, such a hobby certainly would not make me the life of the party. But I have often wondered, given the grand preponderance of presidential speeches, just to what extent the speaker hones to the spirit and the letter of any given speech. With the use of speechwriters, of course, proper authorship and intellectual ownership of idea formulation can easily be questioned. Yet history tends to ascribe such ownership to the speaker, as it is primarily his voice that speaks life and meaning to the text. And so we presume that the speaker, upon speaking, is willing to stand behind the words he utters. But does he really? Is this easier to believe with some presidents, rather than others? To what extent is the spoken word a declaration of conviction versus sheer political posturing? It is easy to be jaded and look with a cynic's eye to the notion that a politician, even a president, actually believes everything he says in a speech. But such analysis is to confer upon the speech the character of the speaker, which may not always be a fair approach in a discussion of substance.

Now that I have concluded that rather clumsy introduction, I should make clear that I have no proper experience or training in analyzing presidential speeches. I have never completed a political science, psychology or sociology course. I simply think about things, and allow my thoughts to go where they may. No one will ever accuse me of being a proper scholar, to be sure.

Ah, Jim, get to the point, will you? You ramble on so. Sigh, if I must. I took some time recently to begin a foray into some select presidential speeches, starting with Abraham Lincoln's first inaugural address given March 4, 1861. I had to remind myself of the context and the time in which the speech was given. Between the election and the inauguration, several states seceded from the Union and established the Confederacy. The war between the states had not yet begun, the Emancipation Proclamation had not yet been issued, and Constitutional amendments ensuring the rights of all men regardless of race had not yet been conceived. Some speeches are timeless, while others are issued for the moment or the circumstance. It is abundantly clear that Lincoln's first inaugural address is written for the moment. And yet, as I pondered some of the prose within its paragraphs, I admit that my mind did stray from the context of the moment, into the context of now.

Before entering upon so grave a matter as the destruction of our national fabric, with all its benefits, its memories, and its hopes, would it not be wise to ascertain precisely why we do it? Will you hazard so desperate a step while there is any possibility that any portion of the ills you fly from have no real existence? Will you, while the certain ills you fly to are greater than all the real ones you fly from, will you risk the commission of so fearful a mistake?

So what is this national fabric that so blankets our Union, and what truly are the threats to it today? In Lincoln's day, the social contract between the government and the governed, birthed in the ideals of liberty, was being torn asunder by the issues of slavery and the extent of federal authority over the states. Today, states rights is largely a dead issue. For other than the occasional attempts to revive the notion of federalism by conservatives and certain Republican politicians looking to make a splash, the social contract is now more than ever a matter between the federal government and the people of the nation directly. The battle lines being drawn today are positioned between the citizen and the State (federal), not between the states and Washington D.C. As has been said elsewhere, we are no longer a union of states. We are simply a union. Which begs a question for another day: can the Constitution stand long without federalism?

The national fabric is worn and frayed, yet below the surface it still retains threads of priceless value and appeal. In the battle to set the boundaries of federal authority and individual liberty, advocates on both sides would do well to consider "our national fabric, with all its benefits, its memories and its hopes" before continuing too far down this dangerous game. Despite the all too human tendency towards earthly kings, the advance toward authoritarianism is not inevitable. Both sides need to understand that:

... no organic law can ever be framed with a provision specifically applicable to every question which may occur in practical administration. No foresight can anticipate nor any document of reasonable length contain express provisions for all possible questions.

The expansion of federal authority appears to operate from the premise that proper regulation can indeed govern or address every question that impacts the individual citizen. What cannot be done by statute is perpetrated by regulation that carries the weight of law. It should not be a surprise that the most demonstrative pushback against such regulation and expansion of federal authority carries the moniker derived from the Boston Tea Party in our pre-republic history. Lincoln went on to dissect the nature of our controversies, most notably constitutional controversies, as the classic confrontation of the majority and the minority:

If the minority will not acquiesce, the majority must, or the Government must cease. There is no other alternative, for continuing the Government is acquiescence on one side or the other. If a minority in such case will secede rather than acquiesce, they make a precedent which in turn will divide and ruin them, for a minority of their own will secede from them whenever a majority refuses to be controlled by such minority.

In other words, something has to give, or the controversy will persist indefinitely and potentially to our great detriment. But this is true only as long as the debate adheres to the protocols enforced. Should either side suddenly choose to quit the game, (secede, as it were), then the seceding side places itself at mortal risk. Several of the Occupy camps contained those who elected for themselves to stop adhering to laws associated with use of public property. In time, as each Occupy camp tried to become more internally organized, they fell into even smaller cliques at war with each other over control of the movement. When the rebel finally acquires authority, he has to constantly look over his shoulder lest his former rebel compatriots renew the insurrection impulse. What remains unclear, as far as the trajectory of our republic, is the identity of the majority, the identity of the minority. Each side often lays claim to the majority, and the media often take it upon themselves to tell us what "the people" believe and what they think. Whichever the case:

A majority held in restraint by constitutional checks and limitations, and always changing easily with deliberate changes of popular opinions and sentiments, is the only true sovereign of a free people. Whoever rejects it does of necessity fly to anarchy or to despotism. Unanimity is impossible. The rule of a minority, as a permanent arrangement, is wholly inadmissible; so that, rejecting the majority principle, anarchy or despotism in some form is all that is left.

Get that? The rule of a minority over a majority cannot survive long without the exchange of liberty for despotism or tyranny. Lincoln also said:

This country, with its institutions, belongs to the people who inhabit it. Whenever they shall grow weary of the existing Government, they can exercise their constitutional right of amending it or their revolutionary right to dismember or overthrow it.

I'm not sure I have anything to add to that statement, other than all parties, whether citizen class or political class, would do well to contemplate its meaning.

By the frame of the Government under which we live this same people have wisely given their public servants but little power for mischief, and have with equal wisdom provided for the return of that little to their own hands at very short intervals. While the people retain their virtue and vigilance no Administration by any extreme of wickedness or folly can very seriously injure the Government in the short space of four years.

This alone is worth several paragraphs of exposition. I'll spare you that, if even you have read this far. Suffice it to say the operative phrase emphasized in bold text above is the linchpin. For I don't wonder that most of us believe that our public servants have demonstrated a great proclivity for mischief. We may elect politicians for short intervals, but we seem to elect them perpetually, leaving us with career politicians who feel entitled to rule rather than serve. Furthermore, it may yet be proven that quite a bit of damage can be done to the republic in the space of four years, or even eight years. Could it be that the simple reason for this is that the people no longer retain their virtue and vigilance? I think we know that answer to that query. But it is not irreversible.

The tenor of our national dialogue is slipping ever so fast into a cesspool. The national fabric is in danger of being ripped apart by the teeth of our poisonous rhetoric, where discourse dissolves into incoherent raving. I do not mean to suggest that anger cannot be justified at times. I firmly believe it can. But the anger that seems to agitate within our society succumbs too easily to irrationality. Our politics have become personal, because we have made it so, and as a consequence we have come to view those with different ideas and principles as adversaries to be destroyed. Or so it seems, some days. Rational dialogue is often ignored, or ridiculed, rendering the attempt fruitless. But such rational dialogue must be pursued, because lost in the rage, is the still critical issue that must be addressed: where is the boundary between federal authority and individual liberty, and where should it be?

We are not enemies, but friends. We must not be enemies. Though passion may have strained it must not break our bonds of affection. The mystic chords of memory, stretching from every battlefield and patriot grave to every living heart and hearthstone all over this broad land, will yet swell the chorus of the Union, when again touched, as surely they will be, by the better angels of our nature.

With this, Lincoln concluded his speech. I cannot help but wonder whether our passions have rent beyond repair the bonds of our national affection. I can only hope, in these perilous times of national angst, that the better angels of our nature would once again be manifest, before we devour ourselves.

Sunday Reflection

A tree stands still as stone before me
As the clouds race by.
But for the clouds, I would not perceive
The moving of the winds above me.
Thus I know, and will trust
That the Spirit of the Lord God is moving
Whether or not I always perceive Him.

"The Lord is my portion; therefore I will wait for Him." (Lamentations 3:24)

Red Badge at Dawn

It is a quiet and somewhat eerie start to the morning, as the petulant patter of rain echoes off the chimney cap. The sky has gone from pitch to gray as I sip my morning coffee and immerse myself in Stephen Crane's tale from years gone by. Indeed, the rain, the gray and the silence somehow add an unsettling dimension to the story as I follow along with the protagonist's battle of doubt, dishonor and disillusionment. It has been 30 years since I last turned these pages, and still I wonder (fear, really) whether the affliction of young Henry Fleming afflicts me as well.

Courage is of the moment, and perhaps of the circumstance. Wounds are of the nature of the weapons used to inflict them. Is the measure of a man's honor borne in the scars that he bears? Or are scars merely the marks of life, accorded honor only insofar as the bearer sees fit?

My coffee cup is empty, a void I must now remedy. And then, to return to the second half of the tale, and perhaps, to redemption.

Size is Relative, I Suppose

This is mind-bogglingly cool, and disturbing enough that I'm using a suspect word like "boggingly".


(h/t: @JohnPiper and 22 Words)

Allen West Nails It

Although I considered it, I've decided that I'm not going to get in the details of the Marines video incident. While I don't condone what happened, I certainly don't consider myself qualified to render judgment.

But Rep. Allen West (R-Fla) has issued a statement that in my view absolutely nails it.

I'm not even going to spoil it for you: just go here and read it for yourself.

Thou Shalt Use That Which Does Not Exist

From the annals of absurdity comes this latest example of government regulatory incoherence: Penalties for Not Using a Resource that Doesn't Exist Yet. Confused? So are a lot of people (emphasis mine):

When the companies that supply motor fuel close the books on 2011, they will pay about $6.8 million in penalties to the Treasury because they failed to mix a special type of biofuel into their gasoline and diesel as required by law.

But there was none to be had. Outside a handful of laboratories and workshops, the ingredient, cellulosic biofuel, does not exist.

The crux of the story is that the E.P.A. in its wisdom decided that in the interest of combating climate change, fuel companies are required to blend in a certain type of biofuel to the gasoline and diesel supply. There is only one teeny little problem. The technology to produce this particular biofuel does not exist. Suppliers that fail to meet the 2011 quota for the mythical biofuel blend are subject to significant fines, to be paid in full to the government. The quotas for 2012 are even higher. These suppliers face the choice of just paying the fines or going to court to challenge the fines (incurring even further cost). The E.P.A., of course, continues to believe these quotas are attainable - the fact that the mythical blend cannot be produced (although some are trying) appears to be of little relevance to the bureaucrats who seem to operate in a fantasy world of "so let it be written, so let it be done." Technology simply doesn't subscribe well to such a dictum. But they will keep trying, and I'm sure those fines will be put to good use as government loans to green companies charged with producing other mythical forms of energy in mass quantities - regardless of whether the technology and science actually exists.

As has been quoted: "Catch-22 says they have a right to do anything we can't stop them from doing." And it becomes more apparent every day.

Comedy Break

A friend of mine showed me this today at the end of a meeting, providing me a much needed laugh break. If you are not a fan of the Back to the Future movies, I'm not certain it'll make much sense to you. The comedian below is Thomas F. Wilson - the actor who played Biff "I HATE MANURE!" Tannen (and variations on the character).

I know this is not my normal blog content or style, but if you are a fan of those movies, enjoy! It is okay to laugh out loud.



(h/t: Lewis)