Things are, and human beings, gifts and sacrifices are, animals and plants are, equipment and works are. The particular being stands in Being. Through Being there passes a veiled fatality that is ordained between the godly and the countergodly. There is much in being that man cannot master. There is but little that comes…
The world is not the mere collection of the countable or the uncountable, familiar and unfamiliar things that are at hand. But neither is it a merely imagined framework added by our representation to the sum of such given things. The world worlds, and is more fully in being than the tangible and perceptible…
Dreams come when they will. Most of mine are indistinct, and the memory evaporates within minutes of waking. Years ago when I worked with a therapist, dreams came often, nightly if I remember. The unconscious was stirring, the therapist working as a friendly guide helped me to knock at the door of long unacknowledged…
I watched. The Patriots over the Rams 13 to 3, a defensive game, like watching a tableau of trench warfare, grinding on…. At last the Rams broke and the Patriots scored a touch down. This was the Patriots sixth Super Bowl win. Six rings,–what to do with them all? The game was the second…
We drove to Milwaukee, the traffic enveloped in a miasma of salt and soot laced snow-melt spray. The bone chilling sub-zero cold has passed. Our objective was the Fiserve Forum where we had tickets for a performance of Cirque du Soleil Crystal. Words cannot be easily found to describe the unfolding of figure skating,…
To be reverentially unexplored and pure or nonsensical bunkum of appeal, worshiped or derided, an oblique perspective on existence freed from customary egoistic vigilance taking leave of the “I.” Becoming a vagabond promiscuous thing to find ourselves loving, an intensity of enthusiasm, now distributed, erratically and generously to experience generosity, nobility of feeling, selflessness…
Defeated by the slow moving traffic on a inordinately chilled morning, I returned to home base. Reconsidering the day ahead, I had time for some emails and reading. I am eager to begin an essay by Heidegger, THE ORIGIN OF THE WORK OF ART. Here are some sentences from the first paragraph. On the…
Another bitter day. The cold stabs inadequately protected flesh like a stiletto. It’s a white death that is felt, something you know intuitively. I woke this morning with a shocking high blood glucose reading. Everything has a cause. I identified several possibilities, and changed my insulin pump setting. High blood sugar is another form…
Warming Arctic fuels polar vortex,—the end of our world. That is a headline which we will never see on the front page of the New York Times. Tell me that you have not thought of that possibility, the consequence of disruption of normal, seasonal weather patterns, such that commerce, agriculture, and social life…
Tuesday, the first of three days of bitter cold. With -3 degrees and a stiff breeze I changed my plans for the morning. On the road in the early morning sun, obliquely illuminating the snow covered fields, the drifts appeared as wind driven wavelets on a frozen lake. Perhaps an image of our lives,…
