"Pious Impiety"

“Inasmuch as every conviction, even a negative one, and every form of free thinking is still a superstition, it is no wonder, then, that criticism always pushes its point forward.”
- Action (1893) by Maurice Blondel, pg. 294

“It is a great service to man, the greatest of all, to cause all superstitions to vanish from before his eyes successively, but in order to obtain in him the pure sense of religious expectation. How important it is not to let fall by the wayside the benefit of relentless Criticism, not to let the great flow of the mysticism that is rising again in our day deviate, not to let the effort of doubtlessly sincere generosity fall back on the emptiness of illusory satisfactions that would hold back wills and abort their élan! In the work of destructive thought, there is a profound religious sense. Hence, instead of repressing this movement, we must with all our might keep it from stopping prematurely. Nothing is more true, nothing is more necessary than to look, almost to the point of pride and naïveté, upon the metaphysician fascinated with his constructions (the Thomist/Neo-Scholastic), upon the artist in love with his work (the Romantic), the devotee of the moral ideal (the Kantian), or the apostle of action for the sake of action (the Humanist), as savage fetishists (Overt Idolaters): each instance it is the same pretention and the same presumption. All are equally persuaded they can make their god without God. To lay bare the nothingness of such human effort is to do a work of pious impiety.“
- Action (1893) by Maurice Blondel, pg. 296

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I love this notion of “Pious Impiety.” When we construe faith as somehow deciding that at some point we must stop asking questions, we fall immediately to superstition. We come to set up some object (the Bible-as-object or theology-as-propositions) as being equal to our infinite desire, to our infinite will. We burden some finite object (in the world or in thought) with the weight of the infinite, which of course it cannot bear and with which we most fundamentally will not be satisfied. This is such a common and disheartening religious superstition; it declares the infinite to be comprehended for our use and manipulation.

Furthermore, when we stop asking questions thinking we’ve reached the edge of that which can be asked about (I’m looking at you, Richard Dawkins), we also fall to idolatry and superstition. In fact, Blondel says this
His superstition is to make believe that he has none and to think he lives by clear ideas and rational practices; he is triumphant in the though that he has dislodged the old dogmas. That too is faith and how credulous and dogmatic a one!
So, we ought to pursue our pious impiety of questions to, not the limit of the knowable, but to our limit. We will find that we are powerless to answer our own call for the infinite. We are unequal to ourselves. But our knowledge of that powerlessness is also the knowledge of the possibility of that desire’s satisfaction.

So, the power of destructive though, of inquiry leads us to a question:
Will we find, through a solution that seems necessary and yet inaccessible, a salvation?

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Did I mention that I really, really like grad school?

Indwelling In My Dwelling

OB is giving the same lecture he gave last Wednesday. I have such a hard time following his staggering lectures anyways, going over the same material just excuses me from paying any attention at all. So, here I am writing, instead of notes, this silliness.

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I’ve spent two delightful days indwelling in my dwelling. A part of my apartment, if you will. After sleeping in a bit on Saturday morning, I brewed a full French Press worth of Trader Joe’s Sumatra, cracked open Maurice Blondel’s “L’Action (1893)” and sat on my Ikea love-seat. With the shades open, the sun beaming warmly onto my person and Passenger playing in the background, I engaged in my chosen leisure: that of an academic tinge. How much more Bourgeois could I be, eh?

Eventually, my eye-lids took to dipping towards my cheeks. With Passenger’s atmospherisms ringing around the room, I slipped into an afternoon nap the likes of which for which afternoons were made. Peculiar dreams, none of which I remember, lurked about in the sea of sound, like inky, loping Kracken of the cold, pressured depths. It’s when we straddle the border of consciousness that we encounter our wills at the emergent. I wake, not having chosen to wake, but then must decide whether to ratify this waking and rise from my under-sized resting place or rather close my eyes in pursuit of further sleep. Sometimes one can pursue the latter. Other times, there is no pursuing to be done. Only fruitless waiting.

And when fruitlessly waiting, I tend to incline towards DVDs. The HBO mini-series “John Adams,” in this case. (Thanks John B).

Thanks John B for dinner-buritto.

Thanks TT the Bears for that new Depeche Mode song. It’s sick.

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My favorite Chocolate Chip cookie recipe involves bread flour, two egg yolks, and two whole sticks of melted butter. They are called (by Alton Brown) “The Chewy.” If you’re friends w/ me in Boston, you’ve likely had some.

I made my first Saturday-Bread in Boston. Except I made it on a Sunday. And I didn’t read a damn thing besides the recipe all day. So, I deviated from the Saturday-Bread plan (mix and read and rise and read and knead and read and proof and read and bake and read), but it was totally worth it. And John B and EJ showed up to enjoy, with added Milchianism. Milchianity, as it were. And Karl later for Nachos and Kierkegaard talk.

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Café Fixe was full of babies today. I tend to prefer toddlers to infants, but today I had eyes for babies. I was at once delighted by their intelligence and startled by it. I interact so rarely with children of that age. I think I had remembered them as rather inert, passive balls of need. I watched the eyes of one very brand-new baby search the room, object to object. I watched intently as its face registered with responsibility. Again, startling are these tiny people, so new to the world.

A slightly older baby, sitting on his father’s lap was playing with a set of interlocking rings. At one moment gripping them, one ring in each hand. The next, banging them on the table and against his chest. Then taking up a further, different grip. All the while trying to accomplish some task. Not only being insufficient to that task in terms of dexterity, I also suspect that the baby’s own mental dexterity was insufficient to determining the task itself. He wanted to do something, but I suspect that something was rather inchoate in the child’s mental intention.

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Okay, repetitive lecture is almost done. Time to pack it up and go listen to Fred Lawrence be delightful and brilliant. Wish I had brought myself a snack tho….hrm…

Vicious Vim and Vivacious Vigor

I want to jump from aeroplanes,
nuzzle close in tigers' manes,
leap in front of speeding trains.
I want the life of danger, plain.

The day-by-day routine is bland,
sucks at me like sinking-sand,
takes from me and bites my hand.
I want the life that I can't stand.

I'll sleep the sleep of the unbroken,
happier when all thoughts are spoken,
no secrets left to still betoken.
I want the life of life-forsaken.

But I'm happier when things are boring,
when I've spent 8 hours snoring,
all excitement safely ignoring.
I need the life with deeper moorings.

The promise is of patience' virtue,
trusting steadfast love won't hurt you,
holding tight and faithfully through,
this chosen life of life-brand-new.

Reflexion On Leisure And Making

So, there's this paper I'm supposed to be writing right now. Actually, I was supposed to write it last week. It was due...last week. The prompt is really bad. Like, REALLY bad. The prompt is two pages single spaced. The paper its for is only supposed to be 5 or 6 pages double spaced. Seriously. So bad!

I keep trying to write this paper. I open up Word and read the prompt and re-read the text... and I just can't do it. I might just have to let this one go. I'm not so sure the prof will even grade it at this point, which I don't care that much about, though I'd hate to get a bullshit "B" in this class over something this dumb.

And the way I keep trying not to justify all of this is that the week before I left for Chicago, I busted my ass and presented a chapter in his class and did a REALLY good job. People were interested and asking good questions. I knew the material about as well as is possible, considering I haven't actually finished the book before. I'm supposed to do like 4 more of these papers and I just hate the thought. So...

I'm thinking about asking him to let me teach the class every other Chapter instead of writing anymore of these bullshit papers. I'll write him a term paper, and enjoy life more and get teaching experience. And if I'm not bragging to much, the whole class will benefit, cuz he's not very good at presenting the information. Though he certainly knows it very well, he gets a little carried away and doesn't spend enuff time putting it together for everyone.

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Besides that fact, I REALLY love teaching philosophy. The reason I love studying philosophy is so that I can explain it well to people who might benefit from the ideas. I mean, I love teaching per se, but my questions always seem to lead back to the philosophical, to the high unities of the theoretical. This is not some disinterested pursuit of knowledge though. For whatever reasons, its a kind of existential dynamism. A kind of personality structure, or something.

One of my former North Park profs suggested that if I get my PHD in Chicago or if I don't get in anywhere my first go at PHD programs, I could teach Dialogue at NPU with a Masters. That's sort of horrifying and also sort of exciting. It would be quite the crucible to hone my teaching skills in and returning to that place so soon after leaving would have a weird, 80's sitcom feel to it. On the other hand, I could probably have a full load as an adjunct and its a community that I already care about and sort of understand.

Its a thought, anyways.

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I really love good, truthful storytelling too. It moves me in a really deep, wonderful way. I find such joy in it. And though I'm still doing the theoretical work of figuring out exactly why, it seems important in a really inescapable way. In an immense and weighty way.

Will it be enough for me to do philosophy about story-telling? I think probably not...
I think I need to participate in excellent storytelling where possible. and I want to do it in a way that doesn't give up on mass-culture. I want to have milchian faith in the story as politically efficacious.

Though I'm unsettled by academia's solipsism, I do believe that scholarship can be a kind of storytelling. Argument as weaving a narrative of how the world is. But I'd want to write books read by more than specialists. I want to write clear, helpful books for the lay-person.

Especially Christian lay-people. However, I might have to become a better Christian first...

It helps to think of studying as "filling up" for the sake of a richer "pouring out" later on. "5 or 6 years of strenuous study," Dostoevsky says.

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I am a talented (if not virtuous) writer.
I should write.
I am a talented (if not experienced) actor.
Should I act?
Am I a talented musician?
Not especially. Can I work to become a capable one? I haven't yet.
(I worry this desire to be a musician is a kind of artistic "pleonexia.")

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The Milch exercises work. I need to exercise the faith to DO them!

(I worry my desire to be a musician is a kind of "pleonexia" for artistry

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I got a new tattoo on a whim. This is really my first tattoo I got for purely aesthetic reasons. I got it cuz I like how it looks. Its kind of my ode to fall. We're gonna do autumnal colors today. It hurts hurts HURTS to tattoo your ribs, side-tummy and hip. I dunno what my sister was thinking getting her first one there. There is ibuprofen in my future.

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I've been spending money like a dumb-tard. Its time to clench that shit down when I get back to Boston. Eating in. Brewing my own coffee. Coming up w/ fun, free shit to do. I intend to spend money on groceries and cover-charges and that is ALL! I need to expand my cooking horizons anyways. and get to baking! and dancing!!

Also, I would like to lose my gut by summer. Cuz it'd be really nice to, for one summer of my life (and back-hair be damned) have a torso worth exposing to the world. I'll probably never do it again, but just this once.
Plus, the new tattoo is totally incentive.

Godspeed.

March Dawns Nicely

February was a little overwhelming. Though, not in an entirely bad way. Its last week was rewarding, if exhausting. Got to see my chicago-contingent and see the art my sister makes. That's pretty fantastic, if you know anything about my chicago peeps or my sister.

March, along w/ the beginning of Lent, stands to be rather contemplative and introspective. That's good. I've already started some of that work and its been rewarding. I've got the troubling, frustrating contradictions worked out some. Now to address them, eh.


Alright, JDizzle just got here. I'll fill you in laterz.