Righteousness is a hell of a drug.
Tomorrow Rachel and I will have a slightly early equinox celebration. The persimmons I’ve been posting about will be part of it. Pictured below is the antique Foley food mill (technically a ricer) she used to process them. Also, she arranged some flowers from our garden inside a pumpkin.
Look at the beautiful color of that persimmon pulp
It’s persimmon season here in southern Indiana! The persimmons we have here (diospyros virginiana) are distinctive and sweet. You can eat them straight off the ground if you don’t mind brushing away a few insects. Rachel is processing a grocery bag full we gathered from my in-laws’ property today.
Ray Bradbury’s story of meeting Mr. Electrico is wonderful, wonderful, wonderful.
Disincentivize information warfare.
The thing about Rachel is, she doesn’t take long to decide on something—and then once the decision is done, it’s done. In the course of the last two hours, she’s decided we’re now tearing up all the remaining carpet downstairs and refinishing the wood floor underneath, plus painting the walls. 😂
It may seem, from the infant’s point of view, that he’s achieving something. But in fact, the mother is doing almost all the work. However, the reactions of that infant are part of the birth process. He doesn’t have to know what to do, though. But if you were a stillbirth, the birth would be a lot harder. So the aliveness of the baby being born is actually helpful to the birth process. And the same is true of our aliveness. And all of our anguished desperate and hopeful attempts are futile attempts to invent rituals and invent myths. They do not create the real rituals and the real myths that we will live in. But they are part of the creation of the rituals and the myths that we will live in.
The wheel of time has brought us back around to the earliest cathedrals, built into the landscape. We’ve returned to Lascaux Cave. The next stage of our spiritual development could just as easily take place—has probably already begun—in dark tunnels etched with strange graffiti, among the standing stones of unfinished overpasses. Initiates will follow hidden voices into cement chambers lit by candles; spray-painted sigils will hold mysteries for contemplation; the ceiling will disappear into the shadows above, stretching higher than the dome of any basilica, and it will be more than enough.
I saw a hawk pin down then carry off a pigeon in the garden today. A few days ago I saw a hawk (probably the same one?) on a power line overlooking our yard but all the birds were wisely hidden or gone. Today he must have gotten the drop on them.
Really interesting presentation this evening at the Lawrence County Museum about the history of newspaper printing—including physical copies of papers from the past few hundred years.
