To Lie in Thought

In which our hero contemplates aloud for your amusement.


What is a lie?

It's a fairly straight forward question, at its root. It is a request for the definition of a term or word used exceptionally frequently in our common parlance. Webster stirs up a mote of dust and from the confines of its now digital storehouse of definitions of words historical, nonsensical, and fictional it drudges these phrases:

1. 1a :  an assertion of something known or believed by the speaker or writer to be untrue with intent to deceive -He told a lie to avoid punishment.b :  an untrue or inaccurate statement that may or may not be believed true by the speaker or writer -the lies we tell ourselves to feel better -historical records containing numerous lies
2. 2:  something that misleads or deceives -His show of remorse was a lie.
3. 3:  a charge of lying (see lie)
4. -Merriam-Webster Online Dictionary

So then, following these, and similar phrases to be found addressing the use of this word in our vernacular, we arrive at the stab of my thoughts:

Do lies exist?

I realize, having just defined the matter and even referring to it grants it at least a hypothetical existence. But what you can see in the definitions above, is that a lie finds its existence purely through intent or circumstance, a lie has no existence beyond that it is told. This has lead to the most profound of cultural and rhetorical debates: Do lies exist.

While it is not expressed in such forthright terms, that is what the debate often boils down to. Moral relativism, higher-criticism, aesthetics, and every anti-dogmatic mood swing of our culture all have this question at there core. If the truth, in any of its interpretations such as true art, theology, or morals is subject to the cultural mores and preferences, then it follows that the inverse of the truth, a lie, must be so also subject.

But then we have to return to those definitions, we know that mankind hasn't stopped acting in ways intended to deceive, or that a mis-recorded date, place-name, or event is somehow true now, even if it was false when recorded. So how is it that lies can be objective, recognized in their intent or ignorance, and subjective, constantly under  the influence of the pervading winds of society?

This, then, is where my own foibly thought process began.

Lies don't exist

But not for the reason people like to think.

It is not that lies can't exist because all things are relative and there is n absolute truth, for this defies our very existence. If indeed we think, therefore we are, then that is an objective truth. Similarly we are going to suffer a physical death.* Oh, we may postpone it indefinitely, but the universe is ending and I'm pretty sure it would take us with it.

*Barring the end of days and the return of Jesus

Anyone who argues for absolute relativism is arguing in a circle. To state that everything is relative insists that there are things in relation, which means they hold existence of some kind, which means they are objectively real.

However, if something is true does the inverse have to hold true that there are false things?

A falsehood is a paradox, the existence of something which finds its definition in not existing

The existence of lies is the only lie. Or rather, the only lie is that there is anything other than the truth. There are no alternative facts, no probable explanations, no half-truisms, only the truth and the lie. Every lie has to contain elements of the truth, even if only minuscule fragments, in order to have any existence. A lie does not have an independent, objective existence because it can only be rendered using things that are true.

Truth does not share this quality. When you open the box the cat will either be dead or alive regardless of whether or not you know the answer. The lie of the inverse of the Truth, the possibility that only exists because we base it off of the reality. The knowledge of Good and evil did not add to man's knowledge, it only removed his ability to always see the Truth, the Good. Mankind has always had freewill, but now he cannot determine which decision is of the Good, the True, and the Helpful, but rather his will is caught in a quagmire of confused and confounded reasoning.

Or perhaps, if you prefer, if Truth is not the only objective reality, then it is all in vain. There is no point to life, love, hope, or any emotion or thought.

You may prefer that, but I will premise my life on the Corner Stone that is rejected by the constructs of the logical and regarded as foolishness by the wise.

For that Corner Stone is the Way, the Truth, and the Light. In Him is found no deceit. He exists without contradiction, without admitting a lie into His existence. True God and True Man, the only True Man, bearing the image and likeness of God perfectly, not dividing the Godhead, nor confusing the substance, for to do such would be to create a contradiction within the Truth. 

God gave His only Son, born of the Virgin, born under the Law to redeem those who were under the Law, those who cannot hold the truth in ourselves of our own will. He sent His Helper, the Spirit of Truth to guide us into all Truth. Without this Paraclete there would be no knowledge of the Truth in our world of relative truths and half-truisms. To us, who by rights belong to out father the Devil, the father of lies; with whom we joined in willful rebellion when we first allowed for anything other than the express Truth, when we decided to make for ourselves a truth. 

Every sin is the perversion of good things, the taking of something we have not been given but that has been given. There are no victimless crimes, no innocuous lies, no happy mediums for peace. Compromise is premised on disagreement and all it does is deny inconvenient truths.

Thanks be to God that he does not treat us as our falsehoods merit. That even as we tell lies to ourselves, suppressing our consciences to hide from our own guilt, the Truth within us, God's Law written on our hearts, God still clothes and feeds us. He provides us with whatever it is that we require, even though we cannot always and fully understand the good that they do us.

So, that's where those thoughts wound around to end up plastered on the screen before you. I hope you enjoyed perusing them.

Peace in our time

“Would that you, even you, had known the things that make for peace!”

These words were uttered by Our Lord as he gazed on Jerusalem, the City of Peace; the hope of a long estranged people, the harbor of faith, and the place of the mercy seat: the Temple.

Would that we, even we, should know the things that make for peace.

But we don’t.

Jesus words ring not only as a lament for His Kingdom’s namesake city, but also for all cities. Who has known the things that made for peace?

The philosophers of countless ages have sought through political, rhetorical, spiritual, and scientific inquiry to establish what made for peace. They have held up moderation, good habits (ethics), political structure, moralism, relativism, fascism, communism, democracy, republics, monarchies, empires, tribes, clans, families, and egoism, amongst any number of other ideas and tactics to achieve peace.

The substantial instigating plot element of the Avengers movie series has been a simple little mantra, perhaps only explicitly voiced in Ultron by Tony Stark: “Peace in our time”. The promise of the end of war, political prosperity; universal health, wealth, and justice for all. The films then play out the consequence of that hope, and beg audiences to debate over whose version of achieving piece, or at least pursuing the good of mankind, is more soundly premised in “Civil War”.

But I digress; this isn’t about the Avengers, but good storytelling does stab to the heart of human worries and cares.

What then can make for peace? In recent memory the internet has been flooded with news stories of violence. Whether incited by terrorists, madmen, gangs, crusaders, or those we trust to protect us, there doesn’t seem to be a time when we are not regaled with the tales of the atrocities our race can commit.

At every turn the internet rises up to combat these crises; whether it does so with despair, anger, vengeance, calls for change, or with self-righteousness depends mostly on whether or not the atrocity has the right tags or threads to incite a given group. We are informed more and more vehemently that it is not acceptable that such violence occurs, and that something must change or we will face increasing peril.

The cry rings out ‘Peace!’ and the silence echoes back ‘how?’

We all sit in consternated fury, knitting our brow and reveling in how wrong everyone is about what is wrong with our country, the world, and everyone else; all the while begging the same answer as those we disagree with. We yell, ‘No! Peace!’ and the silence greets us with a low demonic ‘ha, how?’

We, because of our ready access to a panoply of humankind and a wealth of its news and stories, see the death wreaking havoc on every hand. All of our plans and schema fall away and we see the one abiding law of this world: All things are dying.

It’s a dominant theory, expressed in the law of thermodynamics. Many renowned physicists project an inevitable end to all life in the universe, although we can’t pinpoint when. Entropy defines every creature. We want law, but we ignore the one abiding law of man: he dies. We cry for peace, but we always strive for it with swords and barbs against our own brothers. We want change, but we, given time, revert back to the same systems and corruptions, across human history.

We look to the actions of a few foolish, scared, deceived, or evil men and say “see! We can no longer trust them, one of them killed someone!” As if we expected to find a human being capable of not sowing the seeds of his own destruction. We want to make the whole only as strong as its weakest link but we fail to recognize our complicity in expecting anything more than weakness.

If only, we say, we knew the things that make for peace!

We have chosen our bed, and are laid to rest thereupon. The first death amongst mankind came not to the first man Adam, but to his son, Abel. Our race marked our path in the curse with the blood of our brothers, and we have spilled that blood ever since. The blood of our brothers screams from the ground, begging the heavens for justice.

We stagger under the weight of the guilt of tragedies of our world. Any man’s death diminishes us, because we are involved in mankind. The bell has always tolled for us and every knell calls us to our own funeral. We are dead and lost with all the world, caught up in our nature with the Devil and all his band.

But, why would Jesus even ask this of Jerusalem? Why weep for this sad and depraved creation fallen so far from His divine command?

“Would that you, even you, had known the things that make for peace!” Jesus says, standing on a hill outside the city. This is the beginning of Passiontide, and Jesus is entering the city knowing the bloodthirsty rabble waits inside for him. Knowing that they, even they who beg for deliverance from oppression, will turn on their True Brother, shedding His precious blood all the way from the Praetorium, through the streets, onto the bloody hill of Golgotha.

Jesus knows the things that make for peace. He mourns the city that would not know her God, and then enters to be the Prince of Peace. Not by bringing about a restored glorious kingdom of Israel, not by preaching a message of defiance against evil, but by offering a sprinkling of Blood that would speak better things than that of Abel. The city named peace rises up in furor and strikes the Masters heel. The hill of the temple, where people no longer sought peace, was traded for the blood-stained place of the skull.

Our Peace was suspended between earth and heaven, outside the city gates. He was forcibly removed from the place of peace; ejected from the temple mount, the very presence of God’s abiding mercy, and was left to suffer all of Hell’s torments.

Peace died on the cross, surrounded by vagabonds, scoundrels and foes, amid the deriding jeering of his enemies.

But Peace, our Peace, did not stay dead.

Our Lord, Jesus Christ, having laid down His life as a perfect peace offering, takes it back up again to reign forever as our King. Christ knew the cost of peace. It was not a brilliant philosophy; or a great war to end all wars; or even a team of supercharged altruists ready to save the day. What made, makes, and will make for our peace, is His Sacrifice. Our homes were plagued with Death, but Christ has marked the door with his Blood. Our Paschal Lamb was sacrificed for us, not so that we could strive to perfect creation, but so that we would have strength for our Exodus. This world is not our home, and these trials are fleeting.

We do not mourn as those who have no hope. We do not offer the condolences of dying men. Our death is only the gateway into life immortal.

And so we pray. Do not mock those whose only response to tragedy is prayer. They do more in their love and hope than any planning and scheming for policy or revenge. We call out for love, but the only love to bring us lasting peace is the love of Christ. It is in His Love that we trust. He knows the things that make for peace, and He offers them to us openly: Be washed, renewed and named; Hear His word; Speak the words He has given you; Take, eat and drink. Receive a meal without price, which no sower sowed and for which no laborer labored. His cup runneth over and all of the world is invited into the wedding hall, all is made ready. Here, at last, is Peace.

Knowing

In which our hero no doubt will butcher many great thoughts by many thinkers far his superiors as well as his own half baked contemplations......

I realize I have been about as regular about blogging as the Cubs have been about winning baseball games, I seldom have ideas that form themselves completely enough to put into words, and even less often do I have time to commend them to type.

Nonetheless, as I sit here, likely trapped by a cataclysmic *cough*typicalmidwest*cough* snowstorm, I find myself with necessary homework defeated and time before bed. I heard tell there was a ball game on tonight but I am not a Pathawks fan. Therefore I will strive with the dual demons of procrastination and consternation to blog, hopefully for your reading pleasure.



I have just finished reading the "Republic" by Plato. I must confess to knowing much of the content before hand, having had many a prolonged and Whimmish conversation on the material. The reading itself brought me a much stronger appreciation for the essence of the text. As well, I have been aided in the reading with the guidance of a wizened teacher who is quite adamant that he is no professor of philosophy, such a thing being, frankly, impossible.

In Plato's other writings, Socrates insists that the only thing he knows is that he knows nothing. This is a powerful statement, and defines the Socratic method of philosophy. One cannot have thesis, or antithesis, only hypothesis. Everything is a shadow of greater things. The cave, often misinterpreted in modern education as an allegory about perceptions, is all about knowledge. The life of the philosopher is to be the discovery of shapes each more startling than the last, and light sources each more striking and blinding. But at the end of the allegory,  Socrates points out that the Sun, the ultimate source of light for humanity, is still not the root source of light.

The light, which is both itself and a symbol of truth or goodness, has some other source, and philosophy then is to delve and contemplate the attributes of this source. Socrates, however, has bad news for all of us knowledge seekers: there is no finding this source. Knowledge of anything, is immortal, and like our understanding of dimensions, nothing mortal can grasp that which is immortal.

Socrates does have more to say about knowledge, however. Socrates knows the things of the flesh. He knows of erotic things, desires, hungers, fears. These things he knows. Men are intimately acquainted with the knowledge of the flesh.

It is for this reason then that he establishes all of his regimes under precepts which restrain the flesh, all of which, he says, are doomed to failure and can never succeed. He describes a healthy city, full of just men who mind their own labors and don't meddle in the labors of others, and immediately the young man say it is a boring city, without relish or comfort. They want lavishness, luxuries, and extravagances. They want the feverish city, doomed to self slavery, oligarchy, democratic license,  and finally tyranny. No amount of Music, Gymnastic, Culture, or Mathematics can prevent this slow death of the city by humanity. Socrates could not give the young men a logical reason for why they should be just. He finishes his narrative with a myth about Hades, in which Odysseus says he would rather live the life of a quiet just man. Socrates doesn't have their answer, there is no answer to their question.

Men know, they know their impulses, and more importantly, we know that we are dying. We know we shouldn't, we aren't made for it. We fight it, we strive all our lives for immortality, whether in our children, our work, or in our sciences. We seek after a life that will outlast this feeble frame that could not know anything other than the desires which we so often let rule it.

But I know this, I know that my Redeemer lives.

Man cannot grasp the immortal, he cannot reach it in his mortal weakness, but the Immortal reached down and joined humanity. He bound Himself to our desire ridden flesh, but was not subject to it.

This is the knowledge that brings immortality. There are no Socratic Christian Philosophers, because you can't start with the question 'what is justice?' when you confess the Sacrificed King. When the demands of justice were fulfilled by the only Man who has ever done His duty, and not that of any other man. For just as doctors are to be consulted for sicknesses, only the Son of God, and Him crucified could redeem His fallen world.

Christ is Risen, and there is no other knowledge, of things above the earth or things under the earth, by which men are saved.

I hope you enjoyed reading my rambles. Thanks for making it to the end.

Getting Older (Or am I?)

In which our hero contemplates the annual addition of age....

Recently, I have been faced with something rather strange.

People don't seem to be able to guess how old I actually am. They assume older, or younger, and they are almost always surprised when I tell them how young, or old, I really am.

When I began at IPFW, most of my peers assumed I was an upperclassman transfer. Nobody thought I was a freshman, and many people did not know differently until I had to explain why I couldn't go out drinking with them. This still happens, to a degree. People will forget that I'm younger, or the new students will assume that I am older than I actually am. As well, this past week, I was asked by an acquaintance if a child I was holding for a friend was mine. I have not been able to establish a pattern amongst these people, though I am almost certain there must be some common perceptional basis.

The flip-side of the coin, was emphasized for me this past week. I was at rehearsal for a large Bach concert, in which I sang an aria, and the director started, briefly, to speak on the nature of the choir, who are volunteers, and soloists who are not. And he mentioned that the choir has been good about involving teenagers in singing Bach, and he sited me as an example.

In case you didn't realize, I am some ways off from being a teenager.

Afterwards, one of my professors, who was also a soloist, told me she didn't realize that I was as old as I was.

And in all of this, no one has ever predicted my age accurately, not to my memory. Perhaps, for those who have known me some time, is because they remember me younger. I don't know how to explain people believing me older. I graduated High school a year late, which might affect people's perceptions. I don't know what it is in my behavior or habits that people see as older, or younger. I know that people have always been thrown off by my voice. But that was when it wasn't tracking with my body; I was singing E2s when I was 15, if not earlier. I came in freshman year singing Db2s, which caused some confusion amongst the others in the group, when Dr. K made a remark about 'the lowly Freshman, popping out low Dbs.'

Whatever it is, I am not particularly concerned. I feel the press of my age, (having discovered that one of my more amicable classmates was born the same year as my little brother, albeit on the other end of the year) and considering decisions for college that will directly effect the rest of my life. I am starting my first annual job, and will be working a lot over the next year. As well as trying to discern how I should approach my personal development as a future husband, father, or pastor. I have been living my life very much one day, week, or month at a time, but my thoughts have to project forward to plan my schedule and make serious plans for paying for school or possible grad-school down the road.

All this to say, I got into a twenty minute conversation at lunch today about perceptions and how they change how people view  the world. In particular as pertains to art. I would like to say, I would be very depressed to think that the world is only as it is perceived, the prevailing opinion of our culture....

But that, is for another blog post.

Thanks for reading.

The Conduct of the Service

In which our hero speaks in the late evening, concerning the things of his morning....


This morning, as is my joyous custom, I went to church.

Big surprise, right?

This week, Kantor is gone and thus it was necessary for me to take up the duties normally performed by the choir; that is, the chanting of the Introit, Gradual, and Alleluia. I sat in the choir loft and performed my duties in their due order.

However, herein lies the rub.
I am having serious voice trouble. I don't know what caused it, but during a rehearsal last week I felt something odd in my voice, and it has been hit and miss ever since. My voice teacher chalked it up to fatigue and stress, and, with hope, it will recover after a brief respite. If not, I will have to visit an ENT specialist and figure out what is wrong.
Either way, it may mean a bit of a change in tack concerning how and when I use my voice.

But, I digress--as usual-- for I was talking about Christ and the Church....

I was able to serve in my duties as cantor, but that was it. I had to refrain from speaking the liturgy, or singing the hymns. I was effectively mute for the entirety of the early and late services. Which is really a shame, the hymns were generally excellent today.

I had one serious bonus to my morning this morning. Because I was acting as cantor, I was in the choir loft with my God-Brother, Pendragon. Pendragon is a little guy with Down Syndrome. He doesn't talk and he communicates mostly by sign-language. And today, we spent the service together in silence.

Silent, but confessing.

Neither of us could speak the liturgy, however, as the Service progressed we went through the  rubrics. When the congregation said, "The Lord be with you" we opened our hands with the blessing. We bowed for the Sanctus, genuflected for the Creed, and crossed ourselves for the Gospel. Pendragon would chime in by saying, "Amen" in sign and I would open his hymnal to the hymns so we could read along.

And this made me reflect, as I often have, on the orderly, repeated, structured, physically active conduct of the Service. I could not speak, but I could participate in the ceremonies which I have learned and have become a part of my understanding and memory. But even more than for me, these things matter for little kids, especially little ones like Pendragon. From the youngest age they can learn to participate, to discipline their bodies in God's sanctuary, and to recognize the significance of what is going on. Then, as they grow older they learn the significance of those things that they have always had.

I have a friend who told me that that most beautiful confession they had ever witnessed had been the spontaneous, heartfelt prayer of little child asking for protection for his family.

The most beautiful confession I have ever seen, was a five-year-old with Down Syndrome, beckoning me to join him at the rail to kneel and confess...

Thanks for reading.

Time to Think and a Time to Rest

In which our hero is looking for the latter; he's had plenty of the former.....

For a sample of the latter, see my previous post....

This has been a busy semester and not even coursework wise. I don't know that I'll have a semester to rival last, as far as busy work is concerned. But this semester is full of thinking. Thinking about so many things that my brain is almost constantly on overload, trimming thoughts off the edges so that I forget things, little things, but things. I lost my travel mug, or I forgot to check my email, or I forgot to eat my apple with lunch, or I forget to pick up my pin for Freshman honors. Little trains of thought that took a detour and never made it back to the station.

This semester has introduced me to many new trains of thought, all of them freight trains. This semester I was informed that I had the possibility of considerably more scholarship money, as well as being invited to take part in a Colloquium class to help prepare for grad school. I had not thought I had particularly odd or varied interests until they were enumerated being assessed by someone else; (apparently the Office of Major scholarships at IPFW has never seen 'Koine Greek' on an application.)
I've also been going through the machinations of getting a job as a tutor. The process is taking a terribly long time; because the head of the program never seems to be free to finish up the training. I've been considering how effective of a tutor I actually might be. I'm hoping that tutoring, as well as providing me some much needed income and job experience, will help me get a feel of whether or not I would want to teach at some point in my life. I'm only tutoring in Music Theory, which is a subject near and dear to me. Although all the feedback I've received from colleagues, or the professor who wrote the letter of recommendation for me to tutor, is that I will make an excellent tutor, or indeed, in the future, professor.

But I digress, I was speaking of my thought freight trains; observe how easily the detour....

Why am I thinking of thinking? Well, right now it's all I can do, I am currently confined to a chair in my living room, having pulled my trapezius (and yes, spellczech, that most certainly is a word) muscle. I am hoping to try and wake up my brain before I settle in for some homework.

But I digress, that still is not a return to original subject matter....

This semester I also ended up with the unusual responsibility of arranging a gig for the vocal jazz group I'm in. I have a contact with the local food truck association and I volunteered that I could contact them about us maybe performing at a rally. Then it turned into me organizing the event and making all of the necessary phone calls/meetings for advertizing etc. I don't mind, I was glad to contribute, but it was a weight on my mind up until this week when plans were finalized.

And, as always, my thoughts have been much consumed by my thoughts of the future. Perhaps there is a time and a place to stop thinking so hard about it, but I am at a point where my actions will almost directly and dramatically influence my future. I am looking into Summer opera programs, but I am also looking towards starting to learn the organ, to the point of perhaps graduating with it as a secondary instrument. How I invest my summers will directly effect my career options from here to the point that I graduate from a masters. Which, for what it's worth, I know I want to pursue, even if I'm not positive what form it will take. And, of course, school is not the only thing that can shape my vision of the future, or alter it dramatically. I know that marriage and a family has been a central aspect of all of my plans, even if it has not been clear when or with whom. Which is perhaps another thing that has been occupying my mind of late, (let the reader understand.)

There is also the ever present idea of transferring. It's always a thought, whether or not it will need to happen or not.

There are other things that have occupied my mind, but I am now realizing that this post is waxing long; I suppose that is what will happen if I start writing during the day, as opposed to at night. But then, I always wax long, even if I'm writing in the AMs. There are other things I could continue to write about...

Anywho, I am merely recognizing that it has come high time to bring this post to an end... What was I even talking about? I had to think about it before I remembered.

I hope that there was something worthwhile in this post, otherwise it was just grumbling. Which mind, was not the intent of this post. I don't mean to whine.

But that's a post in itself.

Thanks for reading.

Escape

In which our hero gets away from it all....


On certain satellite radio services, there is a particular station which plays schmaltzy, jazz-lounge-ish music. The station alternated announcers and each one had a different manner in which they delivered the primary tagline. All of them over delivered it and consequentially sounded absurd doing so.

Apart from the fact that the music was insipid and the announcers unbelievable, what they were proposing was ridiculous. You are listening to satellite radio, which almost necessarily means driving, which, in my mind, is the absolute most polar opposite thing from 'getting away from it all.' Driving is death, and panic, and fire, and burglars, and demons, and madmen, and thieves, and charlatans, and scoundrels, and villains......

{This section of the manuscript has been removed by the NSA to preserve the life-force and sanity of the general populace}

.... it's just wretched.


So then, the purpose of this spiel.

This weekend, I got away from it all. I have been having a terrible time getting acclimated to being at school; acclimating to not spending time with my bros; not being in control of my own schedule; not getting to spend all day with my niece when she was here. I feel like I don't have time, even though I am on top of my studies, and am really faring better than fair. I love the work. I love my music. So, why the stress and lack of restiveness?

Je ne sais pas.

Whatever it is; I got away. I had homework that needed to be done, sure. But homework can wait for the lonesome hours. I didn't have a plan, sure. It was all impromptu, the only plan being that friends were in town, and I was going to spend every second I could in their incomparable society. I put the hazards and care of my life away and immersed myself in the mutual consolation of the brethren.

And there were stories for the telling, and roads to be run. There was trudging through trees, and foolishness in fields. We gandered at greenery and milled in modalities. We spoke, or were silent. Cried out, or said nothing at all. We posed for portraiture and laughed til it hurt. We talked of everything, and nothing, of cabbages, and even of kings; discourse in dialectics of didactics of demeanor and distraction. Words were exchanged, at cost or gain (and non cared the more which for.)

A day marked by the sheer unbridled happiness of a soul and mind at rest. Sure there was thinking, there might have even been some level of worry at times.

But what are such things, when one is among his friends?

Thanks for reading.

Sundry Sophomore Soliloquoys, vol. 5

In which our hero finishes the week on Friday....


So, it's come to this....

No, it really has. End of the week and this is the end of this many-volume blog post anthology. I hope that the reading has merited the time it has likely taken. I can't say it was a terrifyingly interesting week. I was pleased with it on the whole.

But back to our narrative....


Today began like many of these days have: Alarm, make coffee, shower, stumble, sip coffee, stumble, sip coffee, scratch head trying to remember what I forgot, sip coffee, make bagged lunch, sip coffee, and rinse and repeat actions, starting from 'stumble.' I am rather pitiful when I wake up early. Zombie-ish you might even say.

-Interjection: I have been remiss this week in not expressing gratitude to the most wonderful neighbor person in the world, Mrs. P. Who was generous enough to let me ride to and, when necessary, from campus with her. She would put up with me, whether it was being anti-social and dozing off, or being over social for lack of Lutheran social stimuli. Ain't nobody got neighbors as awesome as mine.

I got to school about eight. I had an hour until my first class, so I killed the time practicing blues patterns, which are fun once you figure them out but are terribly tedious to practice.  Thirty minutes of practicing later, I walked down the hall and chilled outside my Theory classroom talking DnD with a classmate, sharing silly memories from various encounters or campaigns. I might have to look into doing a DnD group on Fridays.... But then, I really need to use that time for homework or music... c'est la vie de la Musique Major.

Be warned, I might start dropping French phrases in my posts, to try and exercise my knowledge.

Theory class went off without a hitch. Every answer I had was correct, and I didn't waste any time getting those answers. It will be a great way to begin my non-busy days. Maybe I'll even get some writing done if I don't have a lot of homework late in the semester.

After Theory class, I mingled for about fifteen minutes and then sat down to practice more piano, and a little bit of opera. I learned that there was free food today, which, you must understand, is hard to beat. Especially hard to beat is the prospect of extra protein in my daily diet. So I walked across campus to the free food, and then back to Rhinehart, free food in tow. On the way I spotted a group of Freshies doing homework and cloistering themselves in the midst of their classmates. As it was a passing fair day, I decided that instead of going in and sitting in the student lounge, I would sit outside and talk with them. The conversation revolved around choir starting today, and their own varying degrees of choral experience. They asked about U.Singers, what kind of rep. we did last year, etc.

I sat talking with them for some time, and then it was time for piano. I had rather a lot of fun in piano today. Our assignments for today were to play the blues, minor scales, and playing "Twinkle, Twinkle" by ear. Then the fun part, modulating "Twinkle" into minor. It sounds really funny, and somehow really epic. One of my fellow basses and I went from the class singing "Twinkle" a la minor, an octave down in our best Bassi Profundi impressions. It's healthy to sing when walking down the hall, it helps remind people who don't get to hear me sing much that I am a bass. We wouldn't want them thinking me a tenor. That would not do.

I went about doing nothing really at all, trying to find a practice room. When I finally had one, it wasn't long before U.Singers. I practiced a bit and went to choir.

Choir today was special. It was the first rehearsal of the new year with a new director. Exciting stuff. When we had dispensed with introductions, Dr. Busarow declared that we would sing first, read syllabus second. We pulled out the music and opened it to the "Cantique de Jean-Racine."
 Dr. Busarow asked, "So, who here has sung this piece before?" I raised my hand, expecting at least a few others. But no one else raised their hand. People who knew me already laughed. They knew I was a bit of a geek, and it figured that I would have sung the piece no one else had ever sung. It is a beautiful piece, and good fun to sing and allowing a proper bass line.

On a side note, the men are divided into TI, TII, BI/Bar., B2. Of the bass 2s, I am the only non-freshman music major; making me the senior member of the section, which actually holds true in age too, funny enough.

As choir ended, I milled about in the hallway, chatting with friends until my extraction team arrived.

And then I was home. I had pool-o'clock, drank tea, and had delicious Kraft mac with my wonderful little brother, who entertained me as I wrote with his commentary while playing "Forza 4."

In summary, it has been a long week. There is much work to be done, not terribly much time to do it, and a long semester of early wake-ups and bag lunches ahead of me. But for all that, there is knowledge, friendship, experience, and maybe, if I'm lucky, wisdom to be had. My semester could turn out to be crazy. As it stands it doesn't look bad, but it can change, or I may be underestimating the workload. Any way that it turns out, I will carry through this academic year, improve my skills as a musician, and maybe, just maybe, learn some French.

The former pair are certainly worth looking forward to, the third, well, jury's still out on French.

Thank you for reading. It has been a pleasure to share this first week with you. I would like to thank my sponsors, my mama and my papa, who have underwritten my college venture and have provided more than the money's worth in love and support. I would like to thank my backer (the person standing behind me poking me, telling me I should do things when I propose that I should do them, you know who you are.) And I would like to thank the number 5 and the word "Vici." As in: Doppleganger, although I did not intend to compete with you in length of blog posts, I will point out that, while you wrote one long post, I have exceeded it in my five volumes.

Either way, I hope this has been enjoyable -or at least not boring- reading.

Thank you for reading.

Sundry Sophomore Soliloquoys, vol. 4

-In which our hero talks about Thursday....


The week is drawing to a close. This is the second to last volume of this series, my school week ending as it does on Friday.

My day began early, again. A light-less rising, when I bounded out of bed as my alarm screamed bloody murder at me. Early wake-ups are much harder when the sun isn't shining. Or maybe the sun was shining, but my eyes were sealed by sleepishness.

But I digress.

I scrambled about my morning preparation, trying to pull together the minutia of my day. I had a lot to bring with me, Repertoire books, paperwork for tutoring and such. I had to make coffee, prepare my lunch box (bag actually), and make sure that all of my books were in order. I also went about the important business getting properly caffeinated. I managed to drink a large cup of coffee to supplement my small travel mug.

When I arrived at school, I had only a little business to attend to. I practiced a wee bit of piano, mostly Blues patterns. I was waiting for the eight o'clock classes to end; for Dr. North's first Sight singing class to end. When it ended, I approached him and asked if he would mind filling out a recommendation form for a job tutoring the theory courses he teaches, which he taught when I attended them. He agreed, and told me he'd return them to me in an envelope.

At nine Dr. Bookout's Music Lit. class began, and I became more determined that I was going to love her class. We talked about Gregorian chant, the notation, the prayer offices and ordinaries, and the acoustics and spaces it was written for. Which translates to, listening to and reading chants and looking at pictures of Chartres. I was so happy when I realized I could name all the ordinaries and propers of the medieval Mass without prompting. Dr. Bookout is an excellent professor, and I look forward to hearing everything she has to say about her subject matter.

I then had French class, but that has not really changed much. It's still madness. There may be method, but that doesn't change the madness.

My next class was at one-thirty, and until that time I had to eat lunch and occupy the time. I learned that one of my classmates was performing out in the amphitheater outside of the Music Building, and I decided to check it out. There was also, as I had heard from fellow starving artists, food to be had for free. I couldn't say no to that.

When I got out to the amphitheater it was about fifteen minutes until my classmate was billed to perform. I had not realized it, but there were still canvas lawn chairs available, also for free. I grabbed a free lawn chair and my free grub and chatted with another music student until the music I was interested in hearing started. When she did perform, my classmate did a couple of original songs and a couple of covers. She has a much better voice than the original artists and the effect was quite pleasant.

I went inside and got my act together for Sight-singing with Dr. K. Once more, this class doesn't change much from day to day. However, this class is no madness at all. It's always strictly structured and rigorously taught. Which is important when you are teaching a bunch of young musicians how to fly by the seat of their pants.

Ah yes, Convocation; It was the first convocation of the semester and they had arranged a nice line-up of performances. But first the business, including recognizing Dean's list and Semester's Honors students.

-Interjection: My ego is slightly swollen, as I fall into both of those lists.

....After the recognition of the lists, the major music related student organizations gave presentations; the department chair made a short address, and, when the business was done, came the performances. On the docket was Jason and the head of the piano division, playing a Mozart piano duet; Drew, star tenor of our music program, singing an aria from Faust; and the Trombone ensemble, performing an impressive all brass setting of "Nearer My God to Thee." The music was excellent, a good way to show the Freshies what it's all about.

Opera was shortly after Convo. Opera was long today. We read dialogues, but my character has none, so I had nothing to do. I was more than eager to leave the building aboard the Peril chariot at the end of the day and to return to my home of hominess.

Tomorrow is the last day of the first week...

But that is for then.

Thanks for reading.

Sundry Sophomore Soliloquoys, vol. 3

In which our hero whittles away writing about a Wednesday....


Continuing our sequential plot line of summary posts, today was Wednesday.

Indeed, it was the first day of serious classwork for Theory, although that consisted of review of last semester....

-Interjection: I was afraid that I would not be able to do theory and analysis as quickly, having neglected those skills over the summer... I needn't have worried, I was completing problems about as fast as I could identify the pitches... which was fast.

....I had a good time during that class. Dr. Johnson is going to be great to have as a professor. I've missed theory. I might have to pursue composition merely to explore the possibilities presented by the vast world of theory. I love it.

After Theory had ended, I walked with some classmates across campus to where a local breakfast place was catering an ISPGA event. It was decent food, and more protein to add to my daily diet. Shortly after food was my third day of French. I have struggled to get onto my feet with French. I pick up words quickly, and I understand what people are saying very fast, but I got confused by the two fifteen page documents, the Programme Detailles and the Syllabus. I believe I now know what I must do and it is simply a matter of finding the time to do it.

Immediately after French I took off for piano. Piano has always been one of my easier prospects, today was no exception. We were assigned to do five-finger pattern warm-ups for next class, but I was able to do the patterns proficiently today, thus saving me the time on Friday. It was a straight forward class, we were assigned the twelve-bar blues and to review minor scales.

When piano had ended, I had nothing to do til Vocal Jazz, an extra-curricular ensemble, not a class.

When I arrived for Jazz, about two minutes late, I quickly realized I was one of only four guys in the room. I was then informed that two of them were tenors, and that as it stood, we were only guaranteed us two for basses. We went through the business for the ensemble; electing new officers, proposing fundraising plans. Then, came the election of section leaders, as one of two basses present, and between us the only voice major, I was made bass section leader. I was not particularly enthused by the idea, but then, I don't have to be. I figured I could do the job as well as just about anybody.

Jazz was the end of my day. Afterwards I walked across campus to meet with Mrs. P to catch a ride home with her.

When I had gotten home, I met my family for foodtrucks. A good way to end the day.

And that, essentially, was my Wednesday.

Thanks for reading.

Sundry Sophomore Soliliquoys, vol. 2

In which our hero thinks about Tuesday....


Today, following in the footsteps of yesterday, as it must, I will speak of today; of such things as did pass through my time that I did behoove worthy of further contemplation.

Exemplia Gratia: This morning began late. I over slept and only had twenty-five minutes to remove my carcass from bed, prepare, and traipse through the door. I had planned on a solid hour. There was stuff to get done, things to fetch, papers to locate (more on that later,) food to eat, and coffee to drink. Instead I headed out the door at twenty-five to eight having not eaten breakfast or had any coffee, save the eight-ounce travel mug in my hand, a meager allotment  at best. The papers I had meant to locate were my application papers for the CASA tutoring center, especially the professor-signed recommendation sheet, which I had intended to have signed this morning by the esteemed Dr. North of Theory I and II.

A rough beginning, to be sure. One I hope not to repeat.

When I arrived on campus, I dallied some, swerving back and forth mindlessly until the bookstore opened. I went to the computer lab to print off some papers for my classes, including my fifteen page French syllabus and Programme Detailles. Then it was half past, and the bookstore was open. I had purchased my hundred and forty dollar French text a couple nights before, and I had received notification that it was available for pick-up. I approached the counter, asked for it, and received my bookstore bag that contained it. I pulled the text from the bag, eager to see what had cost so much....

Pages.... Unbound pages. Albeit, they were laminated and hole punched....

One hundred and forty dollars had bought me a few hundred pages of unbound textbook....

As you can imagine, this did not improve my morning.

After this disappointment, I had Music Lit. I knew Dr. Bookout, loosely, from her work with the Bach Collegium as a consultant and period musician. I knew that she played magnificently and knew more about music history than just about anybody in Ft. Wayne. Her class was packed, filled with new sophomores, people who had missed her class last year, or people who had already failed it and come back. The room was full, there was not a seat to be had.

And it was dead silent.

Dr. Bookout speaks very softly, almost in a manner of reverence for her subject matter. She didn't raise her voice so we could hear her, we had to listen. And we did, we hung on every word she spoke. We didn't waste much time on the syllabus. We looked over it, put it aside and got down to history. We talked about style, musical elements, and the reasons for musical development; the basic building blocks of music history.

After Music Lit. I had a little while until French. I sat down to work on an assignment with a classmate until such a time as we had to leave. French class was unremarkable. We learned some more basic bits of kit and generally had an easy time of it. I volunteered and was an amiable buffoon, opening doors and then being told she had said 'frappez a la porte' and then, obligingly, if embarrassed, rapping on the door with my knuckles.

After French I had a break until Sight-singing. I didn't do much. I don't have repertoire selected yet, and the only thing I had to practice was opera (granted I should have practiced that but I didn't.) I ate my lunch and sat around talking to a classmate and one of the Freshman (my teacher's son.) Sight-singing was fabulous, if terrifying, but that comes with the territory. Dr. K was as polite and brutally honest as ever,which I love....

-Brief interjection. I took voice with Dr. K for about three years, in which time she pretty much single handedly  saved my voice from destruction through this brutal honesty-

.... I was shaking in my boots about sight-singing. But I knew that, if I did my part, Dr. K would do everything in her power to make sure I did well.

(Looks at clock and realizes how close it is to being Wednesday, better wrap up.)

After Sight-singing was Performance class. It was exactly what was expected, telling all the freshies what's up. After Perf. was Opera. It was also very much a syllabus/organization class period.

After opera, I texted Patchy for evac. His class didn't finish for a while, but I appreciated the chance to sit still.

That's it. I'm done. And no, I am not going to enter a post length spitting contest with the Doppleganger.
Tune in tomorrow for another exciting adventure... or not.....

Thanks for reading.

Sundry Sophomore Soliloquoys, vol. 1

In which our hero reflects on a Monday....


On this day, in the year of our Lord 2013, the month being August, the twenty-sixth of the month, I began the new semester of school, my sophomore year.

I have been looking forward to school. I missed the structure, the tangible progress of my semesters in the music building. I missed having work to do, having problems to solve, rhythm and rhyme to reason and resolve. School represented a growth in knowledge and ability which is difficult to match outside of the disciplined context of academic study. I am hoping that the developing discipline of the school year will continue to grow into my down time. I did more work this semester than I have ever really done in an unenforced context previously

But I digress, all this speaks to the pre-semester thoughts, this blog post is themed for this semester starting today. Entschuldigung.


My day began early, very early. I woke at 6:40, stumbled my way to the shower, and groped my way about my morning prep. I will be waking earlier when Lauds shifts to its school year time of seven-am. I look forward to the time when I will be able to continue such disciplines, which I find to be the best way to start the day....

Once, more, I have diverged from the subject at hand. Krosis.

So, having prepped my box-lunch, I searched for a travel mug which I could carry my coffee in; however, woe of woes, there was not a sizable mug to be found. I left the house, bereft and caffeine deprived.

I did some first day prep, procuring my locker, printing my schedule, figuring out which books I needed that day. I went to the bookstore, learned they didn't have my last textbook reserved yet, and bought my piano workbook for my class piano. I returned to the music building, and settled in for my first class, nine-am Theory III. I was instantaneously surrounded by some of my favorite people from freshman theory, as well as some favored classmates who had to retake it. Dr. Johnson is an excellent personality. A wit, a man who genuinely enjoys the work he is doing and delights in sharing it. We'll get along swimmingly.

After theory, I had a brief respite. My next class didn't start until eleven-am, so I went about some of the additional business I had to complete. I walked across campus to the CASA tutoring center and procured for myself the paperwork prerequisite of working as a tutor. From there I texted my merciful brother, and begged that he should provide caffeination that I might survive the day. He graciously did provide it, and I continued my day with eleven-am French.

French is my only non-music class this semester and, funny enough, when I entered the class this morning, four of my fellow students were music majors. I settled in next to one of them and sat through the syllabus and a little bit of introductory French in the form of name games.

After French I had nothing to do, earlier in the day I had signed up for my re-audition for U.Singers, but the excerpt to be prepared was simple, and I was not worried for the audition (But more on that later.) I waylaid the Freakishly-tall Tenor and Mufasa who were out enjoying the sun and waiting for free food. I chilled with them and followed when they removed from the company of the Sopranos towards the music building. I hung out with them in the Lounge for a good hour, re-acclimating myself to socializing with my music peeps.

Mufasa and I practiced the excerpt, it was simple, consisting of a bass line not untypical in choral music, four or five notes repeated, sometimes in different octaves, but at simple intervals. At two-twenty I went into my audition and sang for Dr. Busarow, the new head of choral. I was having a strange day, vocally. I sang an Eb 2 on bottom and a G# 4 on top. My normal is a D2 on bottom with maybe the F4 on top. Strange day.

After my audition, I went home with my mama and, having arrived home, held a baby for half an hour and sat down, I fell asleep. I took a nap, a long nap.

There isn't much more to say. I was attempting to find out what had me stressed today, by working back through it. It didn't really work. I think there must have been a wide array of small antagonizing thoughts that made up my anxiety train.
Perhaps the light of tomorrow morning will illumine the darkness...

Tune in tomorrow for more.

Thanks for reading.

Lawyers And Ditches

In which our hero contemplates today's Gospel reading....


A man was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho. On the way, he fell among thieves and was left, beaten, bloodied, naked and dying in a ditch. He lay in the ditch, and while he lay there, a Levite came down the road, but he passed by. Later on, a priest also came near, but he passed by. The man continued dying, trapped in the ditch and unable to help himself. But then a Man came near, a Samaritan, despised of the Jews, a wayfarer and outcast in His time, He was journeying on that same road between Jerusalem and Jericho, and, seeing the man in the ditch, He had compassion for the man. He stepped into the ditch, miring Himself in the filth of that place, carrying the dying man out of there, binding his wounds and setting him on His own animal. The Man walked leading the animal with its cargo to the Place of Recovery. Therein He offered the price for the continuing care of the injured man and promised to pay for any expense he might incur. He left, continuing on His journey, leaving behind Him a promise of return.

There was a certain lawyer who had fallen among demons and sought to put the Christ to the test. He asked, "What must I do to inherit eternal life?" The Christ answered, "What is written in the Law, how do you read it?" The lawyer said, "Love God and man perfectly." The Christ answered, "Correct, do this, and you will live." The lawyer became desperate, he was bleeding, laying in a ditch, robbed of his confidence, naked before the law. He had to find a loophole, "Who, in specific, must I love perfectly?" The Christ tells him a parable about a man in a ditch, trapped unable to be helped, and then he tells of the one who did help. Christ changes the question, "Who proved neighbor to the man?" "The one who showed mercy" and then Christ says, "Go, and do likewise."

The parable Christ tells is describing the very state of the lawyer, he is on the road to Jerusalem, and he falls into a great sin. The man in the parable has left the city of peace, he has left the presence of the temple, even while the Levite and the Priest are traveling thence, likely on their way to the temple to make their sacrifices. The lawyer asks his question, the answer is too true, too close to home. The Law walks past on the other side of the road, unable to help him, lest it be rendered unclean: unlawful. The lawyer had received a just answer, if he wanted the Law, that is what he would have.

But Christ, the Samaritan comes, an outcast and despised of the people. He has compassion on the lawyer, He changes the question, He changes the actor. He tells the lawyer what the lawyer can trust in when he is in the ditch: the Man, journeying to Jerusalem, a Man who descends into the filth the lawyer lives in and pulls him out, binds his gaping wounds and provides for his well being until He returns. He gives the lawyer the promise, the Law can't save him, only the compassion of the Merciful Samaritan can save him.

Then Christ asks, who was neighbor to the man? The one who showed him mercy. Who, in all of history, has ever proven neighbor to His fellow man? Who has loved His neighbor as Himself, withheld nothing, offered up everything for the sake of love? Only He that hung naked on the cross, who, though He were King, owned nothing, and in the fullness of time, gave up even His own life for sinful men, though He was despised and rejected by the world.

Why then, why does the Christ say "Go and do likewise"?

The answer, I believe is clear. "For I desired mercy, and not sacrifice; and the knowledge of God more than burnt offerings." (Hosea 6:6) It is an exhortation to good works. Christ does not require the lawyer to make His sacrifice. But now that the lawyer knows what he has been given, he knows how he should respond. 

The lawyer has been invited by Christ to be a Christian, to follow Him. The lawyer will stumble, fall into sin and never follow His example perfectly. But Christ will be there, there to pull him out of the ditch, there to take him to the Inn of Recovery, where He offers the lawyer His Body and His Blood, promising that whatever the lawyer's soul, He has paid it. And more, for he promises to return for the lawyer.

Blessed are they, who have seen what we have seen, the risen Lord, coming with the clouds of heaven, under the Bread and the Wine given for Christians to eat and to drink until He returns.

Blessed are we, for Jesus Christ is our neighbor and our Merciful Samaritan.


Thanks for reading.