five things answers, finally ...
Feb. 28th, 2009 04:39 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
em_hFinally getting onto this. Some of these are much shorter than they should be, but I figured better to at least get something written than nothing at all ....
Fromoursin:
Prayer: I, um, don't talk about it. Too personal, too hard to articulate. I will say that I don't spend enough time at it, though some of that may be unavoidable given my family situation.
All shall be well and all manner of thing shall be well: Ah. That line from Julian that T.S. Eliot picked up (actually he picked up some of her other lines too, but that one famously), and which has now been reduced to something close to the level of a religious greeting card. In the context of her full book, it's actually a deeply problematized line. God tells her it is true, so she has to believe that it is true, but she is very aware that it makes no *sense* on some levels, that the world is clearly full of evil and suffering, and that there is no *rational* way to conceive that all shall ever be well.
The line actually first occurs (it's repeated in different forms a few times) while Julian is worrying about the fate of non-Christians after death, and part of what she's adumbrating here is clearly a belief in universal salvation, though she never *quite* says that -- and it is more than that, it is about a belief that God will do some "great deed" that will fix all the wrong things, all the pain. And it's never, not ever, about her personal situation or wanting things to be well *for herself*, not even in the midst of the sickness she thought would kill her; it's all about her worry about the sufferings of others, and her hope that they will all, somehow, be all right in the end.
Secret places of cities: I had a conversation a few months ago with a couple of friends about how "the city" and "the wilderness" are similar in that they are the two most obviously complex environments (as opposed to the apparent, albeit not real, simplicity of say, the "small town"), the two environments that demand a near-constant mobilizing of attention. And in both, there is much that is hidden. Everyone in a city constructs their own city, constantly, out of both the public component parts and the more individual ones -- probably nearly everyone in Toronto has their own particular experience of the ravines, or corners of them; not very many people know the little hidden urban parks at all; most of us haven't been inside the water filtration plant despite its iconic status; only people with specialized jobs or experiences know the shelters and hospitals well; everyone has their own personal collection of narratives around little clubs, restaurants, bookstores; and only a few workmen and urban infiltrators know places like the roof of City Hall. And this is true of any city. There are a few other cities I've spent enough time in to know at least few secret places (Postman's Park in London, for instance), though Toronto's certainly the one I know in the most depth.
Belief systems and the novel: I'm a strong believer in keeping one's own belief system out of one's novels as far as possible, though obviously it always makes its way in somehow. To a large extent, each novel creates its own belief system, at least if it's any good; though I always have an Anglican somewhere, and in two out of three novels a priest. This is a bit like the Alfred Hitchcock cameo (or like Graham Greene, who always managed to insert some Roman Catholic, often a priest, somewhere in every novel, even in fairly unlikely circumstances).
Utopia: I don't trust it. I understand the utopian impulse, for sure. But I've seen it do way too much damage. I've come to be much more attached to a humble pragmatism, though some kind of suppressed utopianism undoubtedly still underlies it.
Fromtree_and_leaf:
Toronto: see my response topellucid in an earlier post. This one is of course important; I am a Torontonian in a deep way.
Writing: Wow, big topic. I have often thought that, if shaken out of a deep sleep and asked who/what I am, the answer would be "a writer." I think by writing. I process my emotions by writing. I work through nearly everything by writing. I am generally happiest when engaged in a major literary project (despite the fact that my last novel nearly killed me). My writing is who I am, it's a vocation, it's an identity, it's a way of life.
Vestments: I'm not really a vestment-fetish person, despite belonging to a vestment-fetish parish. As long as they're the appropriate robes in the appropriate colours, and not blatantly hideous (as for instance the green plaid chasuble at Trinity, which no priest in their right mind would ever wear), I feel no need for anything special or fancy or antique. I am, however, quite interested in vestments on the level of bodily symbol, the way they function as a kind of positive depersonalization or re-imagining of the person. I know that I move differently when I'm vested, and feel different.
My other and more practical vestment issue is that I am quite small (both short and thin), and I have a terrible time finding vestments that fit. This is why I had to have a cassock custom-made; I got tired of sorting through the children's vestments looking for things that were small enough for me. I do like my cassock very much, though. It is sturdy and well-cut and fits me very nicely.
Gregory of Nyssa: My guy! Fourth-century Cappadocian bishop, little brother of the more famous Basil of Caesarea, one of the few church fathers to have married and (perhaps) had children, an intriguing, somewhat evasive, slightly tricksterish personality. I first read his Life of Moses many years ago, and I just didn't quite warm to it, though his importance as the earliest voice of apophatic mysticism was clear, and he is one of two saints whose icons I acquired. But when I came back to him last year I realized how deep and rich his thought really is; and he's also a wonderful writer, or at least a writer very much to my taste, all about interwoven imagery and startling juxtapositions. Not to mention -- and this you only learn when you get into his less famous works -- actually quite a radical voice for social justice. I'm very fond of Gregory.
Canada: On the one hand, I am glad to be a Canadian and I appreciate this country; on the other, it's always been important to me that I have the tiny distance of being a dual citizen. But there's a lot that's good about Canada, in an unspectacular way. We have universal health care and gay marriage and a reasonable (could be better) social safety net. Multiculturalism is only a reality in the big cities, but at least in the big cities it functions surprisingly well. We have Quebec, which improves both our politics and our pastries. We have vast lightly-inhabited areas which I will probably never see, impressive mountains, and a bunch of different regional cultures. Also, we apparently invented the bran muffin.
From
oursin:Prayer: I, um, don't talk about it. Too personal, too hard to articulate. I will say that I don't spend enough time at it, though some of that may be unavoidable given my family situation.
All shall be well and all manner of thing shall be well: Ah. That line from Julian that T.S. Eliot picked up (actually he picked up some of her other lines too, but that one famously), and which has now been reduced to something close to the level of a religious greeting card. In the context of her full book, it's actually a deeply problematized line. God tells her it is true, so she has to believe that it is true, but she is very aware that it makes no *sense* on some levels, that the world is clearly full of evil and suffering, and that there is no *rational* way to conceive that all shall ever be well.
The line actually first occurs (it's repeated in different forms a few times) while Julian is worrying about the fate of non-Christians after death, and part of what she's adumbrating here is clearly a belief in universal salvation, though she never *quite* says that -- and it is more than that, it is about a belief that God will do some "great deed" that will fix all the wrong things, all the pain. And it's never, not ever, about her personal situation or wanting things to be well *for herself*, not even in the midst of the sickness she thought would kill her; it's all about her worry about the sufferings of others, and her hope that they will all, somehow, be all right in the end.
Secret places of cities: I had a conversation a few months ago with a couple of friends about how "the city" and "the wilderness" are similar in that they are the two most obviously complex environments (as opposed to the apparent, albeit not real, simplicity of say, the "small town"), the two environments that demand a near-constant mobilizing of attention. And in both, there is much that is hidden. Everyone in a city constructs their own city, constantly, out of both the public component parts and the more individual ones -- probably nearly everyone in Toronto has their own particular experience of the ravines, or corners of them; not very many people know the little hidden urban parks at all; most of us haven't been inside the water filtration plant despite its iconic status; only people with specialized jobs or experiences know the shelters and hospitals well; everyone has their own personal collection of narratives around little clubs, restaurants, bookstores; and only a few workmen and urban infiltrators know places like the roof of City Hall. And this is true of any city. There are a few other cities I've spent enough time in to know at least few secret places (Postman's Park in London, for instance), though Toronto's certainly the one I know in the most depth.
Belief systems and the novel: I'm a strong believer in keeping one's own belief system out of one's novels as far as possible, though obviously it always makes its way in somehow. To a large extent, each novel creates its own belief system, at least if it's any good; though I always have an Anglican somewhere, and in two out of three novels a priest. This is a bit like the Alfred Hitchcock cameo (or like Graham Greene, who always managed to insert some Roman Catholic, often a priest, somewhere in every novel, even in fairly unlikely circumstances).
Utopia: I don't trust it. I understand the utopian impulse, for sure. But I've seen it do way too much damage. I've come to be much more attached to a humble pragmatism, though some kind of suppressed utopianism undoubtedly still underlies it.
From
tree_and_leaf:Toronto: see my response to
pellucid in an earlier post. This one is of course important; I am a Torontonian in a deep way.Writing: Wow, big topic. I have often thought that, if shaken out of a deep sleep and asked who/what I am, the answer would be "a writer." I think by writing. I process my emotions by writing. I work through nearly everything by writing. I am generally happiest when engaged in a major literary project (despite the fact that my last novel nearly killed me). My writing is who I am, it's a vocation, it's an identity, it's a way of life.
Vestments: I'm not really a vestment-fetish person, despite belonging to a vestment-fetish parish. As long as they're the appropriate robes in the appropriate colours, and not blatantly hideous (as for instance the green plaid chasuble at Trinity, which no priest in their right mind would ever wear), I feel no need for anything special or fancy or antique. I am, however, quite interested in vestments on the level of bodily symbol, the way they function as a kind of positive depersonalization or re-imagining of the person. I know that I move differently when I'm vested, and feel different.
My other and more practical vestment issue is that I am quite small (both short and thin), and I have a terrible time finding vestments that fit. This is why I had to have a cassock custom-made; I got tired of sorting through the children's vestments looking for things that were small enough for me. I do like my cassock very much, though. It is sturdy and well-cut and fits me very nicely.
Gregory of Nyssa: My guy! Fourth-century Cappadocian bishop, little brother of the more famous Basil of Caesarea, one of the few church fathers to have married and (perhaps) had children, an intriguing, somewhat evasive, slightly tricksterish personality. I first read his Life of Moses many years ago, and I just didn't quite warm to it, though his importance as the earliest voice of apophatic mysticism was clear, and he is one of two saints whose icons I acquired. But when I came back to him last year I realized how deep and rich his thought really is; and he's also a wonderful writer, or at least a writer very much to my taste, all about interwoven imagery and startling juxtapositions. Not to mention -- and this you only learn when you get into his less famous works -- actually quite a radical voice for social justice. I'm very fond of Gregory.
Canada: On the one hand, I am glad to be a Canadian and I appreciate this country; on the other, it's always been important to me that I have the tiny distance of being a dual citizen. But there's a lot that's good about Canada, in an unspectacular way. We have universal health care and gay marriage and a reasonable (could be better) social safety net. Multiculturalism is only a reality in the big cities, but at least in the big cities it functions surprisingly well. We have Quebec, which improves both our politics and our pastries. We have vast lightly-inhabited areas which I will probably never see, impressive mountains, and a bunch of different regional cultures. Also, we apparently invented the bran muffin.
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(no subject)
Date: 2009-02-28 10:42 pm (UTC)The social dynamics of a small town are as complex as anywhere else, but the physical environment of a suburb or small town is *definitely* lacking in complexity. In ecological terms, there are very few niches.
(But you don't need pristine wilderness to get that complexity -- we've got it here, and we're just five minutes outside of town. I think what makes the difference is that this land has never been cleared. They just removed enough trees to fit the houses in. I think even the logging here was selective -- just the biggest, high-value trees were taken.)