Dull Academic Incessant Liturgical Yapping: Philosophical Orations on Order & Reaction
Lol.
Conversation around dis tread got my tinkin'...
So, went back and looked for when I last spent $16 at a restaurant. Was at a little place called Nite Owl Cafe in L'Anse, SR. Got a bacon and egg cheeseburger, sweet potato fries, cole claw, a Cornish pasty, and a drink for that price, then visited the Bishop Baraga shrine and had a little walk
So, went back and looked for when I last spent $16 at a restaurant. Was at a little place called Nite Owl Cafe in L'Anse, SR. Got a bacon and egg cheeseburger, sweet potato fries, cole claw, a Cornish pasty, and a drink for that price, then visited the Bishop Baraga shrine and had a little walk
Dull Academic Incessant Liturgical Yapping: Philosophical Orations on Order & Reaction
Finding Consolidation with Boethius: Navigating Injustice in a Modern Age In the early 6th century, Boethius, once an esteemed Roman statesman and philosopher, was wrongfully imprisoned and stood on the precipice of execution. Amidst this profound injustice…
Tomorrow, at 7:00 PM Eastern Time, we'll be holding our first book club meeting to introduce ourselves and discuss the introduction to Boethius' Consolation. The book is one which promises to apply philosophy and theology to help us cope with the seemingly unfortunate fate we currently face as a people. If this sounds up your alley, see the post for instructions on how to join us
If someone mocks you for being poor, consider pointing out that "moralism is a hallmark of the lower classes."
(off topic post)
3 or 4 years ago, I was teaching a kid who was pretty decent at math for his age. Was in 3rd grade and working his way through algebra 2.
At one point, he got a low math score back on a test at school. His Dad was concerned, freaking out a bit, asking if it was possible that his son had somehow fallen behind.
Turns out the test just had clock stuff on it and he'd never learned that. Ever since, I make sure all my math students can tell time. How few learn it in school or from their parents is startling.
3 or 4 years ago, I was teaching a kid who was pretty decent at math for his age. Was in 3rd grade and working his way through algebra 2.
At one point, he got a low math score back on a test at school. His Dad was concerned, freaking out a bit, asking if it was possible that his son had somehow fallen behind.
Turns out the test just had clock stuff on it and he'd never learned that. Ever since, I make sure all my math students can tell time. How few learn it in school or from their parents is startling.
Dull Academic Incessant Liturgical Yapping: Philosophical Orations on Order & Reaction
Photo
Beneath the wide expanse of the Northern sky, where the land speaks in hushed tones of a timeless waltz, rural life unfolds—a poetic dance with the earth. This dance, intimate and sacred, cradles the heart in the hands of the heavens, where each rustling leaf and tumbled stone pens its own verse in the earth's endless psalm. Here in the hinterlands, where the air is as crisp as the chorus of the dawn, the symphony of creation plays on, unspoiled.
The Yooper's soul is knit with the rhythms of the wild; with feet planted in the soil, there's a kinship with every stand of birch, every sweep of the mighty pines that herald the sky. The dance is slower here, steps measured not in fleeting heartbeats of city clocks but in the grand, deliberate procession of the seasons. To till the earth is to touch the divine—to live in a world where the masterpiece of creation is not just seen but felt, lived, and breathed.
Now, turn southward to where the city’s heart pulses, a discordant beat that jars the senses. The cityscape—a mire of steel that cages the horizon, where once the wild’s embrace held sway. The air hangs heavy, a veil of smog that suffocates both sky and thought, an affront to the crisp purity of northern zephyrs. The clamor of the urban sprawl drowns out the gentle lullabies of the wilderness, replacing them with a cacophony, a harsh symphony of excess that chokes the spirit.
Beneath the shadow of the great Mackinac, where the waters divide, whispers are carried on the wind—a foreboding tale of those who dwell below, the trolls. These creatures, not of myth but of metal and fume, scuttle beneath the concrete canopies, south of the straits. There, beyond the bridge, lies a realm where the skies are veiled not by the Creator’s hand but by man’s hubris, a land choked by the iron tendrils of progress. The trolls, with their hearts encased in asphalt and spirits smothered by the roar of industry, live estranged from the hymn of the pines, blind to the azure heavens, deaf to the sacred silence of the snow. They are the artisans of discord, the harbingers of a world upturned, where the sanctity of the earth is but a footnote in their tomes of conquest and clamor.
In this urban theatre, the grandeur of the world is reduced to a mere backdrop, a faded tapestry behind the garish neon and concrete that clamber over each other in a grotesque parody of progress. Here, the hand of man has not gently molded but has clawed and scarred the land, an imposition of ugliness upon beauty, a relentless march that roots out the sacred and plants the profane in its stead.
To the Yooper, the city stands as anathema—a twisted visage that turns the stomach, where the whispers of the wild are lost in the din of industry and ambition. The ceaseless rush, the never-sleeping streets, they tell tales of estrangement from nature’s bosom, a self-inflicted exile from the divine pageant that dances on in the quiet country lanes and the untamed forests of the north.
In the end, this contrast is a choice between harmony and dissonance, a meditation on our place within the grander scheme. To dwell in the pastoral quiet is to abide in a sanctum where life’s true melody can be heard, a place where the heart beats in unison with the heavens. And to those who choose the clamor over the chorus, the rush over the rhythm, may the wild's haunting song reach you still, a distant echo, a call to remember and return.
The Yooper's soul is knit with the rhythms of the wild; with feet planted in the soil, there's a kinship with every stand of birch, every sweep of the mighty pines that herald the sky. The dance is slower here, steps measured not in fleeting heartbeats of city clocks but in the grand, deliberate procession of the seasons. To till the earth is to touch the divine—to live in a world where the masterpiece of creation is not just seen but felt, lived, and breathed.
Now, turn southward to where the city’s heart pulses, a discordant beat that jars the senses. The cityscape—a mire of steel that cages the horizon, where once the wild’s embrace held sway. The air hangs heavy, a veil of smog that suffocates both sky and thought, an affront to the crisp purity of northern zephyrs. The clamor of the urban sprawl drowns out the gentle lullabies of the wilderness, replacing them with a cacophony, a harsh symphony of excess that chokes the spirit.
Beneath the shadow of the great Mackinac, where the waters divide, whispers are carried on the wind—a foreboding tale of those who dwell below, the trolls. These creatures, not of myth but of metal and fume, scuttle beneath the concrete canopies, south of the straits. There, beyond the bridge, lies a realm where the skies are veiled not by the Creator’s hand but by man’s hubris, a land choked by the iron tendrils of progress. The trolls, with their hearts encased in asphalt and spirits smothered by the roar of industry, live estranged from the hymn of the pines, blind to the azure heavens, deaf to the sacred silence of the snow. They are the artisans of discord, the harbingers of a world upturned, where the sanctity of the earth is but a footnote in their tomes of conquest and clamor.
In this urban theatre, the grandeur of the world is reduced to a mere backdrop, a faded tapestry behind the garish neon and concrete that clamber over each other in a grotesque parody of progress. Here, the hand of man has not gently molded but has clawed and scarred the land, an imposition of ugliness upon beauty, a relentless march that roots out the sacred and plants the profane in its stead.
To the Yooper, the city stands as anathema—a twisted visage that turns the stomach, where the whispers of the wild are lost in the din of industry and ambition. The ceaseless rush, the never-sleeping streets, they tell tales of estrangement from nature’s bosom, a self-inflicted exile from the divine pageant that dances on in the quiet country lanes and the untamed forests of the north.
In the end, this contrast is a choice between harmony and dissonance, a meditation on our place within the grander scheme. To dwell in the pastoral quiet is to abide in a sanctum where life’s true melody can be heard, a place where the heart beats in unison with the heavens. And to those who choose the clamor over the chorus, the rush over the rhythm, may the wild's haunting song reach you still, a distant echo, a call to remember and return.
Prayer from Thomas à Kempis' The Imitation of Christ:
Give me, O good Jesus, that hope-filled interior peace that assures me of your grace and makes me faithfully correspond to it. I seek a peace companioned by the spirit of poverty, humility of heart, and freedom from all earthly attachments. Subject my passions to reason, my reason to faith, and my very being to God. Amen.
Give me, O good Jesus, that hope-filled interior peace that assures me of your grace and makes me faithfully correspond to it. I seek a peace companioned by the spirit of poverty, humility of heart, and freedom from all earthly attachments. Subject my passions to reason, my reason to faith, and my very being to God. Amen.