Anglicans divide along hemispherical lines

And what else, you were
about to ask, is new? A
gathering at Canterbury
has yielded to market
realities, in the dwind-
ling communion of Angli-
cans, north of Jiddah
and Jakarta. A vibrant
competition for souls
in the nether regions
has inspired a schis-
matic suspension of a
fraternal minority, to
lend credibility to a
promisingly aggressive
evangelism. And hasn't
this just the pitch of
messianic authoritarian-
ism at its scrupulously 
grisly best?

"Divide and conquer" has 
never looked more ironic,
enacting its own metaphor,
as alluringly tectonic. 
A sect, instigated by di-
vorce and disseminated
by expulsion, has shown
it can make any peace it
wants, with opportunism;
is there anything like
schism, to sharpen recti-
tude where it's needed? 
Good luck to them, whit-
tling the cross of com-
passion, for praise as
cut-throats.

William Orpen
T.E. Lawrence
1919

Smartings

I wonder if a childhood

of younger brothering 

can be cited for a weak-

ness I have for the com-

pany of smarter friends.

I don't know how they

tolerate it, but I sus-

pect that I do by calm-

ly assuming I will grow

some capability eventu-

ally. Never mind, that

actuarily, the talent

meter begins noticeab-

ly to swerve toward the

ranks behind one; the

custom of waiting for

one's anointment has

been established.

Still, now and again

a cinder can find its

way to the eye, and a

morning's spent in

blinking. Of course,

this happens only in

one's swirl. Eliot

and Woolf come with

sirens, masks.

Now I'm glad there

are no fortresses,

no redoubts of un-

surprised reflexes.

One can use a gift. 

                           ..

                           new gods are

                           making deals

                           all the time

Denis Bold

Hinge

  Orpheus Looks Back

  [fragment]

Inverness, 2015©

Indispensable New York

  
 Hermes, dear Hermes, Maia's little son,
 I pray to you, the god of thieves and    knaves,
 because I shiver till my teeth resound,
 Please give Hipponax what he deeply    craves!

 Give him a mantle and a shirt to wear.
 And sandals and a pair of furry shoes,
 Sixty gold pieces would not come amiss,
 And any other comfort that I choose!

Hipponax of Ephesus
Prayer
6th Century BC
Dorothy Burr Thompson
  translation
The Greek Poets
  Homer to the Present
Peter Constantine, Rachel Hadas,
  Edmund Keeley & Karen van Dyck
  editors
Norton, 2010©

Charles S. Raleigh
America
N.Y.Y.C.
1877

Clear and clean

This evening, there will be an op-

portunity to listen to the first

President of the United States, ev-

er to seek election on the basis

of securing actual rights which did

not exist until he fought for them

and won them.

Self-quotation is abhorrent, pom-

pous, and rhetorically feeble. But

I cite the opening statement of a

posting I offered in 2012, for the

timeliness of the notice, and dis-

piritingly, for the certainty of

the longevity of its validity. We

are not seeming to desire leaders

like this, and so it would be re-

miss not to remember the claims of

the alternative --

                   At the same time, it is striking, that

              he is implacably opposed by one Party

              which vows to destroy each of these

              rights, and that their policies still

              draw mesmerised attention. Who is anim-

              ated in this land, every day on get-

              ting out of bed, by the prospect of

              destroying someone's life as a matter

              of political satisfaction?

I don't know the answer to that

question, but I know who their

heroes are. I know, too, they've

vowed to disavow a sound modus

vivendi he has structured, lead-

ing a consensus of the world, in

relations with a powerful Gulf

state. I know, they've vowed to

disavow a humane interaction with

a state we've done everything pos-

sible to crush, in our own neigh-

bourhood. I know they loathe the

calm he projects for its stature.

I know they are proud of it all,

and I know they need to harm.

I am listening to this President

for my lifetime's anticipation of

exactly his character of official

conduct in my country, one fine

day. My parents saw it, I do not

know whose children will.

ii  Keith Vaughan

    1939

Seasonal mettle

Friends and I have been trading

thoughts on culinary metallurgy,

as a result of someone's report

of acquiring his first, classic

"heavy-bottomed cast iron pan."

This weighty subject is exactly

the sort of thing that's likely

to sway our speculations in win-

ter especially, given the redis-

covery we tend to make of rooms

and what can be done in them to

resemble an active life. I keep

a rowing machine, as a hedge a-

gainst domestic misadventure, 

but like my friends, I take an

interest in the damage that can

be done in the kitchen.

That confession about cast iron 

threw us all for a loop, seduc-

ing us into a discussion of the

properties of metals, more than

of technique. But it's all much

in line with conjectures about 

compression ratios in engines,

that sustain the allure of cars

outside their carbon footprint.

Moreover, there's something un-

deniably gratifying about being

incorrigible in one's play. And

in proving everything all over

again, pleasantly inconclusive.

Winter, we like to say, doesn't

have to last forever; but while

it's here we know its metabolic

impact shapes the appetite with

tastes that correspond with be-

ing snug. The volatile conduct

of copper and aluminum belongs,

gastronomically, to the instan-

taneous more than to the steep-

ing transformations of ingredi-

ents we savour in this season.

What immortal luck it seems, to

latch on to a cast iron pot, at

the very hour a braise suggests

itself. As one of these friends

remarked almost in passing, it

could even lead to the revival

of butter, cream, and Calvados.

i, iii  Guillaume Babouin