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Archive for the ‘21st century literature’ Category

Here we are concerned about two aspects of the fall of man.

Glory of God gave, as we have already discussed in the study of Genesis, a shape. The earth was without form but in the creation account of God, this glory gave the earth its form. Consider the  creatures which God brought to Adam and he gave them names. Does it not indicate God considered him as the Alpha male and it was not merely a coincidence. God considered Adam as his steward to minister to the well being of creatures of the air, beasts of burden etc., Here we see him as a forerunner of Jesus who in the fulness of time came as Servant-King. Here we have two aspects of man one as a carnal being and the other as a spiritual emblem of heavenly realities. In order to distinguish between the two we have ‘inner man’ as a distinct reality which no man can escape from. Death similarly is what no man can escape unless one is born again.

Secondly we see  the heavenly realities belong to an overcomer. For this reason Adam was cast out from the Garden so he might not reach out and eat of the fruit of the tree of life. He was ‘dead’ in his inner man.

Now on to our key verse:

“And the LORD God said, “The man has now become like one of us, knowing good and evil….So the LORD God banished him from the Garden of Eden to work the ground from which he had been taken (Ge.3:22-23-NIV).”

God breathed into the nostrils of Adam and made him a living soul. When Adam disobeyed God death occurred which God had warned him about (Ge. 3:3). So death must have occurred and the Spirit hints about the kind of death that took place. The cherubim with flaming swords forbade Adam (vs.24)., which is an emblem of his inability. He could no longer enjoy his former state of being within the divine Will. He had forfeited his gift and it was his own doing. ‘For the gifts and the calling of God are without repentance( Ro.11:29). In the NIV they are irrevocable.

Adam because of the gift from God is deemed the son of God (Lk.3:38). It is on this basis the Holy Spirit builds him as an antitype whereas Jesus Christ is the Type. He is the son over his own house (He.3:6). Having said we can understand why the Lord God says, “Behold the man is become as one of us.”

Inner man

Jesus said, ‘It is the spirit that gives life and flesh profits nothing…(Jn.6:63),’When we consider the born again experience we owe to the Word made flesh so in accepting Jesus by faith we find way back to God. Where Adam lost our new birth allows us to know good and evil according to the Core Will. As an earnest of our inheritance the indwelling Spirit works with our inner man. “That he would grant you, according to the riches of his glory, to be strengthened with might by his Spirit in the inner man;…Ep.3:16-20; (2 Co.4:16) Earlier we were led by the spirit of man whereby we served our appetites in our flesh and allowed ourselves to be carried about by custom and traditions of the world. White evangelicalism for this reason is carnal and contrary to the divine Will. Our inner man does not depend on sensory inputs but is guided by spirit of truth. To distinguish the spirit of the world and our spiritual experience within, we may characterize our inner man being driven by a dominant force.

Alpha force is the dominant force, ‘the power that worketh in us’ whereby the indwelling Spirit can build us to the fulness of God. Alpha force is not a scriptural term but we use it with caution. Eye of the inner man is single and the light with which it is led by light of the knowledge of the word creates love of Christ as honey in a hive. So much so the born again experience produces fruits of the Spirit.

How does the inner man differs from carnal man?

The Spirit has given us a clear indication from the story of Hannah in the first book of Samuel. “Now Hannah, she spake in her heart: only her lips moved..(1 S.1:13-16).”

Firstly let us recalls the words of Jesus with regards to prayer. The prayer of a heathen has its characteristic. ‘Use not vain repetitions, as the heathen do.’ “For your Father knoweth what things you have need of, before you ask him (Mt.6:7-8).  Inner man makes a case for a child of God and the world shall never fully fathom its outcome until God brings to light. Hannah was thrown in deepest pit of anguish. Her adversary still tormented since she had no insight what her taunts were creating in her rival. But God heard her since the groaning and supplications of her inner man was neither within the control of her adversary or in her direct control. We do not know how we should pray at times since we are very much drawn into agony of the spirit to pray with wisdom. “I am a woman of sorrowful spirit”.  Peace of God, as we read ‘passeth all understanding,’ This is what God has assured his children and it is not what anyone who grandstand before the world can command at will. So those who misuse the word of God for their own glory whether it be prosperity theology or of Belial have got their reward and for us it shall be the peace not as the world gives but what we can appreciate in eternity..

Benny

 

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Fifth Avenue was shining in the sun when they left the Brevoort and started walking toward Washington Square. The sun was warm, even though it was November, and everything looked like Sunday morning–the buses, and the well-dressed people walking slowly in couples and the quiet buildings with the windows closed.

Michael held Frances’ arm tightly as they walked downtown in the sunlight. They walked lightly, almost smiling, because they had slept late and had a good breakfast and it was Sunday. Michael unbuttoned his coat and let it flap around him in the mild wind. They walked, without saying anything, among the young and pleasant-looking people who somehow seem to make up most of the population of that section of New York City.
“Look out,” Frances said, as they crossed Eighth Street. “You’ll break your neck.”
Michael laughed and Frances laughed with him.
“She’s not so pretty, anyway,” Frances said. “Anyway, not pretty enough to take a chance breaking your neck looking at her.”
Michael laughed again. He laughed louder this time, but not as solidly. “She wasn’t a bad-looking girl. She had a nice complexion. Country-girl complexion. How did you know I was looking at her?” Frances cocked her head to one side and smiled at her husband under the tip-tilted brim of her hat. “Mike, darling . . .” she said.
Michael laughed, just a little laugh this time. “Okay,” he said. “The evidence is in. Excuse me. It was the complexion. It’s not the sort of complexion you see much in New York. Excuse me.”
Frances patted his arm lightly and pulled him along a little faster toward Washington Square.
“This is a nice morning,” she said. “This is a wonderful morning. When I have breakfast with you it makes me feel good all day.”
“Tonic,” Michael said. “Morning pickup. Rolls and coffee with Mike and you’re on the alkali side, guaranteed.”
“That’s the story. Also, I slept all night, wound around you like a rope.”
“Saturday night,” he said. “I permit such liberties only when the week’s work is done.”
“You’re getting fat,” she said.
“Isn’t it the truth? The lean man from Ohio.”
“I love it,” she said, “an extra five pounds of husband.”
“I love it, too,” Michael said gravely.
“I have an idea,” Frances said.
“My wife has an idea. That pretty girl.”
“Let’s not see anybody all day,” Frances said. “Let’s just hang around with each other. You and me. We’re always up to our neck in people, drinking their Scotch, or drinking our Scotch, we only see each other in bed . . .”
“The Great Meeting Place,” Michael said. “Stay in bed long enough and everybody you ever knew will show up there.”
“Wise guy,” Frances said. “I’m talking serious.”
“Okay, I’m listening serious.”
“I want to go out with my husband all day long. I want him to talk only to me and listen only to me.”
“What’s to stop us?” Michael asked. “What party intends to prevent me from seeing my wife alone on Sunday? What party?”
“The Stevensons. They want us to drop by around one o’clock and they’ll drive us into the country.”
“The lousy Stevensons,” Mike said. “Transparent. They can whistle. They can go driving in the country by themselves. My wife and I have to stay in New York and bore each other tˆte-…-tˆte.”
“Is it a date?”
“It’s a date.”
Frances leaned over and kissed him on the tip of the ear.
“Darling,” Michael said. “This is Fifth Avenue.”
“Let me arrange a program,” Frances said. “A planned Sunday in New York for a young couple with money to throw away.”
“Go easy.”
“First let’s go see a football game. A professional football game,” Frances said, because she knew Michael loved to watch them. “The Giants are playing. And it’ll be nice to be outside all day today and get hungry and later we’ll go down to Cavanagh’s and get a steak as big as a blacksmith’s apron, with a bottle of wine, and after that, there’s a new French picture at the Filmarte that everybody says… Say, are you listening to me?”
“Sure,” he said. He took his eyes off the hatless girl with the dark hair, cut dancer-style, like a helmet, who was walking past him with the self-conscious strength and grace dancers have. She was walking without a coat and she looked very solid and strong and her belly was flat, like a boy’s, under her skirt, and her hips swung boldly because she was a dancer and also because she knew Michael was looking at her. She smiled a little to herself as she went past and Michael noticed all these things before he looked back at his wife. “Sure,” he said, “we’re going to watch the Giants and we’re going to eat steak and we’re going to see a French picture. How do you like that?”
“That’s it,” Frances said flatly. “That’s the program for the day. Or maybe you’d just rather walk up and down Fifth Avenue.”
“No,” Michael said carefully. “Not at all.”
“You always look at other women,” Frances said. “At every damn woman in the city of New York.”
“Oh, come now,” Michael said, pretending to joke. “Only pretty ones. And, after all, how many pretty women are there in New York? Seventeen?”
“More. At least you seem to think so. Wherever you go.”
“Not the truth. Occasionally, maybe, I look at a woman as she passes. In the street. I admit, perhaps in the street I look at a woman once in a while. . . .”
“Everywhere,” Frances said. “Every damned place we go. Restaurants, subways, theaters, lectures, concerts.”
“Now, darling,” Michael said. “I look at everything. God gave me eyes and I look at women and men and subway excavations and moving pictures and the little flowers of the field. I casually inspect the universe.”
“You ought to see the look in your eye,” Frances said, “as you casually inspect the universe on Fifth Avenue.”
“I’m a happily married man.” Michael pressed her elbow tenderly, knowing what he was doing. “Example for the whole twentieth century, Mr. and Mrs. Mike Loomis.”
“You mean it?”
“Frances, baby . . .”
“Are you really happily married?”
“Sure,” Michael said, feeling the whole Sunday morning sinking like lead inside him. “Now what the hell is the sense in talking like that?”
“I would like to know.” Frances walked faster now, looking straight ahead, her face showing nothing, which was the way she always managed it when she was arguing or feeling bad.
“I’m wonderfully happily married,” Michael said patiently. “I am the envy of all men between the ages of fifteen and sixty in the state of New York.”
“Stop kidding,” Frances said.
“I have a fine home,” Michael said. “I got nice books and a phonograph and nice friends. I live in a town I like the way I like and I do the work I like and I live with the woman I like. Whenever something good happens, don’t I run to you? When something bad happens, don’t I cry on your shoulder?”
“Yes,” Frances said. “You look at every woman that passes.”
“That’s an exaggeration.”
“Every woman.” Frances took her hand off Michael’s arm. “If she’s not pretty you turn away fairly quickly. If she’s halfway pretty you watch her for about seven steps. . . .”
“My Lord, Frances!”
“If she’s pretty you practically break your neck . . .”
“Hey, let’s have a drink,” Michael said, stopping.
“We just had breakfast.”
“Now, listen, darling,” Mike said, choosing his words with care, “it’s a nice day and we both feel good and there’s no reason why we have to break it up. Let’s have a nice Sunday.”
“I could have a fine Sunday if you didn’t look as though you were dying to run after every skirt on Fifth Avenue.”
“Let’s have a drink,” Michael said.
“I don’t want a drink.”
“What do you want, a fight?”
“No,” Frances said, so unhappily that Michael felt terribly sorry for her. “I don’t want a fight. I don’t know why I started this. All right, let’s drop it. Let’s have a good time.”
They joined hands consciously and walked without talking among the baby carriages and the old Italian men in their Sunday clothes and the young women with Scotties in Washington Square Park.
“I hope it’s a good game today,” Frances said after a while, her tone a good imitation of the tone she had used at breakfast and at the beginning of their walk. “I like professional football games. They hit each other as though they’re made out of concrete. When they tackle each other,” she said, trying to make Michael laugh, “they make divots. It’s very exciting.”
“I want to tell you something,” Michael said very seriously. “I have not touched another woman. Not once. In all the five years.”
“All right,” Frances said.
“You believe that, don’t you?”
“All right.”
They walked between the crowded benches, under the scrubby citypark trees.
“I try not to notice it,” Frances said, as though she were talking to herself. “I try to make believe it doesn’t mean anything. Some men’re like that, I tell myself, they have to see what they’re missing.”
“Some women’re like that, too,” Michael said. “In my time I’ve seen a couple of ladies.”
“I haven’t even looked at another man,” Frances said, walking straight ahead, “since the second time I went out with you.”
“There’s no law,” Michael said.
“I feel rotten inside, in my stomach, when we pass a woman and you look at her and I see that look in your eye and that’s the way you looked at me the first time, in Alice Maxwell’s house. Standing there in the living room, next to the radio, with a green hat on and all those people.”
“I remember the hat,” Michael said.
“The same look,” Frances said. “And it makes me feel bad. It makes me feel terrible.”
“Sssh, please, darling, sssh. . . .”
“I think I would like a drink now,” Frances said.
They walked over to a bar on Eighth Street, not saying anything, Michael automatically helping her over curbstones and guiding her past automobiles. He walked, buttoning his coat, looking thoughtfully at his neatly shined heavy brown shoes as they made the steps toward the bar. They sat near a window in the bar and the sun streamed in, and there was a small cheerful fire in the fireplace. A little Japanese waiter came over and put down some pretzels and smiled happily at them.
“What do you order after breakfast?” Michael asked.
“Brandy, I suppose,” Frances said.
“Courvoisier,” Michael told the waiter. “Two Courvoisier.”
The waiter came with the glasses and they sat drinking the brandy in the sunlight. Michael finished half his and drank a little water.
“I look at women,” he said. “Correct. I don’t say it’s wrong or right, I look at them. If I pass them on the street and I don’t look at them, I’m fooling you, I’m fooling myself.”
“You look at them as though you want them,” Frances said, playing with her brandy glass. “Every one of them.”
“In a way,” Michael said, speaking softly and not to his wife, “in a way that’s true. I don’t do anything about it, but it’s true.”
“I know it. That’s why I feel bad.”
“Another brandy,” Michael called. “Waiter, two more brandies.”
“Why do you hurt me?” Frances asked. “What’re you doing?”
Michael sighed and closed his eyes and rubbed them gently with his fingertips. “I love the way women look. One of the things I like best about New York is the battalions of women. When I first came to New York from Ohio that was the first thing I noticed, the million wonderful women, all over the city. I walked around with my heart in my throat.”
“A kid,” Frances said. “That’s a kid’s feeling.”
“Guess again,” Michael said. “Guess again. I’m older now, I’m a man getting near middle age, putting on a little fat and I still love to walk along Fifth Avenue at three o’clock on the east side of the street between Fiftieth and Fifty-seventh streets, they’re all out then, making believe they’re shopping, in their furs and their crazy hats, everything all concentrated from all over the world into eight blocks, the best furs, the best clothes, the handsomest women, out to spend money and feeling good about it, looking coldly at you, making believe they’re not looking at you as you go past.”
The Japanese waiter put the two drinks down, smiling with great happiness.
“Everything is all right?” he asked.
“Everything is wonderful,” Michael said.
“If it’s just a couple of fur coats,” Frances said, “and forty-five-dollar hats . . .”
“It’s not the fur coats. Or the hats. That’s just the scenery for that particular kind of woman. Understand,” he said, “you don’t have to listen to this.”
“I want to listen.”
“I like the girls in the offices. Neat, with their eyeglasses, smart, chipper, knowing what everything is about, taking care of themselves all the time.” He kept his eye on the people going slowly past outside the window. “I like the girls on Forty-fourth Street at lunchtime, the actresses, all dressed up on nothing a week, talking to the good-looking boys, wearing themselves out being young and vivacious outside Sardi’s, waiting for producers to look at them. I like the salesgirls in Macy’s, paying attention to you first because you’re a man, leaving lady customers waiting, flirting with you over socks and books and phonograph needles. I got all this stuff accumulated in me because I’ve been thinking about it for ten years and now you’ve asked for it and here it is.”
“Go ahead,” Frances said.
“When I think of New York City, I think of all the girls, the Jewish girls, the Italian girls, the Irish, Polack, Chinese, German, Negro, Spanish, Russian girls, all on parade in the city. I don’t know whether it’s something special with me or whether every man in the city walks around with the same feeling inside him, but I feel as though I’m at a picnic in this city. I like to sit near the women in the theaters, the famous beauties who’ve taken six hours to get ready and look it. And the young girls at the football games, with the red cheeks, and when the warm weather comes, the girls in their summer dresses . . .” He finished his drink. “That’s the story. You asked for it, remember. I can’t help but look at them. I can’t help but want them.”
“You want them,” Frances repeated without expression. “You said that.”
“Right,” Michael said, being cruel now and not caring, because she had made him expose himself. “You brought this subject up for discussion, we will discuss it fully.”
Frances finished her drink and swallowed two or three times extra. “You say you love me?”
“I love you, but I also want them. Okay.”
“I’m pretty, too,” Frances said. “As pretty as any of them.”
“You’re beautiful,” Michael said, meaning it.
“I’m good for you,” Frances said, pleading. “I’ve made a good wife, a good housekeeper, a good friend. I’d do any damn thing for you.”
“I know,” Michael said. He put his hand out and grasped hers.
“You’d like to be free to . . .” Frances said.
“Sssh.”
“Tell the truth.” She took her hand away from under his.
Michael flicked the edge of his glass with his finger. “Okay,” he said gently. “Sometimes I feel I would like to be free.”
“Well,” Frances said defiantly, drumming on the table, “anytime you say . . .”
“Don’t be foolish.” Michael swung his chair around to her side of the table and patted her thigh.
She began to cry, silently, into her handkerchief, bent over just enough so that nobody else in the bar would notice. “Someday,” she said, crying, “you’re going to make a move . . .”
Michael didn’t say anything. He sat watching the bartender slowly peel a lemon.
“Aren’t you?” Frances asked harshly. “Come on, tell me. Talk. Aren’t you?”
“Maybe,” Michael said. He moved his chair back again. “How the hell do I know?”
“You know,” Frances persisted. “Don’t you know?”
“Yes,” Michael said after a while. “I know.”
Frances stopped crying then. Two or three snuffles into the handkerchief and she put it away and her face didn’t tell anything to anybody. “At least do me one favor,” she said.
“Sure.”
“Stop talking about how pretty this woman is, or that one. Nice eyes, nice breasts, a pretty figure, good voice,” she mimicked his voice. “Keep it to yourself. I’m not interested.”
“Excuse me.” Michael waved to the waiter. “I’ll keep it to myself.”
Frances flicked the corner of her eyes. “Another brandy,” she told the waiter.
“Two,” Michael said.
“Yes, ma’am, yes, sir,” said the waiter, backing away.
Frances regarded him coolly across the table. “Do you want me to call the Stevensons?” she asked. “It’ll be nice in the country.”
“Sure,” Michael said. “Call them up.”
She got up from the table and walked across the room toward the telephone. Michael watched her walk, thinking, What a pretty girl, what nice legs.

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PLEASE, God, let him telephone me now. Dear God, let him call me now. I won’t ask anything else of You, truly I won’t. It isn’t very much to ask. It would be so little to You, God, such a little, little thing. Only let him telephone now. Please, God. Please, please, please.

If I didn’t think about it, maybe the telephone might ring. Sometimes it does that. If I could think of something else. If I could think of something else. Knobby if I counted five hundred by fives, it might ring by that time. I’ll count slowly. I won’t cheat. And if it rings when I get to three hundred, I won’t stop; I won’t answer it until I get to five hundred. Five, ten, fifteen, twenty, twenty-five, thirty, thirty-five, forty, forty-five, fifty…. Oh, please ring. Please.

This is the last time I’ll look at the clock. I will not look at it again. It’s ten minutes past seven. He said he would telephone at five o’clock. “I’ll call you at five, darling.” I think that’s where he said “darling.” I’m almost sure he said it there. I know he called me “darling” twice, and the other time was when he said good-by. “Good-by, darling.” He was busy, and he can’t say much in the office, but he called me “darling” twice. He couldn’t have minded my calling him up. I know you shouldn’t keep telephoning them–I know they don’t like that. When you do that they know you are thinking about them and wanting them, and that makes them hate you. But I hadn’t talked to him in three days-not in three days. And all I did was ask him how he was; it was just the way anybody might have called him up. He couldn’t have minded that. He couldn’t have thought I was bothering him. “No, of course you’re not,” he said. And he said he’d telephone me. He didn’t have to say that. I didn’t ask him to, truly I didn’t. I’m sure I didn’t. I don’t think he would say he’d telephone me, and then just never do it. Please don’t let him do that, God. Please don’t.

“I’ll call you at five, darling.” “Good-by, darling.,’ He was busy, and he was in a hurry, and there were people around him, but he called me “darling” twice. That’s mine, that’s mine. I have that, even if I never see him again. Oh, but that’s so little. That isn’t enough. Nothing’s enough, if I never see him again. Please let me see him again, God. Please, I want him so much. I want him so much. I’ll be good, God. I will try to be better, I will, If you will let me see him again. If You will let him telephone me. Oh, let him telephone me now.

Ah, don’t let my prayer seem too little to You, God. You sit up there, so white and old, with all the angels about You and the stars slipping by. And I come to You with a prayer about a telephone call. Ah, don’t laugh, God. You see, You don’t know how it feels. You’re so safe, there on Your throne, with the blue swirling under You. Nothing can touch You; no one can twist Your heart in his hands. This is suffering, God, this is bad, bad suffering. Won’t You help me? For Your Son’s sake, help me. You said You would do whatever was asked of You in His name. Oh, God, in the name of Thine only beloved Son, Jesus Christ, our Lord, let him telephone me now.

I must stop this. I mustn’t be this way. Look. Suppose a young man says he’ll call a girl up, and then something happens, and he doesn’t. That isn’t so terrible, is it? Why, it’s gong on all over the world, right this minute. Oh, what do I care what’s going on all over the world? Why can’t that telephone ring? Why can’t it, why can’t it? Couldn’t you ring? Ah, please, couldn’t you? You damned, ugly, shiny thing. It would hurt you to ring, wouldn’t it? Oh, that would hurt you. Damn you, I’ll pull your filthy roots out of the wall, I’ll smash your smug black face in little bits. Damn you to hell.

No, no, no. I must stop. I must think about something else. This is what I’ll do. I’ll put the clock in the other room. Then I can’t look at it. If I do have to look at it, then I’ll have to walk into the bedroom, and that will be something to do. Maybe, before I look at it again, he will call me. I’ll be so sweet to him, if he calls me. If he says he can’t see me tonight, I’ll say, “Why, that’s all right, dear. Why, of course it’s all right.” I’ll be the way I was when I first met him. Then maybe he’ll like me again. I was always sweet, at first. Oh, it’s so easy to be sweet to people before you love them.

I think he must still like me a little. He couldn’t have called me “darling” twice today, if he didn’t still like me a little. It isn’t all gone, if he still likes me a little; even if it’s only a little, little bit. You see, God, if You would just let him telephone me, I wouldn’t have to ask You anything more. I would be sweet to him, I would be gay, I would be just the way I used to be, and then he would love me again. And then I would never have to ask You for anything more. Don’t You see, God? So won’t You please let him telephone me? Won’t You please, please, please?

Are You punishing me, God, because I’ve been bad? Are You angry with me because I did that? Oh, but, God, there are so many bad people –You could not be hard only to me. And it wasn’t very bad; it couldn’t have been bad. We didn’t hurt anybody, God. Things are only bad when they hurt people. We didn’t hurt one single soul; You know that. You know it wasn’t bad, don’t You, God? So won’t You let him telephone me now?

If he doesn’t telephone me, I’ll know God is angry with me. I’ll count five hundred by fives, and if he hasn’t called me then, I will know God isn’t going to help me, ever again. That will be the sign. Five, ten, fifteen, twenty, twenty-five, thirty, thirty-five, forty, forty-five, fifty, fifty-five. . . It was bad. I knew it was bad. All right, God, send me to hell. You think You’re frightening me with Your hell, don’t You? You think. Your hell is worse than mine.

I mustn’t. I mustn’t do this. Suppose he’s a little late calling me up –that’s nothing to get hysterical about. Maybe he isn’t going to call–maybe he’s coming straight up here without telephoning. He’ll be cross if he sees I have been crying. They don’t like you to cry. He doesn’t cry. I wish to God I could make him cry. I wish I could make him cry and tread the floor and feel his heart heavy and big and festering in him. I wish I could hurt him like hell.

He doesn’t wish that about me. I don’t think he even knows how he makes me feel. I wish he could know, without my telling him. They don’t like you to tell them they’ve made you cry. They don’t like you to tell them you’re unhappy because of them. If you do, they think you’re possessive and exacting. And then they hate you. They hate you whenever you say anything you really think. You always have to keep playing little games. Oh, I thought we didn’t have to; I thought this was so big I could say whatever I meant. I guess you can’t, ever. I guess there isn’t ever anything big enough for that. Oh, if he would just telephone, I wouldn’t tell him I had been sad about him. They hate sad people. I would be so sweet and so gay, he couldn’t help but like me. If he would only telephone. If he would only telephone.

Maybe that’s what he is doing. Maybe he is coming on here without calling me up. Maybe he’s on his way now. Something might have happened to him. No, nothing could ever happen to him. I can’t picture anything happening to him. I never picture him run over. I never see him lying still and long and dead. I wish he were dead. That’s a terrible wish. That’s a lovely wish. If he were dead, he would be mine. If he were dead, I would never think of now and the last few weeks. I would remember only the lovely times. It would be all beautiful. I wish he were dead. I wish he were dead, dead, dead.

This is silly. It’s silly to go wishing people were dead just because they don’t call you up the very minute they said they would. Maybe the clock’s fast; I don’t know whether it’s right. Maybe he’s hardly late at all. Anything could have made him a little late. Maybe he had to stay at his office. Maybe he went home, to call me up from there, and somebody came in. He doesn’t like to telephone me in front of people. Maybe he’s worried, just alittle, little bit, about keeping me waiting. He might even hope that I would call him up. I could do that. I could telephone him.

I mustn’t. I mustn’t, I mustn’t. Oh, God, please don’t let me telephone him. Please keep me from doing that. I know, God, just as well as You do, that if he were worried about me, he’d telephone no matter where he was or how many people there were around him. Please make me know that, God. I don’t ask YOU to make it easy for me–You can’t do that, for all that You could make a world. Only let me know it, God. Don’t let me go on hoping. Don’t let me say comforting things to myself. Please don’t let me hope, dear God. Please don’t.

I won’t telephone him. I’ll never telephone him again as long as I live. He’ll rot in hell, before I’ll call him up. You don’t have to give me strength, God; I have it myself. If he wanted me, he could get me. He knows where I ram. He knows I’m waiting here. He’s so sure of me, so sure. I wonder why they hate you, as soon as they are sure of you. I should think it would be so sweet to be sure.

It would be so easy to telephone him. Then I’d know. Maybe it wouldn’t be a foolish thing to do. Maybe he wouldn’t mind. Maybe he’d like it. Maybe he has been trying to get me. Sometimes people try and try to get you on the telephone, and they say the number doesn’t answer. I’m not just saying that to help myself; that really happens. You know that really happens, God. Oh, God, keep me away from that telephone. Kcep me away. Let me still have just a little bit of pride. I think I’m going to need it, God. I think it will be all I’ll have.

Oh, what does pride matter, when I can’t stand it if I don’t talk to him? Pride like that is such a silly, shabby little thing. The real pride, the big pride, is in having no pride. I’m not saying that just because I want to call him. I am not. That’s true, I know that’s true. I will be big. I will be beyond little prides.

Please, God, keep me from, telephoning him. Please, God.

I don’t see what pride has to do with it. This is such a little thing, for me to be bringing in pride, for me to be making such a fuss about. I may have misunderstood him. Maybe he said for me to call him up, at five. “Call me at five, darling.” He could have said that, perfectly well. It’s so possible that I didn’t hear him right. “Call me at five, darling.” I’m almost sure that’s what he said. God, don’t let me talk this way to myself. Make me know, please make me know.

I’ll think about something else. I’ll just sit quietly. If I could sit still. If I could sit still. Maybe I could read. Oh, all the books are about people who love each other, truly and sweetly. What do they want to write about that for? Don’t they know it isn’t tree? Don’t they know it’s a lie, it’s a God damned lie? What do they have to tell about that for, when they know how it hurts? Damn them, damn them, damn them.

I won’t. I’ll be quiet. This is nothing to get excited about. Look. Suppose he were someone I didn’t know very well. Suppose he were another girl. Then I d just telephone and say, “Well, for goodness’ sake, what happened to you?” That’s what I’d do, and I’d never even think about it. Why can’t I be casual and natural, just because I love him? I can be. Honestly, I can be. I’ll call him up, and be so easy and pleasant. You see if I won’t, God. Oh, don’t let me call him. Don’t, don’t, don’t.

God, aren’t You really going to let him call me? Are You sure, God? Couldn’t You please relent? Couldn’t You? I don’t even ask You to let him telephone me this minute, God; only let him do it in a little while. I’ll count five hundred by fives. I’ll do it so slowly and so fairly. If he hasn’t telephoned then, I’ll call him. I will. Oh, please, dear God, dear kind God, my blessed Father in Heaven, let him call before then. Please, God. Please.

Five, ten, fifteen, twenty, twentyfive, thirty, thirty-five.

The End

(ack: classicshorts.com)

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There are days that slip by
And hours that bite to hurt;
Never mind, I have known
Days take the elevator to stars
And left me to rusticate
‘mong angelic choir;
while sweet lullabies salved
hurt of hours misspent
I knew the year as my reckoning.
If such be the gift allowed
for you and me
For every year lost or misspent
The coming year must make amends.
Cheer up fellows
The year shall be ours, by Gawd!
benny

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BAGHDAD – When police came hunting for a 19-year-old woman they believed had been recruited by al-Qaida to be a suicide bomber in a town north of Baghdad, they found she was already dead: Slain by her father, who told police he strangled his daughter out of shame and then cut her throat.

The killing of Shahlaa al-Anbaky, reported by police Friday, appeared to be from an unusual melding of motives — part to defend the family honor, part to prevent her from joining the militants.(rebecca santana-APnews)
Fathers are called to uphold their honor in certain primitive societies by excising the shame their daughters bring into their homes. What al-Quaida or any terrorist groups who led women to such a terrible fate ought to prove their honor in far convincing manner: by choosing their mothers to be suicide bombers they would show that they do believe in the Cause. They do not really understand where their Cause leads them but will certainly know where their mothers would end up. Their mothers are as precious as the Cause to give a try.

Mothers may not understand the cause their sons so blindly espouse. After all each gave birth, in some cases almost at the risk of her health and life to a hope. Which mother could live with the shame of her sole hope and desire being eaten with hate and dead to sound advice or fine sentiments? They may be willing to take the way out such a son brings to them. They may also redeem their shame by sparing guileless girls,- who do not believe in the Cause anyway except as brainwashed and unwitting tools, from such dastardly fate as being blown to bits.
Terrorism merely breeds confusion and misery and it shall never build up a sane society. History has no example of a religion of hate or some beggarly band without allegiance to a land, toting a wretched set of laws and a Cause (and brutal repression and obscurantist ideas) ever nurturing a civilized society. Look at Russia: they had a geographical center from which they wanted to build up worker’s paradise throughout the Soviet Union. But purges and Patriotic war took their toll. Stalin the great Killing machine went on with his killing spree. Result? some twenty million people died. Against such human loss how many years their Cause lasted? Less than a century. From That terrible loss in man power Russia has not yet fully recovered.
Without winning the hearts and minds by good deeds and thoughts and making the believers pure in deeds and thoughts no religion can build a better society. Terrorists who use suicide bombers are prodigals who waste manpower; they are fools because they do not account for events that always upset their pipe-dreams. By beggaring their manpower, be it as cannon fodder or creative elements building up a new society, they shall see themselves stamped out by others who do not believe in prophets or their past but in their own destiny.
benny

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How easy it is to subscribe to the proverb ‘Fathers ate sour grapes and teeth of children are set on edge.’ I do not share this view of anyone being called out to pay for the wrongdoing of another. Payback time of each ls closely hidden elsewhere and Law in most cases may render justice to the wronged. It is possible that some may escape from Law but will pay back just the same in ways he or she shall never foresee.
Law can only do so much but no further.
Is there then any moral lesson to be learned here?
Had Bernard Madoff known what his fraud would lead to he would have gone to some other business or a nine to five job that would lay no temptation before him. King Midas would not have laid much trust either in gold had he thought his daughter’s life was of worth.
Man is a funny animal and when young and his blood is in rage he deceives himself he lives a charmed existence. He thinks luck is on his side as an incorrigible gambler might. Madoff and King Midas, I suspect were similarly deceived. We are easily fooled to think we can get away with privileges, wealth or fame without paying back anything that is worthwhile and genuine. Ben Franklin as child wanted a penny whistle so badly. After buying it he realized he paid far too high price for it. The joy of possessing the whistle was killed by the thought he played the fool. He seems to have thrown it away in vexation. This is how we are shortchanged by our ill-advised actions. Madoff for all his cleverness didn’t realize the shame and tragedy would engulf him as a result. I am sure he must be kicking himself and wonder,’If only I could turn back the time!’
Life can be drunk only moderately and to be drunk senseless is to invite trouble not only to you and many others whose lives touch yours.
When life sets sweet wine free it is not smart either to stick to water. Life is such that to be sparing is to belittle your capacity to experience or to be of use to others. When life warms you all over it is worth your while to enjoy life in all its varieties so having kept your head and understood life in its many aspects you may be able to guide those around you to higher level of actions and thoughts. Instead some feel like a dyspeptic griping of things that they really have no idea of. Neither too much or too little will do.
Safest way is to sharpen your wits while you are open to such wisdom and guidance. Later when you sit with all sorts of fellows you may avoid being taken in. Money is to be made and spent without being caught out as a fool by your actions. As in the case of Madoff he wanted to make much more than was good for him. He didn’t know himself or members of his family whether his greed they could handle. It was his tragedy.
benny
Here is a piece of news:

NEW YORK – Imprisoned financier Bernard Madoff won’t seek to attend his son’s funeral out of consideration for the privacy of his son’s wife and four children, his lawyer said Monday.

Attorney Ira Sorkin said Madoff instead will mourn privately at the North Carolina prison where he’s serving a 150-year sentence for his fraud conviction in what authorities have called history’s largest Ponzi scheme.

Madoff’s older son, Mark Madoff, 46, hanged himself early Saturday in his Manhattan apartment two years after his father was charged with fraud.
Ack: Larry Neumeister, Associated Press)

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“WikiLeaks has been under intense pressure since it began publishing some 250,000 U.S. State Department cables, with attacks on its websites and threats against its founder, Julian Assange, who is now in a British jail fighting extradition to Sweden on sex crime allegations.

A host of U.S. Internet and financial companies have severed their links to the controversial website, some citing terms of use violations. “(ack:AP News-Ralph G. Satter)
Wikileaks is not a phenomenon of cyberculture anymore than hacking is. Earlier there were anarchists who wanted to bring down the governments. There shall always be those whose spirit of rebellion is meant to wreck things or create anarchy. When governments,- be it a constitutional monarchy or democratically elected embark on wars or wreck the paths to progress (because some spot of earth has oil and minerals that a few could exploit and enrich themselves ) I think the spirit of rebellion takes wing to throw monkey wrench into their works. Equity and justice are purely relative in the way world governments plan their peace initiatives. Giving a homeland to the Jews not in East Africa but in the Middle East, displacing those who have lived for ages is but one example of it. If such outrage can be hatched in the most civilized manner by diplomats and put into operation by rolling tanks by night and barbed wires under the watch of soldiers armed to teeth imagine how it would be if they were not a murmur of protest?
Anarchy did kill quite a few. Yes, it was murder most foul. But think of all the wars the governments (against which the movement was protesting) let loose from the early 19th century till now. Who caused most widows and orphans to walk as though walking dead or create misery? Killing in a flush of outrage over an idea and a perceived injustice is to be punished. Only that those who sent millions to their death ( with the cold logic of men who stands to benefit from it) are let to write their aseptic memoirs and libraries to commemorate their lives. Justice evenhanded is like a breeze from the sea cooling the fervid summer day. (Hello Dick Chaney how are you? Halliburton was hanging on your coattails in return for warming their chair- your term in office was a revelation as to what oils the engine of democracy. Sorry for this digression. )
Alas we are not angels and there shall not be universal peace or prosperity evenly distributed. As long as there are imbalances there shall be those like Wikileaks create embarrassment for the established order.
Of course every government will want to put down the nuisance and embarrassment and it is knee-jerk reflexes, and it makes their sense of outrage all the more ridiculous.
benny

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