The charm of making

There was a time when my friends and I would chant this at the slightest provocation:

Anhaal nathrak Uth vos bethod Dothial tienvay!

I’ve come to find that this line was constructed from Old Irish:

In Old Irish:

Anál nathrach, orth’ bháis’s bethad, do chél dénmha

In Modern Irish:

Anáil nathrach, ortha bháis is beatha, do chéal déanaimh

In English:

Serpent’s breath, charm of death and life, thy omen of making.


Is time leaky?

It isn’t often anymore that I run across a story which can elicit in me that special willingness to entertain a wondrous (and maybe preposterous) explanation for otherwise unexplained phenomena. Of late I find those moments of wonder few and far between with most inexplicable events quickly explained away by my cynical mind. Perhaps all evidence of the hidden mysteries of the world is being actively ignored as my mind creates rational explanations for non-conformities just as it compensates for the blind spots in my eyes where the optic nerve attaches to create a seamless (and so, false) image of reality. I enjoyed a bit of that wonder and excitement again tonight reading this article by one of NPR’s science consultants, Robert Krulwich.

…One of the most respected, senior and widely published professors of psychology, Daryl Bem of Cornell, has just published an article that suggests that people — ordinary people — can be altered by experiences they haven’t had yet. Time, he suggests, is leaking. The Future has slipped, unannounced, into the Present. And he thinks he can prove it…

The Warlock

[dated November 20, 1985]

The Warlock wise in matters, Guild
and martial arts and weapons thrilled
For many years the brightest light
the strongest strength, the highest height
The man to which one turned in need
the General on the sable steed
This brother in our childhood dream
does stoutest, strongest, bravest seem.

Continue reading “The Warlock”

An epitaph for Amadeus R.

[dated October 1, 1985]

For the memory of yesterday
of quiet afternoons and shady yards
For the half forgotten images of things we did
and dreams that never came to pass
For the spaces in our lives for which we can’t account
and missing links and dialouges forgot
For all those things to which we feebly cling
despite the overbearing hand of time
I lived.