Over the Rainbow

Rainbows are gatherings often held in areas remote from the general hubbub, tucked away in the woods and fields where nature still enjoys its proper place upon the earth. People hike for miles to find the Rainbow settlement -- a city of tents. These voluntary gatherings may remain in a single place for many months.

One website, www.welcomehome.org, describes the "Rainbow Family" as follows:

• Some say we're the largest non-organization of non-members in the world. We have no leaders, and no organization. To be honest, the Rainbow Family means different things to different people. I think it's safe to say we're into intentional community building, non-violence, and alternative lifestyles. We also believe that Peace and Love are a great thing, and there isn't enough of that in this world. Many of our traditions are based on Native American traditions, and we have a strong orientation to take care of the the Earth. We gather in the National Forests yearly to pray for peace on this planet.

Rainbows are indeed nebulous. There are no formal laws, but the community often organizes itself according to unwritten values of "love, peace, non-violence, environmentalism, non-consumerism and non-commercialism, volunteerism, respect for others, consensus process, and Diversity" (http://www.rainbowtribe.net/).

The images you see above were taken from photographer Benoit Paille's Behance profile (https://www.behance.net/gallery/Rainbow-Gathering-%282010-2011%29/1193675). Observing the physical constitution, the open posture, the clear and healthy eyes, the soft light of these figures who stand at home amidst the wild calls to mind another race. A race foreign to us.

If you recall, in Aronofsky's Noah, how the simple life, the stewardship of the land above all else preoccupies the line of Seth -- then you cannot help notice the similarity here, even that of dress. Note the earthen tones, the grainy texture and spartan design. The pouches at the belt.

 

There is something impure in the Rainbow gatherings: look at the drug use, the pagan practices, the rejection altogether of beneficial technologies, etc. Yes. We say this. In our conservative towers we point over the heads of the lowly. And our towers crumble.

Is such a lifestyle not preferable in every way to the indescribable indignities of capitalism? Infused with the heights of the Western spirit, could we not become the ordo contemplativus of St. Bonaventure?

Such a radical return to the first and proper vocation of man may be required, and certainly even now is intensely needed amidst wholesale cultural degradation of the meaning and dignity of the human person. If, at the Rainbow gatherings, "we often say 'We are one.'", then perhaps this is a place we all should be (Paille).

Why do we have the desires we do? Why is it necessary to sacrifice the person for his betterment? Why suffer the deadening effects of the corporate desk job for health insurance, for a nice car? We are slaves to a system we ourselves have created, a system that literally values material gain over the fulfillment of truly human needs, truly human desires. We lay ourselves down as fertilizer for a machine, and when we are gone -- dead from laboring in its service -- it too will die. We have created a new meaning of ephemerality.

But rainbows will endure. And in these communities that bear their name, human beings come together in harmony, attempt to see each other, to see the person in each other: "We experience all these differences and confrontations, and experiment in matters of conflict management. We learn to talk, look, understand, to become more tolerant." (Paille).

Paille says that "All ideologies and beliefs coexist in harmony." and yet "decisions are not made through a majority vote, but truly through a common consensus. It can take days." What seems to be some sick offshoot of liberalism is rather a reconciliation of all beliefs into the most universal -- and this is seen as so important that "It can take days." The entire human family, from every conviction, is welcome. And every conviction may have its say until only one is agreed upon. Why do Church councils take so long?

We see in Rainbow gatherings a practical model for human life that seeks post-lapsarian remediation, that values the posture of the human community in reference to the spiritual world above all else, and that does not stoop to violence even in preventing it: "If someone becomes dangerous, violent, it can happen, people will make a sina shanti (a peace circle), where men will peacefully surround the individual by holding hands." (Paille).

I may yet see a Rainbow.

All photographic images are the property of Benoit Paille. Please check out his beautiful work:

http://benoitp.prosite.com/

https://www.behance.net/Benoitp

A Challenge to the Pro-Life Establishment

Abortion and the Postmodern Imagination

"If the law purports to require actions that no-one should ever do, it cannot rightly be complied with; one's moral obligation is not to obey but to disobey....If the lawmakers (i) are motivated not by concern for the community's common good but by greed or vanity (private motivations that make them tyrants, whatever the content of their legislation), or (ii) act outside the authority granted to them, or (iii) while acting with a view to the common good apportion the necessary burdens unfairly, their laws are unjust and in the forum of reasonable conscience are not so much laws as acts of violence....Such laws lack moral authority, i.e. do not bind in conscience; one is neither morally obligated to conform nor morally obligated not to conform." 

"All who govern in the interests of themselves rather than of the common good are tyrants....Against the regime's efforts to enforce its decrees, one has the right of forcible resistance; as a private right this could extend as far as killing the tyrant as a foreseen side-effect of one's legitimate self-defence."

-- from the Summa Theologica of Thomas Aquinas

Today, I go to work, wait anxiously for lunch time, sit outside and bask contemplatively in the play of sunlight through oak leaves, turn quickly into the building at the appointed time, let the last hours of rushing and typing and talking fly by, and go home to entertain myself with -- maybe -- a short read and certainly a show or two. Cigarette and wine after cycling and water. Aestheticizing. Bed.

Tomorrow, I will behave similarly, and perhaps call it "the holiness of the ordinary". 

In fact, many Americans will do likewise. They will be educated, self-educating, confident, secure, and moderately sane. They will be capable of thoroughly and admirably condemning the social ills around them, especially in the company of friends, of making sweet moan about the many seething injustices that exist almost by default in our rotten society. They will swear, philosophize, and prophesy. 

They will go out to eat on weekends, sleep in on Saturdays, mow the lawn, hate and love themselves -- with a little more love than hate -- and live quotidianly.

Aestheticizing on the non-despairing hope of helplessness as parousia slowly grows nearer.

The Metamorphosis of Narcissus, Salvador Dali

We only do what we like. We go off to die in wars when peace is hell. When peace is not quite hell, but a fine balance of leisure and self-deceit of salvation, we can endure.

And hence the ever-crumbling edifice of abortion yet lingers.

There was a story a few years ago about a woman who stood her ground as a large man armed with a hammer beat her door down. Her two children were with her in the house, and she was going to protect them. She told as much to the 911 dispatcher. When the man rushed through the door, she shot him full in the chest with a 12-gauge shotgun. 

We consider it right and just to kill a man who would harm an innocent. The woman in the story had no charges placed against her. 

We consider it admirable to defend a human life, admirable because it is a difficult duty. We would call a soldier a coward who hid as his wounded brethren were murdered. We call soldiers heroes who defend their country, placing themselves in the sight of death in order to kill.

In keeping with this consideration, we ourselves organize large marches on Washington, elaborate displays of passion with no follow-through. ...

The citizens of the capitol prepare their businesses for great profit, concerts are organized, politicians make seasonal speeches pantomiming deep commitment to the cause, friends meet and talk, tourism abounds, and everyone goes home fat and happy. Thanks for coming, pro-lifers. See you next year!

And the intellectuals aestheticizing on leisure in a sinking world, waiting for the sun to liven gray tendrils that pull forth dawn.

Our moral fantasy is our great masque of protestation. It is a device of self-preservation, an intellectual necessity if we are to maintain personal safety, and, furthermore, comfort, convenience. Our great masque: our legality, our passive inoffensiveness, our pattering-about on sidewalks. 300,000 strong could shake a country. 300,000 strong could certainly shake a capitol. ISIS is not nearly so strong. But we are poor stewards of our flesh, and allow the murders.

Indeed, we have such complex rationalizations which we describe as peace, patience, humility, hope. Unfortunately, these are in practice fear, sloth, helplessness, anxiety.

We permit the mutilation and murder of innocent human beings. Right now. This minute. And the next.

The plea through the courts has been accomplished. The plea has been rejected (Cf. 1973). This was, in truth, a declaration of war. Those who met that devil's declaration -- priests who chained themselves to the doors -- are now despised and ridiculed for tarnishing the reputation of the cause.

This should be a ready sign: that we put on a pretty face for murder. "Listen to us, postmodern society. We're legitimate!" we whine.

And the intellectuals just waiting and aestheticizing. Not helping the psychosis of the masses.

And any mention of physical resistance is met with the argument that it would be paradox. An unworkable contradiction.

An unworkable contradiction is declaring abortion to be the most heinous evil we now suffer and standing by while the perpetrator struts from his Bentley to the clinic door.


This is a posture against hope.


The revolution in policy will begin. And if it does not, then ISIS will have been our moral superior: they annihilate what they perceive to be evil.

Thoughts on Louisiana, Culture, and the Humane

Consider this my "hello", and as much an exposition of my tentative self as I can give on the interwebs.

Ain’t No Rest for the Wicked

Caravaggio, "The Conversion of St. Paul"

There is something very hopeful about the life of a man who sins with enthusiasm.  Unlike many people we encounter today, the enthusiastic sinner does not settle for being content.  Rather he is always finding something else to do, seeking another zing to thrill him, until his heart is stuffed with whatever he desires.  

Herein lies the difference between a headstrong, confident sinner and a typical post-modern man suffering from contentedness (we’ll call him Mr. Smith): the said sinner recognizes he needs more, whereas Mr. Smith believes he has found peace and happiness in being content with his mock-paradise he set up in his gated community.  Ask Mr. Smith if he’s happy and at peace, and he will undoubtedly say “yes” without giving it much thought.  Take his earthly paradise away, however, and you won’t get a yes out of Mr. Smith any more.  Unfortunately, there are too many Mr. Smiths in our world.  We would be better off with more headstrong sinners.

Let me explain.

I think the problem with Mr. Smith is his understanding of what it means to be content.  Understandably, people strive for contentedness because they get it confused with happiness and peace.  In reality, contentedness is more akin to lukewarmness, something that Christ adamantly condemns (see Revelations 3:16).  Even the words “peace and happiness” have a connotation today that is very different from the “peace and happiness” that we should be striving towards.  Peace goes beyond the mere absence of wars or other physical evils, and being happy isn’t measured by how much pleasure one can obtain.

The Greeks had a word for this happiness and peace; they called it “eudaimonia.”  While this word is often translated as “happiness,” it is perhaps better understood as fulfillment, specifically in regards to one’s soul.  When man acts according to virtue (that is to say, when his will is under the direction of his intellect), he obtains true happiness, and nothing can disturb him.  Socrates hit the proverbial nail on the head when he said, “no evil can happen to a just man, neither in life nor after death.” 

Seen here: Socrates at peace before his unjust death.

I think the headstrong sinner alluded to earlier understands this concept of eudaimonia better than Mr. Smith, for the consistent seeking and sinning of the sinner stands as a testament to the fact that fulfillment is not obtained through the material world.  His seeking and devouring affirms Augustine’s philosophy of the human person - our hearts are indeed restless.  The irony for the sinner, of course, is that the human heart will never find fulfillment until it rests in God.  Thus in heavy sinning does this man continue to search, yet he will only find disappointment everywhere he turns until he comes to face the disturbing truth - nothing on earth can put to rest his restless heart.  Nothing.  If he’s a reasonable fellow, he will then appeal to the spiritual realm in order to to find the next zing.  Consider it a process of elimination, and consider the hope for the sinner fulfilled.

If you’re still not convinced of the hope that lies within the most headstrong of sinners, consider the war that the sinner declares against God.  If you asked him if he is a wicked person, he would laugh and probably say, “yes, I am wicked and I’m on my way to Hell,” recognizing that his murdering and conniving ways are indeed immoral.  Ask the same question to Mr. Smith and he would most likely take offense and respond, “of course not!” (even though he is a liar in the workplace and lusts after his neighbor’s wife).  While Mr. Smith is indifferent towards God, this isn’t the case for our treacherous sinner.  No.  The great sinner sees the Creator’s presence as an annoying, blinding light that must be eliminated if he wishes to continue down his path of sin.  Of course the sinner’s quest is destined to end in defeat, for God is not known for losing battles.  He reigns as the Eternal Victor.

Perhaps it is necessary that I add a disclaimer: I am not advocating a festival of sin.  What I am advocating is that you get off the fence - the fence that separates you living according to God’s statutes from spitting in His face.  Choose, for goodness sake, something, anything, making a stand one way or another.  I do not believe I need to tell you what the correct choice is, but I feel it appropriate to tell you that not choosing is the surest way to your own destruction.  Moving towards something is better than not moving at all.

Fiction: "Kronos: A Fable"

Eyvind Earle, "Garden of Eden"

Written by Ross J. McKnight
Edited by Jonathan Torres


1.

2127. And the world is happy – all the world. Having returned to the woods, the fields, away from the deathly cities, and back to the earth, where loving plants grow and animals become less frightful. Back to the farms and to the peace of the country, in which all people find their natural home.

The change in climate over the last century has had the great effect of rendering vesture unnecessary. The days are warm though the wind blows cool at times. And the great labor is to keep fruit-bearing plants to their plots, for they outstretch in gangly fronds their slow-swelling stalks.

There are many such colonies as ours upon moundy green high grounds among the swaths of bog and wetland. The mountains of what was the Blue Ridge untouched except their mysterious fogs and mists now merge with the smoky evaporation steaming from the staid water below, in the mornings leaving bright greeny mounds glistening, an ancient land of reptiles with hot stones and earthy crevasses.

And in all of this the joys of love. My lover himself is in the woods today to harvest honey as I sit here writing the journal of this our new life. Years of utter waste and darkness behind. Who could have said with any hope we would be here in the perfection of bliss? And yet it is so.

Who knows what happiness will befall me next. I keep this record of my joys for recollection. Many days from now I will have flowered – spread colorful wings, known inexplicable ecstasies. I write now as from the heart of one initiate of pleasure, a mere acolyte of happiness, but destined to burst through the very bounds of sense.

2.

No need to count the days in any urgency. As if our lives constantly prepare for demanding events created to justify them. A tyranny. I live, and today is a life of flowers, blooms of this eternal spring. I awaken to the scent of a bright yellow bundle laid upon my lap. My lover is broader than I with dark curls on the chest, dark curls above the brow. He stands and bares healthy teeth. We embrace.

He walks me through the field outside our wall. The dew bites but briefly before sun restores comfort to the little toes. He takes me to the bee hives. Harmless creatures after the quietus, the purest most efficient natural adaptation in history: immortality and harmony.

We walk the natural bridge to watch the Falls. The crashing water steams up from far below, blessing the pores and refreshing the senses beyond possibility. Possibility is overthrown. A lilting call from the eastern bank and we disappear.

With the Perfection we all know instinctively the greatest pleasure available in any circumstance, and we nearly always act accordingly. My lover, for instance, bears the scent of sweet daylily and fresh lavender – his hair is fluid, thick, affirmative of the hand that strokes it. We recount the joys of each day. There is no pleasure mindful we together leave untouched.

I am still chased by dreams.

3.

I dreamed last night that I bathed alone at the Falls. My hair streamed behind as I surfaced and turned to the shore. There a solitary bloom hung over in the midnight darkness. I stretched out my hand to touch the stem and a shock of intoxicating agony transfixed it there. I awoke with tears.

4.

Again at the pool beneath the Falls. The water of such a temperature to quicken the mind, burst the heart. I dove deep into the center but could not reach the bottom. As I swam towards the surface, I thought I saw a wavering form retreat from the water's edge, but slow.

Wind rustled the cold dewy wild blooms, settled weighted resting stalks. The night was still, and memory left me; I knew not myself or why I sat there by a pool on a rock. I withheld the pride of some cause, but could not place it. An owl jeered.

I made the mild climb to the grassy clifftop and morning broke though dawn could not. A soft breeze tousled fern fronds and the fine hairs on my head; the birds called from their early waking as the sky turned the very color of dreams. Still shadow with a rising blue.

The figure reappeared. She lay down oddly shaped amid the river stones. She seemed soft and rounded in all parts. Her eyes half-closed, she released low sighs, musical moans from out the water babble. Brown hair splayed out upon the mottled pebbles as she loosed small cries, drawing legs up around her bulbous middle. She pressed her curved back against a low rounded boulder and in one bright moment a call that reverberated from tree boles on the stream-side to nighted cliffs through the little vale and surging into space – a small noisy creature appeared between her thighs glowing by the weakening moonlight.

She lifted the little one to her breast wiping free the blood and fluids. She gazed awhile at the sleeping form until she shook violently, her head falling back upon the rock.

Days passed. The water coursing livened and spoke. The coiling breezes played in her hair and the babe wailed. It's feeble shape slid fortunately toward her standing nipple, and it sucked forth life.

Weeks. Months. Years. The child grew. He lingered, at times moaned sweetly; he would, at times, sit quite still at her side, clasp her face between his little hands and seem to pray. He wet her cheeks with tears that wet his own, brushed back her flowing hair and was quiet in the loneliness of grief. She lay and breathed.

The sun rose one morning glowing; a vast wine-drenched sky hung over the vale. The water, catching the light, dyed blue rocky banks with a rosy hue. And for the first time the boy upraised his eyes to the cresting mass upon the horizon. He climbed the stone steps of the Falls and gazed out from a body that hung upon forgotten will.

Now I could see his eyes open upon worlds of hope, fear, despair, love. Torn by agony he yet did not turn his face from the wonder in the sky. The earth unrolled its rich tapestry before his feet, and with a cry that struck my heart to stone he sprang forward like a bucking antelope. I watched his flying form until another cry bewildered my ears, wrenched my gaze to the stream-side. There the terrified mother wrestled with stoney limbs to rise and cast about with racing breath and pained look.

Footprints in the wet earth. Pursuit. Without a thought running weeping seeing every trace with a longing that effaced her. Her form – wind blowing the grass unknowing going. The orb over all the earth let forth a new radiance of volatile swallowing fire – blood and wine from the sky.

Black figures recede into the gargantuan sun like crust of dross in a crucible and I wonder what pitiless curse plagues mother and child. The sun grows ever closer, the land vanishing, subsumed into its mass while the wind's searing torrent knocks me flat like streaming beach-grass – abandoned pawn on the sands. The cooked earth coughs up flares upon the wastes and I am wracked with pangs.

* * *

Upon my awakening, the eyes of the youngest Prefect a mile distant burst open. His heart flutters – he searches reasonless.

My lover looks at me. I nod. He smiles, caresses my ears, my hair, but in his eyes there is the sickest dread. He brings me with every effort to where I must forget myself in the extenuation of every sense.