Convergence

“In science truth is always our goal but rarely our attainment. We move from error toward truth by successive approximations. Just as parallel lines are said to meet at infinity, we, as the human race, might expect to arrive at absolute truth only if given infinite time in which to flounder intelligently.”
— E.H. Cherrington Jr, Exploring the Moon Through Binoculars and Small Telescopes

My Mind to Your Mind, Your Cache to My Cache

IF YOU DIG observational whimsy parceled into 15-second packets (more or less), I’d take it as a kindness if you dialed into my podcast: Short Attention Span Wisdoms, also available on a dozen of your favorite podcasting platforms including Spotify, iHeart Radio, Deezer, and Amazon Music/Audible. Enlightenment optional; grokking guaranteed.

The Way It Works

“For Jews, reflection and renewal … are elicited through text study. Our most enduring words do not simply remind us of who we once aspired to be; they press us to ask how well we have lived up to them and how they might yet speak with urgency in our own time.”
– Rabbi Leon A. Morris, Talmud of America

Ageless Speech

SPEAKING OF H.P. LOVECRAFT, as I was in the prior post, it’s easy to dismiss him for what some have called his “overly purple prose.” He can, I admit, become extremely flowery at times, but as mentioned here and elsewhere, the man was a true poet at heart: his writing is evocative, and justly so – its literary power is derived from the consent of the reader to simply and happily wallow in it. By way of illustration, I offer the following sonnet from a collection of same on weird topics titled Fungi from Yuggoth. It speaks to me, and deeply; I hope it does the same for you.

XXXVI. Continuity

There is in certain ancient things a trace
Of some dim essence—more than form or weight;
A tenuous aether, indeterminate,
Yet linked with all the laws of time and space.
A faint, veiled sign of continuities
That outward eyes can never quite descry;
Of locked dimensions harbouring years gone by,
And out of reach except for hidden keys.

It moves me most when slanting sunbeams glow
On old farm buildings set against a hill,
And paint with life the shapes which linger still
From centuries less a dream than this we know.
In that strange light I feel I am not far
From the fixt mass whose sides the ages are.

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