Docendo Disco

It’s difficult right now to admit to the feeling of what I can only describe as sanguine contentment, if not, dare I say it, happiness. The audacity to feel positive about anything these days is almost a revolutionary act – one runs the risk of provoking the ire of those who aren’t, and to be fair, there is no shortage of reasons to rightly feel apocalyptic. I leave it to the reader to supply their own list, which I’m sure has plenty of overlap with my own.

I run an especially high risk, as my lifestyle is atypical, sheltered even by covid standards, and comfortable. By and large, both my needs and wants are more than adequately provided for, a position I am keenly aware of and do my best to deserve, no matter that I will always fall short. One of the ways I do this is by attempting to stay well informed of how everyone else experiences their lives and never forgetting the circumstances of my own life when I was not nearly as fortunate.

Because I come to my privileged life by way of marriage, I have received the side eye by relatives both near and distant; it’s a good thing I learned a very long time ago to ignore the opinions of most people, perhaps relatives most of all. I am, however, human – there are people whose opinion I very much value. I’ve learned to choose these people with care and then cultivate those relationships with even more care.

Not all of the people whose opinion I value are aware of how highly I hold them in esteem. These people I am especially careful about, which generally translates into an aloof distance on my part. Fortunately, the list of people who fall into this category is not large, a handful at best. About the same number as the people who do know how I feel about them.

Sometimes, I regret my truncated career in education – I think I would have formed some long lasting relationships, or at least made an indelible impression, on more than a few students. As much as I enjoy time alone, need it really, I also enjoyed the performative aspect of teaching, the dialectic between student and teacher. The classroom is one of the few places outside of my home where I feel comfortable, most of all as the student.

Because fate dictated otherwise, I was spared the frustrations of the modern educational system: the ever shifting state mandated pedagogy revolving around content that rarely changes, the lack of adequate supplies, the overloaded class sizes, to name only a few. I often wonder if I would have turned cynical and weary, or risen everyday to tilt at those windmills no matter how ostensibly futile the attempt. I like to think I would have found a way to drag the content I wanted into the classroom, no matter what the powers that be said.

What does all this have to do with feelings of sanguine contentment? Well, I bring all this up to point out first principles, that is to say, as much as life is planned even more of it is less so, or at least, not planned by you. Retracing past steps is a privilege afforded to those who live long enough to profit by it. For some people this results in despair. The only respite I have found when I felt this way is a stubborn trust in the river of time.

Things change. They must. They always do.

As they said so often in basic training – you never quit. You don’t get to stop. To surrender is the worst thing you can do. I am quite aware of the monstrous nature of those sentences. I do my best to avoid absolutes and I believe there is a time for surrendering, when the struggle makes things worse, not better. Yet, as a general principle, it is a good one to follow. I say this having failed at it many, many times, in multiple aspects of my life. To be able to see that in yourself is part of following the creed – one cannot learn from a mistake unexamined, which means being able to know you’ve made a mistake in the first place.

The knack of changing your mind, in unlearning a thing in order to relearn what is necessary, is priceless. I’ve tried and failed at this as often as I’ve succeeded, and miserably at times when it comes to other people, but learned much, if not slowly, in the process. The important thing to remember is that you can change your mind, followed immediately by you probably should more than you’re comfortable admitting. I like to think I prompted the practice in a few students I’ve had the privilege to teach but that may simply be hubris on my part. The compulsory nature of modern primary education has the mixed blessing of a guaranteed captive audience – preloaded with the expectation that learning will take place, even though evidence provides results as mixed as the blessing. I think we lose a vital something by making education compulsory past a certain age and not making education understood as something that never ends. The question becomes, are you the one choosing that education, or is it being chosen for you?

The best way, of course, is to make school a place people want to go, no matter what age you are. Instead of constructing large warehouses for the young and deeming that school, we ought to be instilling the notion that there is no place that is not school. The games we play, the movies we watch, the music we listen to, the relationships we cultivate and have forced upon us, are all classrooms, but nowhere is this more true than in the minds and characters we are all tasked with improving.

Sanguine contentment is a state of mind one can teach themselves into attaining. It is not a state of mind everyone is predisposed towards – it takes, well, I can only speak for me; I think there are more ways to achieve this than the one I found works for me. Some people seek it not at all. I’ve heard more than one professional comic say they dread contentment, they believe their pain is the wellspring of their humor and without it, the laughter dries up. Sanguine contentment cannot exist in a mind like that, it’s an act of self negation to seek it.

I know there are people who claim to be able to point the way to happiness. I am not here to join them or to point to one or more who I say got it right. That’s not the job of a teacher. The job of a teacher is to teach. Ah, that’s a nice tautology you have there, I hear you say, but what is it that YOU teach?

Whatever the student most needs to learn.

I am both student and teacher. (And so are you.)

Education is knowing when to teach and when to learn.

Sanguine contentment is to achieve both simultaneously.

Condemnation does not liberate, it oppresses.

Merely

There is no such thing as bad weather

merely inappropriate clothing

the rock thrown at my head

merely a lesson in physics

the gash along my empathy

merely an act of faith

the dance at the bite of the hook

merely the balance won

the line that is crossed through

merely the relic of the day

the wisdom of the left hand

merely the ignorance of the right

the authority of the rich man

merely the repast of the next

the edicts laid down to children

merely pleas padding down the hall

the singing of the joyful

merely anguish to the damned.

The best thieves merely take what is given.

The Nostos of Peratae Bogomil – Part seven: A ship rebuilt

A feather’s slight brush

judiciously applied incites even

the strongest of beasts to start

or stamp their feet or

snort relief.

The ceaseless wind,

ceaseless no more, gathered itself

as the sword of Socrates slid

past heart and lungs

the beast sneezed

forcing me from the promontory

in a whirling tempest that

could not be denied –

I exited the celestial creature in

manner unlike my entrance;

impaled upon my own sword

my only feather

a clutched Quill,

I fell spiraling, a fallen star

towards the good Earth

burning in

flames internal

the Quill in my hand

grew

and became the deck of

my ship as it was

before the crash

on Dream’s rocky shore.

Standing on the forecastle

in the spot that Kleos claimed

were the members of my crew:

Bigotry and Prejudice, Ignorance and Fear

Hatred and Envy, Greed and Vengeance.

One by one, I called them forth

and put each of them to the sword

with mercy and cognition

applied the unity of opposites

and transformed them into their twin:

Greed became Self Sacrifice and Vengeance became Forgiveness

Hatred and Envy bowed to Compassion and Tranquility

Bigotry and Prejudice fell to Empathy and Understanding.

Only Ignorance and Fear, my faithful companions

could not be vanquished with Socrates’ sword

so I enjoined Curiosity and Courage

as their wardens and marked their

placement near the bowsprit.

Satisfied, I noticed another figure

seated and in thought

in the space where the wheel

should spin sat a man

balding and serene; before him

a short pedestal made of mud

and on that

a game of Nine men’s morris arrayed

and engaged.

Wordlessly, I approached and

sat in the opposition’s spot –

he, deeply engrossed in the state of play

with a nod shifted one of the stones.

“Are you Charon, here to ferry me

across?” I asked.

He looked up from the board and shook

his head. “No goddess ever wet clay and left

it, as if there would be bricks by chance

and good fortune.” He replied. “I am glad to see

my sword used in the manner intended.

You think your journey ended?

Has Beauty’s vision been apprehended?

Have the choices been made that must be made?

For it is authority, not wisdom that

makes a law.” Socrates said.

“You speak of destiny and

free will in the same breath.

Do not the two cancel?” I asked.

Philosophy paused and gestured to the board

“Knowledge is like good taste

not everyone has it

or having it

have it to the same degree.

Prescience is a knowledge that

mortals have as well.

The best do so by

combining the patterns of history

with the wisdom of human nature

yet even they see only

through a glass stain’d and

none to the degree of an

intelligence divine.

Worry little over the workings

of what will be;

instead, keep in

mind Kleos’ apopemptic:

Chase after Truth and Goodness

and Beauty will hurry to catch up.

This is also true of prophecy.”

“What is the good?” I asked,

“For all think they know and

it is clear they do not.”

Socrates placed a stone on the board

and said, “The good comes

in many forms: some say it is

identical to the pleasant, or

what women and men desire, or

a property of being or existence, or

that which conforms to the nature of a thing, or

that which is approved by reason.

I say it is all of these and more, not only a state

unto itself but that which conforms to

the solution of the eternal paradox.”

“Which is?” I asked.

“Existence.” He said.

“A paradox is two things,

in opposition

distinct by definition

yet inseparable by nature.

This is a very good

definition of the universe itself:

That which is and that which isn’t

bound together to form something

greater than the other.

Recall the lesson of the drowsy sword –

draw your existence up within

yourself and know

misery no longer.”

As Philosophy spoke these words

the sun stepp’d over the horizon

and I knew my first dawning

as a person complete

able to forgive

by seeing myself in the other

and allowing the other to see itself in me –

that the ship I built so long

ago was now rebuilt

by Dream’s rocky shore;

for the strength of the ship is the crew

and the strength of the crew is the ship.

Together, we turned our faces to the

dawn’s warming light;

I felt the ship bite water

and I tasted the salt spray

and knew the wheel was restored.

Now there’s something ticking

in my head, a yearning, a yearning in my head

out towards the horizon, the Cape of Aphrodite

beyond that twin cities with a port

and somewhere up above

a cave

where a fish picked a berry

once upon a time.

“The sole treasure I possess is my understanding and it is the greatest.” C.G. Jung

“No knowledge, no serious contemplation, no valid choice is possible until man has shaken himself free of everything that effects his conditioning, at every level of his existence.” Jacques LaCarriere



*The list of authors I have alluded to, referenced, or downright stolen from are:
Aristotle
Plato
Aquinas
Joseph Campbell
Cicero
The Codex Seraphinianus
William Blake
Plutarch
Hobbes
Milton
Montaigne
Jean-Baptiste du Tertre
1001 Arabian Nights
The Brothers Grimm
The Greek myths
The Pelasgian creation myth
Norse Creation myth
Cardinal Barberini (Pope Urban VIII)
I Samuel 24
Eric Gill
The religion of Candomble
William Shakespeare
Sylvia Plath
Rousseau
Chris Smart
Samuel Beckett

The Nostos of Peratae Bogomil – Part Six: The sands of the Kali’n’ago

Before I could study the

matriculation in front of me

a discordant sound emerged:

harried shouts accompanied

an outpouring of Kali’n’ago

from smaller side tunnels

to the widest in this chamber

I followed the commotion

away from the tree and pond

and was soon surrounded

by scores of my hosts;

it was clear they were both

escort and protection

as the unmistakable sounds

of violence ricocheted from

up and around the curving walls.

Their mass carried me along

like a leaf riding a stream

but failed to reach the gentle shore

they were seeking

when battle fell around us.

The opposition was impossible

for me to distinguish from

my protection and within the tight walls

there was no room for me to

draw my blade.

I could do little more

than watch as one by one

my escort fell

to the cudgels of the foe.

I was soon surrounded

by a new escort and they

roughly pushed me upwards and along

until we were disgorged from the

warren. When the group

thrust me onto the windswept

sands, a violet cry

of jubilation arose from

all around me.

I was their intended prize

and the victory was won,

I was immediately placed inside a cage

built atop a sleigh and

yolked to a dozen Kali’n’ago.

As our retinue made its way

with the wind into the gloom

I saw a detail laden with

the still bodies of the fallen

dragged

onto the sand and buried

only slightly, so

their mounded bodies imitated

the smallest of the looming dunes;

in a flash I intuited

the bluish white sand was

not sand at all

but the granular remains of

generation after generation of

Kali’n’ago that came before, ground

by the ceaseless wind

and the traveling feet of those that persist

into powder bluish white,

fit for an hourglass.

As we trod on

the dark wind upon our backs

clusters of my captors

came to gawk and jeer

some few made attempt to force a squawk

by pulling out a feather

and dancing about my cage;

or tossing handfuls of the dead into my face –

mock on, mock on

for well I know

when you throw sand

against the wind

the wind only blows it back again.

A solid day we sailed on the sands

until, squatting on the short horizon

loomed a solid darkness

a grand steppe with a steep incline

a prominent promontory winding upwards into

the gloom and leering ominous.

With quiet desperation I cast back

upon all that I had seen:

the sands of the Kali’n’ago is the water in which they swim

a fish hanging in the air it’s mouth upon a berry

a feather traded for a net and they with the better exchange –

my conviction that they

knew not the ways of

civilization

as we ascended that upwards path

My thoughts returned to Beauty’s tower

and the riddle of the drowsy sword

and I thought…

that they did indeed

know the ways of civilization

and it was I

by my very presence

carrying Ignorance not only upon my back but

in a vast miasmic cloud

and with a pale cast of thought

it occurred to me

that my blade was no help

to me at all among them

and when I held Beauty’s blade

against Pride’s throat

and read the word inscribed there

I never saw what might

be inscribed upon the

obverse side

so

I pulled the blade from

its tower and saw again ACQUISITION

engraved along its length

with trembling hand I flipped it over:

THYSELF was there inscribed.

My laughter was a bark both forceful and loud,

I stood proud in my cage

and made myself known.

The blade in my hand

now a lightning bolt crackling from its hilt

the bars of my cage blew asunder

with an explosive thunderclap;

this was no mere sword of knowledge

but the sword of Socrates and

such a sword remains with one until

their dying day.

The Kali’n’ago who took me

fell back in stunned silence,

pieces of shatter’d cage all ’round

their faces mute and dim;

I extended both my wings and

strode sword in hand into their assemblage

carrying onwards and upwards

toward our destination

their captive, now on point –

they followed me

to the top of that roaring steppe

to the spot where they thought

to sacrifice

and to where I

knew I had to be

the steppe was high, wide and flat

as the Kali’n’ago took up a joyful singing

they moved in rhythmic dance.

Their faces shone with banded light

and their voices raised in harmonious music

I danced with them, weaving my way to the very

center of the throng,

my wings extended wide

their banded faces glowing free

they each removed a single

feather as we wove together in melodic step

leaving me two denuded wings.

As their voices reached crescendo

I cut the barren wings deftly from my back:

I am not a fallen angel

or a plucked fowl

but a risen ape

and as I

tilted back my

head and swallowed my own blade

the glowing Kali’n’ago, singing, and dancing at their brightest

let loose all their feathers

into the ceaseless wind

each a bird in flight

in one direction

and the wind

stopped.

The Nostos of Peratae Bogomil – Part five: The tree, the pond and the fish

Consensus thus reached

they lowered me to

the ground and swiftly

freed me from their net.

As quickly as they gathered

as quickly they dispersed;

a single guide remained

and motioned me to follow,

as our tongues were

unknown to the other.

The ground I trod was

unlike such I trodd’n

before – drifts

of sand piled white

with a bluish cast,

fine and particulate

such as in an hourglass

it laid about the landscape in great

mounds and furrows,

pik’d peaks and winsome

hollows

formed by the ceaseless

wind of the mighty creatures’ inhalation.

My guide led me

to an entrance cunningly

placed downwind

around the

windswept mounds

and beneath the whitish waves

we passed into the dwelling,

for dwelling is what it was.

The interior was enchantingly lit – my night

eyes took in a warren smooth and wide,

made of hardened sand

a thoroughfare proper with walls of

colored lichen casting a pearlish glow in

tones of copper, lapis, and sapphire.

The smell of cumin, coriander

and cardamom was forceful

as our path led inwards

slightly downwards

off the main

of our passage more

tunnels traced off in

gentle curves;

periodically I saw excavation

carved with great industry

both cavernous and small one of which

was our destination.

We entered a

cozy alcove, with nothing

inside but two hooks reminiscent

of spires sunk deep into the sides

a single figure rolling

a smaller twin of the net that arrested

my frenzied flight.

A scarcity of words passed

between the two; among patterns

of flashing light I heard “Engedi”

more than once.

The occupant made to pass

and leave to me this cave,

when an idea took me

before I could tease it out.

I understood this was to be

my perch so I plucked

a feather from my

damaged wing, it was

hanging by

a notion

and offered it to the

figure with the hammock.

Through motions of exchange,

they understood my meaning

and took from me my feather

and gave to me her hammock.

Before my guide

could turn and leave

I made a curious motion

with my hands,

indicating all around…

I believe my request was understood

when their orange crown glow’d

along with a solitary word:

Colnéndamb.

I pointed to my guide and

to the other walking out

and made the same curious motion.

Again the flash

and again one

word:

Kali’n’ago.

Reciprocation was obviated

when they turned

and walked away. So

I stretched the hammock

between two hooks

and collapsed again

into a dreamless sleep.

My awakening was much

less pleasant than my last

when I awoke upended

from the hammock in which

I lay.

It was the former occupant

proof the feather

I traded wafting down

as she climbed into

her hammock.

That they did not

understand the meaning

of a trade perplexed me and

by their actions I deduced

they had no knowledge of

the ways of civilization.

Ignorance, my constant companion

urged my swift departure;

I wander’d the warren

quickly becoming lost – not

merely due to the labyrinth of

bluish curving walls,

dead ends and cul-de-sacs

but also the disregard for

the sand under my feet,

as they constantly pried toward

my adored.

My body stiff and sore

no less for my rude

awakening – prying feet

loosened aching muscles but not

my injured wing,

it would not bear

flight until it healed.

I happened upon a cavern

as I was wand’ring by – inside

was a group of Kali’n’ago and they

were without their well made clothes.

What before I admired as

masterwork of weaving was instead

a matter of application:

The Kali’n’ago stood,

ankle deep in the sands of

that cavern naked as desire.

Their bodies faintly

glistened from the shoulders

through to shins and their bodies

the banded equal of their faces

in back and forth

stripes of violet, orange, and green.

They plunged upon their knees

and then onto the sand entire

rolling ’round and shoveling

the bluish white sand with both hands

making sure

no part of their bodies were left

untouched.

As they threw

two fisted hands full

of sand at each other my thoughts cast back

of sport with friends of my youth

in the lake or gentle bay

and for a pang’d moment I missed

them all terribly.

The figures then stood on

both feet and with a gentle

humming, their bodies luminescent,

the results of their frolics was

made fast and yet remained supple

as their hands smoothed

the sands of the other.

As I stood transfixed

in utter fascination

they ignored my presence

entirely

even as I felt

a prick from Aidos as my eyes

partook the scene.

I hurried on and suffered not

the fate of bleating Acteaon.

And as I let Curiousity

tread inside my boots

I came upon what could

only be the heart of the

village:

Many tunnels led into

and out

of a wide and hollowed

amphitheater in arc concave

where the actors would

take the stage at the

bend of the horse’s shoe

inclining gently from the

level floor and rising

to the ceiling spaced

equidistant from the other

towered seven columns of the

same bluish sand they molded

to themselves and made their

homes within

at each of those columns

three attendants slowly labored;

upon the curved surface

one of them carved delicate

soaring symbols with

a wooden slender tool

as another smoothed the sand

with both hands just ahead of that labor

the third stood just behind and

collected the dust of their

efforts while tossing it gently

in the air. All of them

sung in a joyful harmony as

their banded faces all cycled

in synchronicity.

Remarkable as this was

it was not the main attraction

for at the hollow of the bend

crescent mooned by the seven pillars

a placid pool of water,

shallow

spring fed and perfectly clear;

the pond stretched before the feet of

a tree

bearing fruit,

branches ripe and full

of a small reddish berry

so that a single solid branch

hung o’er the pond

rich with the reddish fruit

at its center.

Even as I beheld

the scene entire

a fish – it’s belly white

and soft,

the scimitar slash of

gills red and bare

broke the surface

it’s questing mouth reaching

for a berry on the tree.

It’s lips touched the fruit but failed

to seize the prize

with a wriggl’d arch of it’s back

fell back into the pond in

a quiet splash.

Such was the marriage of

this event with the

actions of the laborers that

I could not discern

if it were interruption or abruption,

as the labor fell to silence

in sound and application

the moment

the fish broke the surface

and began not anew until the

last drop reunited with

the ripples of the pool.

To this day I know not if

the languid script drawn upon

those haunting pillars was

history, philosophy, or prophecy

mayhap it was all three-

their calculations were a

mystery, resembling

the pik’d peaks and winsome

whorls of the landscape above.