Reflections on The Menu

 

“When you painted on earth—at least in your earlier days—it was because you caught glimpses of Heaven in the earthly landscape. The success of your painting was that it enabled others to see the glimpses too. But here you are having the thing itself. It is from here that the messages came..."

-C.S. Lewis, The Great Divorce 

All art, all true art, is always prophecy. Always. And prophecy helps you see the world as it truly is... which may include some element of being able to see the future. The function of prophecy is that the future may help you see the whole picture.

Art of any kind is soul-crushingly difficult. Through some remarkably fallible sense perception you stumble across something. Something good, pure, beautiful, untouchable, incorruptible. It is hard to communicate the experience if you haven't had it. Something explodes in your heart, quietly devasting. Light gently breaks in, and you realize you've been in the dark your whole life and in fact you never saw anything before this moment. And, so long as you keep doing your art, really do it, you can bathe in that light.

But there's a trick. The material you have to work with is fallen. The people who interact with your art are even more fallen than the materials you work with. Some level of mastery of people and your materials is required. The media is a pain, but the people. The people are the worst part. People aren't just fallen passively, but have actively lied to themselves all their lives, to the point of actual blindness of soul. So when they look at your work are they going to see what you tried to put there?

By default the answer is no. At best you'll typically get indifference or a mild reaction. It didn't touch them because they weren't looking. That's to be expected. Humans don't look at the world around them, and those that claim they do are very good at self-deception.

You want to know how I know?

Because to perceive, to truly perceive, is to be changed. 

So if someone goes "Oh cool! That's neat." By default they couldn't have actually looked. And yes, that's demoralizing.

The second worst is a sycophant. "Oh I love your work!" Instead, they made the mistake of seeing you as a necessary part of The Vision. The vision is what matters. Can you develop a predilection of engaging with a specific artist's way of channeling The Vision? Absolutely! We do this all the time! I love Ivanka Demchuk's iconography. I see this icon of Christ being betrayed to Pontius Pilate and I can feel The Vision of it. She saw something about this scene with the eyes of her heart, and was faithful to that vision. I love her craft so much I am going to learn how to do it for myself. Ivanka's work has inspired me to do something for myself. I want to learn for myself.

So, I am not talking about a fondness. I am talking about obsession with the artist. You are not on this planet to turn off your own spiritual vision and worship someone, but to find your way Home. That's hard enough without degenerating into fandom. And it is degeneration. There's a reason why the "fan" hangs himself in this movie. He has made nothing of himself and has become such a bootlicker that death really may be the most merciful option. Certainly not the soul-crushing that happens in the film.

That's not the worst reaction to your work, however.

The worst reaction is one of the fully neutered expert. Remember how I said that the materials of this world, whether they be paint or a damnably thick tome on theology, are inherently rotten, if not actively rotting? What could be grosser than someone who wants to get into that mess? To get covered in the rotting feces that is this world and go "I am very familiar with the smell and viscosity of feces, and so therefore I know you didn't use it right"?

All of this world, at best, is straw.

This isn't to say that technical mastery can't help you point people back to The Vision more reliably. But there is a difference between saying "This is what I think got in the way of helping me escape the fallen world for a minute" and "You failed the fallen materials you were working with", when in reality the materials failed you.

The sycophant and the neutered expert can kill an artist's soul so quickly. Listening to the sycophants will get you pride. Listening to the neutered expert will kill your ability to see The Vision at all. And once those two things happen, you're stuck. You either burn out and collapse in on yourself or take it out on everyone else.

And if you're especially dramatic you'll take all those idiots and kill them all in especially earnestly vulnerable, if not sometimes predictable, movie. And yeah, the movie isn't perfect. I saw the twist coming a mile away. But you know what? So what? it showed me something I needed to see, helped me reflect, and helped me process something that I've been unable to work out for myself for years. The movie did its job. It got me to see something I needed to. I changed, watching it. I saw it.

And isn't that the point of art?

Your Nous is not Your Mind

 "I believe that the greatest problem of western philosophy is that it identifies the nous with reason and intellectual knowledge with existential knowledge. Even contemporary scholars in the West point to this fact."

- Metropolitan Hierotheos, "Orthodox Psychotherapy", Preface to the English Translation, pg 13

There is no straight English equivalent for nous in English. It is in no English Bible that I am aware of. Words like "mind", "mind's eye", "perception", etc, are used instead, even though Greek has many different words we translate out to mind. And yet it is of primary importance that one understand what nous is, how it works, where it's referenced in the New Testament, and that it is not your mind. Your mind is a filter. Your nous is what lets you perceive.

Here's where it's used, thanks to Blue Letter Bible's Concordance. Notice how many words we use in English to try and translate this thing! And that's just one word! All translators are traitors; no matter how hard a translator tries he will never be able to get the full meaning of the text passed on. If you're going to seriously examine any text that is translated, that you need to get at least somewhat familiar with the original(s). Truth takes work.

To the best of my knowledge Paul's use of "nous", while it seems to be in line with most ancient thought, has been co-opted to mean merely rational thought today. 

No civilization I know of thought of knowledge as being merely rational. 

The Enlightenment's idea that all of history has been leading to an era of "science" and reason is an invention. A fabrication, even less helpful than a modern idea of the fairy-tale. The Golden Bough, which popularized this nonsense, was thoroughly mocked by scholars of that time (well-sourced Wikipedia for the win!) for being a phantasy (spelling changed to identify the word more closely with a similar word, phantasm, or illusion). Despite its findings having no basis in fact the damage was done; the 20th century exploded with these ideas. At least fairy tales tell us things that are true that we cannot find very easily in the material world. They tell us things that are true, no matter what our eyes tell us. Because, as any one who is being honest will admit, eyes lie all the time. The notion that minds are chiefly rational is relatively new and has no absolutely no basis in any sort of scientific (the process of observation - hypothesis - test - analysis- rinse and repeat) process. At all.

Sorry. 

It's a lie. The 19th century, popularized through the Golden Bough, forced literally every single ancient text through their bullshit lens and we've been force-feeding ourselves their nonsense for the last few hundred years. Our understanding of God has been so mucked with that our modern religious experience has been almost completely neutered.

Because nous does not mean mind, psyche. Nous, when used in British English, means "common sense", alertness. I want to stress that last word, because it's the closest equivalent to the meaning of nous that I know of in English. The nous is aware of everything. It tracks emotions, thoughts, feelings, fantasies, the whole shebang. 

It also hears that small, quiet, Voice, which no honest Christian can deny. 

That Voice of Peace, which is fearsomely powerful. "Soft as iron, safe as lions," as Jon Foreman puts it. 

Because alertness does not mean "filtering". It just means you're alert. Your mind decides what is legitimate to follow up on. To filter and to be aware are two different functions. To say that the thoughts in your head are the only legitimate thing to follow up on is so laughably bad (even by modern standards!) that all it takes is to point this basic fact out to shatter the illusion at once. 

Your feelings are hardly rational, but they are just as important, if not more important, than most thoughts generated to control your world. Feelings cannot be controlled and muzzled. You must live with them. That small, still, Voice that can be heard is definitely not rational and couldn't give a flying fig about what we think makes sense. It simply states the truth, no matter how hard it is for us to stomach it.

Your mind can filter the nous. It is not the nous itself. 

Small perceptions create small minds create small miserable worlds. Small minds can only focus on small things, but the pressure created by weeding out all but rational thought is so intense it can create disasters unheard of before. 

Y'know, like this one:

But don't worry, we're safe from religious wars, which only comprise 7% of all recorded wars. At least we've got that.

Reflections on The Veins of the Earth

Somewhere, deep deep down in my heart, there is an opening. A tear. A lesion. Something deliciously foul is down there, and it beckons to me, by its existence I am pulled. Peering into the abyss, I don't see anything. But I can feel it, whatever it is. It calls. I crawl down, not sure what to expect. And no, I'm not sure I ever could have explained it. But what I've found down there has always terrified, intrigued, and enamored me, in equal rotating twisting parts, flapping in the slight breeze like skin on a clothesline of intestine. I never once thought these places could be described.

And then I held Mr. Stuart's book in my hands. I stared into the blackness, once more.

A shudder came over me. I could feel the figure on the cover, I could hear his scream in my mind. I knew why he was screaming. He wasn't screaming because he was falling. Falling is nice. Falling is fun. I was jumping off of high dives when I was four, if not younger. I was jumping off of porches at two, over and over and over and over and over. I'm surprised my poor mother still has a beating heart, now that I think on it. But, even now, it's still fun! I still jump from stairways when I think no one is watching, just to feel the sensation.

It's the landing that's awful.

My bones, older than they were then, hurt, even if it's just a little bit, when I land now.

And I'm not falling anymore. I find that I miss it.

It's tragic.

He knows he's going to hit the ground and hurt. 

I opened the book and my pulse stopped, for just a millisecond. Patrick Stuart had crawled through the hole too. He's seen it. He knows. For years, decades, I assumed, in my flaming arrogance, that I was the only one who had found it and managed to keep anything resembling sanity. But that was done by trying to pretend that it didn't exist, by throwing up defenses that never worked but I wanted them to work so why shouldn't they? Why shouldn't it work? If I don't look at it it isn't real. The rest of the world can get away with it, so why not me?

I think he stared straight in, and wrote down what he saw. I'm not sure how. I'm in awe of it.

Perhaps the strangest thing was seeing the Aelf-Adal, his take on dark elves. I'd seen them. I'd met them. Somehow. Don't ask me how that works, but they're real in a way that you and I are not. I know that sounds crazy, but they're something way deep down in our consciousness. For all these years that I've run games I've hinted at their existence, to myself and others. But that was all I could stand. It was all I could do. I knew the deRO, the gnonmen, all the others in this tome. I looked at them and realized that all he'd done was name what he'd found, down where the soul leaks rivers of ash and gaseous bile. They weren't my names for these entities or concepts or archetypes or what-have-you. But they were the same things, whatever they are.

I think he put down a flag in the darkness and sat there until he could write it all down.

I cannot recommend this book enough to others. There's a lot that's useful here, even if it makes the skin crawl, which can be quite good for one's soul. It's good to be reminded of the madhouse we're in at times. I don't innately see this as a horror work and would not recommend it as such. Horror is too banal for what this book does, by and large. No, this is properly a part of fantasy, which is the older genre, from which horror takes its roots. It's a danse macabre, and that's good for people, in the proper doses.

I think a healthy dose of danse macabre is more than what most people think it is.

At some point I'll write an actual review on the book. Y'know, go through its mechanical bits and why they're awesome, talk about his veins generating toolkit and why it's amazing, and talk more about these monsters that cause nostalgia in parts of me that I never thought could feel such an emotion. It's a shame I don't really connect with the OSR movement all that much, cause I'd go for Lamentations of the Flame Princess hardcore, but those are not my mechanical and philosphical leanings. Fortunately most folks don't say no to money. This book will definitely get mine.

I'm not sure one should run from what's down in the lesion.

What I'm Thankful For

I suppose by writing this post I am making a statement of some sort about what I think of Thanksgiving. There's been a lot of nonsense being tossed around about Thanksgiving being a day of genocide and the usual hand-wringing nonsense of how evil our country is.  

Sit down, you amateurs, I'm a monarchist, I think the whole system is bad.

But that's not going to stop me from realizing that there are days when you actually do need to focus on how grateful you are for your life, and that it needs to be a cultural event. I prefer the original point of Thanksgiving, that of Abraham Lincoln instituting it during the Civil War, one of our nation's lowest points. In darkness praise and thankfulness dawned. That's an amazing thing! And yeah, we should keep doing it! The Pilgrim thing can come or go, I don't really care, but given how toxic the modern discourse is does it really hurt to have a cultural day of thanksgiving and positivity?

If you answered "yes, it really does hurt" then kindly go jump off a cliff. Or at least stop reading. Just go away. Bye!

For the rest of you who aren't currently looking for a cliff to go jump off of, thanks for getting through that preamble! Let's get on with it!

First off, I'm thankful to God. I'm thankful that I continue to breathe, nevermind exist, and that He has given me exactly what I need, when I need it, even when I'm not aware that I do. I am grateful for all the things that He has given me that I like and, most especially, the things that I can barely stand.

I am thankful for the PTSD. It is helping me grow. I am becoming so much more than I ever would have without it.

I am thankful for being such a flawed and (sometimes) awful person, because it means I have to cut others slack, because slack has been cut for me.

I am thankful for being so bloody tired, because it means that my children are growing and changing and I get to be there and experience it with them, at every juncture.

Also first off, I am so grateful for that angel who continues to love me, also known as my wife.  Thank you for existing, because it would impossible for me to think of a world that is good without you being in it. Thank you for being so kind and considerate of others, because I wouldn't have learned to give a rat's ass without your continuing reminders that I should. Thank you for your support, in everything, because without it I'd have floundered in mediocrity and evil a long time ago. Thank you for not putting up with my (continuous) crap, but doing so in a gentle and loving manner. Thank you for being such a wonderful mother to our kids. The beauty that shines out of them is because of you, by and large. You have shown them how to be luminous boys, and I am so grateful that I get to come home and admire what you have done for them by just being in close proximity to them.

I am so thankful for my for my firstborn son. He continues to show me that it's OK to be emotional and intense and to not be apologetic for it. There are moments when that little guy smiles and I need to go get sunglasses, because so much light comes out. Thank you for loving Calvin and Hobbes and lightsabers and Spider-Man and Thomas and all these other things that I love, but with a simplicity and passion that have always disarmed me and my cynicism. Half the time I'm not sure who's teaching who how to be a good person. The rest of the time I know it's you teaching me. Thank you for putting up with my grumpy self and just plodding right through whatever grouchiness I have on a particular day, for trusting that there is someone good under all that flotsam and jetsam. Thank you for loving your mother so fiercely, and for protecting your little brother to the fullest extent of your ability. You are one of the strongest people I know, little guy. I'm proud of you.

I am thankful for my second son. You are the only dude I know who was born with Polish Grandmother genes, and it's an amazing sight. You always make sure we're all together, warm, and well-fed, and that's quite an inspiration. Thank you for your little temper, cause it's adorable! I mean, I doubt you see it that way, but I sure do. Thank you for being so tough and durable in loving your brother, because you're both so small yet and so much that you'd like to say to each other can't be, not yet. Thank you for your little entourage of stuffed animals, of which at least one (usually Pooh) must be present at all times. And definitely thank you for stuffing all your food in my mouth, even if it was in your mouth first. No, I'll never let that be forgotten.

I am thankful for the rest of my family. You've all been so supportive, honest, and vulnerable, and I cannot begin to say how blessed I am for it. Thank you for being willing to work through all the crap that normally destroys families, and for being a large part of why it didn't destroy us. Most people I know roll their eyes at least once when they mention their family. I'm not one of those folks, and I'm so grateful for that.

I am grateful for Andy, who should honestly be credited as editor of this blog. I probably should do that more often. You've read most of the crap that winds up on here, and given feedback that is invaluable. Thank you for being honest, even if it means crushing some ideas mid-sentence, and for keeping this grumpy hermit of the wider trends of gaming, even when I really don't want to know. You keep me honest and good on this blog, and in general.

Thank you to whoever reads this bloody blog. Y'all know who you are. Thanks for sticking around. I hope I keep going. Don't let me stop.

Thank you to Luke Crane and Jonathan Ying, who have made my favorite games. Games are important, and y'all's games are particularly important to me.

I could go on.

And on.

And on.

And on.

There is so much to be thankful for, so much so that one can honestly spend the rest of one's life doing it.

I should try it.

Join me?