"I took for Italy to be my fatherland/ And my descent is from all-highest Jove."  Aeneid Bk I

"So please, no more of these appeals that set us both afire. I sail for Italy not of my own free will." Aeneid Bk IV

"For the rest, Italy was mostly an emotion and the emotion naturally centered in Rome."  The Education of Henry Adams      

"...to young men seeking education in a serious spirit, taking for granted that everything had a cause, and that nature tended to an end, Rome was altogether the most violent vice in the world..."  The Education of Henry Adams

"...for no one, priest or politician, could honestly read in the ruins of Rome any other certain lesson than that they were evidence of the just judgements of an outraged God against all the doings of man. " The Education of Henry Adams

"And so we went toward Rome."  Acts 28:14

"To all who are in Rome, beloved of God, called to be saints: Grace to you and peace from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ"  Romans 1:7

I will see you all soon. God bless.

     When a woman is heartbroken her cup fills to the brim, spills, germinates, fills agian, evolves into a different shape, bubbles and spews, foams; all this until it is finally poured out. The cup of bitterness is drained and for the most part empty. She may suffer  for a while and it may be a long while and it will be terrible, but she is done with her grief.  When a man is heartbroken he takes his cup while it is overfilling and places the strongest lid he can find on top of it. He then throws it into the sea of half consciousness and disregard. And there it will float and be tossed and perchance sink into some deep abyss just beyond memory, but still alive in dreams and not yet into forgettfulness. If a storm comes and the psyche is tossed and turned, and the self is foamed with the the rising sub-conciousness carrying with it such force that the concious is shoved to the deep, then his cup may appear again. It will be full and have had time to fester. Perhaps only the remembrance of what is in the cup will be brought to the man. This is what he hopes. But in the storm, if the cup is tossed hard enough, if the winds are blown too fierce, then the cup risks being dashed upon the shore of memory, and if it bursts, the grief and pain will spread through the shore drowning all else. Like when a child builds a sand castle on the beach in the warm afternoon, the moat extending just out of reach from the sea, and the high tide comes and washes away the castle saddening the dilligent child; so too will the man's memory be if flooded from the cup of his grief. For all our reason and logic the womans way seems best. Let us be done with the pain. Turn, face it; grip the wormwood with our teeth and chew until we have swallowed. Is there really anyother way to move on?

I once met a man who spoke with God. I was at a Christian camp in Latvia when a man came and spoke about his experiences in a Siberian prison camp. He was a very old man, and had that musty, urine, attic smell that men get when they reach a certain age. He was thrown into a Siberian prison camp during the Soviet Union for being a Christian. I really don't remember the details of his internment in Siberia: I am sure he spoke about being very cold and hungry and abused, and I remember him talking about using a bucket that sat in the middle of the sleeping area for a toilet. What he shared that day has fled my memory, yet seeing him speak left such a deep impression on my soul that it was as though a hot brand was pressed hard against the soft muscle of my heart and the marks were burnt so thoroughly as to never fade. What impressed me was his prayer. Like his message I don't remember the details of his prayer other than it wasn't particularly eloquent or impressive--nor was it terribly long. But when he prayed it seemed as though he ascended the heights of Mt. Sinai in order to reach God, and from the demeanor of his face it was as though God had descended from His throne in heaven to meet him midway between the earth and the sky. When he prayed he smilledspoke with a grin that was neither humorous nor disrespectful. He showed his few remaining teeth (those remaining were capped in silver and gold) when he conversed with God and his whole visage portrayed the paradoxical elements of a man talking with his best friend or wife and a grasshopper talking with the infinite. He was overjoyed and terrified; love struck, bold and groveling in the same instance. Though no visible light radiated from his face in the cold and cluttered tent where he prayed from, his face seemed to shine like Moses' after he left the presence of Yahweh in the inner tent. It was as though he understood God more fully than most do; like he had spent countless hours talking and arguing with Him so that he understood how immense and personal God is.  After he prayed and we were dismissed from our seats I rushed to the front to shake hands with him. Although his breath reeked and his hands were leathery I felt like I had met the patriarch Abraham or one of the Apostles.

Maybe the old man was crazy from all the months spent in the harsh Siberian prison camp and what I saw were the fantasies of a deranged and ill-starred man talking with his own imagination. Perhaps he spoke to his dog the way he prayed; maybe he thought he was speaking to his dog that day in Latvia. While this is very possible and I have no real proof that he wasn't crazy (he seemed coherent enough) I can only testify that when he prayed he was not only lifted to the heights of Sinai, but everyone in the tent seemed to rise with him in one glorious accord, and God seemed to descend His throne to meet us and talk with us and comfort us like we had also spent are lives in some cold and destitute Siberian prison camp and He wanted to rescue us like the old smelly man had been rescued. Then of course all of us could have been crazy.

nsm

 I remember wanting to be an Indian Chief when I was younger. I once saw a western on television where the Chief wore a loin clothe, a massive and intricate bone necklace and a crown of sorts made from colorful feathers. The Chief would walk around and greet all the white men by raising his right hand like he was under oath and say "how"  with a placid, expressionless look on his face like the very stones that composed the mountains where his tribe roamed. I surmised that the interjection "how" had much more depth to it in Indian language then the bland English equivalent "hello". "How" was not only a way for the chief to greet the white men, but was also a way for the chief to criticize and curse the the often contradictory policies that the Anglos had with his tribe: it said "Who do you think you are stealing our land, buffalo, squalls and pretty ponies?" At any rate as a kid I would walk up to my friends and family and rather then say hello, I like the brave and tragic Indians would say "how": of course with the sternest expression possible for an eight year old.  I still sometimes resurrect the greeting when "hello" does not convey the amount of passions and feelings that I think are appropriate for the moment. I think that "how" is a liquid term changing shapes in various circumstances. Its meaning cannot be fully understood by the receiver; in fact it is rarely fully understood by the one employing the term. It carries with it the depth and burden of the self conscious actualized in one quick and enigmatic word and gesture. So, to you my fellow Xanga land friends and tribesmen I do not say "hello", but "How!"

One minor note: The correct spelling of "how" has troubled linguists for well over a century. The reasons are 1) very few Indian tribes had a written language 2) the pronunciation varied so much between different tribes. The tribes in the South generally lengthened the vowel in "how". A more appropriate spelling of the southern version would be "hauw". Many speculate that the term "Howdy" has its origins from "hauw".  The tribes in the Northeast pronounced the greeting so quickly and loudly that many linguists had to ask them to repeat the phrase before they understood what was being yelled at them. Many of the so called Italians in New York City are actually hidden Native Americans; afraid of their past heritage and lured to Italian culture by the tastes of garlic and canoli's and the looks of Italian women. Those Indian tribes who bordered Canada generally pronounced "how" more like "who", but they were quickly forgiven this minor blunder in intonation on account of living so closely to those grand mis-pronouncers and promulgators of such dubious terms as "ay". Those in the Midwest, well...they did not say very many discernable words. I choose to use the spelling that most closely mirrors the majority of the various tribes pronunciations, and which I first heard one fine summer evening on a 1950's western.

nsm

   "Judge not, that you not be judged. For with what judgement you judge, you will be judged; and with the measure you use, it will be measured back to you" Matthew 7

 There are two different and very polemical interpretations to this important passage in scripture. They can be divided into two camps (as most things are now it seems) the conservative approach and the liberal approach. The former seems to disregard the passage entirely. Judgement becomes interchangeable with justice and is dealt regardless of circumstances or persons. The latter posits that any prohibitive statement is judgement coming from an old Puritan vein left in some very backward, bible thumping legalists. What may actually be an attempt to save someone from trouble and self destruction is seen as an infringement upon individuals rights. Both parties misinterpret the scripture. In the sermon on the mount where this passage is found, Jesus is speaking on the issues of the heart. Murder and Adultery are displayed not as mere external actions but conditions and temperaments of the soul.  This passage on not judging is properly understood within the context of Jesus' insistence on the heart of man. You cannot judge a man's heart. You do not know what sort of internal conflicts are pressing in and around your brother, nor do you know the work that the Lord is doing to refine and break him. He might be actually moving towards the light away from greater darkness. We can warn and rebuke, but we cannot judge. Though my brothers eyes are full of many specks, planks dwell in my own eye. Jesus is telling us to be humble, to not be so self-assured of our own goodness so as to compare ourselves with others. Remember the Pharisees were the ones who seemed moral, yet Christ praises the publicans and the whores.  I only know myself (and I know it very poorly) how can I claim to know the heart of my brother?

Of course you know all of this. I have for a while. I may boast of my knowledge, but in practice, in experience-- the gignosko knowledge which implies a fuller knowledge then the intellect can provide--I deal judgement like a used car salesman sells Cadillacs.  On the other hand when others gently rebuke me for a particular fault, I not so kindly remind them that it is not right to judge. My hermeneutics become subject to the whim of fancy and self service. But I am being broken again and again. Maybe I will learn?