Ephrem Christopher Walborn

3 Displays on Linux

2008-12-31T22:32:30Z

At work I'm beginning to take on more than just IT--for better or worse I'm starting to learn the GIS world and I'm learning some CAD. I have a couple problems here. I have a good workstation: Sun Ultra 24 with dual Intel Core 2 Quads @ 2.40GHz and 8GB of RAM. That's not a problem. But I need a 64-bit operating system to use all that power. And my CAD and GIS software is, unfortunately, Windows only. (We are locked into Autodesk and ESRI... don't argue with me, it's the way it is for now, though I'm trying to use as much FOSS as possible.) Vista 64? Not a chance. See... actually I tried it. Although Civil3D and ArcGIS are both supposedly Vista 64-bit compatible, they aren't really. Things break. Things crash. Things go bump hourly. Hourly. I don't like force quitting and restarting these programs hourly. XP 64? Maybe. I haven't tried it, honestly. I didn't want to attempt it only to find out that there are still 64-bit gotchas. So... what am I doing?

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We're All Mad Here...

2008-09-19T21:05:42Z

As the devil sticks his flag into the mud
Mrs Carol has run off with Reverend Judd
Hell is such a lonely place
And your big expensive face will never last
...
We're all mad here
—Tom Waits

What follows is an excerpt from an email conversation. It's rough and stream-of-consciousness. It's certainly not a carefully crafted political position statement. My first thought was to hold off on posting this until I could take the time to reorganize, polish, re-write, polish, edit, polish, start over from scratch, polish, etc. ad nauseum. Best intentions, however, get nothing done when you are me. So. It stands as is. Incomplete. Incoherent. Incontinent. Erm... anyway.

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I sought him whom my soul loves...

2008-07-28T17:09:03Z

I have been absent from the Orthodox Church for most of 4 years, which means that I have been absent from her for longer than I was present. And yet Orthodoxy has an undeniable claim on me. After four years of avoiding the Church, of wrestling with complex waves of longing, despair, and mistrust of Orthodoxy in America I have arranged a meeting with my old priest, now retired, to see how I can set my relationship with the church to rights. From this step alone I have experienced an amount of peace.

In coming to Orthodoxy, I was responding to an entirely new landscape, a new view of heaven and of the Kingdom of God which completely transcended any experience I had known prior to this. And yet, as I became Orthodox, as I joined myself with Orthodoxy I failed. For a long time I battered myself against an impassable obstacle -- I tried to be Orthodox through thinking and to some extent through doing. It became a framework upon which to hang my life, with which to identify myself, all the while I was growing increasingly despondent as I experienced one devastating disillusionment after another.

In my recently renewed zeal for the Church, for God as made present within the Church, it suddenly dawned on me -- I habitually "nest"; I almost obsessively surround myself with Orthodox "things" books, music, icons, prayers. It is as if I am trying to find God through the addition of things, a sort of spiritualization by acquisition and accumulation. And yet, all these things, however good they may be, do not make God more present to me. It is as if I am blindly groping and grasping at straws, trying to force God to be present to me, or to force myself to be present to Him. And in realizing this, I realize that at the core of all this is a deep and insatiable longing to be aware of God, to be assured of His love for me, to be assured of His goodness and his involvement with the world, to find myself not an alien to Him, not at odds with Him. I long for peace, for a sense of His love. I long for His presence.

There are moments when I feel blessed, when I feel the immediacy of God, his immanence. And yet, most often, he seems to me to be a concept, an abstraction, a possibility, an idea to be considered. Those moments when God "appears" seem to be at odd moments, completely beyond my grasp, completely beyond my ability to control. The rest of the time it is as if I was groping aimlessly, looking for something lost, misplaced. It is as if, on my own, my faith is still intellectual and emotional, psychological, but at moments the reality of God exhibits itself. How can I have more of God without self delusion? How does one go beyond psychology and moral, pious actions? How does one become truly a child of God?

I read a great deal of Mother Theresa's letters in Come Be My Light and have to admit that after a while I grew sick of it, despondent with her darkness, self-accusation, self-hatred. She was convinced of God almost, as it were, through her own doubt and darkness. I put it away. Her darkness and conviction spurred her on to great works of love and charity. But I can only think that it's all rather beside the point when God seems so far off, so distant and vague. So dark.

By night on my bed,
I sought him whom my soul loves.
I sought him, but I didn't find him.
I will get up now, and go about the city;
In the streets and in the squares I will seek him whom my soul loves.
I sought him, but I didn't find him.
The watchmen who go about the city found me;
"Have you seen him whom my soul loves?"
I had scarcely passed from them,
When I found him whom my soul loves.
I held him, and would not let him go,
Until I had brought him into my mother's house,
Into the chamber of her who conceived me.
I adjure you, daughters of Jerusalem,
By the roes, or by the hinds of the field,
That you not stir up, nor awaken love,
Until it so desires.

When he is found -- how do we not let him go? When he makes himself present in our lives, how do we hold on to that closeness? How does one grasp at light so that darkness remains at a distance? How do we keep our souls from retreating back into the abyss?

Update: For those of you who care, I've been back in church for a while now (today is September 19, 2008). I've found a parish I'm can live in. A place to put some roots. I'm glad to be back. I'm glad that being back, I am not what I was before I left.

Christ the Conqueror of Hell

2008-07-25T22:41:09Z

I came across Bishop Hilarion Alfeyev's essay "Christ the Conqueror of Hell" at Father Stephen Freeman's blog Glory to God for All Things and decided it was too long to read online. So I typeset it in XeTeX.

PDF: Christ_the_Conqueror_of_Hell.pdf

Source: Christ_the_Conqueror_of_Hell.tex

Oh Hell...

2007-02-10T03:24:16Z

A couple emails about hell. The context was that the world is becoming worse as people lose their fear of hell.

The emphasized sections in brackets are a summary of my correspondent's statements.

I've kept quiet in this thread up until now. And honestly, I really am hesitant to say anything. But I will say a short word.
Fear of hell doesn't inspire love for God. Fear of hell inspires a self-oriented desire to protect one's self. Christ was far more than a fire insurance salesman. Yes, Christ talks about gnashing of teeth. Yes, he says that he shall say, "Depart from me for I never knew you." I'm not trying to squeeze past an uncomfortable truth. At each point Christ spoke the word of healing that his hearer needed. Often it was a word of forgiveness and compassion. But it was also frequently a challenging word, a word to crush the idols of our minds.
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New Photo: Flora

2006-03-26T21:03:35Z

( Click for larger image )

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons NonCommercial Sampling Plus 1.0 License.

Which art film are you?

2006-03-09T18:25:59Z

You are Andrei Tarkovsky's Solaris. You are recovering from personal loss and trying to come to grips with the reality that the person you love most is gone from this world. You want more than anything to feel love and will even venture out into the furthest reaches of space to have this void filled.

Ultimately, you have hope for the future and an undying faith.

Which Classic Art Film Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

But is it art?

2006-03-03T04:29:32Z

I received this in my email today. It is astoundingly confrontational, provocative, titilating. Is it art?

Caveat emptor!

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Terrence Malick's The New World

2006-01-28T21:41:41Z

I took my dad to see Malick's The New World today. I'm already trying to figure out when I can go see it again before it leaves the theaters. It's a beautiful film.

Malick's way of telling a story is just as far removed from the "serious" dialog driven films as it is from flashy, fast paced action films. His films tell their stories through image and through time. What dialog exists is minimalistic -- the most meaningful words of his films are delivered in meditative voice overs, which speak from the inner thoughts of the characters.

Some people are challenged by it, or frustrated, because of the lack of action and the lack of dialog. But I wonder if the same people grow impatient when sitting in the woods and contemplating the life around them, or even by laying in a hammock and watching the clouds pass. The movie is something like that, something between laying in a field and just being aware of all that's around you and sitting in a museum in front of your favorite painting, considering it, meditating on it for a few sweet hours.

Take some time while The New World is still in the theaters -- take some time to be quiet and just watch. Forget thinking, forget figuring out meaning -- just be present to the film. You'll find yourself richly rewarded.

This is for you... (you know who you are)

2006-01-25T21:59:18Z

Cáitlín according to the IPA:

ˈkɔɪtˌlɪən

Blood for Sale

2006-01-18T22:52:27Z

[This was originally posted as a comment at bigsleepj's lj.]

When I was in college I went to this little place that would buy your blood. Yes, indeed. I sold my blood -- actually my blood plasma, if you want to get technical. The first time around they gave you $25. After that they'd give you $15. I used it to buy books. Not books I needed for school, but books for entertainment. Yeah. I was that hard up for money and entertainment.

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Film-o-rama

2006-01-18T18:00:31Z

[This is just a placeholder for the post that is to come.]

Beginning with last Thursday (January 12) I managed to watch 4 movies and parts of 1 other this last weekend -- I don't count that monstrous piece of shite from Disney called, Hercules... and no, I don't care that the critics all liked it.

Here they are:

Rashômon, 1950, Akira Kurosawa
The Lower Depths (Donzoko), 1957, A.K.
Red Beard (Akahige), 1965, A.K.
Ugetsu monogatari, 1953, Kenji Mizoguchi
Ikiru, 1952, A.K.

Having watched these five incredible films, you'd think -- at least I do -- that I should have something to say about them. When I figure out what that is, I'll finish this post. So, yeah, this is a teaser, and a carrot for me to actually post something.

A Love Supreme

2005-11-11T19:53:34Z

Swingo ergo sum.

tuirgin: I watched Branford Marsalis and his band do Coltrane's A Love Supreme. From the time it started I was weepy. I was literally choking back sobs and had that clenched throat thing going—I was sucking it back because my dad was watching it with me. I had to do that throughout the whole 50 minutes.

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Narcissus and Echo: translations compared

2005-10-28T20:49:20Z

Just inside the cut, Martin and Mandelbaum face off in what should be an exhilerating match of prowess and manhood. Let's join the action already in progress…

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Frailty, thy name is woman!

2005-10-27T22:40:33Z

Tuirgin: how short a time the fire of love endures in woman
if frequent sight and touch do not rekindle it.
Purgatorio VIII.77-78, trans. Hollander

shishno2: quite.

Tuirgin: Whoever said, "Absence makes the heart grow stronger," was a blubbering idiot. Or else a woman writing to a man away at war, trying to convince him she was not writing from the bed of his crippled best friend with hands that lit her on fire.

shishno2: mark twain?

Tuirgin: He said that?

shishno2: no, i thought you were quoting

Tuirgin: Oh. No. That's just me. I'll take that as a compliment. :D

shishno2: heh

Tuirgin: You've made me proud... I'm going to post the last little bit. :P

shishno2: what hath I wreaked?!

Thought Thrusting Ahead Of Thought

2005-10-20T19:12:27Z

A bit of Dante's Purgatorio that really caught my attention yesterday. Dante and Virgil are climbing Mt. Purgatory, and are passing by the negligent or lazy. Canto 5, verses 10–21; I quote the Mandelbaum translation.

Virgil speaks:

"Why have you let your mind get so entwined,"
my master said, "that you have slowed your walk?
Why should you care about what's whispered here?

Come, follow me, and let these people talk:
stand like a sturdy tower that does not shake
its summit though the winds may blast; always

the man in whom thought thrusts ahead of thought
allows the goal he's set to move far off—
the force of one thought saps the other's force."

Could my reply be other than "I come"?
And—somewhat colored by the hue that makes
one sometimes merit grace—I spoke those words.

…always / the man in whom thought thrust ahead of thought / allows the goal he's set to move far off— / the force of one thought saps the other's force.

…sigh…

Those Crazy Classics

2005-10-20T18:37:37Z

This had me laughing out loud at one point, and I just thought I should share it with all of my 1½ readers.

The following excerpt is from Charles Martin's translation of Ovid's Metamorphoses, Book I, the first section on Jove & Io. Io by now has already been turned into a cow by Jove and she's fled and is licking her father's hand and begins to cry. I take up with line 896:

If words would just have come, she would have spoken,
telling them who she was, how this had happened,
and begging their assistance in her case;
but with her hoof, she drew lines in the dust,
and letters of the words she could not speak
told the sad story of her transformation.
"Oh, wretched me," cried Io's father, clinging
to the lowing calf's horns and snowy neck.
"Oh, wretched me!" he groaned. "Are you the child
for whom I searched the earth in every part?
Lost, you were less a grief than you are, found!
"You make no answer, unable to respond
to our speech in language of your own,
but from your breast come resonant deep sighs
and—all that you can manage now—you moo!
"But I—all unaware of this—was busy
arranging marriage for you, in the hopes
of having a son-in-law and grandchildren.
Now I must pick your husband from my herd,
and now must find your offspring there as well!
"Nor can I end this suffering by death;
it is a hurtful thing to be a god,
for the gates of death are firmly closed against me,
and our sorrows must go on forever."

I can see this all in my head—tragic, farcical. It makes me think of British humor. Poor Io, seduced by Jove, is then turned by the king of gods into a cow so that Juno doesn't catch him with his godly knickers down. Io's beautiful voice is now a bovine "moo". She catches up with dear old dad, and is crying and seeking solace and sympathy, and all dad can think about is grandkids, be they gods or cattle. Hillarious! Poor him—he even wishes he could die, meanwhile she's stuck in the shape of a heifer. Moo.

Martin, Charles, trans. Metamorphoses. New York: W.W. Norton & Co., 2005. 41-42.

Rising From The Deeps

2005-10-07T02:18:40Z

To read only children's books, treasure
Only childish thoughts, throw
Grown-up things away
And rise from deep sorrows.

I'm tired to death of life,
I accept nothing it can give me,
But I love my poor earth
Because it's the only one I've seen.

In a far-off garden I swung
On a simple wooden swing,
And I remember dark tall firs
In a hazy fever.

—Osip Mandelshtam
[trans. James Green]
(4) 1908

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A Review: Hunting and Gathering Heaven

2005-09-17T01:38:22Z

Poems by David Athey

Paperback: 58 pages
Publisher: Bellowing Ark Press, Shoreline, WA, 2000
ISBN: 0944920373
To order the book contact David directly at davidathey@hotmail.com

Hunting and Gathering Heaven is a thin little book. It is light. Light in weight, obviously, and light in tone. But more significantly, it is light in the sense of being luminous.

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Facing Outward

2005-09-08T03:11:39Z

Over the last week I have been a part of a rather interesting series of exchanges that spanned four different weblogs (unos, dos, tres, catorce... Turn it up loud, captain!). A joke: An Orthodox and an emergent drag a Baptist into a bar. Ba-da-boom!

The engagement started over the strong position that the Baptists took against the use of contemplative prayer at a church camp. The prayer as practiced apparently followed the book, Soul Shaper, by Emergent-U.S. National Coordinator, Tony Jones. Jared Moore, Jeff Wright, and others voiced an intense disapproval of contemplative prayer for a variety of reasons—the alleged association with transcendental meditation and/or the adoption of, as one writer put it, "pagan Catholic prayers" among others—and I started out by chiming in with a defense of contemplative prayer as practiced by the Catholics and Orthodox.

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The Jerusalem Bible: My New Favorite Translation

2005-09-07T02:31:42Z

I have been reading the bible for most of my life. I grew up on the King James Version, the NIV, and the NASB. I could read it and understand what I was reading, but somehow it was all rather technical. I would read and semi-consciously annotate, categorize, and analyze the text in my head—this speaks to this doctrine, that to this, I wonder if this could mean… And so when I came to a point at which I was starting to realize that I couldn't simply read the Bible I started thinking about how I could rediscover it—to somehow start over again, to read it as if I'd never seen it. It was right about that time that the New Testament portion of Eugene Peterson's The Message came on the scene. I picked up a friend's copy and started to read it. To some degree it worked for me. It was… fresh. Whether it was fresh as in, "ahhhh, the fresh country air," and "oh, my, what fresh tomatoes these are," or a little more like, "don't get fresh with me, young man," I really couldn't make up my mind. I eventually decided that The Message needed a subtitle:The Message: According to the Beat Poets. Ok, so maybe I'm being unfair—I respect what Peterson was attempting to do. But I simply couldn't get away from the sense that it was just a wee bit (ever heard of "English understatement?") too idiosyncratic for my tastes. No, the gospel writers were not Homer, but were they really hip? Ok, so maybe "hip" is the wrong word…"chatty"?

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Words from an old friend

2005-08-11T17:10:58Z

Last night I dreamed that Christopher who is now not going by that name but it kills me to try to call someone a different name arrived here unexpectedly. In the dream I cried and cried and cried - and NOT because I was sad. I wonder if that dream might one day come true? But I'll try not to cry.
link

Voice from the past
So you called tonight. How long? Six years? It doesn't seem possible. Spur of the moment drives to Leavenworth, arguments in the kitchen, dinners eaten on the floor in front of your computer. Six years ago? More? Unthinkable. Your voice still sounds the same and can still lull me into that same complacency that says let's just drop the important and do the urgent; fly far from here. No, it's awareness into which you lull me. I know how quickly nine months pass and six years of silence take their place. Maybe seven. I haven't yet counted. Long time. I do read. I do lie on the grass and think sometimes. Not often enough, you'd say.
Your voice brought back so many good memories. I wish you to return.
Tears aren't always bad, young upstart. This post is for you. I raise my glass to you. The contents are unworthy, but the gesture means the same. Here's to you. To you coming home one day. To friendships that do not yield to the pressures of time. To loving forever. To understanding. To your mood not being my responsibility, but my concern. Here's to you. To children being a direct deposit by God Himself into the eternal bank account of our soul. To the means by which they are acquired being a non-issue. To life. Where there's life, there's hope. I will pray that God smiles on you and grants you a speedy end to trouble. God bless you. God bless you. God fill you with hope. God fill you with life.
link

C.S. Lewis once gave the advice to never move away from one's friends. Good advice, that. A few simple words from a long-time friend, one who knows me as only a few others do, and the world is disassembled and rearranged. Home is where? A locality? An emotional frame of reference? A state of the heart? It is hard to be out of the presence of those one loves and by whom one is loved, even as one is in the presence of other loves. The heart yearns for home even as one is already home. In this life there is too much division—space and time are too real. Love is made more poignant by loss and longing. And all these words are so much static of the soul, the heart, as interpreted by the mind. There is only one faithful expression of all of this: I sigh.