Latin proffer

Well, it has been quite some time since my last entry, something which has been bothering me of late and towards which I now attempt to make ammends.

The following are just a few digital copyies of journal entries and poems I have written over the last few months. Its my hope that these will be of use to those few readers of this blog, interested in the details of life and living in "The Savior." Barring any latent catastrophies or laziness, I hope to post a few others soon which will ellaborate on that theme.

So I hope you all enjoy!

journal entry dated 10/26/09

A preferential option for the poor. A worthy pursuit for one’s life, a guiding force for one who cannot identify fully with with the profuse theos of the world, nor be fully satiated with the gaping uncertainties inherent in ology. Indeed, it has been startlingly refreshing and empowering to lend one’s self to such pursuits. Paradoxically, one might say, as I can’t imagine a struggle more difficult, a challenge more endemic and pervasive with suffering and grief, or so deeply entrenched, and ultimately, destined to fail. But if my experiences over the past 19 months have thought me anything, it is that eminent failure is no reason at all to stay some attempt against. Indeed, to think justly would be a self-fulfilling prophecy, as would political slothfulness for conviction that one’s voice is unable to incite change. Absurdly, we hope to indemnify ourselves from the suffering of failure, embarrassment; what ever it is that restrains our better selves. And in so doing, we succeed in nothing more than the perpetuation of suffering; a self fulfilling prophecy.

Truly, as theos of the East contest, life is suffering. This is not intended for the masochists, sadists and pessimists, or a truism satisfying the dejected, despondent, or downhearted, to acquiesce defeatism or negativity, quite the contrary. Name some worthy (or for that matter, unworthy) pursuit in life and I will provide you with a catalog of pains to which one must submit in its attainment.

journal entry dated 11/11/09

I was on medical brigade today in Carisal. By all accounts a relatively tranquil day, though the north winds began to pick up in the early afternoon, near about mid-day. In fact, poetically minded as I have recently been, these gusts seemed to me a rebuke to the early mornings beginning; a reminder of the perceptions of time and the speed (or languor) with which all things change.

And a foreboding of things to come…

An elder of the village, we were informed, had recently fallen ill and now lay bedridden and coughing flem. We ate a hasty late lunch, as is our wont on Tuesdays, before setting off to Señor’s home. Arriving, we were greeted by a cavalcade of family members, come form all directions on news of Señor’s convalescences.

With taking of vitals and medical history, it soon became apparent that he had suffered a stroke, his entire right side paralyzed. It had been just 36 hours hence. He was also producing considerable sputum, which he more than once turned to spit from the bed to the floor beside him. There was a noticeable rasping wheeze with each labored breath. He had great difficulty speaking, much of the sounds he produced being unintelligible.

On his face was the look of fear and depression, battling with a resignation to his last days on this earth. He was well into his seventies, and apparently had sufficient time in his waning years to consider his own death.

We were asking him what he wanted to do: remain in his home, his community, which in his more youthful years had undoubtedly been loath to leave, and were he presently faced a near certain decline in health and death; or leave this modest house, go from the warming embrace of his considerable extended family which now crowded the room and looked down on him pityingly; place his life in the hands of a new and different world to him; forgo his fear of science and compartmentalize his faith in God, for a chance to improve his carnal condition. In the end, and after much cajoling and coercion, he conceded to be carried from his bed, shoeless and soiled as his children, nieces and nephews, grandchildren, brothers, mothers, sisters and fathers-in-law looked on. A proud man, strong in his youth, now prostrate to the indignities of age and infirmity. For he is not ready to die…

The Oppressed His Burden

His life of pittances and hard toil

Is of’t bereft of necessities met.

But onward still he plods in persistence

Phased not by grave challenges he ‘ever meets.

He seems to retain some vague understanding

Of the injudicious confines of his

Life, which bare him up to the elements;

Callous, cold, unfeeling, unforgiving.

Nevertheless, he appears unconcerned

As though resigned to the manner of his

Paltry existence; habituated

To the standards of so meager a lot.

Indeed one might believe it to be so

Were he not to consider their true plight,

By nature imposed and by man maintained.

As much by his fellow as by himself.

For thus his burden will be recognized

As a plant let to take root in poor soil,

Resplendent with blooms or pride and beauty,

Does soon fester in root and succumb

To it’s end without intervention.

Unwilling of itself\ or unable

And without the support of it’s neighbor

There is but little chance for survival.

The loathed Visitor

It is not but frenemy, as it were.

Welcomed begrudgingly, as with all else.

Known for decades well to the olds and wise,

Having paid visit to their families

Since time immemorial. And Children

So curious to know their circumstances

Of being, do soon come to learn about

Their omnipresent neighbor, the reaper.

It works not with malice, they know or soon

Find, but with fate and odds it’s faithful dice.

And they with scant resources to protect

Or prosper, with nerves wrought of iron hard,

Do make with a willful submissiveness

All the rights of hospitality to it.

Obliging their visitors dark shadow

With but indulgence, and so with themselves.

Condition

We are told it is but Human.

Collusion of the masses to tear down

That which proves an obstacle to himself.

Monitary amelioration,

Jackles cavorting over shadowed carcass

Only just aware of prey’s suffering/

Inured by isolated existence,

Placated by natures distinct cycle,

Wanting to stay their hand, if but for

Exacerbation of his own creature

discomforts…