Gospel Chorus: Not My Father's Hymnody

Monday, October 20:
In gospel chorus, the instructor (the choirmaster in that church for me will always be Michael Secour) informed us that each of us would have the opportunity to compose a verse of the one of the songs and that each of us would sing that verse in performance while the others provided the chorus. This announcement filled me with trepidation. Although I have trod the stage before (once in a dress), being a bass (moved to tenor due to paucity) has not prepared me for front-and-center cantation. I remained skeptical and anxious throughout the practice until I received the sheet music for the piece. I must admit, the worry of composing took some of my mind away from learning the song. The analytic part of my mind has a tendency to overwhelm the part following my line. Then I discovered the part which I had been analyzing in order to have a template for the portion I was going to have to make up was not the verse: it was the chorus! The words to the verse were “ooh ooh ooh ooh ooh ooh ooh ooh ah ah”. After a brief demonstration of how the melody went (at least I didn’t have to try matching a tenor line on my own!), we received fifteen minutes to work on our verse. The lines in mine were shorter and (perhaps) less intellectual than those of some others, but I prefer shorter lines in song composition (I have composed lyrics before, for both poems and songs, just not under such a deadline) and longer lines in prayer composition. I’m still finessing the lyrics, but I do feel less apprehensive about a step-up role.

Thursday, September 17th

Thursday, September 17^th:

I took the 1 downtown, intending to study at the Mechanics’ Library for my class that evening. The first problem I worked on was a “spot the mistakes” type, the sort of newspaper puzzle I skip because I know I’ll never find all (however many) errors and just end up frustrated. I skipped to the algebraic and balance-sheet problems before returning.

I could feel my mind growing dull, so I finished up the problem on which I was working and hurried over to the Commonwealth Club to hear Christopher Buckley speak on his new book, Supreme Courtship. He is extraordinarily well-spoken, although I do wonder if he sometimes finds it hard to avoid the shadow of his father – he quoted him thrice in the course of his speech. The protagonist and antagonist of the novel inadvertently resemble Obama and Palin – the Palin analogy, in particular, couldn’t have been deliberate. I didn’t stay for the signing – I was being cautious with my available funds, especially since my bank was being particularly unhelpful with an ID problem – and returned to my studies.

I bought some analysis paper at Patrick & Co., because I did not want to have to type up everything for my homework. I ended up staring at it. I realized that I knew its use in theory, but I am so digitized that I’d never actually used special accounting paper despite spending a good deal of my time doing the very same tasks for which the paper was designed!

Later on, as I was walking to the Embarcadero Tully’s to use their wi-fi (the Mechanics’ Library has a one-hour limit), I came across a most extraordinary sign at the corner of Market and Front. A small plaque, embedded in the paving at the Market side of the corner, did not mark the scene of some sordid deed along the Barbary Trail, but asserted loudly and aggressively that the owners of the building also owned (part of?) the corner. I know that businesses often block off sections of sidewalk for construction purposes, but this proprietary claim seemed unduly aggressive.

After the class, which was interrupted by many questions about the current financial debacle, had ended, I traipsed back to the bus stop, where I met Addie, who attends Grace. We had a nice talk about Proposition H and legalizing gay marriage.

Journal Entry: August 25th, 2008

On Monday, I woke in my apartment in San Francisco. I did not go to Kaju, however, since Mom lured me over to her place (where I was going next anyway) with a fruit smoothie. I packed up all of Amy’s belongings which I could find, including some items I was reluctant to send back – the PanTech Duo and the Kensington Saddlebag in particular. I made note of these brands that I might purchase them later without the emotional attachment. I was particularly fond of the Saddlebag, because it was a satchel/backpack designed with the needs of laptop owner in mind. heading downtown to renew my me. Then I walked down to the bank to sort out certain matters. I had to return after leaving because I had forgotten my second item of business there. Then I took the bus downtown to sort out my memberships in the Commonwealth Club and the Mechanic’s Institute. On the bus, there was a dispute between an angry black man and an an angry Italian man. But it was the 1 California, not the 38 Geary, so there was no profanity or serious threat of violence.

I went to the Mechanics Institute first: I entered the lobby, which still retains its molding from an era in which buildings were designed ornately, instead of unadorned functionalty. The exterior decoration of the sealed former mail chute particularly pleased me.I jocularly saluted the doorman, and took the elevator to the fifth floor, where the membership office turned out to be closed for lunch, even though the sign on the door suggested that membership secretary ought to have been back.

I went back down, crossed the street, and ascended the escalator to the Commonwealth Club desk. This was more complicated than one might have expected, since the escalator which usually provided a descent was cordoned off and not working. I explained my problem to the woman behind the desk. When she saw my address, she asked me whether I had grown up in that neighborhood (she had). I said that I had lived in Presidio Heights. She’d gone to Convent, and turned out to Catherine Morris, younger sister of Michael Morris ’89, the class above me at Cathedral. The last time I could have ever seen her (if ever) was when her brothers were in school with me; she would have been nine at most, so it was no wonder I didn’t recognize her. It was extremely refreshing to have a conversation with someone with whom I shared a background. I also registered for the Pinker lecture on September 12^th. Although Pinker is a famous linguist, there is a distinct possibility that his writing skill exceeds that of his speaking. I can forgive that, if he’s less of a pompous ass than the late Steven Jay Gould.

I returned to the Mechanic’s Institute, but the door was still shut. By this time’s I’d been hungry for a while, so I decided to go to Lori’s Diner (right next to my dentist’s office!). The till was malfunctioning at Lori’s, so everything was being done manually. The principal waitress, a (justifiably, in this case) cross middle-aged woman from New Jersey, was frustrated with the inability of many patrons to pay with anything other than a credit card. I, of course, had some cash on me. My waitress was Yoana from Guatemala, although the first time I saw her tag, I thought her name was Yoana Guatemala. She was shorter and considerably younger and cuter than Ms New Jersey, although nowhere near as diminutive as the wife of my cousin’s brother and their tiny but precocious children.

After lunch, I first went to Border’s on Powell. I browsed for a while, searching in vain for anything by Naomi Kritzer (I still haven’t found the book she was writing when I last talked with her) and ended up buying Bryson’s Thunderbolt Kid. Then I returned to the Mechanic’s Institute, whose office was finally open. The woman behind .the desk kindly waivcd the replacement fee when she learned the previous one was stolen.

I returned by bus to my apartment, where I took an afternoon nap (because I could) after a brief stop and drink at Kaju to say hello. Then I walked over to my parents’ place, where Dad was recovering from his epidural he had received that morning. I mowed the lawn, but there was little I could do beyond basic maintenance, since it had been ruined by many weeks of workmen repairing and renovating the house. The brown rectangular patch marked quite clearly where the lumber had been placed. I later accompanied Mom to the nursery to carry plants and potting soil to Mom’s car. Mom and I went out for pizza at Georgio’s since Dad was not feeling well enough to go out, but we brought some back for him. Then I returned to my apartment and watched Comedy Central.

On Duty

The notion of Duty has fallen into disrepute among certain circles, who accuse it of being a hollow shell, an exterior manifestation of nothingness within. I am willing to concede that these individuals are not deliberately malicious, nor willfully blind to opinions other than their own. If they are, then this writing is futile, but if they are not, I hope that this response will enable them to understand more thoroughly the beliefs of others.

It is true that the performance of duty, the evidence available to skeptics’ eyes, is an external phenomenon. Performance, by its nature, must be exterior; even those engaged in prayer or meditation betray outwardly some little sign of their inward reverie. Even if the performance of duty demands an inconvenience incommensurate with mere appearance of dutifulness, some might say that there is an intestine void.

When someone states that to do something is their duty, it is not the external which receives emphasis, but rather the internal. Duty is a stronger word than job, which implies external coercion; if someone feels something is their duty, that is an internal impulse which finds an external release. If someone fails to fulfill whatever they believe to be their duty, that individual will feel guilty, an internal sensation.

Now it is true that on occasion, someone acts in ways that he or she does not feel inside at that time. Even this situation is not without value, if the external performance of duty is habitual. An action repeated many times becomes more fluid and more automatic, which again need not be a bad result if one takes the opportunity to internalize the reasons previously expressed with external actions. Indeed, the less one has to think about the action, the more one can focus on one’s own intention and will to action.

These are my thoughts and feelings on the matter. I am not a professional debater or philosopher, so dispute them if you like, but do not presume that your point of view is the only valid one.

Book Review: The Twelve Christ Chose

The Twelve Christ Chose, by Asbury Smith, 1958

I borrowed this book from the library of Saint James Episcopal, my parish church; its collection is miscellaneous and occasionally strays from selections one would expect in a Christian library, but often such a profusion allows the discovery of a rare tree of knowledge. The Twelve Christ Chose, by Asbury Smith, is one of those. Smith is an Methodist minister of his era; as such, he is more Protestant than many contemporary Episcopalians, yet does not display the reflexive hostility to any Catholic vestiges that contemporary Baptists might. His style is lucid, although non-native English speakers may suffer from some of his assumptions of vocabulary knowledge. It is no surprise that the model for his writing is the popular sermon, but the meat of the argument is generally sparing of Biblical quotes; in some cases, this dearth of direct Scripture is attributable to the scant material which the New Testament provides on the lesser-known apostles. He presents the apocryphal and historical material in a thorough but somewhat dry manner, perhaps enhanced in its original form by the inflections of the human voice.

The structure of the overall book is straightforward, and could serve as a textbook example of what I learned in school about essay composition, although the body of the book is much thicker than anything I have composed. Smith may well have composed, or at least revised, the introduction and conclusion after the completion of the series of sermons. The body of the book is divided into chapters, each one assigned to an apostle. Simon Peter naturally takes precedence in this series, but every one of the Twelve receives thorough and serious consideration. Each chapter opens with the collect for the appropriate saint on his feast day. Although these prayers are thematically linked with the chapter which follows, the archaic language may render them opaque to an audience unaccustomed to such formal and grammatically sinuous language. The material in the chapter weaves together several threads: the frequency and Biblical characterization of the apostle; the historical and social setting from which he came, which is assumed historical knowledge on the part of the Evangelists, but is now often obsolete; apocryphal sources and sources from ecclesiastical history, especially in the cases of the apostles about which very little is said in Scripture itself. It is worth noting that apocryphal in this context does not indicate falsehood or heresy, but rather material which is not part of the canon. Polycarp and Clement are excluded from the epistles for reasons of chronology, not of fidelity.

Dr. Smith’s intention in composing this series was the restoration of relevance to both clergy and laity of apostles who had faded, for the most part, into spectral visual companions of Christ. His thesis, that Christ chose the Twelve as his first followers and his successors in His ministry, suggests that the Twelve were chosen as individuals to whom we could compare ourselves and on whom we could model or avoid modeling ourselves. The secondary reliance on apocryphal texts and tales may cause discomfort to some, but this reliance is never weighted heavier than Scriputre when Scripture is available, and the audience would be wise to remember that the apocryphal tales are Christian tales intended for fellow Christians.

Dr. Smith presents an engaging and thought-provoking read, but I would caution against a too hasty reading of the material that allows omission or diminution of provocative and valuable details and examples. It might be suitable as a series of Bible-based discussions, and thus not far from its original genre. The collects at the beginning of each chapter, however, would require previous examination in order that a discussion group could understand the thematic significance of the collect.

Galatians 4: Better Never Born Into Slavery?

The talk of slave and free in the scripture reading from my programme makes me feel uncomfortable; although it would be absurd to read the word of God without considering the message, the message of a particular passage often discomfits the mind and heart. I am puzzled by the spiritual application of Galatians 4:27.

"Be glad, O barren woman,

who bears no children;

break forth and cry aloud,

you who have no labor pains;

because more are the children of the desolate woman

than of her who has a husband."

Within the immediate context of the comparison of Ishmael and Isaac (which, I noted, corresponds here to Jew and Christian rather than Jew and the not yet existant Muslim), the Judaizers are slaves who are persecuting the Christians who are free. Yet this quote from Isaiah appears to suggest that it would have been better for those who were born into slavery to have never been born. I agree with theis position, to extent that it applies to those born into slavery and never freed, but those who are freed through Christ could not have been freed if they had not been born, and that birth was - by default - into slavery.

In a way - and perhaps this is a misanalysis - the passage seems to say that never existing would be a better state than knowing God after the trials of slavery. I have had too many experiences where the freedom could be appreciated truly and freely only after the 'slavery' period to accept this statement without reflection.

Any of my Christian friends who could help me understand this passage better, your aid would be appreciated most sincerely.

Amy's Accident

Amy is tired of people asking her what happened, so here's the official story.
While Amy was crossing an intersection on her way to church, a van hit her from the left. She flew into the air. Fortunately, she landed closer to the sidewalk than the opposite lane. She did not lose consciousness. She did not break anything, but suffered scrapes and bruises. Many people rushed to help Amy when they saw she had been hit. Her guide dog Berta ran away and someone had to hunt her down. Berta was all right, but she did lose her claw sheathing and can still guide. The pastor's wife happened to be an MD and accompanied Amy to the ER for Amy's examination.

Keli El

I don't know how to redate this to the current date, so I'll just make a note that I'm writing this on Wednesday, February 20th. The actual date probably doesn't matter, anyway, given the topic. I am currently dating an evangelical, and our approaches to prayer are diametrically opposed. I will try to compare the two without appearing condescending or smug, and I certainly would appreciate any insight from other perspectives. For me, the default form of a prayer is a set of words and phrases handed down by tradition, into which the supplicant pours his content (a brief note: I acknowledge the inherent sexism of using the masculine pronoun, but the female is too specific, the neuter inaccurate and insulting, and the plural an abomination of grammar), while Amy appears to build the structure of the prayer on the spot, adding content organically.



Each of us, quite naturally, is most comfortable with the type most commonly used in our tradition.



The most obvious advantages of each form, in my opinion at least, are that the preformed prayer allows a coherent compression of the incoherent spiritual longing that so often overtakes those of us who are not blessed with the gift of poetry, while the forming prayer gives one much practice in the organization of one's thoughts. The disadvantages? The preformed prayer all too easily provides a cover empty mouthing of words, but the forming prayers in the mouth of an eloquent rhetor can appear positively Pharasaic in its showiness; even worse, one can come to believe that oral fluency in prayer is an indicator of your spiritual state.

Review: Speed the Plow

Last night, my father and I went to ACT to see David Mamet's Speed the Plow. The first worrying signs were my confusion over whether I had seen it before and my discovery upon perusing the programme that I had watched a filmed version of State and Main on the very same (that is, Mamet's only) theme. I know I'm not naive to the darkness of humanity (how could I be after reading the Greek tragedians?), so perhaps I have a less wizened soul than playwrights. The interaction of Fox and Gould was as manipulative as one might expect from Hollyword soulsuckers: the semantic emptiness of their banter did not surprise me, but slightly annoyed me. I prefer more meat in the dialogue. The "unfilmable" book seemed too extreme, but I am willing to concede the possibility that Mamet's need for dichotomy led to the ridiculous philosophy of the book and the absurd juxtaposition of genres (prison film, buddy film, romance) of the "good" script. The thing that hindered my enjoyment most of all, however, was the complete and utter lack of distinction between the characters of Fox, Gould, and Karen, and their clones in State and Main. If I had never seen anything by Mamet in any form, perhaps this play would have been eye-opening, but it provides no new insights to one who is not a Mamet virgin.

The Imber-or and I

My entire relationship with rain is sprinkled with contradictions. When I was growing up in San Francisco, I developed a fondness for the morning fog, which has the pleasant habit of remaining for a while, then dissipating. A continuous sheet has no immediately pleasant aspect, nor is the 'drought of March' desirable year-round. I have studied at St Andrews in Scotland and traveled to Newfoundland in Canada: on both occasions I found the fog and the wind commensurate with that of my own hometown. Now, after I have bought a business at Tahoe but remain in the City in the winter, my contradictory relationship with precipitation has grown stronger. When it rains in the City, it will often snow in the mountains. Many of our contracts involve removal of that same snow. The consequence of the conjunction of meteorology and my employ is that while I may suffer the sheeting rain and the treacherous invisible puddles that gather at the slopes of the crosswalks, I also profit from the more heavenly result of the rain that falls to the east of "America's Sodom" (a misinterpretation of the Bible, by the way) in the mountains where my brother and I once played. I no longer say "rain, rain, go away": not only because I am no longer a child, but also because I have come to appreciate the future benefits of a temporary inconvenience and obstacle.

Scum of Bhavata

I shall pass over my initial intent of describing the sea, the hills, and the star on the Flashlight hike on Saturday and go straight to the thing that has most bugged me and made me angry all day. I heard on NPR about Indian marriage scam artists (particularly Punjabis). This is the way it works. Those sexy (=rich, at least by provincial standards) Indians who work abroad (known hereinafter as non-resident Indians, or NRIs) place an ad for a bride. They demand a dowry, often one higher than the bride's family can reasonably afford, and then disappear. There are variants of this, including additional shakedowns and trapping the wife in a culture where she does not speak the language, but I have described the basic outline.

What angers me is not the practice of the dowry, nor the arranged marriage, but the habit of demanding an outlay greater than the bride's family can afford. I can understand the richer of the two families displaying their wealth, but making the poorer of the two poorer still stinks of malice. Of course, the Hindu system of castes seems to share that mindset. It's an aristocratic one - the Greek word 'kalos' means both 'good' and 'beautiful'. The one consolation, I suppose, is that these jilted brides do not seem to be blamed for their misfortune, nor are they branded of questionable morals, as I fear many rigid Western Christian societies would.

Aquae Veneris

I went to

A Thursday In Late November

What a strange world I live in! This Thursday I went over to Berkeley. Bruce had asked me to reformat a list of Eagle Court speakers, so I had my laptop with me. I set to, but soon discovered to my dismay that the list did not start at 1990, as I had supposed, but in 1984! I noticed a strong pattern of two relatives presenting the Oath and Charge - in one case, there were three brothers sharing one of the presentations! I did some Christmas shopping with Amy - super-bargain-hunting, of course - and then we took a pleasant walk across the Berkeley campus.

I attended a panel at the Commonwealth Club on the issue of privacy in modern society, especially online, a topic on which Amy had expressed no interest. But then, my parents have quite different interests. The panel included representatives of civil liberties, law enforcement, Google, and Facebook. The anecdotes and concerns ran the gamut, from the stupidity of the self-incriminating to the surprisingly nuanced definition of privacy among social network users.

Then Amy returned. We the Geary, which is indeed "dirty-eight" - I was glad that Amy did have to endure the sight of some of the undesirable elements. Such disdain and distrust may arise not so much from elitism as from the male's urge to protect his woman (a natural feeling, even if it appears sexist in this age). We went to a Chinese bible study on Euclid. The park there looks so decievingly flat on Google Maps! The Bible study seemed fairly mellow, but we were at a disadvantage because they were using a book and were halfway through it. I was the only "English" there.

USS Hornet Trip

So last weekend, I went on a trip with the Troop on the USS Hornet, the ship which picked up the Apollo 11 astronauts. I came over to Alameda, where the ship was berthed, with carload of Scouts and one other adult, and I shall say this even if it makes me appear old: when I was going on Scout trips as a Scout, Before we could even board (although it must said that we were slightly behind our own schedule, and the military schedule of the Hornet is unforgiving), the fire drill started. The crew presentation seemed to our boys (and I agree with their impressions) aimed squarely and exclusively at the Cub Scouts, although on this occasion there werre Boy Scouts and Girl Scouts as well. Our troop contingent bunked in the chief petty officers' quarters, on port side below the enlisted crewman's quarters. Dinner was regimented, but it was not possible for such a large group as ours was to sit together. The unhappy result was that one kid was left behind (briefly) at the mess.

The evening program consisted of self-guided tours of various areas of the ship, including navigation and the engine room. Each tour group, of course, had to include one adult to keep on eye on the boys (and in one case, girls) The flight deck was off-limits except to a few guided groups. The interior of the ship, at least those portions which were open, was a little disorienting, but then I do not have the best sense of direction and prefer to go back exactly the way I arrived. I would have preferred to spend more time in navigation and engineering, but i had to keep an eye on certain roustabouts. I and my group finally got to the flight deck tour. That was cool! I'm afraid the language of boyhood enthusiasm is the only one in which my feelings about the flight deck can find expression.

I was supposed to do the 5-7 watch, but the adults who were doing the 3-5 watch were so enthusiastic that they stayed unitl 6 and then decided to fill the remaining time themselves.

The Weekend

After a rather dull Friday, more notable for my contemplation of the Great San Francisco Bay Oil Spill rather than any particular work I accomplished. Mom and I went to ACT to see The Rainmaker, of which I had a vague memories due to a hazily remembered movie verison of the broadway version of the play. The performance was wonderful and piercing, ddep thoughts expressed in vivid language.



On Saturday, I had the first half of Scouting for Food, in which the Scouts hang the bags on the doors. This year, however, the bags had been replaced by door hangers in an attempt to reduce litter. The sky was beginning to cloud over. The cubs, a chief component of this outing, arrived late, and too few of our own were in attendance. I would have preferred to go with one of the Scout groups rather than sitting at Broadway and Lyon, but I accepted my role.



After the Closing Circle, I returned to Maple Street and Mom and I rushed over to Berkeley to see the CCA (California Classical Association) performance of Argonautika written by Mary Zimmerman. I found it remarkable how different yet equally true interpretations of a character such as Jason could be. There were occassional moments of pretentiousness. Theorizing in drama should be in character, and I found the zodiacal interpretation awkwardly presented. It also occurred to me that the figure of St Christopher may have more to do with Jason bearing Hera than the grim chthonic ferryman Charon.


Once the curtain had fallen, the rain had increased greatly. I went over to Another Change of Hobbit and picked up the copy of Donaldson's Fatal Revenant. Then I read it as I awaited the return of my beautiful Amy, for I had foolishly left my key in San Francisco. Initially, my plan was to got a certain restaurant along Shattuck, but Amy persuaded that she was tired and that I ought to get some food to eat in. So trudged through the rain and acquired the comestibles. She returned and we had dinner together.



This Sunday, Rod Dugliss spoke at St James on the state and office of the diaconate, to which I remember his appointment, Later, there was a sale of goods and trinkets to benefit Palestinian Christians, and I attended the last Via Media discussion, which was on mission (although not quite what Amy would mean by 'mission'). When I went to Kaju for coffee, Seiko was harried and Lindsey Berkovich was there with her husband.

A Berkeley Weekend

Saturday, I went over to Berkeley for two reasons: to help Zhang Han (aka Ashley) with her memorizing of botanical terms and to discover whether a Little Change of Hobbit had copies of Naomi Kritzer's latest and Donaldson's Fatal Revenant (the latest in the Chronicles of Thomas Covenant). Since the appointment with Ashley was not entirely expected, I had to lug my reference books with me as well as my laptop. A parade in Chinatown thwarted my journey on the 1 California, and I temporarily thought I had lost my bus pass. I walked down to the BART station, and later found my bus pass.

When I got to Berkeley, I met with Ashley at the McDonald's on Shattuck and University. It is always difficult to explain the case and gender endings to an English-speaker, and more so to a Chinese-speaker. I visited A Little Change of Hobbit and somehow failed to forget the title of the books as I entered, as I have done consistently previously. My budget and temporary dearth of a credit card, however, prevented me from acquiring the book immediately.

Then I went to Amy's apartment and worked on prepping Chapter 6 for Ashley and ate Amy's delicious tangerines. I cooked dumplings and had dinner with Amy.


On Sunday, I returned to Berkeley, but first I evacuated Puff, whom I had been dog-sitting, and attended the service at St James. The attendance was scant because many people were at the parish retreat. Mother Mary Moore was likewise absent, although she had left because her sister in Virginia had died.

I returned to Berkeley with my laptop and headed to Amy's apartment. I recovered some of my lost sleep from yesterday's long adventure by taking a nap on Amy's bed. I still, however, had plenty of time to use my laptop for various catchups. When Amy returned from worship practice, we ended up taking Alberta for a bath. We also went to dinner with Kao Chi (aka Lydia) and Wang Beibei (sp?), a visiting scholar from China. We ate at the 168 Restaurant, which serves Taiwanese cuisine.

Gamophilia

It seems all my acquaintances, regardless of age, are committing matrimony. I could understand it if it clustered around an age group or religious affiliation or political affiliation, but I see no pattern.

Med Cruise: Sept 23

I'm sorry, Amy, the lockstep of the tour group prohibited me from going to church. We left the Le Meridien Phoenician Hotel where we were lodged, and passed under the pseudo-medieval gate into the town of Valletta, after which my great-grandmother was named by her civil service father. The goal this Sunday was not to see the town comprehensively, but rather to visit the Museum of Archaeology in order to better appreciate the megalithic ruins, we would visit later today and to see the originals housed here as a safeguard from the elements. These included the Venus of Malta, the Sleeping Lady, and the gargantuan base of the Fat Lady. One site to which we would not travel was the Ghar Dalam cave where the first immigrants to Malta settled. before the rise of the Pharaohs; the settlers came from Sicily.







After we returned to the hotel, we boarded a bus. We left Valletta for Floriana, and learned firsthand the seamless transition from one Maltese town to the next; our guides assured us strong village dialects nonetheless exist. Floriana yield to Marsa, whose common root with Marsala in Sicily and Marseilles in France is the Semitic word for harbor (a concept unfamiliar to the desert-dwelling Hebrews). The bus drove us through the three cities on the far side of the Grand Harbour; these cities were the center of habitation near the Grand Harbour prior to the arrival of the Knights of Malta: Cospicua, Senglea, and Vittoriosa. At Vittoriosa, the least industrially-uglified of the three cities, I discovered that my camera lacked a memory chip!







We travelled through Fgura and into Tarxien with few signs of intercivic transition. The Tarxien Temples, found originally under a field of a farmer, are now surrounded by urban development. The Temple forms a complex in the approximate shape of a fat lady. Most of the interesting items had been replaced by copies outside, and the copies were in bad shape. The bus then took us through the recent development of Santa Lucija. Around Kirkao, we passed the airport and entered an area full of quarries - the nearby gardens were all former quarrries infilled with rubbish and topsoil.



Then, after passing through Zurrieq, we reached the site of the Hagar Qim Prehistoric Temples (although the precise number is impossible to verify) whose age was even greater than that of Tarxien and whose size was even more massive. The proximity of the sea provided a welcome breeze, but there was only one tree in the entire complex. The largest store was twenty tons (tonnes?). Both sites included 'libation holes', rope holes to fasten doors, and 'oracles holes' through which the priests might have spoken but I also have found that tour guides seek a certainty about the past which archaeologists are unable to provide. a fifteen-minute walk from Hagar Qim would have brought us to the Mnejdra Temple Complex.





We travelled to Mdina, the pre-Knights of Malta capital of the island which had already suffered defensive partition under the Arabs for lunch at the Bacchus restaurant enclosed on one side by a Roman, on the other by a medieval wall. Its initial purpose, however, was munitions storage. Then we walked through the streets of Mdina, the Silent City (so called because so few people live in it) smothered in convents and monasteries - the Maltese are very religious, especially for godless Europeans - and the palaces of noble families with the scions of at least one I quarreled at Downside. The Cathedral of Mdina was spectacular and all the marble of the tombs was inlaid, not painted, and the painting behind the altar was applied directly to Malta's indigenous ubiquitous stone. Naturally, none of the other members of the group seemed to see the cathedral as a holy place rather than inert stone. From Mdina's walls we could see an arc of the island stretching from Valletta to St Paul's Bay, where lie the island on which St Paul was wrecked, according to local tradition. The exact site is unknown, but local traditions always require some spot to be chosen as the official site, or rather, more than one location decides it is the official site and argues with other locations.



For dinner, I went into Valletta for the Maltese equivalent of tapas. The streets were well-lit and crowded (and the petite Maltese girls rather attractive although I'm far too Protestant for them). The flowers were still abundant from the celebration of Independence Day on Friday.

Med Cruise: Sept. 22

Sept. 22 -
I prefer not to dwell on the plane flights, but I do wonder about Gen. 1:29-30 whether the point is not so much that everything was vegetarian as much as that God created all nourishment.

Saturday Road Trip

Today, after a rough start and much discussion, Mom, Dad, and I decided to take a road trip up to Sierraville and places beyond. So we drove to Truckee and across the overpass - I’m against overpasses in principle because they kill the economies of small towns, but in the case of Truckee, that’s not a problem - and continued north.

When we reached Sierraville, a small town once prospering from the cattle industry and now dying, the diners and the Moonie-owned hotel were still in business. The guy from old Hacienda del Lago had in fact moved to Sierraville and started a Mexican restaurant upstairs from the old café. That, however, was not where we ate, but rather we crossed the street to a different café, Crossroads Café, which served the best onion rings I have ever consumed - and I don’t normally eat onion rings! The one depressing thing we learned was that the Sierraville Rodeo was no more, since the sponsors and organizers, who were always the same, had grown weary of the flashier Truckee Rodeo’s sapping of sponsorship. I enjoyed the more true to its roots rodeo!

While visiting the bathroom, we discovered that there was a store in the back of the building. We bought a few presents, and then we hit a bonanza. Dad spotted a rack of doggie treats and bought a “chew hoof” for Puff the American Eskimo. He’s still chewing it as I write this.

Then Dad led us on a tour of regional golf courses, including one at which some of his friends had bought a house recently. On the return trip, we turned in to Hobart Mills, and were surprised immensely to see that the area was being developed. We went down the remnants of old Highway 89, which was incredibly rutted and in disrepair, and hit Prosser Lake. On the way back, ever so slowly, we came across the Emigrant Trail, where we stopped to step in the tracks of pioneers and their wagons.