Thirty-Four

Yesterday, December 6, The M celebrated his thirty-fourth birthday. It was a quiet celebration with the parents, following a somewhat restrained party on Saturday night. Saturday night's affair was supposed to be bigger, but one of the participants fell off his bed and broke his arm, so owing to swelling and the big ol' arm splint, the crowd convened at the Hub of Western Civilization, where there were drinks and food a-plenty.

N----- R----- was in attendance. She mentioned that last year at The M's birthday bash, she'd had a bit too much to drink and joked (loudly and insistently, enough so that someone else in the bar — a total stranger — yelled from across the room, "Play it cool, M! You're a'right.") about marrying The M and bearing his children. M replied, incredulously, "you were joking??"

She also said she needed to have some food, because she'd need to eat something before she started drinking "or else I'll be spending the night here."

"We've just run out of food."

But seriously.

Turning thirty-four has brought about a reflective mood, and so I'm compelled to write here some of the things I've learned and observed to this point.

Apart from God, friends and family are it. Nothing else matters, nothing else is as important.

Long-time readers will know that this year saw the tragic and untimely death of the husband of a friend of mine. An old and dear friend of mine, but one who I'd lost touch with after her wedding. It had been ten years (almost to the day; terrible and tragic don't even begin to describe it, but I won't be detailed in this forum) since we'd spoken, but in some ways it was like we'd never stopped talking. Except that she's grown, matured, and changed — like the blossoming of a flower. And except that I'd forgotten little tics and mannerisms of hers that are indeed endearing.

The rekindling of that friendship is simply an unqualified good; the circumstances surrounding it were horrible, but it's been beneficial to me, and I am thankful for it. Not least because she's been through terrible adversity, and she still laughs. It's inspiring, uplifting, and amazing. Just to watch her going through the day-by-dayness of it all.

Which leads to two other observations: The first is that you can't plan anything, not really. Because you never know what the future holds. The corollary of that, I guess, is the by-now hackneyed "live for today," because today is all we have.

The second concerns her and her faith. She is a Christian, by all accounts a good one. Her character has always been informed by that fact. But now it strikes me as different than before. It's a thing of beauty to behold.

I have been — and still am — struggling with the role of Christianity in my own life. Watching her, well...I'm moved by it. In an intellectual way, I suppose I understand it, but the experience of it is something else again.

Which, I guess, leads to the nice and tidy conclusion — again, a thing I understand intellectually but struggle with emotionally — that nothing is permanent, nothing should be taken for granted. The only thing that's permanent is God.

I know that. I'm not sure I believe it yet.

And even if I do, I'm not sure that I like the consequences. It's tough, getting rid of your own ego.

More Cool Stuff than I Have Time to Read

http://artsandlettersdaily.com/

Sweeeeeeet.

Before I Lose It, An Anti-Derrida Comment

An interesting article, here. I'm not sure I agree with or understand it, totally. But I have an intense dislike for Derrida; it's a pleasure to read, "This isn't an insight, it's a tautology. Necessarily, every X excludes not-X, else it would not be X."

Or my favorite:

[S]kepticism about the existence of truth and/or absolute value, and our knowledge of either, has been a staple of Western philosophy in one form or another, from the Sophists to Hume to Michael Dummett. The problem with Derrida is that, unlike these other important philosophers, Derrida has no arguments that are both good and original; his case for skepticism is the stuff of bad sophomore-year philosophy papers.

My problem with Derrida is that he, so far as I can see, destroyed the act of reading for its own sake. While I'm not sure that's exactly technically correct — it's my story, and I'm sticking to it.