Thoughts on the house, after having spent a day in the rubble.

Some things that have been found:
Kelly's bouquet.
All the letters she ever wrote me.
A whole lot of melted photo albums that are slowly being cut and pried open.
Some water soaked books, and some fairly undamaged ones.
My tool box.
The occasional pot, some of which have cleaned up relatively well.
My pipes.
My dad's first grade report card, and the later ACT scores. He fell into the fifth percentile in social services. Apparently not his strong point. I guess it's good to get some statistical verifcation for something I've suspected since I've been old enough to suspect.
A couple of quilts Kelly's grandmother made her.
The walnut chest that Dr. Garner gave us for a wedding present, the cedar chest my great-grandfather gave my great-grandmother as a wedding present, and his typewriter desk. All three of these will take a fair amount of work to get back to a reasonable state, but I think they'll get there.
Lost, of course, is essentially everything else, including 4 cars, the piano, all of the furniture, etc. But all told, the situation in not nearly what it could have been. There is some bizarre coincidence that the lightning struck literally as I was discussing the book of Job with my students. A 6 year old friend of the family announced he was kind of mad at God. My dad told him he wasn't sure God did it.
The family and church response has been tremendous. When they got to Atlanta last night, an apartment was ready for them, with pictures on the walls, a refrigerator full of food, furniture, and a few clothes. Friends stayed up past midnight last night helping free pictures from melted pages, and they're working on it again right now. A friend went and got copies of keys for a car to which there were no keys left. Someone gave them a van to use until whenever. Someone offered them an RV. Friends were there as soon as it was cool, helping to pull stuff from the ashes. I don't know exactly the perspective to take, but it seems like the best kind of disaster. No one is hurt, most things are replaceable. As my mom said, it's all going to burn sometimes anyways. We don't know if they'll rebuild there, or buy something else. Thanks for the prayers, thoughts, and such. Jeremy

scattered thoughts

The Iliad is a song. A slow and painful music. Rather than the chronicle of ancient Ilion, an account of her history, it is a dirge. As all requiems, it is an intense remembrance of life. A recollection and recognition of life.

…

The actions of Agamemnon, fraught with deep dishonor and discord, justify the wrath of Achilles. He rages against clear injustice. The weight of the poem rests on this. The tragedy lies in his unrelenting and uncompromising hold. For the consequences that unfold in the poem, the deaths of so many noble men on either side of the field, the death of Sarpedon, the death of Patrokles, result directly from the just claim of Achilles.

In the Iliad, wrath is the face of justice. Grief the face of mercy.

Acute and clear, the grief of death brings man into sharp relief. Confronted by death throughout the poem, in the final book we are confronted by the living. The stark contrast is an austere confrontation with being itself. We see this severe, internal war manifested in the weeping eye of Priam. Like the shield, it is a wonder. In their encounter, Achilles recognizes what a man is. He is moved to mercy. Priam is not simply an enemy king, but a father seeking his son. In truly seeing his enemy, Achilles sees himself. He weeps with Priam, and his heart is opened.

The war music does not end in discord. It ends in harmony. Achilles relinquishes his claim on justice. Though the war will continue, and the city will fall, the wrath of Achilles has died. The poem of war is a movement toward mercy.

...

Note:

I wrote this rather hurriedly a few nights ago. I wanted to revise it into something more substantial to post, but I am unsure how to proceed. Essentially, I am wondering if this line of thinking makes sense. Please, comment. I am not as certain as the tone indicates.

Prayer

Friends,
My parents' house was struck by lightning today, and is almost completely gone. Part of one room may be left. They were in Colorado for their anniversary, so no one was hurt. They're getting to Atlanta tomorrow, and I may be heading up there as well to see if I can be of any assistance. Right now it'll probably mostly just be fights with insurance companies. Prayers would be appreciated.
Jeremy

Links

I am glad to see our links have been edited. As Kelly would say: Build it, and they will come.

Yes, sir. The banjo is being restored. These are exciting times.

Also, I am thoroughly delighted to be linked to our dear Little Sistren posting at I Eta Pi. I will be checking up on them often.

NB: The spirit of "yes sir" is closer to a soft, thoughtful "yas suh!"

Look out, kids.

So,
After much ado, there are finally some songs posted on the Millenial Harbingers Myspace page. Technology is astonishingly difficult to manage. Also, Reinhardt, looks like your prediction was wrong. 9-8 in the 11th. Izturis with the walk-off RBI. Jeremy

fourteen years

I have so many pressing things to do that I have a difficult time convincing myself to take the time to post here. Also, I would rather I had something to say besides "I rode in a hot air balloon this weekend. Livestock fled from us in terror. A lot of people in North Georgia need to clean out their pools," although I really did enjoy the experience very much. I would rather use this space to subject you all to my deepest philosophical musings, my happy discoveries in bookshops (thanks, Everett), my thoughts on graduate school and the field of history, and other such highbrow topics. Today, however, we will simply discuss a scary number that I came across while navigating the Duke University history department's website. That number is fourteen. One-four, as in, the number of years the department will allow you to complete a PhD. Seven years for the coursework, seven years for the research, writing, and defense of the dissertation. I can only imagine that this latter period will include at least two trips to the tops of mountains, preferably in the Himalayas, to seek the wisdom of nearly-naked, long-white-bearded gurus. Fourteen years. At least Jacob ended up with two wives, two concubines and a bunch of goats after he worked for that long. All I'd get would be a wildly expensive outfit and a certificate. And I like goats.

The website kindly assured me that the department does not expect everyone to require fourteen years. I felt only marginally comforted by this, and am now considering a career as a hot air balloon pilot. Love to you all, especially Jonathan who is about to be traveling to one of America's best cities and is sure to take in a game or two at the Friendly Confines of Wrigley Field, right? Just to make sure he is prepared for this life-changing experience, I will publish here the correct lyrics to the famed anthem always sung during the Seventh Inning Stretch:

Take me out to the ballgame
Take me out to (or with) the crowd
Buy me some peanuts and crackerjacks
I don't care if I ever (or never) get back
For it's root, root, root for the CUBBIES (this part is critical)
If they don't win, it's a shame
For it's one - two - three strikes
You're out at the old - ball - game!!!
*wild screaming and waving of baseball cap at the close of the song is optional, but recommended. If the Cubs are behind, heaven forbid, you should close the song by yelling, "Let's get some runs!" as loudly as possible.

A Suggestion

The Elements of Typographic Style
Robert Bringhurst

I discovered the existence of this book some time ago. Recently, I requested it through ILL and have being reading voraciously since it arrived.

Recalling a certain little book (which, given his careful prose, he seems to have read and understood very well), this Elements is talking about the other important part of the books we read, and he does it very well. Although envisioned as a guidebook for professionals, Bringhurst makes book design seem so simple. He also offers a short history of typography which is equally fascinating. Here is a quotation from early in the book.

Typography is to literature as musical performance is to composition: an essential act of interpretation, full of endless opportunities for insight or obtuseness.

At some point, I think many of you would enjoy browsing through it, so keep an eye open when you are in used bookstores. In the meantime, I have one request. Can we have a font with serifs?