Wherein I act like I haven't been gone for seven months

Plato understands human interaction according to three categories, making, using, and imitating. He chalks art up to the lowest form of interaction: imitation. He his considered the lowest form, because it requires the least knowledge of its object. The maker at least understands the structure of a thing, and the user even more, as he understands its function and use, but, according to Plato, the imitator merely perceives what a thing appears to be and attempts to act accordingly. “It was this then I wished should be agreed upon, when I said that painting, and in short imitation, being far from the truth, delights in its own work, conversing with that part in us which is far from wisdom, and is its companion and friend, to no sound nor genuine purpose. Entirely so, said he. Imitation then, being depraved in itself, and joining with that which is depraved, generates depraved things. It seems so.” For Plato, Pursuing art was base enough to be considered depraved.
Now that we understand where Plato is coming from, we can interact with his accusations against the arts in two ways: within his framework, and against it. Within the Platonic framework there is a facet of the Form matter distinction that Plato fails to identify the possibility form a Form of Art, or Artistry. Plato regularly sullies art by calling it the imitator of all it sees: parrot to everything and master of nothing. Yet, Art is not so easily attained. True art, accurate art, conforms to reality. At its best, art teaches moral lessons, wisdom, and knowledge. At its best art points us to the Good. To prove this point, let us consider a work that many consider a literary masterpiece: Plato’s Republic.
The Republic is not an artless philosophical tome. It is a dialogue. It has characters, and foreshadowing, and a plot. There are jokes, sarcasm, and conflict resolution. And most importantly, it is fictional. Despite the ancients’ legendary capability for retaining long speeches in their memory, no commentator actually attributes the words of the Republic to Socrates, Plato’s mouthpiece. And yet this piece of art points us to the Good. This fiction, this masterpiece, extols the contemplative life. Within the platonic framework, one could actually argue that art is one of the few things that can point directly at the Good with only a paper-thin intermediary. Art is not the problem. Bad art is the problem. Art that is truly imitation, that merely looks at the lines and color of the shoe, and paints without understanding, within Plato’s framework, this is indeed the mere imitation and a poor pursuit.
But why give up the field? Why let Plato frame the argument, his historical superiority not withstanding? Only in Plato’s dualism is the shoe not a venerable object. Consider my servant shoe. It keeps the nails and blisters out, the dust off, and the warmth in. Some humble shoe was the means of transportation that carried Socrates and his message around Athens. Real, wet, human lips delivered Socrates’ Apology, and a tangible pen recorded the words of the Republic. A systematic deconstruction of the theory of the Forms is beyond the scope of this paper, but looking with wide eyes will show us that the rocks and pebbles are rejoicing. Hating the world is the sine qua non of deriding art. Rejecting the objective goodness of objects naturally results in deriding their contemplation and their reproduction in art. This assumption goes to the heart of Plato’s philosophy and is the motivation for his accusation against art as imitation. The ultimate justification for art is an affirmation of the goodness of things, to side with Homer, Aristotle, and Christ.
The resolution of art and philosophy is not found in ratifying and strengthening their distinction, but rather by uniting them under the banner of the pursuit of Truth. The Republic shows that at its best, art is a type of philosophy, and philosophy at its best, is a type of art.

Charles Spurgeon is Timely

"This do in remembrance of Me."—1 Corinthians 11:24.

T seems then, that Christians may forget Christ! There could be no need for this loving exhortation, if there were not a fearful supposition that our memories might prove treacherous. Nor is this a bare supposition: it is, alas! too well confirmed in our experience, not as a possibility, but as a lamentable fact. It appears almost impossible that those who have been redeemed by the blood of the dying Lamb, and loved with an everlasting love by the eternal Son of God, should forget that gracious Saviour; but, if startling to the ear, it is, alas! too apparent to the eye to allow us to deny the crime. Forget Him who never forgot us! Forget Him who poured His blood forth for our sins! Forget Him who loved us even to the death! Can it be possible? Yes, it is not only possible, but conscience confesses that it is too sadly a fault with all of us, that we suffer Him to be as a wayfaring man tarrying but for a night. He whom we should make the abiding tenant of our memories is but a visitor therein. The cross where one would think that memory would linger, and unmindfulness would be an unknown intruder, is desecrated by the feet of forgetfulness. Does not your conscience say that this is true? Do you not find yourselves forgetful of Jesus? Some creature steals away your heart, and you are unmindful of Him upon whom your affection ought to be set. Some earthly business engrosses your attention when you should fix your eye steadily upon the cross. It is the incessant turmoil of the world, the constant attraction of earthly things which takes away the soul from Christ. While memory too well preserves a poisonous weed, it suffereth the rose of Sharon to wither. Let us charge ourselves to bind a heavenly forget-me-not about our hearts for Jesus our Beloved, and, whatever else we let slip, let us hold fast to Him.

The Principalities Are Us

Let us be torn down,
crushed by the chief cornerstone.
Let the weight of the world made new
apply purifying pressure.
Crush these bones,
I want to rejoice.
Our feet are within your Gates, O Jerusalem,
let them stay in peace.
Keep us this day without Sin.
Amen

Testudo lepusque per silvamambulant viã

Testudine non loquente, lepus loquacior

iocatur Sordide quoque gloriatur et

Ambulat apud domum serpentis caeci. Tam

Loquor magna lepus voceut a vipera

Petatur, manducetur, et concoqatur et

Tardus pergit tutaet secura silentio.

Doctus es a fabellaillud: videsne virum garrulumet

Verbosum? Vero spes stulto viroest magis.

I Haiku because I must

Death, be thou not proud.
Spring comes and smiles to see you.
Your winter was weak.

Laminator Antonius


Testudo lepusque per silvamambulat viã
Testudine non loquente lepus superbissimus
Sordide iocatur gloriaturque. Lepus sine curã
Ambulat apud domum serpentis caeci. Tam
Dicit lepus magnã voceut serpens eum
Petat, manducet, et voret, concoqiat.
Chersos pergit totaet secura silentio.
Doctus es a fabellaillud: videsne virum garrulumet
Verbosum? Stultus vero spem plurem possidet.

Trying to be Clever

Saw this type of thing on another blog and wrote on myself. Figure out the scheme behind how it was written (ignoring all but the first article and paying special attention to the spelling (that last hint is only helpful about half the time)). Enjoy.


A brave child did enter forest grown high, irate, jeering, kreeking, laughing, making Nathan's otherwise passionate quest rather slow and terrorfilled. Under this weathered xenofaun ventured young Zebulun approaching the brave child.

Baby Blessing Tongue Twister



My big brother Brandon’s bride bore a beautiful baby bairn. Baby be brave. Baby be beautiful. Baby be bright. Baby be blessed. Girl grow gorgeous. Girl grow grounded in the word. Girl grow in grace. Girl grow in God.

Emmaline

We here at The Madman's Corner would like to welcome Emmaline Lynn Antkowiak into this world. She arrived this morning at 8:11. She has the lungs of an opera singer and the arms of a power lifter. She has dark curly hair and her father's nose. She weighs eight pounds and six ounces, is twenty-one inches long, and when she opens her eyes the world gets brighter.

Paupers steal me from my home and I end up in bars. I am beaten and crushed on the way. I am poked and prodded, weighed and measured. I am ground, stirred and melted. Men will purchase me but won’t be able to have any of me, their wives will make sure of that. My bride, my perfect complement, drowns, waiting for me in the supermarket. Men stare at her with sad eyes knowing that they will buy her though they have no desire for her. Her red head and slender body have no appeal. Women say they love her, but they always hang her out to dry. Just outside this room, my bride and I wait for you, to celebrate our patron saint.

I stood up at the front of the room in a poorly cut blazer looking out into a crowd of most everyone I knew, with a ring clutched in my sweaty hand shoved in my pocket. At this point Brandon knew it was better not trust me with little things, as I was incredibly talented at breaking or misplacing them. But then again this little ring was not so little at all. This ring was last the big adventure that we Antkowiak brothers would embark on. Bigger than secretly carrying our science teachers small sedan into the field next to the parking lot. Bigger than getting lost in the woods for nine hours and having our mother call the police. Bigger than all the holes we had punched in walls, bigger than any guy we had decked in lacrosse, bigger than any cigars we ever smoked, bigger than any fort that we had ever built. As the eighty-year-old man of God announced that Brandon had become one flesh with the radiant woman standing next to him, Brandon looked at me, and they asked me for the ring. Against all odds I still had it, hidden in the creases of my sweaty palm. They exchanged rings and love and a very long kiss and rode of into the west. Our adventures would continue but never in the same way. She now has his love and his child and his ring, and will forever. But I still have a piece of Brandon that will always stay with me. His mark is stamped six inches below my left knee, hidden under hair: four evenly spaced dots, almost as if I had been stabbed by a fork.

Tyler Antkowiak
Friday, January 22, 2010
Chalcedon Term
294 Words

My eyes widened in shock and so did his. As his gaze jerked back and forth from just below my knee to my startled face, his jaw dropped in amazement, and slowly cranked itself back up into a smirk. I had been sitting on the couch and he was washing dishes. We had been arguing about something of monumental importance. To this day I cannot remember if it was concerning a Platonic verses an Aristotelian understanding of the forms, or if we were revisiting the probable outcome of a fight between the Incredible Hulk and Superman. Whatever we may have been arguing, I clearly had just made a brilliant rhetorical move, which always signaled that the verbal part of the debates had come to an end. He made the first argument in the physical phase of the debate, nonchalantly leaning over the sink and throwing something, with most of the force that a two hundred pound fourteen year old can muster. My eyes widened in shock and so did his. Plato and Clark Kent were forgotten, as he walked over to the couch to get a closer look. At this point, we were both trying to suppress laughs, pain making it considerably easier for me. Once we had both decided that our cousin had not spiked the orange juice, and we really were seeing what we saw, I leaned forward and pulled the fork out of my shin. Dear reader, if you find this story at all unsettling, read no farther. The tales contained in this tome, of frog genocide, dented cars, and dead men on the road, will be far too much for you. But if this sounds like you brand of bubble gum, continue on into the chronicles of the Brothers Antkowiak.

on (not) being "indie"

Firstly of all, did you notice how much I communicated with mere punctuation in the title.

Secondly of all, I am not nor have I ever been considered part of the indie crowd. What is the indie crowd you ask? My outside perspective leads me to believe that to be indie is to: wear tight second-hand clothes, or tight clothes that look second hand. The indie crowd enjoys scarves, music that i haven't heard of in which i cannot always discern a melody, poetry (particularly free verse), romance, pencil art, cigarettes, pencil art about romance and cigarettes, film photography, organics, and awkwardness in movies. (side note: the word awkwardness is like an ugly sibling, it doesn't get any better looking the more you stare at it, but you start to think one day you'll really enjoy hanging out with it) Anyway, this is where i start my tirade against the indie subculture, right? Naa, maybe later. I like them. some of my good friends fit one or more of the criteria for being indie. and I love them for it. But I just can't seem to get on board. First of all, people cringe when they hear the words " Antkowiak" and "skinny jeans" in the same sentence. Secondly scarves really don't do anything to help the appearance of the already existing disparity between the size of my head and the size of my body. As far as the music goes, i just don't really do the whole longing thing. I get angry, i lust, i love, i laugh, and I cry. There's just no room for longing in here. I'm all for romance, but I fell like we would be talking about very different things. Its the same with the pencil drawings. ... this post started as a fun venue for self deprecation, but i think that if i keep going i'll start stepping on toes that i love and care about, so I guess that thats about all for now...


OH! Wait! I remember now. The thing that got me going was: What is the deal with the indie subculture and cigarettes? I like a (high quality, no additive) cigarette as much as the next guy, but honestly, what's going on? Are they sexy? Are they revolutionary? I just don't get it. Thoughts?