Wouldn't you be?

I would be sad because you left me all alone.
I would be sad because the lies that you had told.
I would be sad because I got left by a girl that I adore.
I would be sad because the love I had before.

I meant what I said when I said I would settle down with you although I know it's not something that you were asking me to
do.
And I know we are young but we won't always be, so marry me; lets not be that predictable young couple changing, moving on.
But I can tell by watching you that theres no chance of pushing through.
The odds are so against us; you know most young love it ends like this.

I would be sad because you left me all alone.
I would be sad because the lies that you had told.
I would be sad because I got left by a girl that I adore.
I would be sad for all the love I had before.

I meant what I said when I said I would rearrange my plans and change for you.
You know me; I've always been the kind with easy confidence.
Confident enough to honestly beleive that nothing out there stopping me especially not someone who's not loving me.
Now listen here I told you I could live on with out loving you.
I was bluffing then, but it seems that just might have been the truth.
Well my dad told me, "One day son, this girl will think of what she's done and hurting you will be the first of many more
regrets to come."
And he said, "If she doesn't call, then it's her fault and it's her loss."
I say, "It's not that simple see, but then again it just may be."

I would be sad because you left me all alone.
I would be sad for the lies that you had told.
I would be sad because I got left by a girl that I adored.
I would be sad for all the love I had before.
I would be sad for all the love I had before.

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?

I want to blog and have had several thoughts which I ought to have blogged recently but haven’t had the time. Now that I have (made) a little time, I don’t know what to write about. So here are some options. Pick One. (This is really just my way of blogging with no effort)

“Careful Language” or “Eff-ing and Jehovah”
I have had plenty of conversations regarding “swear/curse/dirty/cuss words”. I don’t think they exist. There are words that are powerful, rare, vulgar and hateful. There are situations in life that are powerful, rare, vulgar, hateful, and unavoidable. They need to be addressed. With words. Generally, I can get people onboard. Up unto the infamous “eff-word” Very few can agree that there ought to be a word which alludes to illicit, vulgar sex. I grant that this word would probably fall on the atomic bomb end of my scale of usable words, but I feel like the general aversion to this word is cultural not ideological. (yes I get that a large aspect of language is culture, but this not a post, its an option for a post) Anyway, all this to say. Why is the “eff-word” more sacred (set apart) than God’s name? I’ve heard plenty of friends let slip an LNIV (thats Lord’s Name In Vain) but nary an eff-word in sight. Why? I wouldn’t mind writing more in depth about this.


“A Place to Die”
I’ve written about the friends I’ve made and the people I love at the several nursing homes here in Moscow. I’ve spent little time actually addressing the philosophy behind nursing homes, nor have I attempted to evaluate the value of nursing homes. This ought to be done.


Finally,
“On Polenta”
I’ve been perfecting my Eggs Benedict recipe, using polenta rather than an English muffin, and I’m pleased… very pleased… you’d like to here about this.


I’m kind of messing with you guys. I’m gonna write about whatever I want.

Bucket List

We were assigned to write a one year bucket list, what would we want to do if we knew we were going to die one year from today.

I want to pass all my classes. With only a year left I’m not sure why, but I think it matters.
I want to paint something worth remembering and write something worth publishing.
I want to cook with truffles, and Kobe beef.
I want to finally perfect my orange chicken recipe.
I want to drink twenty-five year old scotch.
I want to drink fifty year old scotch.
I want to drink two hundred year old scotch.
I want to lead my friends who have fallen away back to the faith.
I want to go back to Italy and Greece.
I want to stand on top of that mountain in Delphi, smelling wild sage and thyme, watching the sunrise over the bay of Corinth.
I want to wrestle with my Dad one more time.
I want to see my unborn niece. I want to see her laugh. I want to see her baptized.
I want to see my father’s father who I haven’t spoken to in five years.
I want to see my mother’s father you hasn’t spoken to her in three years.
I want to go to Poland.
I want to see my friends do great things. I want to see them be more bold.
I want to defend somebody with my hands. I want it to come to blows.
I want to die for someone, or something. I don’t want to just fade.
I want my heart to burst in my chest from doing too much than dying having accomplished nothing.
I want to be laid in the ground under a cross and “I want For All The Saints” sang over my grave.

Marie

This will be Marie’s last winter. Her face is crooked. The wind changed and it got stuck that way. Her hands are like tiny bones in a bag, dwarfed as she puts both of hers into one of mine. Her voice comes out of her throat as though it were being dragged over sand-paper. She’s withered since the summer. More leaves have fallen. Her trunk is overcome by its own slight weight. Her limbs are more bent. She used to use her legs. Now she use a nurse and a chair with wheels. She’s all knuckles and creases now. The sun left town today, and I don’t think she’ll be here when he gets back. I won’t see the sun for six months. Marie may see it in weeks. Marie will find summer before I do.

19

I’ve gone around the sun nineteen times. I’ve pushed over trees and played with ants. I’ve painted walls and faces and floors. I’ve seen a man die. I’ve read my bible with moderate to poor consistency. I’ve seen my father get white bristles in his beard. I’ve seen my brother cry. I’ve gotten bigger than most. I’ve been tipsy. I’ve been really angry. I’ve smelt wild sage on a mountain in Delphi. I’ve seen two sisters baptized and a brother married. I’ve picked up big things and have been knocked over by very small things. I cried in church this week. I went West, young man. I’ve chipped a tooth, broken a bone, busted a knuckle, blacked an eye. I’ve loved and been loved. These last nineteen years were good, are good, will always be good. They cling to me like smoke in a jacket. The best part is I get more. More years to hide in my pockets and under my hat. Years that will be filled with babies, and beer, and new love and old love. I’m already wet with life and I’ve only had so little. It’s been a good year. Time for another round.

2222

So guys we kind of blew right past 2000, but i will bless whoever can prove that they we're number 2222 (yup, prove, as in take a screen capture).

From Spurgeon: The world lends a willing hand and shakes us to the right and to the left with great vigor. Well, well! Let it go on. Thus is the chaff severed from the wheat!

From Tyler: Having pink eye is like having the world lend a willing hand and shake you with great vigor by the eyeball.

100

I’ve spent the last two months trying to think up ways to make all the old posts cohesive and interesting in a group. That attempt was about as difficult as herding rabid three-legged toddlers. The only thing that comes to mind is to post about something which I’ve never written about on this blog: mi madre. The astute observer will have noticed that I’ve written about my uncle, brothers and sisters, and often about my father. Never about my mom. For those you know me better you’ve probably seen a handful of more or less roughly sketched portraits and paintings of the pater familias, laying around my studio. Some of you who know me worse might think I don’t have much of a relationship with my mother. You’d be wrong. Think of my dad as my face and my mom as my backbone. Both are integral but one is aesthetic and the other is structural. My dad gave me his nose, his sense of humor, and many of his skills. My mom gave me my ideas about justice and home. I’ve written and drawn my Dad so often because its easy. Big nose, beard, tired eyes: he’s a caricature. My mother on the other hand is a paradox. I could write about her about as easily as I could describe a square with no hard edges. Its such a strange mix of strength, and femininity, and grace and fairness, that I nearly threw away this document and almost decided to not even post this entry. Maybe I’ll try again when I’m smarter. So this is to Mom. My 100th blog post.