Pat Gunn (dachte) wrote,
Pat Gunn

Burning Through the Fruit

The idea of taking a vacation makes me feel kind of guilty, which is a very good reason that I should not have waited any longer to do so. The oddest thing in vacations, I think, always has been attempting to eat all the food that will otherwise go bad during the trip. I normally don't keep much food around my apartment -- right now the only food I have to worry about is a big thing of carrots I got a few days ago and a giant loaf of bread. Unfortunately, my cats are quite interested in eating the same carrot that I am, and every time I set it down, they take a dash at it. This is typical cat -- cute and irritating.

In getting my Neuros ready for the long road trip, I dug out some old Dr Demento CDs to rip a few songs I suddenly remember as being cool. This reminds me of my weekly ritual of staying awake on Sunday nights in high school to tape the Dr Demento show (midnight to 2). I often fell asleep, and regretfully thus included commercials on the large collection of tapes I have (often also missing the point to turn the tape over, and only getting half the show).

I will be difficult to contact until the sunday after the coming one. I may be phonable at various times.

Here's an interesting quote from Bakunin's God and the State that I find interesting.

There exists, finally, a somewhat numerous class of honest but timid souls who, too intelligent to take the Christian dogmas seriously, reject them in detail, but have neither the courage nor the strength nor the necessary resolution to summarily renounce them altogether. They abandon to your criticism all the special absurdities of religion, they turn up their noses at all the miracles, but they cling desperately to the principal absurdity; the source of all the others, to the miracle that explains and justifies all the other miracles, the existence of God. Their God is not the vigorous and powerful being, the brutally positive God of theology. It is a nebulous, diaphanous, illusory being that vanishes into nothing at the first attempt to grasp it; it is a mirage, an ignis fatugs that neither warms nor illuminates. And yet they hold fast to it, and believe that, were it to disappear, all would disappear with it. They are uncertain, sickly souls, who have lost their reckoning in the present civilisation, belonging to neither the present nor the future, pale phantoms eternally suspended between heaven and earth, and occupying exactly the same position between the politics of the bourgeois and the Socialism of the proletariat. They have neither the power nor the wish nor the determination to follow out their thought, and they waste their time and pains in constantly endeavouring to reconcile the irreconcilable.

I was interested to find that in this sense, things have not changed much since the 1850s.

Oh, the weather is actually nice, and my mood is immeasurably improved. Sitting outside at the 61c was very pleasant. I am especially looking forward to sunbathing on the hills of Schenley park just down the street.

I had best get to sleep so I'm well rested for the large amount of driving tomorrow (and have time to pack, fill up my tires, and be sure the cats will be ok while I'm gone.


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