In the spirit of Halloween here's a little zombie sketch.

Expect vs Faith

   I would like to make a brief statement about the claim that atheism requires faith and is in itself a religion (which I suppose is an attempt to delegitimize atheism in some way). You can see that to "expect" something is not the the same as having "faith" in something. You can expect a treatment for an illness to be developed or a mysterious question to be eventually explained if it is reasonable or probable (the illness being studied by people that have previously developed treatment for similar illness or by observing advances in the field of that illness, or by proven creative brilliant minds analyzing whatever mystery). Faith is expectation without a call for reason or probability and based solely on trust. There is a difference there. An atheist and anyone else for that matter can resonably expect something will eventually happen based on probability and previous occurance without it being termed "faith".

faith
2 a (1) : belief and trust in and loyalty to God (2) : belief in the traditional doctrines of a religion b (1) : firm belief in something for which there is no proof (2) : complete trust

3 : something that is believed especially with strong conviction; especially : a system of religious beliefs.

expect
2 : to anticipate or look forward to the coming or occurrence of

3 : suppose, think

4 a : to consider probable or certain.

Hope

Hope is not necessary to life or to human existence. Hope is like a diamond (no pun meant) in that it is something pretty but it is a luxury, it holds an implied value over a practical value. It (diamond) looks pretty but it is still just a piece of rock. I believe understanding and appreciating the way things are as they are presented is more valuable than hope. That also keeps us from being complacent or expecting a situation to resolve itself and makes us more industrious in finding solutions to our problems, so hope should take it's rightful place behind the failure of all else. Our greatest gift is to allow ourselves appreciation of our days. When you were born, you had more or less the promise of one day. One day to take in all of the colors and sounds and tastes and emotions. Everything after that however...all of your days thereafter are not promised. So you should savor them and appreciate them in the present. This doesn't necessarily mean you should run off and climb the highest mountain, become the worlds leading whatever, or bury your head in study to solve the great riddle...unless you want to. It means when you take a good deep breath, or you eat a good meal (or even a can of stewed tomatoes or a can of tuna), or someone says they love you or you feel love for someone else....appreciate it, you won't always have that. My grandmother used to say, "Nothing is forever. Not love, not pain, not anger, not joy. You aren't promised tomorrow." It was her mantra and it stuck with me. Life being temporary puts a higher premium on it.

"Composed upon Westminister Bridge, September 3,1802"

I'm sure that many of you are tired of this poem by William Wordsworth. As everyone knows, I like to pass the time in my study by the fireplace drinking a nice scotch and reading poems. Actually, I discovered it reading through a book of his poems while taking a break from receiving discount books in the warehouse of a local bookstore that I worked at while back. It struck a chord with me and sometimes I recite it (however garbled) in my mind. Specifically, I love the lines "Never did the sun more beautifully steep, In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill; Ne'er saw I, never felt a calm so deep!".



"Composed upon Westminster Bridge, September 3, 1802"

Earth has not anything to show more fair:

Dull would he be of soul who could pass by

A sight so touching in its majesty:

This City now doth like a garment wear

The beauty of the morning; silent , bare,

Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie

Open unto the fields, and to the sky,

All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.

Never did the sun more beautifully steep

In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill;

Ne'er saw I, never felt a calm so deep!

The river glideth at his own sweet will:

Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;

And all that mighty heart is lying still!

Nick Cave's open letter to MTV 1996

The open letter below was floating around in the back of my mind as I've been reflecting on the way in which I have been pimping out my abilities into a sort of prostitution. Over the last year and a half I have not remained true to my own instincts, instead I've allowed the distractions and diversions to become the whole of my work. I've been allowing outside artistic influences that are not as natural to me and my personality have to dilute who I am as an artist. There’s nobody to blame but myself. -James




A Letter To MTV

October 96

by Nick Cave

To all those at MTV,



I would like to start by thanking you all for the support you have given me over recent years and I am both grateful and flattered by the nomination that I have received for best male artist. The air play given to both the Kylie Minogue and P.J. Harvey duets from my latest album murder ballads has not gone unnoticed and has been greatly appreciated. So again my sincere thanks.



Having said that, I feel that it's necessary for me to request that my nomination for best male artist be withdrawn and furthermore any awards or nomination for such awards that may arise in later years be presented to those who feel more comfortable with the competitive nature of these award ceremonies. I myself, do not. I have always been of the opinion that my music is unique and individual and exists beyond the realms inhabited by those who would reduce things to mere measuring. I am in competition with no-one.



My relationship with my muse is a delicate one at the best of times and I feel that it is my duty to protect her from influences that may offend her fragile nature.



She comes to me with the gift of song and in return I treat her with the respect I feel she deserves - in this case this means not subjecting her to the indignities of judgement and competition. My muse is not a horse and I am in no horse race and if indeed she was, still I would not harness her to this tumbrel - this bloody cart of severed heads and glittering prizes. My muse may spook! May bolt! May abandon me completely!



So once again, to the people at MTV, I appreciate the zeal and energy that was put behind my last record, I truly do and say thank you and again I say thank you but no...No thank you.



Yours sincerely,

Nick Cave 21 Oct 96.

"Braindead"

Here is a little cover style illustration for a group art show at the CornBred gallery. It was conceived as a criticism of the less imaginative and derivitive so-called pop artitsts that just follow the real trailblazers around eating their scraps and regurgitating it back up as their own. It's a bit obvious or as Thom says "blatant" and I apologize for that. Still I plan on revisiting this concept and executing better at a latter date.

The Most Important Painting in the World.

The most important painting in the world, my world that is, is ""Etaples Fisherfolk" by Henry Ossawa Tanner. Henry Ossawa Tanner could be one of the greatest artists you've never heard of. He is the first black American artist to achieve international acclaim despite the racism he encountered in America. After being thwarted by racism in America he moved to France and from there moved on to study in the Middle East to hone his ability to realistically paint biblical scenes. He travelled back and forth between the U.S.A and France yet making France his new home. Probably his best known painting is The Banjo Lesson, which is the painting that I first came to know him through. The high school that I went to was focused on black culture and my art teacher introduced this painting to us and the signifigance behind the theme and the painter himself. I was, honestly, fairly uninterested at the time.
Later when I decided to become a more serious painter I began visiting the High Museum of Art on a regular basis to closely examine the paintings there to help me gauge what I felt was acceptable in painting and to figure out whatever mistakes I may be making. I poured over so many paintings but when I came to Henry's painting "Etaples Fisher Folk" I knew I had found my model. His chunky yet precise brushwork, the cracks filled with varnish, the muted and at the same time rich color, errant brush hairs embedded in the paint, the chairoscuro, the realism despite the sparse painterly strokes...everything about it appealled to me. I studied that painting extremely close to the point of having my eyes inches from the paint to study the brushstrokes and divine the pressure applied to achieve his effects. So much so that I have been told many times to back off by security.

When I moved back to Georgia, the High was one of the first places that I visited and specifically to view that particular painting that I love so much, and has influenced my way of thinking about and appreciate art and the process and responsibility of creating.

How could you go wrong check out his stache?

Regret

"Regrets, Ive had a few; But then again, too few to mention" -Frank Sinatra
"Regret nothin' I move on and say **** you" -Transplants

When did "regret" become such a nasty word? It seems that every time I hear someone using that word it is to assure their audience that they are infallible even in their mistakes and missteps and that they don't wish they had made a better choice or behaved in a better way. A lack of regret is denial of the impact of a mistake masked as the mistake actually having a greater importance as an enlightening life lesson. It is a mask of humility covering the lack of humility. Denying regret seems to be a veiled way of saying "I am right even when I am wrong". The ultimate display of arrogance and egotism.

It is possible to live with regrets. It is liberating to admit that you have failed when you have failed, and that you have made mistakes when you have made mistakes instead of carrying the burden of always being right and doing the right thing. That is true humility. It is possible to make mistakes, regret them, and learn from them. You don't have to dwell on your missteps instead humbly acknowledge them, think about how you could have done things better, maybe even try and undo some of the negative consequences of your mistakes.

There is the possiblity that it is not all about you. There is the possiblity that the mysterious workings of the universe are not focused on teaching each individual a lesson of some kind through their mistakes and irresponsible behaviour. There is the possibility that the indifference to the suffering and discomfort that they have inflicted upon themselves and others and dismissal of any other negative consequences that are the result of their actions is simply the arrogance of an unteachable child.

"Thanatopsis" William Cullen Bryant 1794-1878

This poem really speaks to my philosophical position. Cold comfort for some I am sure.


THANATOPSIS

by: William Cullen Bryant (1794-1878)

O him who in the love of Nature holds
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
A various language; for his gayer hours
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile
And eloquence of beauty, and she glides
Into his darker musings, with a mild
And healing sympathy, that steals away
Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight
Over thy spirit, and sad images
Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,
And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,
Make thee to shudder and grow sick at heart;--
Go forth, under the open sky, and list
To Nature's teachings, while from all around--
Earth and her waters, and the depths of air--
Comes a still voice--Yet a few days, and thee
The all-beholding sun shall see no more
In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,
Where thy pale form was laid with many tears,
Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist
Thy image. Earth, that nourish'd thee, shall claim
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again,
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up
Thine individual being, shalt thou go
To mix for ever with the elements,
To be a brother to the insensible rock,
And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain
Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak
Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould.

Yet not to thine eternal resting-place
Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down
With patriarchs of the infant world--with kings,
The powerful of the earth--the wise, the good,
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,
All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills
Rock-ribb'd and ancient as the sun,--the vales
Stretching in pensive quietness between;
The venerable woods; rivers that move
In majesty, and the complaining brooks
That make the meadows green; and, pour'd round all,
Old Ocean's grey and melancholy waste,--
Are but the solemn decorations all
Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun,
The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,
Are shining on the sad abodes of death,
Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread
The globe are but a handful to the tribes
That slumber in its bosom.--Take the wings
Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness,
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods
Where rolls the Oregon and hears no sound
Save his own dashings--yet the dead are there:
And millions in those solitudes, since first
The flight of years began, have laid them down
In their last sleep--the dead reign there alone.
So shalt thou rest: and what if thou withdraw
In silence from the living, and no friend
Take note of thy departure? All that breathe
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care
Plod on, and each one as before will chase
His favourite phantom; yet all these shall leave
Their mirth and their employments, and shall come
And make their bed with thee. As the long train
Of ages glides away, the sons of men,
The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes
In the full strength of years, matron and maid,
The speechless babe, and the gray-headed man--
Shall one by one be gathered to thy side
By those who in their turn shall follow them.

So live, that when thy summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan which moves
To that mysterious realm where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,
Scourged by his dungeon; but, sustain'd and soothed
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

"Iron and the Soul" by Henry Rollins (again)

Below you will find a little tidbit from Henry Rollins that I call "Damn I wish I had written that", otherwise known by its actual title "Iron and the Soul" I'm the one responsible for underlining and bolding little bits that I find really hitting the mark.

Iron and the Soul
Henry Rollins

I believe that the definition of definition is reinvention. To not be like you parents. To not be like your friends. To be yourself. Completely.

When I was young I had no sense of myself. All I was, was a product of all the fear and humiliation I suffered. Fear of my parents. The humiliation of teachers calling me "garbage can" and telling me I'd be mowing lawns for a living. And the very real terror of my fellow students. I was threatened and beaten up for the color of my skin and my size. I was skinny and clumsy, and when others would tease me I didn't run home crying, wondering why. I knew all too well. I was there to be antagonized. In sports I was laughed at. A spaz. I was pretty good at boxing but only because the rage that filled my every waking moment made me wild and unpredictable. I fought with some strange fury. The other boys thought I was crazy.

I hated myself all the time. As stupid at it seems now, I wanted to talk like them, dress like them, carry myself with the ease of knowing that I wasn't going to get pounded in the hallway between classes.

Years passed and I learned to keep it all inside. I only talked to a few boys in my grade. Other losers. Some of them are to this day the greatest people I have ever known. Hang out with a guy who has had his head flushed down a toilet a few times, treat him with respect, and you'll find a faithful friend forever. But even with friends, school sucked. Teachers gave me hard time. I didn't think much of them either.

Then came Mr. Pepperman, my adviser. He was a powerfully built Vietnam veteran, and he was scary. No one ever talked out of turn in his class. Once one kid did and Mr. P. lifted him off the ground and pinned him to the blackboard.

Mr. P. could see that I was in bad shape, and one Friday in October he asked me if I had ever worked out with weights. I told him no. He told me that I was going to take some of the money that I had saved and buy a hundred-pound set of weights at Sears. As I left his office, I started to think of things I would say to him on Monday when he asked about the weights that I was not going to buy. Still, it made me feel special. My father never really got that close to caring. On Saturday I bought the weights, but I couldn't even drag them to my mom's car. An attendant laughed at me as he put them on a dolly.

Monday came and I was called into Mr. P.'s office after school. He said that he was going to show me how to work out. He was going to put me on a program and start hitting me in the solar plexus in the hallway when I wasn't looking. When I could take the punch we would know that we were getting somewhere. At no time was I to look at myself in the mirror or tell anyone at school what I was doing.

In the gym he showed me ten basic exercises. I paid more attention than I ever did in any of my classes. I didn't want to blow it. I went home that night and started right in. Weeks passed, and every once in a while Mr. P. would give me a shot and drop me in the hallway, sending my books flying. The other students didn't know what to think. More weeks passed, and I was steadily adding new weights to the bar. I could sense the power inside my body growing. I could feel it.

Right before Christmas break I was walking to class, and from out of nowhere Mr. Pepperman appeared and gave me a shot in the chest. I laughed and kept going. He said I could look at myself now. I got home and ran to the bathroom and pulled off my shirt. I saw a body, not just the shell that housed my stomach and my heart. My biceps bulged. My chest had definition. I felt strong. It was the first time I can remember having a sense of myself. I had done something and no one could ever take it away. You couldn't say **** to me.

It took me years to fully appreciate the value of the lessons I have learned from the Iron. I used to think that it was my adversary, that I was trying to lift that which does not want to be lifted. I was wrong. When the Iron doesn't want to come off the mat, it's the kindest thing it can do for you. If it flew up and went through the ceiling, it wouldn't teach you anything. That's the way the Iron talks to you. It tells you that the material you work with is that which you will come to resemble. That which you work against will always work against you.

It wasn't until my late twenties that I learned that by working out I had given myself a great gift. I learned that nothing good comes without work and a ceratin amount of pain. When I finish a set that leaves me shaking, I know more about myself. When something gets bad, I know it can't be as bad as that workout.

I used to fight the pain, but recently this became clear to me: pain is not my enemy; it is my call to greatness. But when dealing with the Iron, one must be careful to interpret the pain correctly. Most injuries involving the Iron come from ego. I once spent a few weeks lifting weight that my body wasn't ready for and spent a few months not picking up anything heavier than a fork. Try to lift what you're not prepared to and the Iron will teach you a little lesson in restraint and self-control.

I have never met a truly strong person who didn't have self-respect. I think a lot of inwardly and outwardly directed contempt passes itself off as self-respect: the idea of raising yourself by stepping on someone's shoulders instead of doing it yourself. When I see guys working out for cosmetic reasons, I see vanity exposing them in the worst way, as cartoon characters, billboards for imbalance and insecurity. Strength reveals itself through character. It is the difference between bouncers who get off strong-arming people and Mr. Pepperman.

Muscle mass does not always equal strength. Strength is kindness and sensitivity. Strength is understanding that your power is both physical and emotional. That it comes from the body and the mind. And the heart.

Yukio Mishima said that he could not entertain the idea of romance if he was not strong. Romance is such a strong and overwhelming passion, a weakened body cannot sustain it for long. I have some of my most romantic thoughts when I am with the Iron. Once I was in love with a woman. I thought about her the most when the pain from a workout was racing through my body. Everything in me wanted her. So much so that sex was only a fraction of my total desire. It was the single most intense love I have ever felt, but she lived far away and I didn't see her very often. Working out was a healthy way of dealing with the loneliness. To this day, when I work out I usually listen to ballads.

I prefer to work out alone. It enables me to concentrate on the lessons that the Iron has for me. Learning about what you're made of is always time well spent, and I have found no better teacher. The Iron had taught me how to live.

Life is capable of driving you out of your mind. The way it all comes down these days, it's some kind of miracle if you're not insane. People have become separated from their bodies. They are no longer whole. I see them move from their offices to their cars and on to their suburban homes. They stress out constantly, they lose sleep, they eat badly. And they behave badly. Their egos run wild; they become motivated by that which will eventually give them a massive stroke. They need the Iron mind.

Through the years, I have combined meditation, action, and the Iron into a single strength. I believe that when the body is strong, the mind thinks strong thoughts. Time spent away from the Iron makes my mind degenerate. I wallow in a thick depression. My body shuts down my mind. The Iron is the best antidepressant I have ever found. There is no better way to fight weakness than with strength. Once the mind and body have been awakened to their true potential, it's impossible to turn back.

The Iron never lies to you. You can walk outside and listen to all kinds of talk, get told that you're a god or a total bastard. The Iron will always kick you the real deal. The Iron is the great reference point, the all-knowing perspective giver. Always there like a beacon in the pitch black. I have found the Iron to be my greatest friend. It never freaks out on me, never runs. Friends may come and go. But two hundred pounds is always two hundred pounds.