Ashes to Ashes monostich

The blue smoke floated up  and was  lost  along  the wind.

Requiescat in pace

[From:  the funeral scene in Aldous Huxley, Those Barren Leaves (1925), p. 337]

Is Trump Immortal?

The Trump camp  recently made a startling claim for their candidate:  namely, that he is immortal.

Liberals have frantically attempted to counter that claim, but without success.  All they can evince in contradiction  is this famous syllogism, credited to Aristotle:

All men are mortal.

Trump is a man.

Therefore Trump is mortal.

The fallacy comes in step 2.  The flamboyant billionaire is not a man, but a moron.   Hence the purported proof  does not go through.   And thus, by contraposition (pataphysical duality), his immortality stands as proved.

In conjunction with their remarkable revelation, the Trumpsters have put forward a central demand  as regards the institution of the Presidency itself:

     *  An end to term limits.

We have a hunch where this is going.

[Update 21 March 2016]  This just in --  The Trump camp  is floating a new slogan:

"Term limits are for losers."

.

Memento Mori

Im Grunde glaubt niemand an seinen eigenen Tod; oder, was dasselbe ist: im Unbewußten sei jeder von uns von seiner Unsterblichkeit überzeugt.

-- Dr. S. Freud

Las ich auf der Sonnenuhr die Worte:

Jede Stunde schmerzt;  die letzte  tötet.

-- F. G. Jünger

‘Tis often asserted, by those psycho-philosophically minded, 

that,  while we   all of us   pay lip-service, pro-forma, du bout des lèvres,

to the proposition that All Men Are Mortal

(that major premise which -- Socrates being a man -- doomed Socrates)

yet we   none of us, individually,

can imagine our own.

We-elll I’m here t’ tell ya, that that is not the case, at least for this philosopher.

I can quite clearly visualize  the circumstances of my own personal hypothetical death.

I shall die (if I ever do die), in precisely one of exactly three potential ways:

(1)  Getting run over by a pie-truck.

(2) Falling down a manhole (carelessly left uncovered).

(3) Getting bonked on the noggin by an anvil  plummeting from an upper floor of a skyscraper.

So long as I stay away from these, I should be safe.
 

*

Für psychologisch tiefgreifende Krimis,

in pikanter amerikanischer Mundart,

und christlich gesinnt,

klicken Sie bitte hier:

http://www.linguasacrapublishing.com/justice.html

*

"O Death" (Ralph Stanley)
"O-oh Death -- won't you spairrr me over till another year."

A Linguist Contemplates the Afterlife

Now, one or two of you might’ve maybe’ve noticed, that from time to time -- when the spirit takes me -- I let loose a comment or two  about Christian theology and Christian living.   These comments may or may not make sense -- half the time, I’ve had a few.  But fact is:  Not a one of us can avoid -- no matter how much TV we watch and stuff our brain with  in the meantime -- nary a one of us can keep from staring Mister Death, there, right in the face:  when our time comes.

So -- whether you’re a priest, or an atheist, or just a ramblin’ gamblin’ man, time comes, you’re gonna wonder about that thing (if it even is a thing) they call the Afterlife.   We have -- from time to time -- touched upon that matter here:

http://worldofdrjustice.blogspot.com/search/label/afterlife

Funny thing about the Afterlife -- any one of us might be a sight lot closer to finding out about it, than we rightly reckon.   And for an old man like me, whose heart is still ticking, but which sometimes fails to tock -- well, any time the doorbell rings, I have to wonder:  Is it those Seventh-Days again, or is it the Guy with the Scythe ???

Fact is -- Don’t worry about it much.  Seems I trust in my Maker more deeply in my heart, than ever I can in my fretful, sinful mind.  But - be - that - as it may.  All we really need to know, in this life here below -- me ‘n’ you ‘n’ Sister Sue -- is summarized  right fine  right here:

"O Death" (Ralph Stanley)
"O-oh Death -- won't you spairrr me over till another year."

~

This frame of clay which Thou hast shaped

and quickened with Thine inblown Word,

a cloak about my spirit draped:

Mold it a little longer, Lord.

            For that I feel  the flesh grow slack,

            the inward wind  begin to leak,

            the cloak grow threadbare  on my back,

            and life's flame  gutter  on the wick.

Thou didst a sand-glass  but upend

when in the world  Thou sent'st abroad

the life  Thou didst not give,  but lend:

Lend it a little longer, Lord.

            For that  the very time grows nigh

            wherein, obedient to their fate,

            my father, and his before, did die:

            Oh Lord, do not advance the date!

Nay let me live, that with these days

I might yet pray, and pen thy praise.

Monostich (XXVI)

[upon returning from a hike of several days, in temperatures of triple digits]

~

~           ~

A pause, hot,  uphillside;  as the heart asks: 

Shall I keep on at it,  or just stop right here?

~           ~

~