The Babiest Babe

"A good deal of what I had been thinking all my life fell down like a house of cards. I suddenly remembered that no one can enter heaven except as a child; and nothing is so obvious in a child— not in a conceited child, but in a good child— as its great and undisguised pleasure in being praised. [...] Apparently what I had mistaken for humility had, all these years, prevented me from understanding what is in fact the humblest, the most childlike, the most creaturely of pleasures— nay, the specific pleasure of the inferior: the pleasure of a beast before men, a child before its father, a pupil before his teacher, a creature before its Creator." — C. S. Lewis, The Weight of Glory (1949)

[Source: Күннэй — Таатта (MV)]

I walk in expecting to see the giants among men, those of fabled virtue and holiness whose statures have multiplied down the ages every time their stories are retold and embellished— and find only children. Shrieking children, tumbling over one another, milling around a vast space, wall-to-wall, if ever we can find any walls in such a boundless place; then, in the middle of them all, lies the most childlike of children, the babiest babe, nursed by his mother. His presence had such gravity that it warped the space around him, and all are drawn to him.

When people enter here they wake up in a sunny, breezy meadow, after their passing in the previous life. Those who die young wake up here young, and those who die elderly wake up here elderly, their consciousness passing between the worlds seamlessly. Immediately following this rebirth, children from all around accost them, tease them, climb all over them, and egg them on to move. Here a scraggly greybeard wakes up from his long slumber, and two young girls in bright yellow dresses dunk a bucket of water over his head. When he comes to, his back has stopped hurting, his spine is again straight, and he has regained movement in his joints. With this renewed strength he puts himself to work, for this is the place where seniority serves youth.

Often people entered after living the full life: a life time of joy, sadness, disappointments and betrayals, tragedies and injustices. They come wizened and cynical, their countenances ghastly, their utterances hateful; they wear grey cloaks which are like the hide of a porcupine, shooting quills upon each perceived slight or offense. The more they are at this extreme of the spectrum, the less kindly they take to the dousing. They scream curses at every child who splashed water onto them, because it feels to them scalding hot, and shake their fists at the kids as they bolt off in retreat, laughing and giggling ridiculously.

As the dousing continues, the morale among the new residents seem to improve, as the suffering of each subsequent douse becomes less and less. The age of the residents now approach the teenage years. Same as earthly adolescence, the soul squeezes through a liminal middle-space in a process as much terrifying and confusing and awkward as it is magical. Those who are at this stage enter a state of rebellion and defiance, not against the cloying love of their parents, as in our universe, but at the imprints the world has left upon them, the scars and the wounds that has accumulated over their lives, insecurity and defensiveness, feelings of vindictiveness and unkindness, self-superiority and inadequacy... The uniform, genteel, starched grey cloaks that cover them tear into shreds, revealing their bearers' true selves: clothes made of fabric of every imaginable colour, one in the earthly colours of autumn, another in pastel pink and blue and purple, another iridescent like the wings of a butterfly... all of them present themselves in varying degrees of frivolity and uproariousness, and no two persons are found wearing the same colours. The last rags of gravitas and respectability are blown away in a stiff breeze, and our friends emerge as fresh and liberated as a crab who has freed itself of its molt.

As spontaneously as happens on a dance floor, the colourful ones join their hands, and start dancing in a circle around the centre of the room, where lies the Babiest Babe in his mother's embrace. The more they dance, the younger they appear, the smaller the circle becomes, and the faster they spin. From where I watch them, the closest ones to the centre dance so hard and so briskly that they seem just a blur, blending into a continuum of light, and I like to imagine that they would keep at it until they are catapulted, in this ecstasy, into a memory of a dining hall, warmly lit in the glow of the late afternoon sun, all of their loved ones alive and somewhere in the house, the dinner being prepared, in a moment which one would wish to last forever.

22 November 2024, Bukit Tiram, Johor

How Kicking Other People in the Groin Leads You to Sainthood

Context: This is part of the cycle of talks given in monthly Recollection. For preparations, I now type out a rough draft of my talk ahead of time and then on the day follow --roughly-- what the draft says. It was a slight improvement over whatever I had been doing before. Anyway I was happy with it and decide to publish it on blog for posterity, so here it is. It's not an exact transcript of what I actually said in the talk, though.

Way 22: Be firm. Be virile. Be a man. And then… be a saint

So if you have been following our young professional men’s talks for this year, you would notice that this whole year has been about masculinity. It’s courtesy of Alvin, you can thank him for that! Don’t worry, it will be over soon.

For talks like these, usually as the speaker I would give a little of my own perspective on things. I don’t know how much of a typical guy I am (probably am not) or how much I fit into St. Josemaria’s ideal of things (probably would do terribly). I certainly don’t feel equipped to speak on behalf of all men, or even men in general, men being the amazing diverse segment of the population in society (I hope you are not all the same here! Please tell me I’m not wrong!). But there is an entry point I have which explores the idea of masculinity – and how through being men we can become a saint. I’m going to share about martial arts classes.

I started martial arts somewhere like 6 years ago. I had just moved to Cleveland, and you know what it’s like moving from a safe place like Singapore to a place like Cleveland – it’s like a junior version of Detroit. It’s run by gangs – believe me when I say while I was staying there, the mayor of Cleveland had a grandson in the street gangs, and they lived in the same house. You come to a place like this and you have no survival instinct whatsoever. You have to learn to watch your back and not put your hoodie up and not listen to music and to keep your back to the wall and all that extra shit that no one in Singapore worries about but everyone in Cleveland does as naturally as drinking lead-laced water.

For the first 3 months staying there, I was scared of my own shadow. I was basically drowning in cortisol. I imagined every day when I leave the house I would be a target of a hate crime or a robbery. So it’s in these conditions which pushed me to take martial arts classes, specifically Krav Maga (the sort that makes you kick your attacker where it hurts). I wasn’t looking to become manly man or some other bullshit Man trend you might have seen online – my motives were purely for survival.

So the dojo I went to, a man named Amit ran it. He started out working as a nurse in Chicago. He got into martial arts after he got mugged. In his team were Heinz, Brian, Jerry, and other illustrious trainers. They are the most amiable, friendly, welcoming bunch you could have met or expected from a dojo in Cleveland. They built up over a years a pretty solid community with the classmates. And this is the plot twist in the story: the classes solved the problem of my security, not because (well partly because) I can defend myself with absolute violence when presented (nuts-kicking maybe not a perfect defense from bullets), but because being with the community helped me become open to people around me, to be trustful in the good of other people, and to treat others with generosity and respect

And that is, I think, an important part of being Man

Humans of KMC

Haven’t you heard about the “loneliness epidemic” in men and heard advice that people need to go out and “touch grass”. Let me add on to it

Touch grass means finding community

So much of the popular narrative about being manly now is about being aloof, being superior to others, treating people below you poorly… I learned the opposite in martial arts.

So in Amit’s dojo the culture of high-powered individuals sizing each other up and tearing each others down did not exist – he has had a pretty steady stream of newcomers, people who are hungry to learn things. If you have ever been hungry to learn things (It would be strange if you never felt it), you would know that open-mindedness and humility are essential. It is impossible to learn anything if you are arrogant.

This relates to our Christian virtues of docility and obedience, which we throw around so often. Did you think that being meek rather than cocky would make you more manly? But do you also realize we depend on the strength of others, not just on ourselves, and more importantly, supernaturally we depend on the strength of God.

In humility, it has been said that it is not thinking less of yourself, and thinking of yourself less. In class specifically, one puts aside any worries and insecurities about the self. Am I good enough? Nonsense! Of course you’re not good enough, that’s why you are in class. Pick yourself up and be happy that you are here. You are allowed to make mistakes in this space. Take care of that and you have been liberated; you can think about where your arms go and how your hip turns and finally get good at things. In addition, if you are sparring or practicing moves with a partner, the empathy engine gets some exercise in you also. Would you lay down your life for a friend? Maybe not die for him or her, but you are getting in tune to their welfare. Don’t punch their nose! Don’t kick their nuts too hard! It’s not about winning or your ego getting soothed. We are focused on getting good and we support each other through it.

You can be a great scholar at theology and know about virtues and morals and so on, but you can also live your life knowing everything by theory and nothing in practice – know that just by getting your asses moving, you can learn something very very quickly. And as Fr. Daniel Berrigan said, “Your faith is rarely where your head is at and rarely where your heart is at. Your faith is where your ass is at! Inside what commitments are you sitting? Within what reality do you anchor yourself?” This is the part which I comment that exercise is very good, and very integral to being a Man. We are not minds trapped in fleshy coffins on Earth, which is the heresy of Rene Descartes, but our minds and our bodies are both us. Exercising the body helps you exercise the mind, and also helps exercise the soul. A good Catholic Man stays true to our beliefs in anthropology and leaves no aspect behind. The takeaway, to paraphrase Fr. Berrigan, is to get your asses up and moving. It will do you a lot of good, in addition to the communal aspects that you might not get in all forms of sport. Wasn’t it Paul who kept alluding to sports in his letters? (I do not fight like boxer beating the air, and all that) He knows what he’s talking about.

What became different after martial arts?

I actually don’t think Cleveland became a safer place while I was there, one year in. Covid happened, there was hate crime targeting Asians because apparently we eat bats or some shit, BLM riots happened so Downtown Cleveland was very trashed, but the strange thing was that I felt safer during this time, and this change could only be interior (obviously). It was not just the assurance that if someone tried to stab me I can kick himbs nuts and run away in under ten seconds, but rather confidence, self confidence which put me into a state of security and ease which also helped the people around me achieve the same state. It was very late into the classes that I learned that looking too cautious and mistrustful also makes you a target, and to avoid it, you have to look like you belong. I didn’t have to pretend; I absolutely belonged to Cleveland by then; it was home! Since it was home; I began to feel responsibility towards it; the welfare of my friends and acquaintances became things I can help with, whereas when I was feeling unsafe, I didn’t even have time to think about those. I joined the homeless ministry (Labre) and went to places I knew were unsafe to get to our friends sleeping rough. Coming across people in all walks of life dispelled my fears on the evils in man. Whatever their evils, at least out in the streets, most people are good, and are just living out their lives in peace.

So this is the end. If you feel like you need to move yo asses but don’t like violence (like really), you can join a dance class instead. I didn’t talk about dance because I don’t dance much. But it feels like it can work. Do any of you dance? Ok, the rest of you can go and talk to him. Taa now.

Bjartur of Summerhouses

The Work (Dudebros Section) organised a whole conference on Masculinity last year. It seems that we are still reeling in the Masculinity hangover. All the talks lined up for this year are about Masculinity and we will have so much fun talking about how to be a Man and what's more I got a really good topic:

The Way #22: Be firm. Be virile. Be a man. And then... be a saint!

While constitutionally the Work accepts both left-of-centrefolk and right-of-centrefolk among their ranks, the latter wins out in numerical strength. You might be concerned that this would steer the conversation towards something like Manliness is under attack! Modernity and feminism hates to see men being manly! We need suits and ties and shining armour and crusades! Thus, it is fortunate that I am stepping up for this scheduled talk. I plan to steer away from all the culture war shtick. Too much of this mutates into wife-beating and other blasted stupid and abusive Blodsinn. There will be another way to do this.

To aid the drafting process, I shall blog.

Hraun, 1900 (Photo: Frederick W. W. Howell)

Today's reflection is on the character Bjartur of Summerhouses from Halldór Laxness's novel Independent People. The book was written in 1934 and 1935 in two volumes; this and other novels earned Laxness the Nobel Prize in 1955. 

It is at the turn of the century, between the 19th and the 20th; Guðbjartur Jónsson (later Bjartur of Summerhouses) has just worked his way out of indentured servitude and is now his own Man. He spends the entire book reminding everyone else that he has worked his way out of indentured servitude and is now his own Man. Being his own Man, who owes no shit to no one, became more of a value to everything else in his life, including his wives (one after the other) and his children, who suffered his neglect and his autocratic whims: Rósa the first wife died at home giving birth to Ásta Sóllilja, while Bjartur was out bothering a reindeer or some other stupid Man-shit like that. When second wife Finna and the kids made an emotional connection with a newly-birthed calf, he slaughtered it and laid out its guts for everyone to see. My readers, don't you hate this guy already? But some people just love to see his Man-tics.

Blinded by his drive for independence and not relying on anyone in this life. Bjartur made almost exclusively bad life decisions. Iceland was on the cusp of independence from Danish rule; our Bjartur decides to side with the Danish, trading with the Danish trader with company credits. Communist revolutionaries pressed his son Gvendur to join them, and he let Gvendur go with them, even though he disagreed with the Communists himself. After Finna had passed on, Bjartur rejected the romantic advances of their domestic helper, who was the only sane woman in the book ever to catch feelings for the guy. Besides being a self-made man, Bjartur was a chump and a potato in all other respects of life. It is because of this that Laxness reacted so bemusedly at the interviewer who had found Bjartur a compelling character. "But he's so stupid!" said the great author.

The bad behaviour of Bjartur makes sense in the general background of the Nordic Sagas, where a surprising number of protagonists behave in a way just like Bjartur of Summerhouses. It is almost as if these were a different people from a different time with different values! I so frequently hear of scenes like big Warrior Man killing so many people in battle that they pile up like mountains in Jómsvíkinga saga (or something similar) and people talking about those scenes like they were highlights and a rarefied expression of their innermost aspirations. When I visited Borgarnes, I learned of Egill Skallagrímsson and the stories from his life. I was surprised by just how good he is at being an antisocial nuisance in various situations and, more disturbingly, and how the locals celebrated him for that personality trait alone (although I held my tongue, for fear of retaliation).

This feature of the Sagas is something which Laxness frequently refers to; he does it the most obviously in Wayward Heroes, where two Manlymen Main Characters do manly Viking nonsense at the same time Christianity began to take root among Icelanders. It became clear that Viking machismo was something antithetical to Christianity rather than something compatible with it. Things so valorous and praiseworthy in the old Saga ethical framework became craven and cowardly in the light of Christ. It was no accident that Laxness pitted the famous brigand Þormóður Bessason were against an Irish slave in a philosophical/spiritual rap battle, and granted the latter the resplendent victory:

Kolbakur: [...] Josa mac De has more than enough dukes to do battle for him: Patrick the farmer and Columbkille the priest, Columba the seafarer and Kilian the skald. His beautifully inscribed stone crosses tower higher than the peaks of my home in Ireland.

Þormóður: What news this is... Will you swear an oath, Kolbakur, by Josa mac De the Stout, that you have never slipped in through the window that you yourself fashioned for the maiden?

Kolbakur: Cut down her slave right her, if you will, and I will rise once more as her king.

 (Wayward Heroes, Ch. 10) 

I do not believe that it is masculinity which is under attack by secular society and protected by conservative Christianity; I am more confused that some kind of lame machismo is abetted by conservatives and Christians who for some cursed reason think the Gospels justify it. In the present as in the days of Þorgeir and Þormóður the manliness of violence, lies, wilfulness, and license and the manliness of respect, love, courage, and freedom are polar opposites. Choosing the former "manliness" over the real manliness of the Gospel is like choosing masturbation over sex. Now, if only my conservative friends would see the moral distinctions in manliness as starkly as they see them in sexual ethics! If they would discard their Culture War goggles for good, they might be able to see what the modern, depraved, and Woke could teach them about their own cherished values.

Fortunately, Bjartur of Summerhouses is afforded some semblance of a redemption arc, no matter how stupid Laxness thought of him. After he returned to the failed business with the reindeer in a blizzard, he found Rósa sadly deceased and Ásta Sóllilja still and close to death. A rare moment then came when he overcame his own consternations and decided to ask for help from the people from whom he had bought his freedom. This asking for help, which was a most difficult feat for Bjartur, brought Ásta Sóllilja back from the dead to become his daughter; This would later become his realest relationship, the one thing that saves him from himself.

List of normal things that somehow make Americans lose their sh*t (this will be continually updated as more items are discovered)

1. Sitting cross-legged
2. Taking off shoes
3. Fuel efficiency
4. Public Transport
5. Non-white people
6. Showering at night
7. A whole fish
8. Wearing a mask
9. A normal-sized pickup truck
10. Cities built before the 1920s
11. Walking

BONUS: List of normal things that make certain non-Americans lose their sh*t

1. Referring to "America" when you mean "USA" (Latin Americans)
2. Smiling (Russians)
3. Setting healthy personal boundaries (Chinese)
4. Speaking in French (French)

Mozishan

MOZISHAN
2023
20 by 25 cm, acrylic on canvas

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