Notes upon Obscenity and Vulgarity

I wrote an essay in reaction to a conversation about offensiveness and vulgarity that I had with a dear friend earlier today. I spent a little too long thinking about this for it to only have a readership of three or four, so I thought I’d share it here. 

This blog is officially back online, by the way. If any of you out there in the matrix still care, I’ll be posting more, and with frequency. Blogging is so aughtish, but I’m in an increasingly reactionary mood these days.. Let’s celebrate and meditate upon the past in all its scandal and glory. Let’s frustrate the still nihilistic point of Nirvana looming within us, with all the the contempt and carnal vigor we can. 

Christus Victor. Ave Crux Spes Unica. 

Profound blessing upon you all, if you are still here, out there.

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French is more elegant, and perhaps in some ways more precise than English, but that formality and precision are exactly what I dislike about it. It feels like a cage, where English is much more open, freer. French constrains your thoughts, your soul. It’s also less musical somehow than English, in that its rhythm is too regular, whereas English has an irregular syncopation that frees you to do interesting things poetically. This is why English pop music rules the world - the stress, the beat, can fall anywhere, where in French the stress is always in the same place, at the end.

One of the ways that French is more formal is in the use of vulgarity. English is an inherently vulgar tongue. She’s a whore that takes all comers, takes the essence (so to speak) of many strange and alien things into herself, she adapts freely to foreign influences, receives novelties without complaint. She’s a creole, a mutt, a hybrid, a mongrel, an amalgamation; whereas French aspires to Latinate purity that apes Cicero. French is straight out of the Bourbon Court, English is off the London Wharves. It’s ballroom dance versus the mosh pit. English’s core (coeur), its heart, is German, and that is nowhere clearer than in its vulgarity: compare merde to shit. 

Shit is a much better word, it feels good to say. Merde makes the mouth pucker, shit makes it explode. Same with fuck, dick, crap or cunt. All are frictive, plosive, they’re Teutonic knives that stab. French has no equivalents - that I know of - to these words. You can’t say fuck in French, it doesn’t exist. The Quebecois tabarnac is the closest thing, but that’s blasphemous, and takes three syllables to say, which to me is true obscenity. 

Italian is a much better language than French. It is more beautiful to listen to, far funnier, and far more vulgar. It’s both higher and lower than French. It has most of French’s strengths, and many of English’s. Think of catzo - that’s a funny word, also a sharp one. It cuts, and it sings. Kay Bellah Feegah. That’s some beautiful music, there. It’s also an elegant obscenity, because it describes something beautiful and holy in the most poetic and sonorous way possible. 

The fact that the dialects have not been as radically suppressed in Italy as they have been in France is one of the things that gives Italian interest, and power. It’s nowhere as controlled, as constrained as French. It’s a more open, more powerful language. 

That song I sent you - Pallets Full Of Ballots 🇺🇸 - illustrates what I’m saying. “I tell y’all I ‘bout shit myself when I turned on the morning news..” “They took their caps off of their sharpies and they filled them fuckers in.” “Sleepy Joe said ‘Come on man, I’ll hope you’ll be a good sport,' Donald Trump said ‘Fuck that shit, I’ll see your ass in court.'” “They want us to bend over so they can butt fuck us again..” That’s all high vulgar poetry. It’s very funny, and very fun to say. Butt fuck. Great words: You can’t say butt fuck in French. It’s just impossible. French is in this sense impoverished compared to English. 

One of the weaknesses of both French and Italian is how their complicated and abstruse gender and verb systems make it much more difficult to write well. English is much simpler. Not as subtle, maybe, but that lack of subtlety makes it easier to express your thoughts. French falls into a trap of pure logic and pensées raffinées, where they blather on and on and on without really saying anything meaningful. French falls too easily into verbal masturbation. English is all about force and directness. It’s a punch in the gut, not a rapier touch. Speaking English is fucking, not jerking off.

Anyway, when I wrote "ça c'est de la merde” in that comment the other day, what I was thinking was “that’s bullshit.” Or, “that’s horseshit.” Or, "that’s a load of steaming crap.” All of these are admittedly quite vulgar. They’re also not really that offensive to say in English. You can - and people often do - say these sorts of things in front of their grandmothers. You could knock the vulgarity up a notch, and say “that’s a crock of shit.” Then your grandmother might frown, and tell you to watch your language. 

Donna, for example, complains whenever Dick says fuck. She won’t abide the word cunt. Cunt is probably the most transgressive word in English. It has none of the elegance and refinement of figa. But it is also quite a wonderful word. It’s violent, contemptuous, full of anger, disdain and hate. It snaps and wounds like a predator. It's utterly, inexpressibly vulgar. I love it. 

Vulgar, after all, denotes the people: vulgar, late Middle English: from Latin vulgaris, from vulgus ‘common people.’

It’s like how a man like Donald Trump would never rise to the top of European politics, certainly not French politics. 

One of the main reasons Americans love the man is his sheer vulgarity. Vulgarity that crudely transgresses the bounds of French, Swiss, German, International bourgeois normality and respectability. He makes the pious hypocrites clutch their pearls, and virtue signal their supposed inherent superiority, when in fact they are at least as corrupt, violent, venal, dishonorable and dishonest as he is. 

He is offensive. Deal with it. He is an asshole, but he is our asshole. He says "things you aren’t supposed to say” but this is far better than a simulacrum of a man like Joe Biden, who is so full of shit and corruption that he is almost the exact opposite of what he professes to be. “One has all the goodness, the other all the appearance of it.”  

It’s the tax collectors and prostitutes versus the pharisees. Whited sepulchers versus the open sinner. I’ll take the open sinner any day over the covert treasonous liar. The obvious fraud is far preferable to the occulted one.

It’s like how they blaspheme freely, taking the name of God in vain. That’s what offends me, but they do not care. They tell us not to say cunt (“that’s sexist”) while they butcher babies in the womb, and incinerate children in Yemen. 

I know what is truly obscene, and it isn't vulgar words denoting sex and excrement.

This is What Happens When You Give Bart a Bible..

Believing that the Bible is the "inspired word of God" does not mean that you believe that "God wrote the Bible." It means something more specific, that human beings wrote it inspired of the Holy Spirit.  This is a crucial distinction - one that Bart here, as he does so consistently in his scholarship, and like so many other secular minded people often do - misses, thereby missing the crucial meaning of the text. 

We Christians are not bleeding Muslims. The Bible is not the unmediated word of God, it is historically conditioned witness curated by the Church. Intelligent Christians aren't nominalists, we're not beholden to modernist/postmodern high critical textual idolatry. We're not fetishizing and worshipping the text. 

The Word isn't the biblical text, the Word is Christ. 

Christ made manifest in the Church, by the Holy Spirit, through his perpetual eucharistic sacrifice. 

That there are differences - "discrepancies" as Bart puts it - between the Gospels does not diminish their credibility. Multiple witnesses to an event will report different things. The fact that these differences exist testifies to the authenticity of the accounts. With the Gospels these sorts of "discrepancies" are found, yet the essential story between them is the same. 

The Gospels have an oral tradition prior to inscription, and a hypothetical textual predecessor (Quelle, "Q") and then a later 2,000 year scribal history. 

Bart thinks that the textual variations that this historical process created invalidates the veracity of the essential witness. I think that Bart is - let me put this gently - a dumbass. 

Witnesses report different details. Oral transmission magnifies those differences. After inscription, one thousand five hundred years of monastic transcription produces textual variations. 

That's exactly what you would expect. Bart - poor, poor, Bart - thinks that this somehow undermines the veracity of the story. I say that these differences are natural, and if they didn't exist the unanimity would undermine the testimony, because you'd have to suspect that there wasn't a wide witness to the events described, or that the textual history may not in fact be ancient. Bart's "discrepancies" testify to both a wide witness and an authentic ancient textual tradition. 

Bart's "discrepancies" authenticate the Gospel texts, make them more credible than less.

Poor Bart is beholden to his "fundamentalist" mind, the text has become his god. 

Let it go, Bart. Stop confusing twigs, weeds and lichen for the forest.

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Me at Machu Picchu: A Few Shots of Me Bumbling About the Crown Jewel of the Andes

Last week I overcame my jaded ambivalence for ancient ruins that has overcome me these past few years, an ennui that derives from three decades of archeological adventures all over Europe, the Middle East and Meso- America. I used to find ruins romantic and captivating, but somehow lately that fascination has waned, and I've lost the intrigue I had then. I've been wandering about Peru this past month, and the anthropology courses I took back in the day have kept intruding into my thoughts, but I've had no interest in actually going out of my way to see anything, not even Nazca or the many several other major archeological sites that I've been near - There are many ancient cultures that existed here, the Inca being just the last great native culture to dominate Peru, but one that was actually quite brief in its preeminence, gaining power only in the few centuries before the Spanish came.  I was really not all that pumped up to visit Machu Picchu, and almost didn't, until my mother told me I had to, and I realized that she was right. If I didn't go, I'd be a titanic wanker. 

So, I did. I visited. Despite knowing very little about the Inca, despite Machu Picchu being actually quite bereft of history. The Inca had no writing, and the Spanish never discovered the place, which was apparently utterly abandoned during the collapse of the Incan Empire during the conquest. It was not a population center, but served some obscure ritual and political purpose for the Incan elite. They deliberately evacuated the place, to the point that very little has been found by way of artefacts there, because the site had a relatively short life span, and they deliberately stripped the place as they left.  The Spanish tended to destroy Incan cities, using their materials to build their own edifices, and they were particularly keen on destroying Incan religious sites, bent on suppressing their culture. Hence, the several extant astrological/temple structures there are rare survivors. The Inca worshipped the Sun and Moon, and arranged their buildings in astrologically meaningful ways. 

Anyway, more information on them can be found elsewhere online. I just tell you here what little I've learnt. That is, not that much. I thought my - and our larger collective - ignorance would inhibit my appreciating the place.  I was wrong. 

Machu Picchu is amazing. These next pictures really do it little justice, because the scale and spaces girding the place, which is a mountain peak bound by a serpentine river valley and an amazing array of immense mountains, cannot be grasped in two dimensions. Nor can the energy of the place - which is unmistakable, palpable, and vitalizing, be felt in a photo. Still, you can probably sense a scintilla of its magnificence.. And, I just have to post evidence to prove that I was there. 

The mountain falls away a good sheer 500 meters or more to the side in this first shot, but I couldn't get the camera to do that void justice, so I'll just let you imagine the vertigo here:

This next shot is looking uphill, the house in the far background is the "watchtower" where the final picture was taken:

From the watchtower overlooking the main section of the ruin. The classic Machu Picchu view:

I took many more pictures, but they are all just post card shots. I pulled these three because they have me in them.  Beautiful, eh?  Wish you where here..




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Buen Provecho.

And now, a view from the South American table.

The food here is probably the worst of any place - other than possibly Egypt - that I have ever been. From Bogota to Cali to Quito to Cuenca to Piura to Trujillo to here, it's all been insipid bordering on awful.  Huaraz has actually been a great improvement, has been consistently palatable, even on a couple occasions tasty. So things are looking up. The word is that Lima has a very good food scene, so I'm all anticipation..

A few weeks ago I ordered a Caldo de Pollo - chicken soup/stew - at the bus station terminal in Cali, Columbia.  This is what I got:

The Feet. The Neck. The Whole Freak'n Chick'n.

It was actually pretty yummy.  Better than 90% of what I've been served down here, where their idea of dinner is plain rice, big fat undressed Andean corn kernels and plain slightly steamed white beans with a greasy breaded chicken breast slapped atop it all. No seasoning, certainly no spice or chili. This is definitely not the same as Mexico..

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Las Días de los Vivos

So, I haven't had any impulse to put anything anywhere online for quite a long while now. It's like I've been hermetically sealed, I've had nothing much to exude.

I've been in South America for over a month now, I can't tell you exactly how long. I don't know if I have anything I much want to say, except to the dozen or so friends who have asked me to say something, to keep them in the loop.

So, here.  For the baker's dozen of you who really will enjoy this, and the few score more who I may slightly amuse:

I'm in Huaraz, Peru, in the middle of the Andes. The town is at 2,100 meters, and the couple excursions I've taken from here above 3,000 have left me - I, who haven't run a sustained mile since I left the army - feeling short of breath. This thin air is no good for me, so I'm seeking sea level tomorrow, I think in Lima. I'll make my mind up at the terminal, because maybe it may make more sense instead to head straight for Bolivia and then Tierra del Fuego.

Anyway, these past three days have been a welter of festivity here, beginning on Friday with All Saints' Eve. I'm not sure what they used to traditionally do here on Hallow's Eve, but this past Friday night as I went out to eat, the streets here were full of families - Peruvian ones - adults chaperoning their kids out trick o' treating:

They - all these little Inca - were just adorable, the photo opps just redounded unto absurdity because the sidewalks were mobbed with these nutty little critters, but since I hadn't been paying attention and so didn't have my camera with me, and was on a mission to find supper not wanting to go back to my digs to get it,  I just took a few shots with my phone instead.

They challenge you by saying "Halloween" with a slight accent, instead of Trick o' Treat - which I suspect may be impossible to translate into Spanish or any other language - and often get money instead of candy for loot, but the essential vibe was the same; and since they aren't terrified of the boogeyman down here, they have no phobia against letting their kids loose all over the urban streets in a great throng, propositioning every stranger who happens along.

The two days since have been filled with more traditional observances, mainly families going to their ancestral tombs to have dinner with the dead just like they do in Mexico. I didn't go with them, because I had other things on my mind, so no photos.

But at least you get a post.  Cheers.



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Some Notes On Sacred Art: Where I Try to Be a Disciple of Gilson

I react to a post over at Rod Dreher's blog, which discusses use of modern art and architecture in the Church, and thought I'd share it: 

There are many things to say here, too many really, but I’ll restrict myself to a few, and begin with a sharp sarcastic dissent:

Contra Julien Meyrat, Ronchamp’s Notre Dame is not a “success.” It’s an ugly hideous distortion that is only recognizable as a church due to its culling a few brutalized references to traditional Western ecclesial architectural idioms. It has a blunt dumboized steeple, and a nave. Apart from that, it looks like a inflatable funland castle, a parody and mockery of a church, not a place of Catholic worship.

Also, while I absolutely agree with Bob Dugan when he says that art must be “religious” to be meaningful – vested with the transcendent, metaphysically charged – I say his idea that the artist is always necessarily seeking individual immortality thru fame is vulgar, stupid and trite. Prior to the High Middle Ages/Renaissance, most “artists” where anonymous, from Greece to Chartres sculptors and painters (iconographers) and architects are most often unknown to us, posterity.

It is, contra Bob, exactly in the early Renaissance, with artists like Giotto, then all the “Renaissance masters” where “individual expression” and celebrity status for artists begins to trump the purity of religious expression (“look at me! See how *I* can paint!” “See how beautiful my mistress is as a model for the Virgin!”) that throws the emphasis off the numinous, the Divine, and upon themselves, beginning the great sucking cycle of solipsism that is “modern art.”

It is no longer a Divine iconography, but a masturbatory celebration of self. *That* is why it fails, and why anything that breaks with tradition as an unique expression of some individual, without deep reference to the inherited idiom, the symbolic and aesthetic patrimony we have received, will fail. It has become a form of idolatry, not liturgy.

Liturgia after all is the work of the people throughout all time and space worshipping our God: the opposite of solipsism, idolatry.

And this – most viscerally and radically of all – is why I dissent from Fr. Reese’s ideas on how to “reform” the liturgy. He is more of the same. More hermetic rejection of tradition, more self referential disdain for what has been received, more arrogant presumption that we can and should radically alter everything so that it can work better for us, now. There is no regard on his part for the future, no regard for what we have been entrusted to pass on to our children. There is, in short, absolutely no humility in him.

This spiritual positivism is the cancer of the age, what is killing art, what is killing mystery, what is killing faith. His is the same mentality that sees myth as being synonymous with falsehood, rather than being the heart of all meaning and truth.

I cannot express how much his attitude disgusts and angers me. Enough already. Enough. Leave us our myths. Leave us our sacraments, our mysteries. Let the dusk and tallow smoke envelope us, let the silence embrace us, let the song of God blossom in the quiet of our hearts.. Just leave us alone with our saints and God. Just take your noise and struck awkward poses and go, already, will you?

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Lakshmi the Friendly Temple Mascott

Outside the temple of Ganesh (the elephant headed hindu god) in Ponducherry - the former French colony about four hours south of Chennai by bus - they keep this female elephant named Lakshmi - (like Lakshmi Singh for any you devotees of NPR) -  who is named after the consort of Vishnu, Lakshmi the goddess of prosperity. 

Hinduism - which I may hold forth on here at some point - is somehow both deeply off-putting, even revolting to me, while also sometimes weirdly playful and funny.  Lakshmi just stands outside of the temple entrance, and is fed grass by the worshippers and other passers by.  If you stand close enough, and bow your head, she reaches out and touches - "blesses" - you with her trunk. Cute, and hilarious. 

I have scruples about being blessed by an elephant, and was a little wary of her: if you notice she is completely unrestrained, and while maybe smallish for an elephant, is still pretty dang big when you are standing next to her. She was very placid both nights I saw her (notice how her head painting changes in the last photo here, it's from the second night) and never moved from her station by the temple door. Still, I felt too much respect to get too close.

Notice too how she is adorned with the Magen David.  There are interesting symbolic tropes in Hinduism, ones that are pretty intriguing. I'll talk here about that topic later.  

Tonight, I'll just give you a brief visual essay of the life and times of Lakshmi, the sacerdotal pachyderm: 

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Photo Montage Upon the Afternoon & Evening of April 11th: Triplicane High Road Near Wallajah Mosque, Chennai, Tamil Nadu, India

Just like India, when it rains, it comes in monsoon force. For over a week I've been unable to post much of anything because the damn internet here wouldn't upload any images except that of the blessed sadhu down there.  Tonight, it's blazing fast.  So, instead of just one image, I'll give you all a whole slew to make up for some lost bandwidth.

All of these pictures were taken on yesterday (Friday) afternoon and evening, and are presented chronologically. These are some of my friends and other folks on my street here in Madras, whom I see every day. 

[The shirt change is due to my having gone to the tailor, where I left that awesome orange shirt to be taken in a bit because it looks like a maternity smock on me..   ]

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Eh, Namaste Toi là! Je t'aime!!

 Pray Lodge in this Unworthy Place..

I am back again in Chennai; which has nearly nothing to recommend it to a tourist, which is exactly what charms me about the place. It's just a great welter and tussle of honk hurtle haggle hassle honk Tamil love, heart and passion, and I simply adore it, being here.

The internet wilted with the burgeoning heat this past week, and I have repeatedly failed to get any of the images I've been trying to put up to post.. Tonight things are again miraculously abloom, and the wifi speed is actually quite impressive.  So while I am tired, and have laundry soaking upstairs to bother with before bed, I'll take the tide while it runs to the sea.. Two pictures tonight, I hope tomorrow I'll be able to queue up a whole lot more..



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Here I Go, Takin' Pictures of the Navaho..

So, here there's this sadhu (hindu ascetic renunciate, who lives by begging) that I saw by the gate after mass.  He was pretty photogenic, so I naturally stole a bit of his soul with my Kodak click:

really nice beard, too..

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Picture of the Day: Indian Cubscouts

There were a horde of these little guys out on the street, and they made me laugh, there are certain things that are transnational experiences.  I just had to get a shot to share:

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Picture of the Day: Little Hindu Girl on Motorcycle

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