07 December 2008
The Fantastic Christmas Village
Here it is! First we have the traditional Christmas tree, next the fantastic Christmas village in the light of the camera's flash, then another perspective of the fantastic Christmas village, and last the fantastic Christmas village in the dark. I produced this darkness by covering the camera's flashing light with my hand, as I could not figure out how to turn the flash off. It is of course much more fantastic in person. I should throw a feast so that the multitudes might gaze upon it in wonder. The snow is exceedingly fluffy this year, though.
03 December 2008
Orthodoxy, Heresy, and Controversy in the Byzantine Empire
Even as Christianity transformed the Roman Empire under Constantine, heresy had long been a problem for orthodox Christians, primarily in the forms of pagan influence and various Gnostic sects. With both the numerical growth of Christianity and the development of the Church as a Roman institution, though, controversy could come in much more nuanced forms. This essentially refers to the great Christological controversies that would persist until the seventh century and their various proposed solutions. After this, though, the Byzantine Empire would find itself in a much less complex but still highly significant struggle over iconoclasm, and when this disappeared upon the Seventh Ecumenical Council, so ended the final great controversy of the Eastern Empire.
The Arian controversy centered on the teaching of Arius, who in the early fourth century denied the eternity of Christ, His equality with the Father, and that the Father and the Son are of the same substance (Clouse 84). After the Donatists, the Arians were the second heretical group that Constantine faced, and so the Council of Nicaea was called in 325 to establish an orthodoxy that denounced Arianism. As far as the current context is concerned, the most significant result was the adoption of term homoousios, proposed by Constantine himself to describe the Father and the Son as being of the same substance (Frend 140). It is interesting here to note the authority asserted by Constantine, by no means a theologian, in thrusting his term upon the Council. In a sense, it is a sign of the imperial domination of the Eastern Church that is to be witnessed on many occasions by many Byzantine emperors to come.
Arianism was not vanquished by the Council of Nicaea; rather, it would take the later Council of Council of Constantinople in 381 to do that. Called by Theodosius I, it “affirmed the full divinity of …the Christian Trinity,” condemning Arianism in the Empire once and for all (Treadgold 29). Theodosius had called the council because, as a full member of the Church, he felt a particular need to involve himself in the affairs of the Church. Thus he deployed his authority to assemble a council and do away with a heresy in his realm.
Nestorianism arose in the early fifth century following the controversy produced by the objection Nestorius, Archbishop of Constantinople, to the use of the term Theotokos for the Virgin Mary, proposing instead Christokos. He argued that while Mary bore the body of Christ, she could not possibly have borne the Infinite God (Clouse 87). Though it is not what Nestorius proposed in this objection, Nestorianism is the separation of the two natures of Christ into two distinct persons. For the spread of this controversy and for the condemnation of Nestorius at both Rome and Alexandria, Theodosius II called the Council of Ephesus in 431. There, Cyril of Alexandria got Nestorius condemned before his supporters even arrived, but when they did, a Christological dispute broke out between the Alexandrians with Cyril and the Antiochenes with Nestorius. For this Theodosius II deposed both Cyril and Nestorius, though Cyril was able to regain power while Nestorius remained an exile until his death (Clouse 88). Here also the emperor displays complete authority over the bishops, but while Constantine guided their theology toward compromise to promote unity, Theodosius II determined who would be in office to avoid conflict.
Opposed to Nestorianism and far more significant to the development of Byzantine Orthodoxy is Monophysitism, the Christological view that Christ has only one nature, and it is divine. This view was espoused by a monk called Eutyches around the beginning of the fifth century (Clouse 88). Monophysitism was favored by Theodosius II, and so the “Robber Council” of Ephesus was allowed to take place in 449, over which Dioscoros, bishop of Alexandria, presided, showing all favor to Eutyches, “[seeing] to it that only documents favorable to his own cause were read” (Frend 229). It goes without saying that this council ended in favor of Eutyches and Monophysitism, but interestingly, Theodosius died in 450, and being dead his dominant influence was gone from the Church. In 451, therefore, the dyophysites Marcian and Pulcheria ordered the famed Council of Chalcedon, which established the Orthodox, Chalcedonian Christology over a Monophysite Christology, which it condemned with Eutyches (Frend 230-231). The emperor and the empress saw their view affirmed as Orthodoxy.
Despite the monumental statement of orthodox Christology at Chalcedon, Monophysitism was not prepared to disappear, and the number of Monophysite bishops remained high. Compromise was therefore sought, and the first instance of this was the Henotikon of the emperor Zeno, issued in 482. This attempted to unify the Church by leaving the Council of Chalcedon without approval or disapproval and upholding those of Nicaea, Constantinople, and Ephesus. This was an imperial decree, but it sought to establish Church doctrine, specifically the affirmation of the full humanity of Christ so as to achieve elimination of extreme monophysitism (Gregory 108). Naturally, it was the extreme monophysite party that immediately rejected it (Clouse 190). All it really achieved was the creation of the Akakian Schism, named for the Patriarch Akakios, who, as a creature of the emperor, accepted the decree (Gregory 108). The Pope did not, claiming that by ignoring Chalcedon the decree ignored the Tome of Leo, and he excommunicated Akakios (Clouse 190). Thus Zeno’s attempt at compromise led to nothing more than trouble with the West; the Akakian Schism would last until 519. Even if the emperor was able to exert his will over the Patriarch, this did not mean he could do so over the Church at large, especially not in the West.
The next important attempts at compromise on the Monophysite controversy would come under Justinian I, culminating in the Fifth Ecumenical Council at Constantinople in 553. First, however, there was the proposal of Theopaschitism, the belief that “one of the Holy Trinity suffered in the flesh,” as a compromise, which Gregory notes was clearly supported in a 533 law of Justinian. When the Monophysites refused this compromise, Justinian decided that persecution was the answer, so by these means Justinian attempted to develop a unified populace in terms of religious belief; however, this persecution failed, more probably resulting only in the dissemination of the Monophysites more thoroughly through the empire (Gregory 138). For this reason, after years of persecution, Justinian would try again to find a compromise.
The road to the Fifth Ecumenical Council began with an effort to appease the moderate Monophysite majority whose main qualm with Chalcedon was that it had been “tainted with Nestorianism.” The Monophysites demanded the condemnation of three Nestorian bishops, and so Justinian issued the Edict of the Three Chapters in the middle of the 540’s to do just that, and it was generally accepted, but not by the Pope (Treadgold 63). Still desiring the acceptance of the Edict, the Fifth Ecumenical Council, or the Second Council of Constantinople, was called in hopes of its ratification. The eastern bishops went along with the emperor’s wishes, and the Pope was pressured into accepting it at last (Treadgold 65). As for solving the problem of Monophysitism, however, and even for achieving any unity at all, the council was an utter failure. Justinian “had alienated the West, infuriated the Nestorians, and even failed to win over the Monophysites” (Clouse 191).
Even while Justinian was trying to unify the religious factions under his rule, Monophysitism continued to spread without regard for the attempted compromises and Chalcedonian orientation of the emperor. This is the Jacobite Church, led by the bishop Jacob Bardaeus, who as bishop of Edessa wandered the eastern regions of the empire, training and appointing large numbers Monophysite clergy, guaranteeing a lasting Monophysite character in the east. Justinian tried to arrest Bardaeus, but he was unsuccessful (Gregory 139). It would only be the loss of these regions to Islamic invaders that would rid the empire of its Monophysite population, and indeed the hostility of these Monophysites, especially in Egypt thanks to anger over monotheletism, caused many to welcome the change in regime when the Arabs came in 641 (Clouse 192).
Before this, though, much of the East was lost briefly to the Persians in the early seventh century, and it was recovered by Herakleios, who completed its reconquest in 630. Having done this, the bulk of the empire’s Monophysite population was back under the control of Constantinople, and this meant that Monophysitism needed to be addressed once more (Gregory 161). The compromise this time was ultimately Monotheletism, the belief that the two natures of Christ have a single will, but this was only after the Pope and the Patriarch of Jerusalem struck down the attempt of Herakleios and Patriarch Sergios to introduce Monoergism, the belief that the natures of Christ have but one “energy” in 633 (Treadgold 92-93). To advance this doctrine, the emperor published the Ekthesis in 648, declaring it to be imperial policy, but this met no success at all. Chalcedonians and Monophysties were brought no closer, and no beliefs were modified as a result of this imperial mandate (Gregory 161-162). Like Justinian’s attempts at both appeasement and persecution, all monotheletism achieved was schism when the pope condemned the belief in 647 (Clouse 192).
Under Constantine IV, the Sixth Ecumenical Council was called to Constantinople to deal with the issue of Monotheletism, and a Western delegation was also invited. Since the recent Arab conquests had done away with the bulk of the Monophysite influence, the council merely reaffirmed a Chalcedonian Christology without any possibility for Monotheletism or any other previously attempted compromise, and this spelled the end of the Christological controversies at last (Gregory 174). The council also managed to upset the Westerners, which caused the schism to continue until 710 (Clouse 193). So with the rise of Islam and the subsequent loss of much of the Byzantine Empire’s Eastern territory and the proponents of Monophysitism nearly all gone, the need for the Byzantine state to deal with Christology, indeed, most any complex theological issue, was greatly diminished. The consequence of this would be the next and final great controversy, iconoclasm.
The iconoclasm of the eighth century turned out to be the final great controversy of the Orthodox Church under the Byzantine Empire, and in this controversy are echoes of much of earlier Byzantine history. According to Warren Treadgold, “Most Byzantines…believed that their military and political misfortunes showed God’s anger against them” (116). In response to this supposed divine anger, the emperor Leo III outlawed the veneration of icons in 730, and he did so most likely because of “his belief that the veneration of ikons was wrong and that, as emperor, he had a responsibility to God and to his subjects to insist on correct religious practice” (Gregory 192). Thus the iconoclastic controversy began, with an emperor inventing a doctrine in a vain effort to appease God.
Neither the majority of the Byzantine people nor of the Orthodox ecclesiastics agreed with Leo that icons were a problem. Of course, the West was also adamantly opposed to iconoclasm, since icons and images were prominent in Western Christianity (Clouse 193). Notably, John of Damascus, immediately responded with his On Images, which basically argues that “the image is a memorial, just what words are to a listening ear” (Gregory 188), to quote the text itself. Rather than standing on theological grounds, Leo’s argument was largely based on flimsy reasoning from the Law and other admonitions against idol worship found in the Old Testament. Of course, this is no surprise considering the decline of the educational system in the time before the iconoclastic controversy, so much so that “iconoclasts and iconophiles were accusing each other, with reason, of ignorance of theology” (Treadgold 121). This was not the same sort of controversy as any preceding it. This was purely a matter of imperial meddling.
The meddling only grew worse under Leo’s son and successor, Constantine V, who began to openly persecute uncooperative iconophiles. To further complicate the matter, probably having identified the weakness of the earlier defenses of iconoclasm, Constantine V decided to draw Christology into the controversy. Under his rule, iconoclast theology advanced that, in order to venerate an icon, one must abandon a Chalcedonian Christology, for the icon cannot possibly represent both the human and the divine nature of Christ. In order to further legitimize his position, Constantine V called the Council of Hiera in 754, which was packed in order to affirm iconoclasm (Gregory 196). It did just that, according to the emperor’s wishes, even in the face of opposition from the likes of John of Damascus.
These emperors had ample reason to meddle in ecclesiastical affairs. The flourishing of popular religion, through such things as icons and hagiographies (Treadgold 117), was a threat to an emperor under whose rule the Eastern Church had always been subject. This new multitude of objects of veneration could not possibly encourage the veneration of the emperor, the representative of God, and so it is naturally concluded that God must not be receiving the proper veneration, either. Gregory grants the analogy some plausibility (192). It is not implausible to think the emperor would prefer to be the one representative of one god, rather than to allow for many representations of God, angels, saints, and so forth. In this way, the divide is almost like that between Christianity and paganism.
After these two emperors, the iconophiles regained control through Irene, the widow of Constantine V. She called the Seventh Ecumenical Council, the Second Council of Nicaea, to meet in 787. There, iconoclasm was “duly condemned,” but “Iconoclasts were allowed to repent” (Gregory 198). In 813, however, the iconoclast Leo V assumed the throne, and he immediately set about enforcing an iconoclastic program in the style of Leo III. He replaced the Patriarch Nikepherous with John Grammatikos, who acknowledged the Council of Hiera, which an emperor again demonstrated his power to do. Iconoclasm had begun its resurgence, but Leo V was assassinated in 820 (Gregory 205). The conspirator that then took control of the Byzantine Empire was Michael II, another iconoclaste. His heir was his son Theophilus, whose iconoclastic background had made its impact. His wife Theodora, however, was not of like mind, and after Theophilus’ death, iconoclasm was put down for good (Treadgold 130-131). Such is the triumph of Orthodoxy.
From the deep and difficult philosophical questions of Christology to the brute assertion of iconoclasm, the Orthodox Church of the Byzantine Empire faced constant difficulty. Emperors, even with the most pragmatic intentions of unifying the Eastern Church, continually exerted their authority over the Church, but this did not translate to an exertion of authority over belief. Thus lingering issues, especially Monophysitism, managed to persist, for better or for worse. Eventually, though, as the Byzantine state weakened and territory was lost, the smaller and more cohesive empire saw a semblance of the unity that the older emperors had sought for their much more widespread domains. By the ninth century, Orthodox belief had become mostly stable, but at great political expense on the part of the empire.
Bibliography
Clouse, Robert, Richard Pierard, and Edwin Yamauchi. Two Kingdoms. The Church and Culture through the Ages. Moody, Chicago: 1993.
Frend, W.H.C. The Early Church. Fortune Press, Minneapolis: 1982.
Gregory, Timothy. A History of Byzantium. Blackwell, Malden, MA: 2005.
Treadgold, Warren. A Concise History of Byzantium. Palgrave, New York: 2001.
The Arian controversy centered on the teaching of Arius, who in the early fourth century denied the eternity of Christ, His equality with the Father, and that the Father and the Son are of the same substance (Clouse 84). After the Donatists, the Arians were the second heretical group that Constantine faced, and so the Council of Nicaea was called in 325 to establish an orthodoxy that denounced Arianism. As far as the current context is concerned, the most significant result was the adoption of term homoousios, proposed by Constantine himself to describe the Father and the Son as being of the same substance (Frend 140). It is interesting here to note the authority asserted by Constantine, by no means a theologian, in thrusting his term upon the Council. In a sense, it is a sign of the imperial domination of the Eastern Church that is to be witnessed on many occasions by many Byzantine emperors to come.
Arianism was not vanquished by the Council of Nicaea; rather, it would take the later Council of Council of Constantinople in 381 to do that. Called by Theodosius I, it “affirmed the full divinity of …the Christian Trinity,” condemning Arianism in the Empire once and for all (Treadgold 29). Theodosius had called the council because, as a full member of the Church, he felt a particular need to involve himself in the affairs of the Church. Thus he deployed his authority to assemble a council and do away with a heresy in his realm.
Nestorianism arose in the early fifth century following the controversy produced by the objection Nestorius, Archbishop of Constantinople, to the use of the term Theotokos for the Virgin Mary, proposing instead Christokos. He argued that while Mary bore the body of Christ, she could not possibly have borne the Infinite God (Clouse 87). Though it is not what Nestorius proposed in this objection, Nestorianism is the separation of the two natures of Christ into two distinct persons. For the spread of this controversy and for the condemnation of Nestorius at both Rome and Alexandria, Theodosius II called the Council of Ephesus in 431. There, Cyril of Alexandria got Nestorius condemned before his supporters even arrived, but when they did, a Christological dispute broke out between the Alexandrians with Cyril and the Antiochenes with Nestorius. For this Theodosius II deposed both Cyril and Nestorius, though Cyril was able to regain power while Nestorius remained an exile until his death (Clouse 88). Here also the emperor displays complete authority over the bishops, but while Constantine guided their theology toward compromise to promote unity, Theodosius II determined who would be in office to avoid conflict.
Opposed to Nestorianism and far more significant to the development of Byzantine Orthodoxy is Monophysitism, the Christological view that Christ has only one nature, and it is divine. This view was espoused by a monk called Eutyches around the beginning of the fifth century (Clouse 88). Monophysitism was favored by Theodosius II, and so the “Robber Council” of Ephesus was allowed to take place in 449, over which Dioscoros, bishop of Alexandria, presided, showing all favor to Eutyches, “[seeing] to it that only documents favorable to his own cause were read” (Frend 229). It goes without saying that this council ended in favor of Eutyches and Monophysitism, but interestingly, Theodosius died in 450, and being dead his dominant influence was gone from the Church. In 451, therefore, the dyophysites Marcian and Pulcheria ordered the famed Council of Chalcedon, which established the Orthodox, Chalcedonian Christology over a Monophysite Christology, which it condemned with Eutyches (Frend 230-231). The emperor and the empress saw their view affirmed as Orthodoxy.
Despite the monumental statement of orthodox Christology at Chalcedon, Monophysitism was not prepared to disappear, and the number of Monophysite bishops remained high. Compromise was therefore sought, and the first instance of this was the Henotikon of the emperor Zeno, issued in 482. This attempted to unify the Church by leaving the Council of Chalcedon without approval or disapproval and upholding those of Nicaea, Constantinople, and Ephesus. This was an imperial decree, but it sought to establish Church doctrine, specifically the affirmation of the full humanity of Christ so as to achieve elimination of extreme monophysitism (Gregory 108). Naturally, it was the extreme monophysite party that immediately rejected it (Clouse 190). All it really achieved was the creation of the Akakian Schism, named for the Patriarch Akakios, who, as a creature of the emperor, accepted the decree (Gregory 108). The Pope did not, claiming that by ignoring Chalcedon the decree ignored the Tome of Leo, and he excommunicated Akakios (Clouse 190). Thus Zeno’s attempt at compromise led to nothing more than trouble with the West; the Akakian Schism would last until 519. Even if the emperor was able to exert his will over the Patriarch, this did not mean he could do so over the Church at large, especially not in the West.
The next important attempts at compromise on the Monophysite controversy would come under Justinian I, culminating in the Fifth Ecumenical Council at Constantinople in 553. First, however, there was the proposal of Theopaschitism, the belief that “one of the Holy Trinity suffered in the flesh,” as a compromise, which Gregory notes was clearly supported in a 533 law of Justinian. When the Monophysites refused this compromise, Justinian decided that persecution was the answer, so by these means Justinian attempted to develop a unified populace in terms of religious belief; however, this persecution failed, more probably resulting only in the dissemination of the Monophysites more thoroughly through the empire (Gregory 138). For this reason, after years of persecution, Justinian would try again to find a compromise.
The road to the Fifth Ecumenical Council began with an effort to appease the moderate Monophysite majority whose main qualm with Chalcedon was that it had been “tainted with Nestorianism.” The Monophysites demanded the condemnation of three Nestorian bishops, and so Justinian issued the Edict of the Three Chapters in the middle of the 540’s to do just that, and it was generally accepted, but not by the Pope (Treadgold 63). Still desiring the acceptance of the Edict, the Fifth Ecumenical Council, or the Second Council of Constantinople, was called in hopes of its ratification. The eastern bishops went along with the emperor’s wishes, and the Pope was pressured into accepting it at last (Treadgold 65). As for solving the problem of Monophysitism, however, and even for achieving any unity at all, the council was an utter failure. Justinian “had alienated the West, infuriated the Nestorians, and even failed to win over the Monophysites” (Clouse 191).
Even while Justinian was trying to unify the religious factions under his rule, Monophysitism continued to spread without regard for the attempted compromises and Chalcedonian orientation of the emperor. This is the Jacobite Church, led by the bishop Jacob Bardaeus, who as bishop of Edessa wandered the eastern regions of the empire, training and appointing large numbers Monophysite clergy, guaranteeing a lasting Monophysite character in the east. Justinian tried to arrest Bardaeus, but he was unsuccessful (Gregory 139). It would only be the loss of these regions to Islamic invaders that would rid the empire of its Monophysite population, and indeed the hostility of these Monophysites, especially in Egypt thanks to anger over monotheletism, caused many to welcome the change in regime when the Arabs came in 641 (Clouse 192).
Before this, though, much of the East was lost briefly to the Persians in the early seventh century, and it was recovered by Herakleios, who completed its reconquest in 630. Having done this, the bulk of the empire’s Monophysite population was back under the control of Constantinople, and this meant that Monophysitism needed to be addressed once more (Gregory 161). The compromise this time was ultimately Monotheletism, the belief that the two natures of Christ have a single will, but this was only after the Pope and the Patriarch of Jerusalem struck down the attempt of Herakleios and Patriarch Sergios to introduce Monoergism, the belief that the natures of Christ have but one “energy” in 633 (Treadgold 92-93). To advance this doctrine, the emperor published the Ekthesis in 648, declaring it to be imperial policy, but this met no success at all. Chalcedonians and Monophysties were brought no closer, and no beliefs were modified as a result of this imperial mandate (Gregory 161-162). Like Justinian’s attempts at both appeasement and persecution, all monotheletism achieved was schism when the pope condemned the belief in 647 (Clouse 192).
Under Constantine IV, the Sixth Ecumenical Council was called to Constantinople to deal with the issue of Monotheletism, and a Western delegation was also invited. Since the recent Arab conquests had done away with the bulk of the Monophysite influence, the council merely reaffirmed a Chalcedonian Christology without any possibility for Monotheletism or any other previously attempted compromise, and this spelled the end of the Christological controversies at last (Gregory 174). The council also managed to upset the Westerners, which caused the schism to continue until 710 (Clouse 193). So with the rise of Islam and the subsequent loss of much of the Byzantine Empire’s Eastern territory and the proponents of Monophysitism nearly all gone, the need for the Byzantine state to deal with Christology, indeed, most any complex theological issue, was greatly diminished. The consequence of this would be the next and final great controversy, iconoclasm.
The iconoclasm of the eighth century turned out to be the final great controversy of the Orthodox Church under the Byzantine Empire, and in this controversy are echoes of much of earlier Byzantine history. According to Warren Treadgold, “Most Byzantines…believed that their military and political misfortunes showed God’s anger against them” (116). In response to this supposed divine anger, the emperor Leo III outlawed the veneration of icons in 730, and he did so most likely because of “his belief that the veneration of ikons was wrong and that, as emperor, he had a responsibility to God and to his subjects to insist on correct religious practice” (Gregory 192). Thus the iconoclastic controversy began, with an emperor inventing a doctrine in a vain effort to appease God.
Neither the majority of the Byzantine people nor of the Orthodox ecclesiastics agreed with Leo that icons were a problem. Of course, the West was also adamantly opposed to iconoclasm, since icons and images were prominent in Western Christianity (Clouse 193). Notably, John of Damascus, immediately responded with his On Images, which basically argues that “the image is a memorial, just what words are to a listening ear” (Gregory 188), to quote the text itself. Rather than standing on theological grounds, Leo’s argument was largely based on flimsy reasoning from the Law and other admonitions against idol worship found in the Old Testament. Of course, this is no surprise considering the decline of the educational system in the time before the iconoclastic controversy, so much so that “iconoclasts and iconophiles were accusing each other, with reason, of ignorance of theology” (Treadgold 121). This was not the same sort of controversy as any preceding it. This was purely a matter of imperial meddling.
The meddling only grew worse under Leo’s son and successor, Constantine V, who began to openly persecute uncooperative iconophiles. To further complicate the matter, probably having identified the weakness of the earlier defenses of iconoclasm, Constantine V decided to draw Christology into the controversy. Under his rule, iconoclast theology advanced that, in order to venerate an icon, one must abandon a Chalcedonian Christology, for the icon cannot possibly represent both the human and the divine nature of Christ. In order to further legitimize his position, Constantine V called the Council of Hiera in 754, which was packed in order to affirm iconoclasm (Gregory 196). It did just that, according to the emperor’s wishes, even in the face of opposition from the likes of John of Damascus.
These emperors had ample reason to meddle in ecclesiastical affairs. The flourishing of popular religion, through such things as icons and hagiographies (Treadgold 117), was a threat to an emperor under whose rule the Eastern Church had always been subject. This new multitude of objects of veneration could not possibly encourage the veneration of the emperor, the representative of God, and so it is naturally concluded that God must not be receiving the proper veneration, either. Gregory grants the analogy some plausibility (192). It is not implausible to think the emperor would prefer to be the one representative of one god, rather than to allow for many representations of God, angels, saints, and so forth. In this way, the divide is almost like that between Christianity and paganism.
After these two emperors, the iconophiles regained control through Irene, the widow of Constantine V. She called the Seventh Ecumenical Council, the Second Council of Nicaea, to meet in 787. There, iconoclasm was “duly condemned,” but “Iconoclasts were allowed to repent” (Gregory 198). In 813, however, the iconoclast Leo V assumed the throne, and he immediately set about enforcing an iconoclastic program in the style of Leo III. He replaced the Patriarch Nikepherous with John Grammatikos, who acknowledged the Council of Hiera, which an emperor again demonstrated his power to do. Iconoclasm had begun its resurgence, but Leo V was assassinated in 820 (Gregory 205). The conspirator that then took control of the Byzantine Empire was Michael II, another iconoclaste. His heir was his son Theophilus, whose iconoclastic background had made its impact. His wife Theodora, however, was not of like mind, and after Theophilus’ death, iconoclasm was put down for good (Treadgold 130-131). Such is the triumph of Orthodoxy.
From the deep and difficult philosophical questions of Christology to the brute assertion of iconoclasm, the Orthodox Church of the Byzantine Empire faced constant difficulty. Emperors, even with the most pragmatic intentions of unifying the Eastern Church, continually exerted their authority over the Church, but this did not translate to an exertion of authority over belief. Thus lingering issues, especially Monophysitism, managed to persist, for better or for worse. Eventually, though, as the Byzantine state weakened and territory was lost, the smaller and more cohesive empire saw a semblance of the unity that the older emperors had sought for their much more widespread domains. By the ninth century, Orthodox belief had become mostly stable, but at great political expense on the part of the empire.
Bibliography
Clouse, Robert, Richard Pierard, and Edwin Yamauchi. Two Kingdoms. The Church and Culture through the Ages. Moody, Chicago: 1993.
Frend, W.H.C. The Early Church. Fortune Press, Minneapolis: 1982.
Gregory, Timothy. A History of Byzantium. Blackwell, Malden, MA: 2005.
Treadgold, Warren. A Concise History of Byzantium. Palgrave, New York: 2001.
30 November 2008
Christmas Decoration Day
Good afternoon, my friends. I would like to greet you with, "Happy Christmas Decoration Day!" or "Happy First Day of Christmas!" but I was too busy celebrating that day to offer all the greetings I should like to have offered.
In my view, there are several holidays that supersede all others, Christmas being chief among them. That being the case, I find the First Day of Christmas, always the day after Thanksgiving, to be a particularly joyous occasion, certainly among my favorite holidays. On this day the Christmas decorations come out, and in discussing them I shall focus on the traditional Christmas tree. The traditional Christmas tree is not a real tree, but this does hold the traditional value of being the same tree every year for as long as I remember. Apparently, until I was two years old, we put up a real tree, but that year there was an issue with leaking water that persuaded us to acquire a fake tree. Many times we have considered returning to the real tree, but three factors have persuaded us otherwise, the first being the one I just mentioned. The second is fear of fire, especially considering the length of time between the First Day of Christmas and Christmas itself. The third is the fantastic Christmas village, which shall receive mention soon.
The Christmas tree has a base, a pole, and branches that must be applied individually each year. The base is bent and slightly mangled, and it must be wrestled if the pole is to stand straightly. From the branches, the pseudo pine needles fall off in number, making a festive mess on the floor, and these branches scratch the hands and arms, leaving festive scratches and rashes that itch with the Christmas spirit. I am perfectly serious when I say that I love it. Once the branches are applied, the star is mounted on top, which I understand many people feel should be done last. These people are wrong to trust such feelings; they have no fantastic Christmas village.
Once the tree is assembled in such a way that it looks like a real tree, it cries out for need of lights and beads. First come the delightfully colorful lights and then come strings of red, wooden beads. Lights, you see, are safer than candles, but candles do smell better. Alas, fir trees are no place for candles, whether they are real or not. As for the beads, I think they might be equivalent to the strange practice of stringing popping corn and wrapping it around the tree. Popping corn strikes me as a vulgar thing to put on something so proud and glorious as a Christmas tree, but these beads, among other stringable things I am sure, do ample justice to the aesthetics of Christmas. Now, one might suspect that ornaments would come next, but anyone like that does not have a fantastic Christmas village.
The fantastic Christmas village proved to be a bit minimalistic this year, but at no expense to fantasy. You see, the traditional Christmas tree is usually in a corner, but some furniture rearrangements necessitated that it move down the wall this year, at the expense of space around its base. Since the fantastic Christmas village stands at the base of the tree, the challenge presented by a diminished space is obvious, for over the last ten or more years a great many buildings have been accumulated. The first thing that had to be done, then, was to select the ones that would be included and the ones that would resume their places in the closet. These are those that I included this year: the clock tower, the train station, the city hall, the courthouse, the cathedral, the school, the book shop, the toy shop, the florist, the country store, the water mill, the barn, and a few houses, including one to accompany the barn. The municipal buildings and the train station are in the front. To their left are the shops, and to their right are the houses. In the back in the hills is the country, including such institutions as the farm, the water mill, and the school, for it is an old timey schoolhouse. The country store stands between the shops and the country. There are also tiny people and tiny trees to populate the fantastic Christmas village, from happy children to a happy snowman. It is truly fantastic.
Last of all are the ornaments, which generally consist of utterly meaningless trinkets, merely aesthetic objects, commemorations of memories and meaningful things, and family photographs. There is also one that never got its intended picture, but it just has the picture that came with it (which is pretty awful). I like to place it inconspicuously on the back of the tree.
Apart from the traditional tree, I would like to mention the small battalion of nutcrackers that guard the house at Christmastime. My personal nutcracker is naturally my favorite. He wears a kilt and holds a set of bagpipes. That of my brother is a golfer, clearly from Scotland. Two others are perfectly ordinary, and one is a monkey.
This is not all, but it is all I mean to relate. There are lights that go around the deck of the good ship house, livening up the river valley with Christmas spirit. There is the auxiliary tree, which lives next to the piano in the part of the house that takes itself more seriously. There are also poinsettias and a nativity to grace the mantle, divers candles and things to lurk in all places, and festive towels for drying the hands. These things I mention for a greater completeness, that the entirety of the Christmastime decor might be grasped. Lastly, we have a new snow globe this year, which I find particularly pleasing, as far as snow globes go. I conclude here, vanishing like a polar bear eating marshmallows in a blizzard.
Merry Christmastime!
In my view, there are several holidays that supersede all others, Christmas being chief among them. That being the case, I find the First Day of Christmas, always the day after Thanksgiving, to be a particularly joyous occasion, certainly among my favorite holidays. On this day the Christmas decorations come out, and in discussing them I shall focus on the traditional Christmas tree. The traditional Christmas tree is not a real tree, but this does hold the traditional value of being the same tree every year for as long as I remember. Apparently, until I was two years old, we put up a real tree, but that year there was an issue with leaking water that persuaded us to acquire a fake tree. Many times we have considered returning to the real tree, but three factors have persuaded us otherwise, the first being the one I just mentioned. The second is fear of fire, especially considering the length of time between the First Day of Christmas and Christmas itself. The third is the fantastic Christmas village, which shall receive mention soon.
The Christmas tree has a base, a pole, and branches that must be applied individually each year. The base is bent and slightly mangled, and it must be wrestled if the pole is to stand straightly. From the branches, the pseudo pine needles fall off in number, making a festive mess on the floor, and these branches scratch the hands and arms, leaving festive scratches and rashes that itch with the Christmas spirit. I am perfectly serious when I say that I love it. Once the branches are applied, the star is mounted on top, which I understand many people feel should be done last. These people are wrong to trust such feelings; they have no fantastic Christmas village.
Once the tree is assembled in such a way that it looks like a real tree, it cries out for need of lights and beads. First come the delightfully colorful lights and then come strings of red, wooden beads. Lights, you see, are safer than candles, but candles do smell better. Alas, fir trees are no place for candles, whether they are real or not. As for the beads, I think they might be equivalent to the strange practice of stringing popping corn and wrapping it around the tree. Popping corn strikes me as a vulgar thing to put on something so proud and glorious as a Christmas tree, but these beads, among other stringable things I am sure, do ample justice to the aesthetics of Christmas. Now, one might suspect that ornaments would come next, but anyone like that does not have a fantastic Christmas village.
The fantastic Christmas village proved to be a bit minimalistic this year, but at no expense to fantasy. You see, the traditional Christmas tree is usually in a corner, but some furniture rearrangements necessitated that it move down the wall this year, at the expense of space around its base. Since the fantastic Christmas village stands at the base of the tree, the challenge presented by a diminished space is obvious, for over the last ten or more years a great many buildings have been accumulated. The first thing that had to be done, then, was to select the ones that would be included and the ones that would resume their places in the closet. These are those that I included this year: the clock tower, the train station, the city hall, the courthouse, the cathedral, the school, the book shop, the toy shop, the florist, the country store, the water mill, the barn, and a few houses, including one to accompany the barn. The municipal buildings and the train station are in the front. To their left are the shops, and to their right are the houses. In the back in the hills is the country, including such institutions as the farm, the water mill, and the school, for it is an old timey schoolhouse. The country store stands between the shops and the country. There are also tiny people and tiny trees to populate the fantastic Christmas village, from happy children to a happy snowman. It is truly fantastic.
Last of all are the ornaments, which generally consist of utterly meaningless trinkets, merely aesthetic objects, commemorations of memories and meaningful things, and family photographs. There is also one that never got its intended picture, but it just has the picture that came with it (which is pretty awful). I like to place it inconspicuously on the back of the tree.
Apart from the traditional tree, I would like to mention the small battalion of nutcrackers that guard the house at Christmastime. My personal nutcracker is naturally my favorite. He wears a kilt and holds a set of bagpipes. That of my brother is a golfer, clearly from Scotland. Two others are perfectly ordinary, and one is a monkey.
This is not all, but it is all I mean to relate. There are lights that go around the deck of the good ship house, livening up the river valley with Christmas spirit. There is the auxiliary tree, which lives next to the piano in the part of the house that takes itself more seriously. There are also poinsettias and a nativity to grace the mantle, divers candles and things to lurk in all places, and festive towels for drying the hands. These things I mention for a greater completeness, that the entirety of the Christmastime decor might be grasped. Lastly, we have a new snow globe this year, which I find particularly pleasing, as far as snow globes go. I conclude here, vanishing like a polar bear eating marshmallows in a blizzard.
Merry Christmastime!
20 November 2008
Vigilante Dialogue
Happy World Philosophy Day, my friends! Today I will celebrate by composing a philosophical dialogue between Thomas Nagel, of "What is it like to be a bat?" fame, and Batman, of Batman fame.
Introduction.
It is nighttime. Thomas Nagel is sitting in his office at New York University. All is silent, but a shadow flashes across the room. Suddenly Professor Nagel is face to face with Batman, who hangs from the ceiling.
Batman: (always intensely) You don't know anything about being a bat, Nagel.
Nagel: (frightened) That was the point, and neither do you.
Batman: That's where you're wrong.
Nagel: Consciousness is a subjective experience, and you are no bat.
Batman: (lifting Nagel by his shirt) What does that have to do with it?
Nagel: You cannot know what it is like to be a bat without being one!
Batman: Who is more bat-like than me? I'm hanging from the ceiling! I spend my time in the Batcave, often on the Batcomputer! I'm nocturnal! I dress in black! I have wing extensions for gliding! I talk on the Batphone! I drive the Batmobile! I know what it's like to be a bat.
Nagel: No, you know what it is like for you to do bat things!
Batman: (throws Nagel down and leaps to the floor, landing on his feet) Doing bat things tells me what it's like to be a bat, Nagel. I am Batman!
Nagel: Yes, Batman...
Batman: (strikes Nagel across the face) I am Batman, and I know what it's like to be a bat.
Nagel: You are a man who knows what it is like to do bat things!
Batman: (strikes Nagel again) What I do defines who I am! I am Batman!
Nagel: (bleeding out the nose and mouth) Regardless of what you do, you have a subjective consciousness!
Batman: (kicks Nagel across the floor, into a wall) If you want to keep your subjective consciousness, concede that I know what it's like to be a bat.
Nagel: (moans in agony)
Batman: (stepping toward Nagel) Last chance.
Nagel: (cowering) You know what it is like...
Conclusion.
Batman disappears as silently as he entered.
Introduction.
It is nighttime. Thomas Nagel is sitting in his office at New York University. All is silent, but a shadow flashes across the room. Suddenly Professor Nagel is face to face with Batman, who hangs from the ceiling.
Batman: (always intensely) You don't know anything about being a bat, Nagel.
Nagel: (frightened) That was the point, and neither do you.
Batman: That's where you're wrong.
Nagel: Consciousness is a subjective experience, and you are no bat.
Batman: (lifting Nagel by his shirt) What does that have to do with it?
Nagel: You cannot know what it is like to be a bat without being one!
Batman: Who is more bat-like than me? I'm hanging from the ceiling! I spend my time in the Batcave, often on the Batcomputer! I'm nocturnal! I dress in black! I have wing extensions for gliding! I talk on the Batphone! I drive the Batmobile! I know what it's like to be a bat.
Nagel: No, you know what it is like for you to do bat things!
Batman: (throws Nagel down and leaps to the floor, landing on his feet) Doing bat things tells me what it's like to be a bat, Nagel. I am Batman!
Nagel: Yes, Batman...
Batman: (strikes Nagel across the face) I am Batman, and I know what it's like to be a bat.
Nagel: You are a man who knows what it is like to do bat things!
Batman: (strikes Nagel again) What I do defines who I am! I am Batman!
Nagel: (bleeding out the nose and mouth) Regardless of what you do, you have a subjective consciousness!
Batman: (kicks Nagel across the floor, into a wall) If you want to keep your subjective consciousness, concede that I know what it's like to be a bat.
Nagel: (moans in agony)
Batman: (stepping toward Nagel) Last chance.
Nagel: (cowering) You know what it is like...
Conclusion.
Batman disappears as silently as he entered.
19 November 2008
I Dream of Zombies
My friends, as long as we speak of interesting dreams, let me relate one of mine. This one passed through my thoughts on Sunday night, but my memory of it is imperfect. Some real people besides myself were there, but I do not recall their precise functions or locations, just as I no longer remember any context of the point at which I shall begin.
Where, then, shall I begin? Why at a swimming pool, of course! This, however, is no ordinary swimming pool. This one has a chair submerged about a third of the way down from the shallow end, which I add is about a foot in depth. The chair has thick and stout legs, a square seat, and an equally thick and stout back. I wonder for what purpose it is there. I suppose it must be for sitting. Now I am underwater with the chair. I wonder how one might sit in it for a long period of time, but I know that it is possible to do so. This question is never answered. The chair transforms into a platform structure of some kind. Now moving to the back of the swimming pool, I observe the depth markings. One says 300 ft. The next and last one says 400 ft. I wonder whether or not diving is permitted, not that I have any desire to go diving. I determine that 400 ft. is just the right depth to permit safe diving. The pool, however, is not safe for diving at all, since I notice that the 400 ft. deep deep end is only about two feet wide, with an enormous drop immediately beforehand. This is not cause for alarm, though, since there is a rope between the safe 400 ft. depth and the unsafe 300 ft. depth. Suddenly, though some fault of my own, the pool begins to drain, and all persons therein (whose numbers are few) must scramble out. At the bottom of the deepest part of the pool there are undead things, but since the water is drained, I am congratulated for having defeated them. On a side note, zombies in the pool was a real childhood fear of mine, so perhaps I am recalling something.
Having defeated this menace of the depths, I am struck with the realization that I must also defeat the menace above, which I suspect means there will be bats. I understand somehow that this means purging the attic of evil, never mind that there has been no attic anywhere thus far. Regardless, some dream people and I find our way to a house inhabited by a kindly old woman. It is violet in color and rather tall. The roof is covered in green shingles. We tell her that the attic must be purged of evil, so she brings out a metal extension ladder. There is an overhang over her front door, so we climb onto that. From there we raise the ladder up to the circular window of the attic, but we are forbidden entry. Fortunately, the kindly old woman knows what to do. We all climb down to the ground, and we notice that it is storming. The kindly old woman is making her way across her yard, which is a very dark green in color, toward a tree of similar hue. We urge her to return to us until the storm passes, but she is adamant. She refuses to even look back at us. Suddenly, lightening strikes, and I fear the worst. The woman was holding a fully extended, metal extension ladder vertically in the air, after all. Miraculously and irrationally, the lightening had struck the ground two feet or so to her left, and she did not even flinch. At last, she places the ladder against the tree, which I know will lead to the attic.
Climbing the ladder again, this time up into a secret passage high in a lonely tree, there emerges first a flying thing, resembling a bat, which quickly disappears, and a number of green people with oddly shaped noses from within the tree and behind me. The kindly old woman is gone. They are identified as Venezuelan futbol (that is, soccer) players, but it is not certain whether they form a team. At first they seem threatening, then they offer us some massive slices of what appears to be garlic bread from out their bubbling cauldron, the kind witches and cannibals use. We eat it, but it tastes strange, so it is my conclusion that we are eating the transubstantiated flesh of the kindly old woman. Thus we go back several steps in time so as to undo this tragedy, but we fall for the same trick. We do it again as the visions fade and I wake up.
I am not making this up. I could not do so if I tried.
Where, then, shall I begin? Why at a swimming pool, of course! This, however, is no ordinary swimming pool. This one has a chair submerged about a third of the way down from the shallow end, which I add is about a foot in depth. The chair has thick and stout legs, a square seat, and an equally thick and stout back. I wonder for what purpose it is there. I suppose it must be for sitting. Now I am underwater with the chair. I wonder how one might sit in it for a long period of time, but I know that it is possible to do so. This question is never answered. The chair transforms into a platform structure of some kind. Now moving to the back of the swimming pool, I observe the depth markings. One says 300 ft. The next and last one says 400 ft. I wonder whether or not diving is permitted, not that I have any desire to go diving. I determine that 400 ft. is just the right depth to permit safe diving. The pool, however, is not safe for diving at all, since I notice that the 400 ft. deep deep end is only about two feet wide, with an enormous drop immediately beforehand. This is not cause for alarm, though, since there is a rope between the safe 400 ft. depth and the unsafe 300 ft. depth. Suddenly, though some fault of my own, the pool begins to drain, and all persons therein (whose numbers are few) must scramble out. At the bottom of the deepest part of the pool there are undead things, but since the water is drained, I am congratulated for having defeated them. On a side note, zombies in the pool was a real childhood fear of mine, so perhaps I am recalling something.
Having defeated this menace of the depths, I am struck with the realization that I must also defeat the menace above, which I suspect means there will be bats. I understand somehow that this means purging the attic of evil, never mind that there has been no attic anywhere thus far. Regardless, some dream people and I find our way to a house inhabited by a kindly old woman. It is violet in color and rather tall. The roof is covered in green shingles. We tell her that the attic must be purged of evil, so she brings out a metal extension ladder. There is an overhang over her front door, so we climb onto that. From there we raise the ladder up to the circular window of the attic, but we are forbidden entry. Fortunately, the kindly old woman knows what to do. We all climb down to the ground, and we notice that it is storming. The kindly old woman is making her way across her yard, which is a very dark green in color, toward a tree of similar hue. We urge her to return to us until the storm passes, but she is adamant. She refuses to even look back at us. Suddenly, lightening strikes, and I fear the worst. The woman was holding a fully extended, metal extension ladder vertically in the air, after all. Miraculously and irrationally, the lightening had struck the ground two feet or so to her left, and she did not even flinch. At last, she places the ladder against the tree, which I know will lead to the attic.
Climbing the ladder again, this time up into a secret passage high in a lonely tree, there emerges first a flying thing, resembling a bat, which quickly disappears, and a number of green people with oddly shaped noses from within the tree and behind me. The kindly old woman is gone. They are identified as Venezuelan futbol (that is, soccer) players, but it is not certain whether they form a team. At first they seem threatening, then they offer us some massive slices of what appears to be garlic bread from out their bubbling cauldron, the kind witches and cannibals use. We eat it, but it tastes strange, so it is my conclusion that we are eating the transubstantiated flesh of the kindly old woman. Thus we go back several steps in time so as to undo this tragedy, but we fall for the same trick. We do it again as the visions fade and I wake up.
I am not making this up. I could not do so if I tried.
16 November 2008
The Wisdom of Mme. Faux-Sophiste
As "Pheidippotamus" might have indicated, it is a semi-goal of mine to build myself a little world around "Velocipedes and Dirigibles." A couple of Wednesdays ago I made another addition to the literature, but I neglected to post it. It is this:
The Wisdom of Mme. Faux-Sophiste
Know you not what knowing not will do
for knowing what to see
and knowing how and knowing who
knows how and what to be
besides a knowing one who knows
no seeing but a thought
of one who sees and then burrows
to know what has been wrought
not seeing but not knowing much
but one and all to know:
not foxes, but hedgehogs and such,
and an armadillo?
The Wisdom of Mme. Faux-Sophiste
Know you not what knowing not will do
for knowing what to see
and knowing how and knowing who
knows how and what to be
besides a knowing one who knows
no seeing but a thought
of one who sees and then burrows
to know what has been wrought
not seeing but not knowing much
but one and all to know:
not foxes, but hedgehogs and such,
and an armadillo?
03 November 2008
I believe in fires at midnight.
"Me, I'll sit and write this love song, as I all too seldom do, build a little fire this midnight, it's good to be back home with you." -"Fire at Midnight," Jethro Tull
In reverie of the splendorous nighttime and of its splendid array of stars and of the smiling moon ascending over the treetops, I present a musical composition for solo pianoforte. Furthermore, let me commemorate therewith the the grand fire almost-at-midnight and its plumes of steam illuminated by the moonlight and the feel and the scent of the calm and cold night from the fire to the field to the swing set. Also, let me ignore, as I did at the time, the horseplay of the rabble. In short, I reflect on a good memory, the glorious conclusion of an excellent day, and on returning, far beyond expectation, to the profound and pleasing sight on which I mused in March.
This musical composition is a nocturne, which my handy pocket music dictionary assures me is a "dreamy and romantic" composition or "a piece resembling a serenade, to be played at night in the open air." Of course, it is nothing like a serenade, for serenades can be accomplished by greasy mariachi bands and nocturnes cannot possibly be accomplished thus. Of course, that is not to say a nocturne is not suitable for serenading; indeed, I think its character is far more suitable for serenading than a serenade could ever hope to be.
The story of this nocturne begins on the way home from the middle of the woods, which really is an accurate description of the place. Besides the road and the few houses thereupon, there were truly nothing but trees for a few miles around. The satellite maps told me so. This was a happy thing to learn, I thought, and I still think. Now, in the car, besides watching the rest of the convoy, exchanging words with my comrades, and reading the ridiculous names of certain towns and roads on the way, there was time for quiet reflection. In the course of this quiet reflection, I got out my book of notes and letters to write out a brief plan for the musical composition that I have now finished. In the course of the next week I would begin work on it, throw most of it out, abandon most of the lunatic (that is, lunar) plan (as I knew I would), and finally find the direction the music at last took, which would take a second week to see to its conclusion. Last Wednesday I scrivened the last of the shorthand in blue ink (my chosen color for this piece, because of the moonlight), and on Friday began to put all the actual notes into the computer, editing as many shortcomings I could see to improve. This was done with immense care, for I long ago (relatively speaking) ceased to consider myself to be working for myself.
If I may digress for a moment, I saw two enormous turkey vultures today from a mere several feet away. It was pretty neato, but I shall compose them neither a nocturne nor a diurne. This happened because I was so smooth in grooving over to them.
Now, without further ado, and there has been much ado, here is the music, which can be heard by following the link on the left of the page under Mine Artistry, but I advise listening over hearing:
In reverie of the splendorous nighttime and of its splendid array of stars and of the smiling moon ascending over the treetops, I present a musical composition for solo pianoforte. Furthermore, let me commemorate therewith the the grand fire almost-at-midnight and its plumes of steam illuminated by the moonlight and the feel and the scent of the calm and cold night from the fire to the field to the swing set. Also, let me ignore, as I did at the time, the horseplay of the rabble. In short, I reflect on a good memory, the glorious conclusion of an excellent day, and on returning, far beyond expectation, to the profound and pleasing sight on which I mused in March.
This musical composition is a nocturne, which my handy pocket music dictionary assures me is a "dreamy and romantic" composition or "a piece resembling a serenade, to be played at night in the open air." Of course, it is nothing like a serenade, for serenades can be accomplished by greasy mariachi bands and nocturnes cannot possibly be accomplished thus. Of course, that is not to say a nocturne is not suitable for serenading; indeed, I think its character is far more suitable for serenading than a serenade could ever hope to be.
The story of this nocturne begins on the way home from the middle of the woods, which really is an accurate description of the place. Besides the road and the few houses thereupon, there were truly nothing but trees for a few miles around. The satellite maps told me so. This was a happy thing to learn, I thought, and I still think. Now, in the car, besides watching the rest of the convoy, exchanging words with my comrades, and reading the ridiculous names of certain towns and roads on the way, there was time for quiet reflection. In the course of this quiet reflection, I got out my book of notes and letters to write out a brief plan for the musical composition that I have now finished. In the course of the next week I would begin work on it, throw most of it out, abandon most of the lunatic (that is, lunar) plan (as I knew I would), and finally find the direction the music at last took, which would take a second week to see to its conclusion. Last Wednesday I scrivened the last of the shorthand in blue ink (my chosen color for this piece, because of the moonlight), and on Friday began to put all the actual notes into the computer, editing as many shortcomings I could see to improve. This was done with immense care, for I long ago (relatively speaking) ceased to consider myself to be working for myself.
If I may digress for a moment, I saw two enormous turkey vultures today from a mere several feet away. It was pretty neato, but I shall compose them neither a nocturne nor a diurne. This happened because I was so smooth in grooving over to them.
Now, without further ado, and there has been much ado, here is the music, which can be heard by following the link on the left of the page under Mine Artistry, but I advise listening over hearing:
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