God be in my head
And in my understanding

What is the understanding?

And what does it mean for God — or any god — to be in it?

What if a devil gets into one's understanding?

I can't really say why, but the word 'understanding' in that phrase — or as in, for example Orlando Gibbons's O clap your hands together:

For God is the king of all the earth:
Sing ye praises with the understanding

— has always struck me as referring not so much to an activity as to an organ or faculty — you know, like the imaginatiön of one's heart or what have you.

(Well — in that case, it is partly because of the the. Which seems like it may be peculiar to Orlando's text—?)

If you are singing praises, — or talking, or whittling, or cooking, or something else, for that matter — how can you tell whether you are doing it with your understanding, or with some other part of you? And, again, what if there is no god in your understanding, but a devil, or a raccoon? What happens then? And how can you tell?

Sometimes one says: "Ah! I understand." — With what organ? The mouth, surely? — not the understanding?

Is it possible to sing praises both with the voice — and with the understanding — at the same time? I am not convinced. (On the other hand, who said the voice and the understanding had to act at the same time?)

That said, many topics in ancient Greek philosophy turn out to be highly relevant in my professional life—not least of which is the One and the Many. For it often happens, as Plato understood well, that what appear to us as many things turn out to be one—and what we perceive as one thing falls apart, upon examination, into many.

For example, suppose you have a map of Ontario which has an inset map enlarging the densely populated southern tip of the province: Is this one map that has one inset, or is it many maps, i.e. two, a main map and an inset map?

Another example: some people have many opinions about baby names; I, however, only have one, and it is this: there should be more babies named Orlando. Observe: the name Orlando is borne by two of the greatest composers in the history of the world—Messrs. di Lasso and Gibbons. Why, then, should this name no longer be considered worthy of the children of this generation, whose culture is so indebted to those geniuses' efforts?

—But is this truly one opinion, or many? For it seems I believe (1) that Orlando is a noble and excellent name, (1a) for which the evidence is that it belongs to two so excellent and noble composers, yet (2) very few babies are now named Orlando, and (3) this situation is unjust. What would Plato say about that?

Even the pigeon, whose nests are so threadbare; they're
ugly, for certain; and functional?—hopefully.
How can we judge, though? We have not built our own
homes by picking up sticks with our mouths.

How can we trust that our houses won't falter
under the weight of the thickest snow?
Dare I inquire of my friend, the house-builder,
how in the heavens my rafters hold fast?

Is it more admirable — thus I wonder:
to be a pigeon, aesthetically clueless,
yet to have the whole art within me of
keeping myself and my loved ones secure?

Unless, that is, you have sought my presence for the very purpose of getting rid of excess peppercorns! I am not aware that anyone has yet employed this tactic. — And what sort of person ever thinks to themself, "Hm! What has my kitchen in excess? Peppercorns!" —? I must admit this is improbable.

— Then why should the thought enter my head? Do I not concern myself daily with the probable above all else? Am I, perhaps, unconsciously drawn to the notion? Dare I admit that I find it desirable — nay, delectable — to think on it: "Oh, Three Dots! My house is whelmed with the aroma of pepper — my nose cannot tolerate it! Here — the blandest soup — the plainest fish! Grind, oh, grind these horrid corns without ceasing! Consume them with haste!"

Otherwise I accomplished almost nothing of earthly use.

—Further, is it desirable? For the truth is, the glorious cloud of tannins does not always bloom forth from the tea bag with equal swiftness – so I have observed: some cups of tea are potent and cheering, others weak and piteous. You may expect the latter to result from water that is not hot enough, and it can certainly happen thus; I contend, however, that it can equally arise from water that is too hot. My informal experimentation suggests that a delay of a second or two after the water boils – really a mere lack of haste in pouring the water – greatly benefits the quality of the resulting tea.

You might point out that this is just how normal people make tea and that only a fool would ever aspire to transfer boiling water onto a teabag instantaneously. That is true, but I believe my observations are still a valuable prelude to an as-yet-unfertilized area of research. Shanti Tea, a highly regarded Canadian tea distributor, says that black teas should be brewed at 93–100 degrees Celsius. That is a range of seven entire degrees! On the one hand, this accords with my hypothesis; on the other, I suspect that this range can be narrowed considerably with careful experimentation.

The optimal brewing temperature for coffee has long been thought to be 200 degrees Fahrenheit, plus or minus five; scientists have found, however, that the precise temperature turns out not to matter much on its own. When similar research is done upon the brewing temperature of tea, what will be revealed? Will the temperature turn out not to make such a difference as is commonly supposed? Or will it turn out – as I conjecture – that tea plays by different rules than coffee, and that 98-degree water is required for a proper brew?

Indeed, I think emissions-free human transportation should be the main use of the Queensway right-of-way. An elevated light rail line seems like an obvious choice, running roughly parallel to the O-Train line 1. The problem is that there would be no good place for such a line to connect with line 2 – the Queensway passes a bit too far south of Gladstone for a convenient transfer at Corso Italia station. For that reason, I imagine that this line would run in the Queensway right-of-way from Lees station westward until Bronson, then diving underground and emerging in the median of Carling Avenue. Stations could be located at Lees, Main, Bank, Bronson, Dow's Lake, and at about 800-1000-metre intervals along Carling until Lincoln Fields.

However, I actually think that a bicycle route would be a more important use of that right-of-way. (This could certainly run alongside a light rail line; space is ample.) My reasoning is that safe and comfortable bicycle routes are much scarcer in Ottawa than safe and comfortable public transit – in fact, on transit there's virtually no question of safety at all. Moreover, there simply is no continuous, high-capacity east-west bicycle route across the city at all (analogous to the O-Train Line 1). The existing east-west routes are incomplete, fragmented, and low-capacity.

I envision a grand bicycle-way, about 4.5 metres wide, allowing for side-by-side riding in both directions. (This is what I mean by ‘high-capacity’ – all cycling infrastructure is generally assumed to require cyclists to ride single-file.) Alongside it would run a wide pedestrian pathway – perhaps 3.5 metres – with periodic benches and other appropriate furniture. Both pathways would be well-lit and shaded by a canopy of trees.

Together, these pathways plus space between them and on either side (for trees, etc.) would only take up perhaps 12 metres of width. That's not even as wide as four lanes of highway (each highway lane is probably at least 3.5 metres wide). This would therefore still leave quite a bit of width available for various other uses. There could be parks in some places along the route; elsewhere – especially in Centretown – new streets and buildings could be built. I am also fond of the idea of an regional rail line that would connect Ottawa and its suburbs to surrounding communities – so that one could, for example, take the train out to Almonte for a day-trip.

One question is the crossing of the Rideau canal. It would be best for the bicycle and pedestrian paths to cross via the Pretoria bridge, so that no one need ascend and descend. (Or a new lifting bridge could be built, I suppose.) Perhaps a separate elevated automobile bridge over the canal should be retained, so that space on the Pretoria bridge can be re-allocated for pedestrians and cyclists – maybe even exclusively for them.

The benefits of the destruction of the Queensway would not be limited to that right-of-way, but would also extend to adjacent streets. Metcalfe, O'Connor, and Kent streets, for example, are clearly designed as traffic arteries connecting the Queensway to downtown. These streets could be redesigned to give more space to pedestrians, cyclists, and trees. One can even imagine more creative uses for excess road width – such as a little canal, in which children could race homemade boats, ducks could splash, etc.

On the whole, I think that the role the Queensway plays in Ottawa's transportation network and street design is, although acknowledged to be important, yet taken for granted. There is a need to engage the powers of the imagination to picture alternatives to this state of affairs in order to persuade a motorist that a Queensway-less Ottawa is plausible.

I am told that shorn chickpeas make the smoothest hummus. But I do not want the smoothest hummus; I want only to stand at the sink shelling chickpeas until the sun sets.

Oh, have you gone to the battlefield
Armored and well armed?
And shall dreadful events
Force you to drop your weapons?

It struck me immediately that this was a paraphrase – as though it had been translated into Breq's native tongue and back into English – of Clamanda, from the page 42 of the Sacred Harp:

Oh, have you ventured to the field
Well armed with helmet, sword, and shield?
And shall the world, with dread alarms,
Compel you now to ground your arms?

I was intrigued. Does Ann Leckie know of the Sacred Harp? It would not be surprising. Certainly she seems to be a lover of songs and choral music: her main character sings to herself continually and is fond of collecting songs from the societies that she visits. Leckie also has a music degree from Washington University in St Louis, Missouri.

It turned out that my intuition was right! The book's postscript includes an interview with Ann Leckie in which she reveals that she is a shape-note singing aficionado, and tells the reader that the song quoted above is indeed from the Sacred Harp, as I had suspected. She even gives a plug for shape note singing:

… I wish people felt freer to sing, and freer to enjoy people around them singing.

It's one of the things I love about shape note singing—there's no audition, no question of whether or not your voice is good enough, or whether anyone has talent. You love to sing? Come sing!

In the book, Breq is described as having a not especially nice-sounding voice, and that some of those around her are annoyed by her constant humming. She doesn't mind.

In general, I really appreciated the specific cultural details that Ancillary Justice shows in its depiction of characters and of societies; Breq's love of songs is an example of this.

A nice thing about dashes, incidentally,——
is that they are are telescoping.

I once dropped my house-keys
between the boards of the front porch;———————
I rescued them with a bent coat-hanger.

Before the American city could be physically reconstructed to accommodate automobiles, its streets had to be socially reconstructed as places where cars belong.

It's hard to imagine just how much safer and more pleasant city streets could be for people walking if you take it for granted that most of the space in a street has to be for cars alone.

For me, reading the article – “A Defense of Jaywalking” – in which the above quotation appeared – catalyzed a shift in perspective: I learned not only that, before the 1920s or so, streets were public spaces where people could frolic as they pleased (and how could it have been otherwise?),—but also that the social change which allowed streets to become segregated into automobile and pedestrian rights-of-way was brought about – initially against widespread public opposition – mainly by the persistent lobbying and campaigning of automobile companies. It is to their advertising campaigns that we owe the word ‘jaywalk’: the car manufacturers successfully persuaded people that walking across the street, of all things, was dangerous and foolhardy.

—My apologies to the uninitiated: Oomancy is divination by means of eggs. Oo means ‘eggs’ (think ovo, but without the ‘v’), and mancy means ‘, divination by means of’. Put it together and you have ‘eggs, divination by means of’. I only learned this quite recently myself.

This particular morning was my assigned day to bring breakfast to share after the small religious service that took place in the Student Union Building early on Wednesday mornings, which I was accustomed to attend intermittently. I had decided to bring a variation on my family's traditional weekend breakfast: fresh blueberry muffins and medium-boiled eggs. Unfortunately, I insisted upon the being-fresh of the muffins at the expense of my presence at the service: that is, I baked them the morning of, rather than (as would have been sensible) the night before.

I arose too late; I measured too carefully; I spent too long whisking the eggs; the hour to leave for the service passed me by. I said to myself, “No matter! I shall move with haste and outstrip the passage of the minutes!” Of course the passage of the minutes was indifferent to my haste.

—You who are wise in egg-boiling will know that there is no way of knowing whether the eggs are done (without cracking the egg open and thereby destroying the integrity of the boiled-egg experience): the only way to cook them the way you want to is to time them exactly. You may also have the wisdom to know what I forgot: namely that a compulsive haste and a desire to bend the passage of time are inimical to exactitude.

In any case, I arrived at the SUB, shuffling in sheepishly to the room shortly after the service had ended, and set my out breakfast-cargo on the table. Upon seeing the eggs, my friend remarked that I had brought no implements with which to crack them: I, to whom, although sympathetic towards this point, it would never had occurred to bring utensils for that purpose, could think of no course of action but to demonstrate my family’s traditional method of egg-cracking, namely, knocking the egg firmly against the forehead:—and smashed the runny, undercooked egg all over my face.

For my friend's part, he told me, his mirth more than made up for the loss of the eggs. As for me, I was embarrassed and bemused, and ascribed to the episode no more significance than as a lesson to hallow the timing of boiling eggs. Now, though, I am inclined to wonder: what mystical meaning did this ovum wish to communicate to me? Does a spiritual residue of its yolk still reside upon my forehead? What might the science of oomancy have to say about this event? Will I ever see clearly its true signification?

The trees here—it must be lonely for them, not being in a forest; stretching their roots out and finding soil compacted by cement, soil sparse of arboreal conversation.

In his review of Semicolon, David Crystal shows us how a comparison between different ways of punctuating the same sentence illustrates different punctuations marks’ powers. These powers can indeed only be shown by example, not explained in written rules. The semicolon, David writes,

… does a job that no other punctuation mark does. And the way to see this is to develop a sense of the contrast. What happens if we punctuate a sentence differently?

I hope you feel inspired, next time you pick up your favourite writing utensil, to play around with punctuation a bit, and thereby learn to appreciate the unique personality of each mark!

I had printed leaflets containing the order of worship and the music for the service, including English Gradual set to plainchant and hymns. To illuminate these – for it was still dark outside (although already a little lighter than at 5:30 am, when I had my vigil slot) – we each had a beeswax taper. I was holding my taper and leaflet in the same hand, in order to keep my other hand in my pocket for warmth, switching hands every few minutes.

While we were singing the Nicene Creed, my friend Sophia, who was standing beside me, pointed out to me that my service leaflet was on fire. We both tried to blow it out, but to no avail – the fire just got bigger. As it was becoming apparent that my hand would soon get burned if I did not relinquish the paper, someone – it may have been Alison, who was standing on my other side – suggested, either by word or by gesture, I forget which, that I drop it on the ground and stomp the fire out. I did so, and the fire was rapidly extinguished.

It's been about a year and a half now since I've done it. The thought of the sparks has hardly crossed my mind—has avoided it, even—in the intervening time. It is a terrible thing: every so often, there is a day when I know that, should I snap my fingers with care, the sparks ought to come—and if they don't? I fear that; it would be a revelation to me that the sparks have left me. I think I’m afraid of finding out for certain that I’ve lost the sparks. So long as I forbid myself from attempting it, I am spared the force of this loss.

Logically speaking, even if I try and fail—and even if I fail under just the same circumstances under which I used to find success,—that need not mean that I’ve lost my purple sparks permanently. Perhaps there is some other necessary condition that I wasn’t aware of. Or perhaps the sparks will return in their own time. I don't know whether this logic will persuade me to courage.

The river is marvellous: louder than the wind, unceasing roaring, a joyous clamour surging from the heart of the Kejimkujik forest. ‘Eternal praise, eternal praise!’—singing with all its might …

—The security staffperson: “No liquids, aerosols, gels, toiletries, toothpaste, shaving cream, water bottles?”—I: “No, those things are all in my checked bag. Well, an empty water bottle.”—”Wait – empty? Does it have any water in it?”—”No.”—”Okay, then.”

Now it’s ten after eleven and they’re saying the plane probably won’t arrive for fifteen minutes yet. Guess I’ll go for another walk or something. A television: the woman on the CBC news says “we’re so consumeristic, a lot of the things still have labels in them, the resale market shouldn’t be overlooked.”

I encounter a sign advertising a Chestnut Praline Latte at Starbucks. I have nothing to do, and am feeling suggestible; I shall go to the Starbucks and purchase a chestnut praline latte.—It tastes quite good – a lovely burnt-sugar flavour.