Out of the Silence
Sep. 26th, 2002 09:36 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
arisbeMy silence here and elsewhere on line has given cause for concern, for which I apologize. I have been occupied, to some extent with things not worth recounting here. For one thing, I have changed offices again, and was finally able to unpack the files I abandoned on the morning of September 11, '01.
One thing I might mention is that I am attempting to reconstruct and bring up to date my original Arisbe Network home page, which vanished somehow from Tripod a year or two ago. A public appearance by Christopher Phillips, the Cafe Socrates, Tuesday evening served to reconnect me to the enterprise of philosophical practice which inspired me to get myself on line in the first place. I had been distracted for some time, first by the idea of self-publishing my poetry on the site, beginning with the tribute to murdered Archpriest Alexandr Men, then by my preoccupation with the events of a year ago and my own providential escape. Of course all three concerns are linked, in ways I must make more explicit now.
And my bedside reading has changed. I finished Bate's life of Johnson, my companion for the past few months, and feared I would miss it greatly. But I dug Brand Blanshard's Nature of Thought out of a precarious pile in the bedroom, and am wonderfully taken with it in turn.
"Thought is that activity of mind which aims directly at truth." How those words called to the wretched slave of the brutal and cynical Board of Education when I opened the volume at the Strand a decade ago. I can only say that the full exposition does not disappoint.
One thing I might mention is that I am attempting to reconstruct and bring up to date my original Arisbe Network home page, which vanished somehow from Tripod a year or two ago. A public appearance by Christopher Phillips, the Cafe Socrates, Tuesday evening served to reconnect me to the enterprise of philosophical practice which inspired me to get myself on line in the first place. I had been distracted for some time, first by the idea of self-publishing my poetry on the site, beginning with the tribute to murdered Archpriest Alexandr Men, then by my preoccupation with the events of a year ago and my own providential escape. Of course all three concerns are linked, in ways I must make more explicit now.
And my bedside reading has changed. I finished Bate's life of Johnson, my companion for the past few months, and feared I would miss it greatly. But I dug Brand Blanshard's Nature of Thought out of a precarious pile in the bedroom, and am wonderfully taken with it in turn.
"Thought is that activity of mind which aims directly at truth." How those words called to the wretched slave of the brutal and cynical Board of Education when I opened the volume at the Strand a decade ago. I can only say that the full exposition does not disappoint.