caltechpostdoc
11-10-2005, 11:15 PM
postmodernism has affected philosophy & physics.
string tehory is an anti-theory.
what we need is a renaissance
The Renaissance hath begun:
http://autumnrangers.com
http://jollyrogerwest.com
From Autumn Rangers:
"I love your photography." Autumn said, sitting at Ranger's
Linux laptop. "You're good."
"I just stand behind the camera-that's the easy part. It's all
you."
"It's not just me-it's all those girls in Charleston. And the
classical architecture. Pretty, pretty girls. You shot
thousands-you're good-damned good."
"That'd be fun to start a modeling site-charlestonmodels.com."
"And a fashion line. I want to start a fashion line. Could you
help?"
"You're talkin' to the wrong guy-all I wear is t-shirts."
"We'll make t-shirts-Autumn Rangers t-shirts."
Autumn whipped out a pen and got to work-she drew two crossed swords,
and worked in an A and an R at the cross.
"Cool." Ranger said.
"The A is for Autumn," Autumn explained, filling out the drawing.
"The beauty of the fall. But she would be lost without Ranger. She
would be lost without some rugged spirit to witness her pretty ways, to
desire the burning beauty of her fall, to yet see her innocence at the
center and circumference of original sin, and to pen poetry in honor of
the burning leaves-the raging inferno just behind her immaculate
beauty's façade, flickering forth from her eyes. She would be lost
without brave poetry to rescue her fleeting beauty from nature's
ephemerality and render it immortal. She wants to be wanted. She
wants to be rendered. For in being rendered, she is really rendering
the poet. Ranger's Autumn is really Autumn's Ranger. And the R is
for Ranger. The rugged, rambling spirit. The renderer. The lone poet
who would be lost without the autumn, utterly lost without the fall's
bittersweet splendor, who could never know his immortal soul were it
not for the end of summer, were it not for his mortal body's lust,
longing, and love to range through autumn, to venture up virgin
mountains where no paths have been blazed, to voyage forth where none
have walked before, to win her heart, to win her soul, to have her, to
hold her, to know her, to describe her, to render her spirit, her soul,
her semblance, to render her as she would want to be rendered and
remembered by all those romantics yet to be born who will read of her
in his piercing, prevailing, poetry-poetry which will spark their
passions from the very embers of that long-ago burning fall that so
inspired that long-ago rugged ranger-poetry which will reach back
through the generations, on back to Shakespeare and the Bible, and then
about face and reach forward through the generations, trumping every
politician and pomo poseur, becoming an unbreakable bridge to the
classical Truths, igniting the spirits of tomorrow's lone poets,
fusing and forging them in the renaissance of eternal souls, bolstering
natural convictions and granting courage to every lone reader to join
eternity's army in seeking the sacred ideals-classical ideals which
so many temporal men are scared of, which so many little people-in
their contemporary, fleeting majorities-scoff at, deride with irony,
belittle, castigate, and impugn, because they are made to feel small
beside the classics' grandeur. Tomorrow's poets shall know the
renaissance. They shall read of Autumn's Ranger and Ranger's
Autumn, and seek the classical ideals for themselves, as the ideals are
free and true, and like God's freedom, they naturally belong to all
those born into this rough world. And those who seek them shall find
the scared romance in the pretty faces of their own Autumns.
Separated, as they are in pomo society, Autumn and Ranger are lost.
But united as Autumn Rangers, they walk this lonely earth as God
intended. That's it. Autumn Rangers equals American Renaissance."
She'd finished the design.
"That'd be one helluva shirt." Ranger said.
"Reckon so." She sighed. "Maybe we could do lingerie too."
http://autumnrangers.com
http://jollyrogerwest.com
string tehory is an anti-theory.
what we need is a renaissance
The Renaissance hath begun:
http://autumnrangers.com
http://jollyrogerwest.com
From Autumn Rangers:
"I love your photography." Autumn said, sitting at Ranger's
Linux laptop. "You're good."
"I just stand behind the camera-that's the easy part. It's all
you."
"It's not just me-it's all those girls in Charleston. And the
classical architecture. Pretty, pretty girls. You shot
thousands-you're good-damned good."
"That'd be fun to start a modeling site-charlestonmodels.com."
"And a fashion line. I want to start a fashion line. Could you
help?"
"You're talkin' to the wrong guy-all I wear is t-shirts."
"We'll make t-shirts-Autumn Rangers t-shirts."
Autumn whipped out a pen and got to work-she drew two crossed swords,
and worked in an A and an R at the cross.
"Cool." Ranger said.
"The A is for Autumn," Autumn explained, filling out the drawing.
"The beauty of the fall. But she would be lost without Ranger. She
would be lost without some rugged spirit to witness her pretty ways, to
desire the burning beauty of her fall, to yet see her innocence at the
center and circumference of original sin, and to pen poetry in honor of
the burning leaves-the raging inferno just behind her immaculate
beauty's façade, flickering forth from her eyes. She would be lost
without brave poetry to rescue her fleeting beauty from nature's
ephemerality and render it immortal. She wants to be wanted. She
wants to be rendered. For in being rendered, she is really rendering
the poet. Ranger's Autumn is really Autumn's Ranger. And the R is
for Ranger. The rugged, rambling spirit. The renderer. The lone poet
who would be lost without the autumn, utterly lost without the fall's
bittersweet splendor, who could never know his immortal soul were it
not for the end of summer, were it not for his mortal body's lust,
longing, and love to range through autumn, to venture up virgin
mountains where no paths have been blazed, to voyage forth where none
have walked before, to win her heart, to win her soul, to have her, to
hold her, to know her, to describe her, to render her spirit, her soul,
her semblance, to render her as she would want to be rendered and
remembered by all those romantics yet to be born who will read of her
in his piercing, prevailing, poetry-poetry which will spark their
passions from the very embers of that long-ago burning fall that so
inspired that long-ago rugged ranger-poetry which will reach back
through the generations, on back to Shakespeare and the Bible, and then
about face and reach forward through the generations, trumping every
politician and pomo poseur, becoming an unbreakable bridge to the
classical Truths, igniting the spirits of tomorrow's lone poets,
fusing and forging them in the renaissance of eternal souls, bolstering
natural convictions and granting courage to every lone reader to join
eternity's army in seeking the sacred ideals-classical ideals which
so many temporal men are scared of, which so many little people-in
their contemporary, fleeting majorities-scoff at, deride with irony,
belittle, castigate, and impugn, because they are made to feel small
beside the classics' grandeur. Tomorrow's poets shall know the
renaissance. They shall read of Autumn's Ranger and Ranger's
Autumn, and seek the classical ideals for themselves, as the ideals are
free and true, and like God's freedom, they naturally belong to all
those born into this rough world. And those who seek them shall find
the scared romance in the pretty faces of their own Autumns.
Separated, as they are in pomo society, Autumn and Ranger are lost.
But united as Autumn Rangers, they walk this lonely earth as God
intended. That's it. Autumn Rangers equals American Renaissance."
She'd finished the design.
"That'd be one helluva shirt." Ranger said.
"Reckon so." She sighed. "Maybe we could do lingerie too."
http://autumnrangers.com
http://jollyrogerwest.com