They called him Fuckface just for the hell of it, tried to get a couple fingers between his ribs or down that little hollow below his throat, above his breastbone.
They punched his guts, each blow driving nubs of spine into the brick wall behind him.
He stood there taking it, incredulous his so-called friends would trick him so.
Did he gain, just then, a glimpse down the hall of his later him – resented flesh stippled with pimples and moles, undulant weird folds encasing drives and their mechanism?
All of this did he come to know at the tender age of ten?
All of this as hard bones hammered harder him?
23 July 2007
19 July 2007
Mirabelle, or the False Dream of Injuns
there were sad times —
a no-clown-knock face;
bisbee, my disgrace —
bored, we sucked lattès and watched bikers
rip their petrol screams through mines
that once gave us pennies, not dimes.
a no-clown-knock face;
bisbee, my disgrace —
bored, we sucked lattès and watched bikers
rip their petrol screams through mines
that once gave us pennies, not dimes.
16 July 2007
A Last Look Back
A distance of 3600 miles can drown a lot of shouts. It take planes so long to get there — there where my evening ritual, slid away, will find new life in this salmon gloaming; here where contrails sky-write a language whose figures call to mind time when we first noticed our tongues had a second relation to our minds; here where they wish bridges into bows so a million Kodakchrome memories can say, "I was there."
"I was there," I'll say from there, "stalking behind hot oven walls of anomie, a rip-off victim in the making, nursing my prematurely eldritch bones and wishing small joys before the grave comes to claim me." And with nothing before me but the road and the will to make it I'll depart. The dust'll bear no witness to my steps, or to my tears.
"I was there," I'll say from there, "stalking behind hot oven walls of anomie, a rip-off victim in the making, nursing my prematurely eldritch bones and wishing small joys before the grave comes to claim me." And with nothing before me but the road and the will to make it I'll depart. The dust'll bear no witness to my steps, or to my tears.
Kicking the Bird
Coming down from over two year's dependence on anti-depressants, I feel fine — better than fine, in fact. I was worried that I experience a sort of "dam-burst" after being on anti-depressants for so long, but I actually feel a strange serenity, as well as an improved command of my faculties.
I feel like I'm in the final chapter of a dark volume of my life story. I feared and disapproved of anti-depressants from the get-go; I'd read too many accounts of unshakable mental torpor ever to want to risk my own mind for such a fool's paradise. I thought it wiser to co-exist with my anxieties and cycles of depression, and after this unpleasant detour through the neurochemical slough I've discovered I was right all along.
If the only way I could have saved my marriage was by having chosen to go on anti-depressants years before the fatal crisis of my separation, as my ex-wife claimed, then perhaps my marriage wasn't worth saving.
Maybe now I'll find what Zen masters call my "original face."
I feel like I'm in the final chapter of a dark volume of my life story. I feared and disapproved of anti-depressants from the get-go; I'd read too many accounts of unshakable mental torpor ever to want to risk my own mind for such a fool's paradise. I thought it wiser to co-exist with my anxieties and cycles of depression, and after this unpleasant detour through the neurochemical slough I've discovered I was right all along.
If the only way I could have saved my marriage was by having chosen to go on anti-depressants years before the fatal crisis of my separation, as my ex-wife claimed, then perhaps my marriage wasn't worth saving.
Maybe now I'll find what Zen masters call my "original face."
12 July 2007
All Politics Are Vocal
Arizona – for a state with so much sunshine, there’s precious little light.
Once again, in the name of keeping the public safe from consideration of its own interest, a bill is before the state legislature that would impose a 500-dollar fine on any schoolteacher who airs her political views in the classroom. To the legislature’s credit this bill, sponsored by state congressman Thayer Verschoor of Gilbert, appears dead in the water. The summer heat has apparently not baked the sense out of everyone.
The law is as bizarrely impractical as it is incendiary. Even Fox faux liberal Alan Combs, on whose radio show Rep. Verschoor recently appeared, observed that enforcing this law would prove problematic. He asked if Verschoor proposed planting some sort of marshal in every classroom to audit teachers’ lessons, writing citations whenever anything with a whiff of polemic issues from them. Verschoor agreed that such an enforcement measure is nigh on impossible. Which leaves just one other mode of implementation: encouraging students to denounce teachers to their superiors.
I hope you can appreciate what sort of nightmare would ensue were such a Stalin-era measure actually implemented. Can K-through-12ers really be counted on to sift fairly any passing remark a teacher might make on contemporary politics or the current administration? Doesn’t this create what in economics are known as “perverse incentives” – students discovering that threatening denouncement is an effective way of leveraging grades, or of ridding the classroom of unpopular authority? Most adult Americans don’t know that Dick Cheney is vice president or that 9/11 happened in 2001. How much awareness of political reality can we credit American adolescents with, then? This seems a crucial thing to consider if Verschoor does in fact intend to deputize them as enforcers of his asinine bill. Hell, I can tell you from personal experience that most American eighteen-year-olds can’t keep the facts straight; their minds warp them to suit whatever little officious impulse they feel at the time. My last year as a University of Arizona instructor, a student of mine, whom I one day informed that Hinduism historically antedates Christianity, reported me to her mother, who in turn gave my name to some ultra-right watchdog group. Mother and daughter’s grounds for doing so: that in hatred and defiance of Gospel truth I proclaimed Hinduism superior to Christianity. The student conveniently left out of her account to her mother, who kindly e-mailed me a maundering, ungrammatical j’accuse, my telling her that I myself am Roman Catholic.
But who am I kidding? Slavering Pentecostals like my former student and her mother probably don’t recognize Catholics as fellow Christians.
Besides the fact that you cannot trust non-denominational charismatics – for they speak in tongues, all of which are forked – I learned from the whole affair that you cannot credit Americans with discretion or discernment, especially young ones, for the simple reason that whatever words of yours manage to slip past their iPod earbuds just gets swept up in the cognitive slurry of their labile minds. I make this assessment based on instructor training I received at UA, during which I was told to keep activities short and animated to accommodate the average freshman’s seven-second attention span, and to change the activities every ten minutes so the class might more closely resemble a television show. Ask anyone who taught composition at UA, and they’ll tell you the same. Many students had learning disabilities – euphemistically called “different skill sets” by Writing program mandarins, though how the inability to write a coherent paragraph actually points to an ability in some as yet undiscovered area, I remain unsure – and nearly as many were on some sort of medication, usually Adderall, an SSRI, or some combination of the two. This suggested to me that, wherever their skill sets lie, they’re not in the area of reason or ethics.
To encourage students to police their teachers’ utterances is to let the inmates run the asylum, a state of affairs it seems we’ve been moving toward, anyway. The whole business of “student-center learning,” for instance, is really little more than a programmatic undermining of the educator’s authority in favor of some Deweyesque notion of self-discovery that, while it might defenestrate quality, certainly promotes retention, and therefore increased tuition revenue – Apollo crucified on a cross of gold. These charming Rousseauvean subjects, quivering in anticipation of an opportunity to denounce someone to the State, installed over teachers can only mean bad things in the future. Opponents of Verschoor's bill must recognize this. I believe the initiative a nonstarter, riddled as it is with ambiguity. After all, what are the juridical criteria for finable political speech? If a history teacher teaches her students about Athenian democracy or the Roman republic, is she out of bounds? What about the founding of the United States?
I have to say, I wonder about Verschoor’s constituency broiling under the angry sun in Gilbert. Why is a teacher who, in a moment of indiscretion, expresses sympathy for Chairman Mao so terrifying? Is the fundie-conservative catechism so fragile that it cannot withstand contrary opinion? By voting into office a politician who floats a bill of such unfathomable idiocy as Verschoor’s, conservative Arizonans tacitly admit that the only discourse favoring their cause is the discourse that silences further discourse; but only by parsing the double-speak window dressing – promotion of freedom of thought in the classroom, preservation of the “marketplace of ideas” – can you find this substratum of their political praxis.
Insisting that political speech be barred from the classroom also presupposes that speech, and the ideas it contains, fall easily under distinct categories. My friend Rob mused upon this on his ‘blog, and how (if I read him rightly) a notion of “inorganic democracy” emerges that progressives must constantly combat before even being to table their own proposals. I personally believe those who hoe a narrow row should reap its meager fruit, but the problem is one of collateral damage. Latitudinarians unable to escape to friendlier environs are condemned to suffer the stupidity of the credulous, bovine majority over them. In other words, if I get behind some America-n’-apple-pie demagogue whose blandishments ultimately fuck up my life, they not only fuck up my life, but the life of my liberal neighbor’s as well. Dumbshits should always expect pushback from people smarter than them, and not because these smarter folks are a compulsively overweening lot who relish any opportunity to micromanage other people’s lives, but because they cherish the very liberty that fundie-cons believe themselves the exclusive champions of, and will move to secure those liberties by their own lights.
Unfortunately, too many parties crying, “Don’t tread on me!” brings everyone to a halt. This is why I hold out no real hope for Arizona – or for the United States. Verschoor and his ilk will continue their ill-fated provocations, and thoughtful people will continue to think them asses for doing so. But such partisan inertia plays into the right wing’s strategy of constantly provoking skirmishes to forestall the war (Does anyone remember the swift boats and matrimony-minded gays of 2004?). The Manichaean struggle will thus go on, as will the Iraq War, as will the erosion of educational standards, as will the decline in living standards, as will the ramping-up of a surveillance state . . .
George Bush Sr.’s famous “thousand points of light” meme may just mean a thousand fires lit to rob the inevitable conflagration of fuel.
Once again, in the name of keeping the public safe from consideration of its own interest, a bill is before the state legislature that would impose a 500-dollar fine on any schoolteacher who airs her political views in the classroom. To the legislature’s credit this bill, sponsored by state congressman Thayer Verschoor of Gilbert, appears dead in the water. The summer heat has apparently not baked the sense out of everyone.
The law is as bizarrely impractical as it is incendiary. Even Fox faux liberal Alan Combs, on whose radio show Rep. Verschoor recently appeared, observed that enforcing this law would prove problematic. He asked if Verschoor proposed planting some sort of marshal in every classroom to audit teachers’ lessons, writing citations whenever anything with a whiff of polemic issues from them. Verschoor agreed that such an enforcement measure is nigh on impossible. Which leaves just one other mode of implementation: encouraging students to denounce teachers to their superiors.
I hope you can appreciate what sort of nightmare would ensue were such a Stalin-era measure actually implemented. Can K-through-12ers really be counted on to sift fairly any passing remark a teacher might make on contemporary politics or the current administration? Doesn’t this create what in economics are known as “perverse incentives” – students discovering that threatening denouncement is an effective way of leveraging grades, or of ridding the classroom of unpopular authority? Most adult Americans don’t know that Dick Cheney is vice president or that 9/11 happened in 2001. How much awareness of political reality can we credit American adolescents with, then? This seems a crucial thing to consider if Verschoor does in fact intend to deputize them as enforcers of his asinine bill. Hell, I can tell you from personal experience that most American eighteen-year-olds can’t keep the facts straight; their minds warp them to suit whatever little officious impulse they feel at the time. My last year as a University of Arizona instructor, a student of mine, whom I one day informed that Hinduism historically antedates Christianity, reported me to her mother, who in turn gave my name to some ultra-right watchdog group. Mother and daughter’s grounds for doing so: that in hatred and defiance of Gospel truth I proclaimed Hinduism superior to Christianity. The student conveniently left out of her account to her mother, who kindly e-mailed me a maundering, ungrammatical j’accuse, my telling her that I myself am Roman Catholic.
But who am I kidding? Slavering Pentecostals like my former student and her mother probably don’t recognize Catholics as fellow Christians.
Besides the fact that you cannot trust non-denominational charismatics – for they speak in tongues, all of which are forked – I learned from the whole affair that you cannot credit Americans with discretion or discernment, especially young ones, for the simple reason that whatever words of yours manage to slip past their iPod earbuds just gets swept up in the cognitive slurry of their labile minds. I make this assessment based on instructor training I received at UA, during which I was told to keep activities short and animated to accommodate the average freshman’s seven-second attention span, and to change the activities every ten minutes so the class might more closely resemble a television show. Ask anyone who taught composition at UA, and they’ll tell you the same. Many students had learning disabilities – euphemistically called “different skill sets” by Writing program mandarins, though how the inability to write a coherent paragraph actually points to an ability in some as yet undiscovered area, I remain unsure – and nearly as many were on some sort of medication, usually Adderall, an SSRI, or some combination of the two. This suggested to me that, wherever their skill sets lie, they’re not in the area of reason or ethics.
To encourage students to police their teachers’ utterances is to let the inmates run the asylum, a state of affairs it seems we’ve been moving toward, anyway. The whole business of “student-center learning,” for instance, is really little more than a programmatic undermining of the educator’s authority in favor of some Deweyesque notion of self-discovery that, while it might defenestrate quality, certainly promotes retention, and therefore increased tuition revenue – Apollo crucified on a cross of gold. These charming Rousseauvean subjects, quivering in anticipation of an opportunity to denounce someone to the State, installed over teachers can only mean bad things in the future. Opponents of Verschoor's bill must recognize this. I believe the initiative a nonstarter, riddled as it is with ambiguity. After all, what are the juridical criteria for finable political speech? If a history teacher teaches her students about Athenian democracy or the Roman republic, is she out of bounds? What about the founding of the United States?
I have to say, I wonder about Verschoor’s constituency broiling under the angry sun in Gilbert. Why is a teacher who, in a moment of indiscretion, expresses sympathy for Chairman Mao so terrifying? Is the fundie-conservative catechism so fragile that it cannot withstand contrary opinion? By voting into office a politician who floats a bill of such unfathomable idiocy as Verschoor’s, conservative Arizonans tacitly admit that the only discourse favoring their cause is the discourse that silences further discourse; but only by parsing the double-speak window dressing – promotion of freedom of thought in the classroom, preservation of the “marketplace of ideas” – can you find this substratum of their political praxis.
Insisting that political speech be barred from the classroom also presupposes that speech, and the ideas it contains, fall easily under distinct categories. My friend Rob mused upon this on his ‘blog, and how (if I read him rightly) a notion of “inorganic democracy” emerges that progressives must constantly combat before even being to table their own proposals. I personally believe those who hoe a narrow row should reap its meager fruit, but the problem is one of collateral damage. Latitudinarians unable to escape to friendlier environs are condemned to suffer the stupidity of the credulous, bovine majority over them. In other words, if I get behind some America-n’-apple-pie demagogue whose blandishments ultimately fuck up my life, they not only fuck up my life, but the life of my liberal neighbor’s as well. Dumbshits should always expect pushback from people smarter than them, and not because these smarter folks are a compulsively overweening lot who relish any opportunity to micromanage other people’s lives, but because they cherish the very liberty that fundie-cons believe themselves the exclusive champions of, and will move to secure those liberties by their own lights.
Unfortunately, too many parties crying, “Don’t tread on me!” brings everyone to a halt. This is why I hold out no real hope for Arizona – or for the United States. Verschoor and his ilk will continue their ill-fated provocations, and thoughtful people will continue to think them asses for doing so. But such partisan inertia plays into the right wing’s strategy of constantly provoking skirmishes to forestall the war (Does anyone remember the swift boats and matrimony-minded gays of 2004?). The Manichaean struggle will thus go on, as will the Iraq War, as will the erosion of educational standards, as will the decline in living standards, as will the ramping-up of a surveillance state . . .
George Bush Sr.’s famous “thousand points of light” meme may just mean a thousand fires lit to rob the inevitable conflagration of fuel.
09 July 2007
Letter to a Young Atheist
It appears you're suffering the very thing that atheists believe themselves immune to, but nonetheless experiences sooner or later: a crisis of faith. For atheism is faith, faith in faithlessness as an existential lodestar, and is therefore susceptible to instability, wobbling, and doubt like any other creed.
My intention is not to preach. I'm simply suggesting that an atheistic worldview saddles one with many burdens, if indeed she sees in it more than simply an excuse for egoism or nihilistic hedonism. But I suspect you seek a principled atheism, and, as a former atheist myself ("to everything there is a season"), that is a vexatious proposition, because stalking the minds of every atheist is a capital-w "Why?" — why do a kindness, when their is no balance sheet, no celestial scorecard on which my deeds, good or bad, are recorded? Recovery from doubt and Weltschmerz must proceed from a close consideration of this question, along with an equally close consideration of its answers' practical implications.
The dizzying and often depressing thing about atheism is that it radically alters one's relationship to time. One has no hereafter to appeal to as the arbiter of life's meaning; one must demand that the here-and-now justify itself, and time's celerity complicates the issue. Destinations tend to color the experience of the journey. If annihilation lies on the horizon, how can it not influence every step toward it?
Nietzsche despised Buddhism because it robbed life of tragedy. We know the reasons why he despised Christianity. All that was left was to embrace the tragedy of temporal existence, to aestheticize the grim tones of fell inevitability. Denying God His existence is only the first step. The universal mechanism continues to run, sweeping one's short existence along with it. When I was an atheist, I found I constantly negotiated a treacherous course between the Scylla and Charybdis of horror and banality, the latter in many ways being more fearsome. The one thing I took consolation in during my godless salad days was that whatever was, was fitting — an appropriate just-so-ness that, as I constantly reminded myself, at that moment couldn't have been otherwise, because it wasn't otherwise; a sort of secular dharma, I guess. It was difficult for me to distinguish it from garden-variety fatalism, and of course a host problems concerning freedom, choice and autonomy came in its wake; but it worked for me at the time. I had to affirm the moment and its attendant event in their particularity, had to say "yes" to them if only because it was healthier than saying "no." This attitude of insistent affirmation, this "yes-saying," I learned from Nietzsche, and it suited me for many years, until events in my life unfolded that made principled, Nietzschean atheism no longer a proper fit. If you're interested, I'll share with you some day what it was that turned me from this path.
Your former roommate's death, I guess I'm saying, has confronted you with a true test of your (non)faith's resiliency. Does the situation, precisely as it is right now, present you with satisfactory answers, without recourse to the past, now the fixed record of history, or the future, an indistinct nebula with the void behind it? Simply now, as you think and feel it? If it does, then you can credit your atheism as the right conviction, and find the very explanation you crave in the contemplation of atheism itself.
Those who would challenge your heretical views are champions of dogma, not faith. For if they were true champions of faith, they'd respect, even encourage, your atheism, because you've found it a suitable thematic of your personal narrative. Anyone who aims to save you is doomed to failure, even without your active resistance, because what that individual doesn't understand is one cannot "saved" one already "saved" — by atheism, in your case.
God died for our sins; the God who died for our sins died — a classic instance of Hegelian double-negation, the only truly negating negation. The space is clear to make your own meaning. Perhaps this second sacrifice is God's greatest gift. The only interpretive material you have, however, is what's before you: the event of your friend's death, her once existing, your current existence, your eventual death. Nothing outside, aside, beside, below, above or in addition to. You must make matter and phenomena explain themselves strictly on and in their own terms.
They appear harsh, those words I just wrote. I don't mean the to be. I just wanted to pass along to you the best articles of my former (non)faith in the hope they comfort you, and, more importantly, fortify your heart and mind against future assaults upon them. I also send my condolences.
My intention is not to preach. I'm simply suggesting that an atheistic worldview saddles one with many burdens, if indeed she sees in it more than simply an excuse for egoism or nihilistic hedonism. But I suspect you seek a principled atheism, and, as a former atheist myself ("to everything there is a season"), that is a vexatious proposition, because stalking the minds of every atheist is a capital-w "Why?" — why do a kindness, when their is no balance sheet, no celestial scorecard on which my deeds, good or bad, are recorded? Recovery from doubt and Weltschmerz must proceed from a close consideration of this question, along with an equally close consideration of its answers' practical implications.
The dizzying and often depressing thing about atheism is that it radically alters one's relationship to time. One has no hereafter to appeal to as the arbiter of life's meaning; one must demand that the here-and-now justify itself, and time's celerity complicates the issue. Destinations tend to color the experience of the journey. If annihilation lies on the horizon, how can it not influence every step toward it?
Nietzsche despised Buddhism because it robbed life of tragedy. We know the reasons why he despised Christianity. All that was left was to embrace the tragedy of temporal existence, to aestheticize the grim tones of fell inevitability. Denying God His existence is only the first step. The universal mechanism continues to run, sweeping one's short existence along with it. When I was an atheist, I found I constantly negotiated a treacherous course between the Scylla and Charybdis of horror and banality, the latter in many ways being more fearsome. The one thing I took consolation in during my godless salad days was that whatever was, was fitting — an appropriate just-so-ness that, as I constantly reminded myself, at that moment couldn't have been otherwise, because it wasn't otherwise; a sort of secular dharma, I guess. It was difficult for me to distinguish it from garden-variety fatalism, and of course a host problems concerning freedom, choice and autonomy came in its wake; but it worked for me at the time. I had to affirm the moment and its attendant event in their particularity, had to say "yes" to them if only because it was healthier than saying "no." This attitude of insistent affirmation, this "yes-saying," I learned from Nietzsche, and it suited me for many years, until events in my life unfolded that made principled, Nietzschean atheism no longer a proper fit. If you're interested, I'll share with you some day what it was that turned me from this path.
Your former roommate's death, I guess I'm saying, has confronted you with a true test of your (non)faith's resiliency. Does the situation, precisely as it is right now, present you with satisfactory answers, without recourse to the past, now the fixed record of history, or the future, an indistinct nebula with the void behind it? Simply now, as you think and feel it? If it does, then you can credit your atheism as the right conviction, and find the very explanation you crave in the contemplation of atheism itself.
Those who would challenge your heretical views are champions of dogma, not faith. For if they were true champions of faith, they'd respect, even encourage, your atheism, because you've found it a suitable thematic of your personal narrative. Anyone who aims to save you is doomed to failure, even without your active resistance, because what that individual doesn't understand is one cannot "saved" one already "saved" — by atheism, in your case.
God died for our sins; the God who died for our sins died — a classic instance of Hegelian double-negation, the only truly negating negation. The space is clear to make your own meaning. Perhaps this second sacrifice is God's greatest gift. The only interpretive material you have, however, is what's before you: the event of your friend's death, her once existing, your current existence, your eventual death. Nothing outside, aside, beside, below, above or in addition to. You must make matter and phenomena explain themselves strictly on and in their own terms.
They appear harsh, those words I just wrote. I don't mean the to be. I just wanted to pass along to you the best articles of my former (non)faith in the hope they comfort you, and, more importantly, fortify your heart and mind against future assaults upon them. I also send my condolences.
03 July 2007
Epater l'artiste
My friend Rob's latest 'blog entry on the "Splasher Manifesto," a collective cri de coeur put in print by marauding saboteurs of New York street art, highlights an interesting element in the crisis of artistic authenticity: The mechanisms of co-optation, having accelerated to near instantaneousness, have erected in people's minds fundamental presumptions as to the artist's now automatically suspect integrity.
This recently coined a priori of aesthetic judgment I find dismaying, because it threatens to make art impossible. It took quite a few years for Manet et al. to be absorbed into the canons of bourgeois taste (and Manet's ambitions were arguably bourgeois to begin with). Impressionist painting did enjoy brief middle years as strange, off-putting, unassimilable works. But today, such epater le bourgeois appears impossible, unless artists descend to shock — dung Madonnas, piss Christs, and what-not — and even this is doomed to failure. Perhaps the Splashers are heeding the immortal line from Fellini's 8 1/2, "Sometimes it's better to destroy than to create something unneccessary," a lesson that deviates from Schumpeter's economic doctrine of "creative destruction" in that the former exhorts entrepreneurs to destruction in order to create things that lack as much necessity as the things destroyed to make way for them.
This recently coined a priori of aesthetic judgment I find dismaying, because it threatens to make art impossible. It took quite a few years for Manet et al. to be absorbed into the canons of bourgeois taste (and Manet's ambitions were arguably bourgeois to begin with). Impressionist painting did enjoy brief middle years as strange, off-putting, unassimilable works. But today, such epater le bourgeois appears impossible, unless artists descend to shock — dung Madonnas, piss Christs, and what-not — and even this is doomed to failure. Perhaps the Splashers are heeding the immortal line from Fellini's 8 1/2, "Sometimes it's better to destroy than to create something unneccessary," a lesson that deviates from Schumpeter's economic doctrine of "creative destruction" in that the former exhorts entrepreneurs to destruction in order to create things that lack as much necessity as the things destroyed to make way for them.
02 July 2007
Parable of the Sour (For C.)
He pulls the poor cloth of rectitude around him tighter, every shiver a penance. The mouth of his cave frames the winking lights of the city of the plain below, an antfarm Gomorrah he'd turned his back on some time ago to pace and pray and contemplate his Creator and His imminent Judgment Day. But no Day came, only judgments of lesser consequence from those abandoned — not to sin, but by him. Those who in the warmth of a raw animal touch found no wrong, just the honesty of thus-and-such. Milk, life, the burgeoning form, the flesh that hides the fig leaf from those who stay behind—for him, categories of negation. The stars wink their approval, his company in the expanse of his salvation, in the waste and void of sainthood.
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