Dangerously Educated

"It must be allowed that learning does take away something, as the file takes something from rough metal, the whetstone from blunt instruments, and age from wine; but it takes away what is faulty; and that which learning has polished is less only because it is better" - Quintilian

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We talked in class briefly the other day about the dangerous elements of education, especially in regards to theology. That, somehow, becoming educated is a greater evil than maintaining ignorance, because education, the university setting, exposes students to bad theology, bad philosophy, bad ideas. Some pastors even pride themselves on their lack of education. But I wonder why this is, that if one can get an education, why one wouldn't. Is there something better about not being exposed to things and ideas? Yes, learning can be dangerous, but so is crossing the street, and that doesn't stop me. In fact, I think I prefer my education (and my street-crossing) dangerous, because I'm not sure I would truly be being educated (or truly be getting to the other side) if it wasn't.

I Dream in Diamonds - A Conceit

I haven't updated this blog since I used it for advanced expos last semester. And I rarely post poems. Except for my last post. So this happens to be an odd coincidence. But I wrote this poem for Genres class this semester, and thus I send it out into the world.
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Pretty, but useless, thoughtless.
Cubic zirconia,
I hated my April birthday because diamonds
Have no color
And I was never given a necklace with a real diamond.

I watched darkness swallow the dusk in a moment.
The night is a bracelet of black pearls,
Uneven but smooth,
Unending and circular.
It shines sometimes, when the moon flirts with the trees,
Clouds playing a paper fan over the eyes of the coquette.
I prefer black pearls,
Especially over diamonds.

I wanted to wear that night like a vintage gown,
With glass beads and cream pearls for stars,
Metal and stone.
The sand, the oyster, the alloys, the rocks,
All natural things.
I held a paper fan over my eyes and flirted through a dream.
A boy, his eyes like sapphires.
He wore that grey pinstripe suit like the foggy pre-dawn hour.
He threw stones onto my fingers, circular and hollow,
And he lavished my arms with amulets of moonstones,
And we were happy, I think.
Because I couldn’t sleep,
Because I couldn’t dream,
Outside of the rocky waves he made behind my eyes and outside my window.

His eyes were rubies.
I needn’t be scared, he said,
His voice wrapping around my throat as a diamond necklace for an April birthday,
As real diamonds, hard enough to scratch out his ruby eyes,
Hard enough also to cut the night which I was wearing away from my opal skin.
He glimmered red light then,
The red light of a garnet red planet,
And I wanted the sapphires back, as brooches to pin the dark onyx around my shoulders once again,
Stripped bare, stripped blank, no prongs of gold or silver or rose gold to hold it in place.
The pearls scattered, a sinew chain snapping, when they fell to the ground,
Slipping into corners
Chased by the glassy, starry beads,
And I was the bold, agate moon again,
His eyes deep violet amethysts that burned crevasses into my bald surface.

As the dawn rose then,
His grey suit turned copper,
The setting for the hard purple gems.
He moved a stone cold hand over my bleached face,
Swiping the fading light from behind my cloudy paper fan, stealing it away from me
As he rode into his rightful place
In the sky.
Nightless then, lightless,
I awoke with only a necklace to show for it, an April birthday’s real diamond,
A dream.