They keep asking, "Well, how do you feel? Different?" It's weird, but there's nothing that actually feels different. In fact, it all feels much too normal. End of semester, packing up, going home, saying goodbye -- it's all a repetitive great vent at the end of a reoccurring build-up. Summer, job, unpacking, organizing room, reorganizing room, sitting on bedroom floor for hours at a time, going through papers and files and snatches of songs and memories keep slipping in ... it's all happened before. Presumably, it will happen again. The difference is that it won't be happening this fall. And I think that will be the greatest difference. We shall see then ...

After the Great Hiatus ...

Apologies to the world. It's been a while. With only a one-word excuse, "graduation," I hang my head in shame.

No honors, no honoraries, no ring, no sorority, no offices, no positions, no awards, no medals, and yet ...

I DID IT! College. Done. And for only one reason:

I am never alone.

My friends, I thank you.

A Prayer by St. Theresa of Avila

Let nothing disturb thee,
Nothing affright thee,
All things are passing,
God never changeth.
Patient endurance attaineth to all things.
He who has God is wanting in nothing;
God alone sufficeth.

Wacky Word (Friday!): Hylomorphism

Hylomorphism, n.

The doctrine that primordial matter is the First Cause of the universe.

GKC "Orthodoxy" -- All the world's a stage

"According to most philosophers, God in making the world enslaved it. According to Christianity, in making it, He set it free.

God has written, not so much a poem, but rather a play; a play he had planned as perfect, but which had necessarily been left to human actors and stage-managers, who had since made a great mess of it."

GKC: "Orthodoxy" -- the Universe

"According to these people the cosmos was one thing since it had one unbroken rule. Only (they would say) while it is one thing, it is also the only there is. Why, then, should one worry particularly to call it large? There is nothing to compare it with.

It would be just as sensible to call it small. A man may say, 'I like this vast cosmos, with its throng of stars and its crowd of varied creatures.' But if it comes to that why should not a man say, 'I like this cosy little cosmos, with its decent number of stars and as neat a provision of live stock as I wish to see'? One is as good as the other; they are both mere sentiments."

Artes et Scientiae Liberales

What is a liberal arts education?

It was a question for a class I took last spring, "Artes Liberales." I practically drowned in that class. So much heady, philosophical, spiritual, intellectual, ontological stuff that I could hardly keep my head above water -- let alone keep up with the reading.

Yesterday, we had convocation (no worries; graduation is yet to come, but however it works, convocation comes early here). In we trooped, a long-expected flash mob of silly caps and gowns, the graduating class of 2012 (or whatever percentage of that population that decided to show up) to present ourselves to the world as an educated group of adults. We grouped together, smirking at our smartness, like the inside joke that it is. We took our places and waited to nod over the never-failing, annual praise and laud of the humanities.

It never came.

The speaker, a bombastically-snow-white-haired physics professor, stood up at the podium and asked the question:

What would the liberal arts be without the sciences?

Now, in no possible parallel world of any dimension could you accuse me of being a science-y kind of gal. I still can't understand binary beyond the "ten kinds of people" joke (and I've tried so many times!); the noble gasses are as much a mystery as gasoline; and the only pyrotechnics I perform are in the kitchen. I prefer paper to plastic, letters to numbers, and every time I talk about the sky being blue, or polar bear's fur being white, or light being yellow, my dad carefully and concisely corrects me.

But I do appreciate the professor's point, and, what is more, I defend it.

In this world of the MRI and the GPS and the WWW, how can any liberally-educated individual dismiss the importance and necessity, the very wonder and fascination of science? A number of humanities majors, shrugging their shoulders after the speech, laughed and said, "sure, I can imagine the arts without the sciences. What a fine life! No worries about having to flunk out of boring biology labs." They dismissed the question with an artistic shudder. They, you see, had chosen a better life, and were above and beyond that common sort of nonsense.

Without someone to ace that very lab, though, we would have no antibiotics. No fireworks. No frozen pizzas. No air conditioning. For goodness's sake, people, no air conditioning! Consider that.

Even worse, no marshmallows. What horrors.

The professor showed us a fabulous slideshow of photos of the universe. We saw the earth from the close side of the moon. We saw the Milky Way from above, lying before us like a great oozy swirl of blood and glitter in a glass of, well, milk. We saw the furthest point in the universe ever to be photographed. These photos filled me with wonder and fascination. I've seen such photos before; every third grader has. But here, I saw them with a liberally-educated point of view. Before my eyes, I saw the truth, the beauty, and the goodness of the world. What marvel is this! What Aristotelian nonsense have they been pouring into my head: to think that there is goodness and beauty and truth in the physical world, and in the study of the material?

My dear humanity fellows, beyond the practical, pragmatic application of the sciences to life, you should also see the greatness and the splendor and the magic of it all. There is something alive and breathing and wriggling in an earthworm, that even the most marvelous book cannot ever hope to imitate. There is more color and power in the darkest corner of the blackest hole than in all the ink of every newspaper ever printed. When you stand in the bright morning sun beneath a well-boughed, leafy tree, you should see what Newton saw, just as well as what van Gogh saw. Light is bursts of zinc yellow just as much as it is both waves and particles.

So I tip my hat to the scientists.

On the flip side of the argument, though (you didn't think I'd let you off that easy, did you?), scientists likewise need to learn to appreciate the arts. How many physicists scoff at Dickens! How many chemists turn up their noses at Monet! How many times have I been asked, "So, what exactly do you do as an English major? Sit around and read books all day? How is that going to get you a real job in the real world? How are you going to be able to live?"

Please God, I hope to live well. I hope to apply the wisdom and knowledge (such as it may be) that I have picked up piece by piece these past four years, and I hope to put them together in new and colorful connections to form a world of understanding.

We often speak of the two branches of a religious life: the active and the contemplative. While some religious orders adhere more to one lifestyle than the other, all orders incorporate some aspects of both. For the layman, I wonder if the arts and sciences are not similarly applicable. A liberal arts education is one in which these two aspects of life are brought together in harmony. A liberal arts education means making connections between seemingly disparate parts, and understanding how all together they form the multi-faceted, multi-dimensional, infinitely-complex structure of life.

Like bread and butter, Holmes and Watson, hobbits and holes, cups and saucers, the arts and the sciences belong together.

G K Chesterton: "Orthodoxy"

"If I leave a man in my will ten talking elephants and a hundred winged horses, he cannot complain if the conditions partake of the slight eccentricity of the gift. He must not look a winged horse in the mouth."

You Know You're a Homeschool Family When #3

... the six year old has decided he wants to listen to Mozart at lunch. Not Beethoven, not Bach: Mozart.

Thomas Merton's "Seven Storey Mountain"

"Obscure it was. Oakham's only claim to fame was the fact that it was the county town, and in fact the only real town in the smallest county in England. And there were not even any main roads or main railway lines running through Rutland, except for the Great North Road which skirted the Lincolnshire border.

In this quiet back-water, under the trees full of rooks, I was to spend three and a half years getting ready for a career. Three and a half years were a short time: but when they were over, I was a very different person from the embarrassed and clumsy and more or less well-meaning, but interiorly unhappy fourteen-year-old who came there with a suitcase and a brown felt hat and a trunk and a plain wooden tuck-box." 

How similar this sounds ... ! 

A Toast

Here's to freshman year: yogurt and bison at three in the morning; 10 pm bedtimes; confusion over cliques; confusion over classes; confusion over just about everything. Jean skirts and T-shirts. "Princess Bride" again and again and again.

Here's to sophomore year: midnight Mickey D runs; emotional meltdowns; ice storms; academic meltdowns; sophomoric enthusiasm; life-crises meltdowns. The Therapist is in.

Here's to junior year: drive-by shoutings; giant wasps; life-crises meltdowns; missing persons. A foot in either world, with no paddle to move it. Fire alarm, fire alarm, fire alarm, and no fire.

Here's to senior year: balmy winter; elective classes; Friday-night cheese pizzas and much too much TV. "There's no such thing as coincidence." Meltdowns of different sorts, much too many too count. Engagements, showers, therapy, advice, more engagements. Senior meetings; senior parties; senior stress; senioritis. Convocation, graduation, no elation. Tears, of both kinds; losing salt.

Here's to next year: the unknown, the frightful abyss; the harsh and ambiguous reality of the "real" world; post-academic stress disorder, with no homework, no classes, no papers, no grades. Free time ... ? Hobbies ... ? Asleep before midnight ... ? O, the possibilities ...

Here's to adventure!

You Know It's Time to Leave When ...

... The prospective students all look like a bunch of geeky teenagers.

Oh, wait. They are.

You Know You're a Big Family When #2

... you have to take two cars (preferably car + soccer-mom minivan) whenever you travel altogether.

T. S. Eliot: "Ash Wednesday" Part VI

VI

Although I do not hope to turn again
Although I do not hope
Although I do not hope to turn

Wavering between the profit and the loss
In this brief transit where the dreams cross
The dreamcrossed twilight between birth and dying
(Bless me father) though I do not wish to wish these things
From the wide window towards the granite shore
The white sails still fly seaward, seaward flying
Unbroken wings

And the lost heart stiffens and rejoices
In the lost lilac and the lost sea voices
And the weak spirit quickens to rebel
For the bent golden-rod and the lost sea smell
Quickens to recover
The cry of quail and the whirling plover
And the blind eye creates
The empty forms between the ivory gates
And smell renews the salt savour of the sandy earth

This is the time of tension between dying and birth
The place of solitude where three dreams cross
Between blue rocks
But when the voices shaken from the yew-tree drift away
Let the other yew be shaken and reply.

Blessed sister, holy mother, spirit of the fountain, spirit
of the garden,
Suffer us not to mock ourselves with falsehood
Teach us to care and not to care
Teach us to sit still
Even among these rocks,
Our peace in His will
And even among these rocks
Sister, mother
And spirit of the river, spirit of the sea,
Suffer me not to be separated

And let my cry come unto Thee.

Scathingly Brilliant Words

I cannot express how terribly, terribly clever I feel at the moment. I just realized that the noun "temper" of course must have an etymological connection to the verb "temper," to soften or balance something, make it less extreme, etc. So to "lose one's temper" is to lose one's emotional balance, go tripping over hate and anger and whatnot. So, to speak of "temper" as the emotional outburst of anger is actually incorrect. 

Ta-da! 

Good Books

A professor once told his class that someone asked him to list a number of books he would recommend, which would comprehensively define a well-read person, or a liberally-educated person, or some such lofty nonsense. Of course, the prof could only shrug his shoulders. "What am I supposed to tell him?" he asked. "The Bible?"

The problem is a monstrosity of obviousness. How does any one individual person make such a list, as to encompass everything that ever touches on humanity; something that encompasses every aspect of what it means to live in this world, meant for the next; something that speaks to every individual ever born or ever imagined; something that, once you've read it, means you'll never have to read anything else to know everything there is to know? How?

Wow. In my humblest of opinions, you could read every single book ever written and still never know everything there is to know. And that includes rocket science textbooks.

The question also leads to the problem of "good" books versus "great" books. The "great" books, as you know -- well, you know them. Homer's stuff, "Hamlet," "The Republic," "Moby Dick," "Great Gatsby." Gosh, it even has the word "great" in it. -- It's the list of all the stuff you had to read in high school and write a daunting three-page book report (ah, those were the days ...); it's the stuff that you know about but cringe when you have to admit you've never read it, because somehow that makes you less of a person; it's the stuff that someone mentions and you say, "oh, sure, Grapes of Wrath," and you nod smugly, hoping with all your might that he doesn't want to discuss it, because you only vaguely know the plot and can't remember whether that one character is from this book or the other one you always confuse it with; it's the book you had to read in middle school, high school, and in three different college courses, and when you tell people you hate it, they cry "blasphemy!"

The "good" books list, though it often overlaps with the "great" books list, gives the impression of a body of less-worthy reads, or of a B-rated level of literature. As I understand it, it's merely the more extensive body of literature that finds its way into literature courses and personal libraries and "personal favs" and whatnot, but just doesn't always make it to the top of the critic's list. For example, the individual mentioned above (who is seeking The Defining List of Humanity's Literature) would expect to see Aristotle and Dante listed, but he would probably cringe at the mention of Austen or Doyle.

Why? I don't know. I'm sure there have been scientific tests done to explain why some such books, of equal literary merit, do not receive the critical attention others do. I suspect that somehow it is because such literature as Austen or Doyle is not stuffy and snobby; they do not try to sound high falutin', or figure out the laws of the universe. They deal with the human condition, with life; with marriage and money and sin and crime, but rarely do they feel the need to ponder ontological truths or create fantastical worlds of epic proportions.

[TANGENT: ... Well, Doyle actually did create "The Lost World," for which he hoped to become famous, but unfortunately that never took off as well as his short stories. A pity; but then, I do prefer Holmes to Challenger.]

If someone asked me which were the most influential books of my life, or how to define the literary side of a liberally-educated individual (because we must remember that there is more to a liberal arts education than reading -- I know, impossible to believe, but it's true), I would have to be terribly particular and ask him to define "influential." Are we discussing books most influential to my writing, to my imagination, to my soul, to my education, or to my outlook on life? Books I have read and enjoyed and read again and again, or books I was forced to read and then hated but still somehow influenced some aspect of me? The fact is, every single book anyone ever reads will influence his life somehow ... you cannot read something without its ideas sinking -- perhaps slowly, perhaps painfully, perhaps terribly unwillingingly -- into your soul. That is why there is a banned list. But I digress.

If you google "1000 good books," you'll come up with multiple lists different homeschool/classical school/liberal arts school groups have put together, based on Dr. Senior's list of "good books" (it took me absolutely forever to find his own list). As I scrolled through them all, I was surprised to find that many of the books listed were children's books. Of course, homeschoolers/classical schoolers/liberal arts schoolers are all concerned about children reading good stuff, but how are these lists at all pertinent to "real" people? -- meaning, of course, those individuals who have attained (usually through no merit on their part) an age above that of twenty, who measure their lives in coffee spoons (and paychecks), who "own a car, a house, life insurance," and spend every spare minute they have grumbling about how bored they are.

If you want my opinion, you should go back (or, if you've not been subjected to it all your childhood, begin) and read children's books. It's good stuff.

You Know You're a Homeschool Family When #2

... the seven-year-old goes around the house singing Gilbert and Sullivan.

You Know You're a Big Family When ...

... you're wandering the produce aisle, minding your own precious business, when the third lady today walks up to you and asks, "ARE THEY ALL YOURS???"

-- to which you reply, "Oh, you should see the ones I left home."

-- to which she turns a beet red, mutters something under her breath, and walks away.

-- to which the youngest in the gaggle responds by asking you what the lady meant.

-- to which you reply with a smile, thinking all the while, "do I really look that old? Wait 'til Mom hears ..."

The Oracle Muses, or, The Muse Orates

That's correct, I have absolutely nothing-in-the-universe better to do with my time (O precious commodity!) than ponder the inexplicable complexities of the mystery that is matchmaking.

Here's a theory:

*theory*

WHAT IF people are going about this whole dating thing all wrong? Everyone is always looking for the best qualities in a potential boyfriend/girlfriend, like whether he's strong, or whether she cooks, or whether he watches the sci-fi show she watches, or whether she listens well when he havers. Etc.

WHAT IF people should really look for the worst qualities of a potential boyfriend/girlfriend, and then decide how well he/she [augh SOMEONE find me a more facile and less politically-correct grammatical structure PLEASE!] can put up with these shortcomings? Like whether he's conceited, or whether she cries too much, or whether he's obsessed with some sci-fi show, or whether she doesn't like sushi. Perhaps not the worst offence ever, but it  could be a decisive blow.

Admittedly, this method would encourage some rather harsh character analysis, but at the same time, knowing your limits (women, please ...) can often lead to more careful, more prudent decisions with better long-term results. Knowing you can't stand someone who can't stand the Beatles would make you cautious of someone who goes about ranting about them. Knowing, however, that putting up with a Rubik's cube addict is the least of your worries, shows that this individual has potential for a relationship. It's just a matter of knowing what you can put up with, and then working from there towards the more positive aspects of that individual's character.

Like, you know, so what, he wears dorky glasses and can't use more than one monosyllabic word per sentence? It's because he's a brilliant rocket scientist who is going to invent the spaceship that takes us all to Neptune! Hooray!

Yes? No? --- No worries, it's the dried pineapple speaking.

Great Snakes!

Newest fangirl crush: Tintin. He's the man who has it all: faithful and silent sidekick, wind-blown trench coat, evil villains out for his blood, swashbuckling adventures, martial arts skills... he writes, he investigates, he flies, he drives fast, he speaks multiple languages, he travels the world ... PLUS he has the absolutely perfectest hair.

What more could a girl want?

Oh.

WHAT DO YOU MEAN HE'S NOT REAL???

T. S. Eliot: "Ash Wednesday" Part V

V

If the lost word is lost, if the spent word is spent
If the unheard, unspoken
Word is unspoken, unheard;
Still is the unspoken word, the Word unheard,
The Word without a word, the Word within
The world and for the world;
And the light shone in darkness and
Against the Word the unstilled world still whirled
About the centre of the silent Word.

O my people, what have I done unto thee.

Where shall the word be found, where will the word
Resound? Not here, there is not enough silence
Not on the sea or on the islands, not
On the mainland, in the desert or the rain land,
For those who walk in darkness
Both in the day time and in the night time
The right time and the right place are not here
No place of grace for those who avoid the face
No time to rejoice for those who walk among noise and deny
the voice

Will the veiled sister pray for
Those who walk in darkness, who chose thee and oppose thee,
Those who are torn on the horn between season and season,
time and time, between
Hour and hour, word and word, power and power, those who wait
In darkness? Will the veiled sister pray
For children at the gate
Who will not go away and cannot pray:
Pray for those who chose and oppose

O my people, what have I done unto thee.

Will the veiled sister between the slender
Yew trees pray for those who offend her
And are terrified and cannot surrender
And affirm before the world and deny between the rocks
In the last desert before the last blue rocks
The desert in the garden the garden in the desert
Of drouth, spitting from the mouth the withered apple-seed.

O my people.

You Know You're a Homeschool Family When ...

... Dinner conversation consists primarily in an intense discussion concerning the grammatical intricacies of singular/plural noun/verb agreement in the sentence:

"My myriad of Myrmidons and mermaids miss me."

... and then rapidly deteriorates from there.

Flotsam and Jetsam: A Smorgosborg, Or, Une Melange des petites choses interessantes ... ou pas ...

Well, I keep coming up with fabulous ideas for posts, but absolutely no energy/time/inclination to draw them out into fine turns of phraseology and whatnot, so I think I'll give you a sample of the some of the musings that have been plaguing me:

Hobbes + Eleven = I wear a sombrero now. Sombreros are cool. (Isn't that BRILLIANT??? Can't you just see Hobbes in a bowtie???)

Little boys are the curiousest creatures in existence, and I fear I shall never understand them. They use such big words, and sound so terribly smart and intellectual and philosophical, like they've been reading my homework over my shoulder ... and then suddenly they just go and do the stupidest things. Like ... oh, you know.

Why do we ask "what's your favorite book?" Anyone who would ask that question is supposedly a reader himself, and any good reader knows this is The Question that will torture the reader if he is ever unfortunate enough -- or stupid enough -- to land himself in the Inferno.

Michigan weather is the curiousest kind of weather, with absolutely no reason to its rhyme (it can be rather poetic at times ... instigating curious types of poetry at any rate). If I am ever taken from it, I don't think I'll miss it.

My new favorite word is "curious," in case you haven't noticed. Though I think if I were a Doctor, my catchword would be "clever." It's just such a clever little word, don't you know? "Curious" is just too ... well, curious.

Love is one of the most miserable things in this life. If only we could all stay eight years old, and life could be all Christmases and birthdays and Irish Fests, with very little to bother about in between; just enough to whet the anticipation. No one would ever have to grow up or get serious or fall in love or break their hearts or have all sorts of other horrible things happen to them. But I suppose that is what all the stories of hobbits and heroes are all about; we have to keep trudging along, whether we like it or not, and hope we meet the right people at the right crossroads ...

"I don't know why I'm telling you all this, Amy ..."

Supposed to be writing my thesis. Supposed to be applying for jobs. Supposed to be on spring break -- all at once. The pressure is ... well, frankly overwhelming. If this is a preview of life, I am ready to hitchhike my way to the nearest convent.

Lord, to sit in SILENCE all day long ... what bliss!  

To ponder the higher things in life, to consider the countless souls in the world ... Lord, what contentment!

To pray and pray and meditate and pray ... Lord, what sanctity could be mine!

Lord, I'm waiting for that call. Anytime, night or day; You know my number ...

Wacky Word Wednesday: Miasma

Miasma, n: noxious exhalations from putrescent organic matter; poisonous effluvia or germs polluting the atmosphere.

Yikes.

Ways Not to Die #17

In a library

T. S. Eliot: "Ash Wednesday" Part IV

IV
Who walked between the violet and the violet
Who walked between
The various ranks of varied green
Going in white and blue, in Mary's colour,
Talking of trivial things
In ignorance and knowledge of eternal dolour
Who moved among the others as they walked,
Who then made strong the fountains and made fresh the springs

Made cool the dry rock and made firm the sand
In blue of larkspur, blue of Mary's colour,
Sovegna vos

Here are the years that walk between, bearing
Away the fiddles and the flutes, restoring
One who moves in the time between sleep and waking, wearing

White light folded, sheathing about her, folded.
The new years walk, restoring
Through a bright cloud of tears, the years, restoring
With a new verse the ancient rhyme. Redeem
The time. Redeem
The unread vision in the higher dream
While jewelled unicorns draw by the gilded hearse.

The silent sister veiled in white and blue
Between the yews, behind the garden god,
Whose flute is breathless, bent her head and signed but spoke
no word
But the fountain sprang up and the bird sang down
Redeem the time, redeem the dream
The token of the word unheard, unspoken

Till the wind shake a thousand whispers from the yew

And after this our exile

St. Patrick's Lorica

Happy St. Patrick's to everyone! This is one of the most beautiful and encouraging prayers I've ever heard. It just goes to show you that poets can be saints, too :)

***

I arise today through the strength of Heaven, light of the sun, radiance of the moon, splendor of fire, speed of lightening, swiftness of wind, depth of the sea, stability of earth, firmness of rock.

I arise today through God's strength to pilot me, God's might to uphold me, God's wisdom to guide me, God's eye to look before me, God's ear to hear for me, God's word to speak for me, God's hand to guide me, God's way to lie before me, God's hosts to save me,

From snares of devils, from temptations of vices, against temptations of false prophets, against black laws of pagandom, against craft of idolatry, against spells of women and smiths and wizards, against every knowledge that corrupts man's body and soul.

Christ to shield me today against poison, against burning, against drowning, against accident, against wounding, so that there may come abundance of reward.

Christ with me, Christ before me, Christ behind me, Christ within me, Christ above me, Christ within me, Christ on my right, Christ on my left, Christ when I lie down, Christ when I sit down, Christ when I arise.

Christ in the heart of every man who thinks of me. Christ in every mouth that speaks of me. Christ in every eye that sees me. Christ in every ear that hears me.

I arise today through a mighty strength, through the invocation of the Trinity, through belief in the Trinity in Unity, through confession of the Oneness of the Creator of creation.

Salvation is of the Lord, Salvation is of the Lord, Salvation is of Christ. May your salvation, Lord, be ever with us. Amen.

O What a Beautiful Mornin'

Have you ever heard a cowboy wax so eloquent? Or, as someone else might say,

Today is THE DAY! The first day of spring break, the first day of a glorious week of sleeping in my own bed and rummaging around in my own fridge and annoying my own siblings and ... well, I guess I'll be writing a paper or two on the side, but y'know, whatevs. At this point in the semester, my papers write themselves.

... Don't tell my profs. I found me the magickest spell in the world, in this really really really old book, actually probs a really really really new book, so new that it's written in the future (but it's hard to tell; the ISBN codes are all wrong), and it has -- oh! such hoards of knowledge and wisdom and stuff. Like how to make clocks run backwards. And where to find Alice's looking-glass. And why the dinosaurs really went extinct (hint: it wasn't by smoking). And of course, how to teach papers to write themselves. It can take some effort at first, but once you've got them trained, you can just sit back and watch the words spin themselves into a frenzy. Great stuff.

So. You ... have a good day! I certainly will.

Life

Forgive me for not having written recently. Only three 'til a much-anticipated spring break, and as assignments pile up, time is running out. Time. A cold-hearted thing, Time, I always thought. But this Sunday, I was told from the pulpit that Time is our greatest ally. Time is the gift we have been given -- the one and only gift worth cherishing. Time breaks all bonds; Time saves every man who is willing to meet it halfway. As Time passes, we are to take the opportunity of every moment of it and do the very best we can to move forward towards our salvation. And so, onwards ...

T. S. Eliot: "Ash Wednesday" Part III

III
At the first turning of the second stair
I turned and saw below
The same shape twisted on the banister
Under the vapour in the fetid air
Struggling with the devil of the stairs who wears
The deceitful face of hope and despair.

At the second turning of the second stair
I left them twisting, turning bellow;
There were no more faces and the stair was dark,
Damp, jagged, like an old man's mouth drivelling, beyond repair,
Or the toothed gullet of an aged shark.

At the first turning of the third stair
Was a slotted window bellied like the fig's fruit
And beyond the hawthorn blossom and a pasture scene
The broadbacked figured drest in blue and green
Enchanted the maytime with an antique flute.
Blown hair is sweet, brown hair over the mouth blown,
Lilac and brown hair;

Distraction, music of the flute, stops and steps of the mind
over the third stair,
Fading, fading; strength beyond hope and despair
Climbing the third stair.

Lord, I am not worthy
Lord, I am not worthy
But speak the word only.

Ways Not to Die #38

Death by remote-control heart attack

Wacky Word Wednesday: Synecdoche

Synecdoche, n. :

A figure by which a more comprehensive term is used for a less comprehensive or vice versa; as whole for part or part for whole, genus for species or species for genus, etc.

The golden glow of evening, they say. There is something golden about it, I suppose; though as I see it now, it's a sort of butter-yellow spreading across the cucumber-green grass. No matter the color, it is warm and harmonious, a contented sort of image that mingles with the smell of over-burnt logs. It's an autumn-y sort of smell, odd for the month perhaps, but lovely and rich and comforting. I couldn't name you the log, nor identify the wherefore of its being, but something about the scent and the sight, blown in through the window with the cooling wind, mingles soothingly over the earth. A few leaves left over from last autumn fall; to say they dance in ecstasy might be to exaggerate rather tritely, but they certainly seem gleeful in their descent. "Time escapes me and flees ..." and so back to my work. But it certainly is a lovely evening.

So few stars in the sky tonight. Such a great blank spread of nothing but empty blue -- and even that is turning black. The few stars that remain begin to fade as you watch them, fade flickering with the unapproachable melancholy of the Canon in D. Even the mighty Orion trembles. Is it fear? Perhaps they fear the invading orange glow. Is it foresight? Perhaps they see the consequences of our actions better than we can. Are they so ashamed of the world as to turn their backs on us, withdraw even their timid presence?

The moon shines big, blatant, boisterous. She fears no thing. She is strong in a borrowed might, a borrowed light. Has she oppressed the unfortunate stars? I do not know.

But there is a cool breath that blows in from the trees. The wind assures me he can reach the stars; and so I will write to them, to be not afraid, to come back and make merry where they will. They will understand how much we need their glittering smiles each night, to face the glare of the moon.

They Say ...

... that you are attracted to people who look like you.

That must mean that I am, like, super-de-duper really crazy good-looking.

*big grin*

... sigh ... and, like, every other fangirl in the world ...

De Angst Contra Facebook: Or, On Friendship

(No, that is neither German nor Latin nor Spanish nor English nor American nor any other cohesive language -- that I know of. But it doesn't matter; you get the point).

I have finally realized why I'm not on Facebook.

For the past three and a half (going on four) years, numerous individuals (*cough* yes, you *cough*) have been nagging me to join Facebook. "It's so easy," they say. "It's so much fun," they urge. "Come on, Catherine; everyone's on Facebook."

And something about that word, "everyone," wiggled its way deep down inside my psyche and irritated the heck out of me. "Everyone" is doing it. Well. I'll show them. I WON'T do it, just because "everyone" is doing it. I'll buck the trend. I'll be UNIQUE! And that was my conscious rationale for resistance.

Until now.

I woke up this morning, did not touch my computer, did not check my phone, hardly spoke two words together to any living being until some time later this afternoon -- and yet, I did not feel alone. I did not feel estranged. I did not feel a great gaping hole in my heart because I had not made contact with the cyber world. I knew that no matter where I was, no matter what I was doing, no matter who was with me or not, I had friends.

That might sound painfully soap-opera-y sentimental, but hear me out. Facebook purports to be all about Friends. Friends, Friendship, Friending, etc. But really ... it's just imaginary friends. And they are all sooooooo boring. Honestly. Imaginary friends are supposed to be exciting and funny and quirky and weird and kept all to yourself. Like white tigers. But as far as I can tell, VolumeVisage friends are just annoying people who think their lives are special and want to share with you how drunk they got last weekend.

I admit, that's probably an exaggeration. I'm sure there are many nice people who take part in this social networking ... thing ... for want of a better word, scheme. But this publicizing of every facet of the private life -- even stuff that isn't necessarily bad to publicize, just, well, weird -- this amassing of friends within mili-seconds -- this constant pressure to "update" and "like" and "friend" everything and everyone (it is taking all my self-control to refrain from getting into grammar-police mode here ... grrr ...) -- it seems that it would bring the individual closer to the details of "friendship," but push the individual much further from the view of the "big picture."

It's sort of like pointillism in art: you have to stand back from the picture to see it. If you come up too close, you can see the individual dots of color, but then ... it's just dots of color. No significance, no meaning, no coherence, no connection. When you network with your friends, and with your friends' friends, and with your friends' friends' friends, you become swamped, inundated with thousands of data points from hundreds of sources which, when added together, generally have very little meaning. Who has five hundred people they can truly call "friends"? -- most of  the time, I would imagine, they are merely added or "friended" for the sake of showing off one's friends, like an assassin's ticks on his blade. AND another one!

Friendship -- I won't say "true" friendship, because by definition, friendship is true -- friendship is sacrifice, patience, perseverance, and more sacrifice. Friendship is clashing temperaments so badly that you can hardly see each other without bickering about SOMETHING, but when it comes right down to it, you've both still got each other's back. Friendship is sitting for two hours in the same room and not saying a thing but knowing exactly what the other is thinking. Friendship is washing each other's dirty dishes ... again. And again. And again. Friendship is hating each other's guts while knowing that heaven will be empty for one without the other. Friendship is going years without seeing each other, but never going a day without thinking of each other. Friendship is sending a constant stream of email, never expecting a reply, but never stopping. Friendship is betrayal forgiven before being betrayed. Friendship is bluntly pointing out each other's faults. Friendship is not flattering. Friendship is being thanked and saying "I know you'd do the same for me" -- and meaning every word of it.

Now, I know people are going to hate me for saying all this. My friends -- my non-cyber friends, the ones who bleed if you cut them -- will roll their eyes and say, "oh, there goes Catherine again, ranting away ..." Mea culpa. I can't help it -- I have a contrary personality. I'm not saying that Facebook should be banned and everyone should start writing letters with quill pens (though that might be fun). Go for it; use Facebook. Develop your cyber personality. (That's sort of what I'm doing here, anyways ... don't think I don't realize it). But don't forget to develop your living friendships, too. Ironically, the word "love" was originally a verb, before it became a noun ... unlike "friend," which was first a noun and is now rapidly becoming a verb. But to truly "love" someone, to truly "friend" someone, is a verb: it's action. It's not some vague and vapid abstraction. It's not a click of a button. It's something you have to do; you can't just "be" it, because beyond the ontological sort of "being," there is not much else you can be. You have to act.

So, go friend. But if you can, do it in person.

T. S. Eliot: "Ash Wednesday" Part II

II
Lady, three white leopards sat under a juniper-tree
In the cool of the day, having fed to satiety
On my legs my heart my liver and that which had been contained
In the hollow round of my skull. And God said
Shall these bones live? shall these
Bones live? And that which had been contained
In the bones (which were already dry) said chirping:
Because of the goodness of this Lady
And because of her loveliness, and because
She honours the Virgin in meditation,
We shine with brightness. And I who am here dissembled
Proffer my deeds to oblivion, and my love
To the posterity of the desert and the fruit of the gourd.
It is this which recovers
My guts the strings of my eyes and the indigestible portions
Which the leopards reject. The Lady is withdrawn
In a white gown, to contemplation, in a white gown.
Let the whiteness of bones atone to forgetfulness.
There is no life in them. As I am forgotten
And would be forgotten, so I would forget
Thus devoted, concentrated in purpose. And God said
Prophesy to the wind, to the wind only for only
The wind will listen. And the bones sang chirping
With the burden of the grasshopper, saying

Lady of silences
Calm and distressed
Torn and most whole
Rose of memory
Rose of forgetfulness
Exhausted and life-giving
Worried reposeful
The single Rose
Is now the Garden
Where all loves end
Terminate torment
Of love satisfied
End of the endless
Journey to no end
Conclusion of all that
Is inconclusible
Speech without word and
Word of no speech
Grace to the Mother
For the Garden
Where all love ends.

Under a juniper-tree the bones sang, scattered and shining
We are glad to be scattered, we did little good to each other,
Under a tree in the cool of day, with the blessing of sand,.
Forgetting themselves and each other, united
In the quiet of the desert. This is the land which ye
Shall divide by lot. And neither division nor unity
Matters. This is the land. We have our inheritance.

Quotation: La Nuit

"Il y a mille et une portes pour penetrer dans le verger de la verite mystique. Chaque etre humain a sa porte. Il ne doit pas se tromper et vouloir penetrer dans le verger par une porte autre que la sienne. C'est dangereux pour celui qui entre et aussie pour ceux qui s'y trouvent deja."

"There are a thousand and one doors to enter into the orchard of mystical truth. Each human being has his own door. He must not deceive himself and want to enter into the orchard through a door other than his own. It's dangerous for him entering and also for those who are already there."

-- Elie Wiesel: La Nuit

The Art of Seduction

They say that technology is seductive. They say it draws you in, entraps your heart and mind and soul, makes you succumb to its every bidding.

Dude, technology is a zombie. It follows you around, its arms outstretched to draw you in and gnaw out all your brains. It never dies; it never lives. Technology is Dante's Satan, frozen in eternity, his three sets of teeth forever sinking into the skulls of three infernally unfortunate souls. You sit in front of it and it chews you up. It attacks your senses, blinds you, makes you deaf to everything but its commands, steals your energy, your time, your peace of mind, your life.

That is not seduction. That is the stuff divorce courts are made for.

Books, on the other hand ... books are seductive. Just as the spider invited the fly, books sit coyly on their shelves and make eyes at you every time you walk into the store. They surround you with love; they call out to you; they flash their colorful spines and invite you to touch them, to hold them, to smell them, to cast your eyes over every page. When you love them and must leave them, they cry out to you to stay. Only five minutes more -- but you tear yourself away, shedding tears of anguish at such sweet sorrow.

Who falls in love with technology? 'Tis an extraordinarily sour relationship, a love-hate relationship; an entrapment, not an emotional bond.

Books, now -- you fall in love with books.

I Think ...

... someone should create a fantasy/sci-fi monster that looks like a dried fig, bitten open.

Wacky Word Wednesday: Frentic vs. Frantic

THERE IS A DIFFERENCE! I insist on a difference. But the question is, what is it?

Well. thesaurus.com informs us that the difference is a matter of physical versus mental being.

Frentic: physical state -- crazed, wild, bombastic behavior

Frantic: mental state -- agitation and dementia and whatnot

[note: my definitions, not theirs ... well, theirs, but super paraphrased]

Your Choice ...

Sense or sensibility?

How to Break Up in Five Syllables or Fewer

1) No.

2). Ummm, no.

3) Sorry, no.

4) Ummm, sorry, no.

5) Thank you, but sorry.

6) Sorry, thank you, no.

7) Ummm ... want a cheese puff?

Found: A Vocation

They say that well-behaved women rarely make history.

Well.

I take this as a challenge. So challenged I will be. And well-behaved. And the exception to this enigmatic, vague, and terribly stereotypical-izing rule.

I will make history!

Just watch me do this.

Muwahahahaha ...

Wanted: A Muse

Willing to work days, especially weekends. Willing to put up with regular hours, as I need my sleep during the night, but also available for spontaneous writing fits at any given moment. Willing to support emotionally, especially during times of depression and writer's block. Willing to support mentally when unhinged and frantically writing. Must understand love, of all sorts, and human nature, in its various forms. Must be willing to express truthful options on death, suffering, time, happiness, eternity, and Calvinball.

Must understand obscure references to obscure sources. Must quote obscure references to obscure sources as second nature. Must have many quirks.

Must be fluent in all things Anglophile, including but not limited to: tea, accents, green rolling landscapes, and the eternal spitting of rain. Must be well versed in the following authors: Austen, Eliot, Doyle, Carroll, Tolkien, Chesterton, and Sayers. Must be familiar with film versions of the aforementioned authors' works. Preferably well versed in a variety of other authors as well.

My must will enjoy varied and regular travel, often to strange and exotic locations. Such travel may include but will nto be limited to: Oxford, Gallifrey, the Medusa Cascade, Stonehenge, Oxford, Florence, Oxford, London, the Rabbit Hole, Piccadilly Circus, Oxford, the ends of the universe, Oxford, and Oxford. Must be willing to leave heart in Oxford, so as to assure an eventual return.

My muse will constantly push me to write, as I need constant pushing. Must be able to give constant encouragement along with blunt (if sometimes harsh) truth, preferably simultaneously.

Credentials not required, but welcome if available. Must be willing to relocate to the Growlery, as I am most definitely not moving anywhere else. Those allergic to white tigers will be automatically disqualified.

Please submit all applications here, at any time, in any manner. My writing is waiting for your inspiration.

"Prometheus Unbound" -- Shelley

And from the other opening in the wood
Rushes, with loud and whirlwind harmony,
A sphere, which is as many thousand spheres,
Solid as crystal, yet through all its mass
Flow, as through empty space, music and light:
Ten thousand orbs involving and involved,
Purple and azure, white, and green, and golden,
Sphere within sphere; and every space between
Peopled with unimaginable shapes,
Such as ghosts dream dwell in the lampless deep,
Yet each inter-transpicuous, and they whirl
Over each other with a thousand motions,
Upon a thousand sightless axles spinning,
And with the force of self-destroying swiftness,
Intensely, slowly, solemnly roll on,
Kindling with mingled sounds, and many tones,
Intelligible words and music wild.

Snippet Saturday

From something I wrote quite a long time ago, actually ...

***

“Acheron! Acheron!” she cried, rushing towards him through the chaos and din. It was he! She had finally found him… and then he turned towards her. His eyes were hidden by his helmet’s visor, but his mouth showed disapproval, distaste, contempt. He turned away from her and suddenly thrust his sword into a member of Conrad’s band.

The blood rushed to her head and she stumbled, grasping her sword, gasping for breath. He has betrayed us, she thought, he has gone over to the enemy. He is a traitor to us all. She fell against a pillar and felt her chest burning and swelling with anguish. Her eyes burned, her ears burned, her hands shook and she dropped her sword with a clang of metal against marble. The noise enveloped her; she could not breathe, she could not cry, she could not move …

“Tessa! Tessa!” Conrad shouted, but not one syllable reached her ears. He called again, “Tessa!” but to no avail. He rushed towards her, through the crowd, but the traitor Acheron had already reached her; he stood over her, his sword in hand. She turned her head slowly towards Conrad, unresponsive to the looming figure in front of her. He lifted his sword and prepared to strike.

With a great crash Conrad leaped in between the two and drew Acheron’s attention away from the wounded girl. Infuriated, the traitor vented all his attention on the newcomer. He swung his mighty sword with a bullish effort, missing Conrad’s neck by an inch. Another lunge, and suddenly Conrad found himself gasping for breath, dropping to his knees, the blood running from his forehead like a crimson waterfall. 

“Conrad!” Tessa painfully lifted herself up from the base of the marble column and reached out a hand, as if, from such a distance, she could pull him off the floor and into safety. There he now lay on his back, exposed and vulnerable to the whims of the Enemy.  The traitor stood above the warrior, menacingly, as he had only moments before stood over his former sweetheart. Conrad braced himself for the final stroke; Acheron lifted his sword, but suddenly he, too, stiffened and paused in midair. With a great moan, he collapsed to the ground. Tessa had struck.

“For my queen,” she cried. She watched as he let fall his sword and fell to the ground; one groan, one sigh, and a last breath, and all was still. She stared, stunned, at the body, still and silent, of the man who had once promised her his very life's breath. Yes, he had betrayed them all, Arthur, Conrad, Desmona, herself … and yet …

In an instant she fell to the ground, kneeling next to him, panting, exhausted, nervous, afraid. She dragged herself to his side and felt the warmth leave his body. Tears flooded her face as she clutched his shoulders and grasped his helmet to release the head from its cage. He had betrayed them, but now he was dead; could mercy, on her part, intervene to allow for a more just reward?

She fumbled with the clasp, her hands sweating and shaking, and gently pulled off the metal helmet to kiss once more the lips which had so often spoken true and honest words, but …

She stopped and froze. “Conrad,” she whispered uneasily. Conrad grunted, pulled himself up, and dragged himself over towards her.

“Tessa, don’t look …”

“But Conrad, it isn’t he.”

Conrad stopped and leaned over to look at the body. “Truly?”

“I am quite sure.” She calmly sat back on her heels and wiped her face. “His eyes are wrong.” Even through the wounds and sweat and blood, she saw a stranger’s eyes. “They used to be gentle. Warm. Deep. These are forceful, but have no strength of character. It is only his armor …” and her voice trailed off. Her eyes swept the mass of men in the crowded hall, seeking for the answer to the unspoken question. Where was the real Acheron?

Dear World

What a day. Much the same as any other Friday in February -- or Tuesday in November, or Thursday  in March, for that matter. Fulfilling all the usual tasks, checking all the usual boxes, attending all the usual classes and meals and daily rituals required of thousands of other persons in my position. Another span of twenty four hours without writing a single creative word. Another morning I tell myself, "today will be different. Today things will change. Today, I will walk to the ends of the earth -- I will win the lottery -- I will meet a celebrity -- I will find the map to the Fountain of Youth -- I will change the course of history." And, some will tell you that by merely existing, I do influence our existence here on earth. I suppose so; but I wish I could do it in a more interesting way, or with more visible results. I guess that's what they call instant gratification. But still, when you think about it, we continue to live our lives in such a very strange, small way; I look outside my window, and all is darkness, except for a little golden square of light in the window of the house next door. I can't see into the window; I don't know anything that is happening. But I imagine a vague, generic neighbor, sitting and reading -- or watching TV -- or knitting -- or dozing off -- or writing letters -- or playing solitaire. So close, yet a complete enigma. Maybe my neighbor is not alone, but spending time with a family member, or a friend; perhaps they are talking about their upcoming trip to Peru -- their last Christmas with a relative -- buying a dog -- left-handed tennis players -- T. S. Eliot's "Four Quartets." Perhaps they aren't talking about anything at all interesting; perhaps they are merely reviewing their day, which was much the same as any other Friday in February. Perhaps there is no one in there at all; someone forgot to turn the light off, and so it stays lit all through the night, keeping watch over the darkness over the earth.

If Dreams are Wish-Fulfillment ...

I just had a dream that I got a job! I was hired to babysit a family of ... squirrels. Yes, that's right. Mr. Squirrel was excited to hear that I had extensive experience with small children, but Mrs. Squirrel was appalled by my eating a bagel. Somewhere in there we went swimming in  their pool. And then I woke up.

Freud, you're playing mind games with me again ...

Wacky Word Wednesday: Nadir

Nadir, n. :

1. (a) A point on the celestial sphere diametrically opposed to some other point, esp. the sun. (oed.com)

3. (a) The lowest or worst point (of something); the place or time of greatest depression, degradation, etc.

T. S. Eliot: "Ash Wednesday" Part I

Because I do not hope to turn again
Because I do not hope
Because I do not hope to turn
Desiring this man's gift and that man's scope
I no longer strive to strive towards such things
(Why should the aged eagle stretch its wings?)
Why should I mourn
The vanished power of the usual reign?

Because I do not hope to know
The infirm glory of the positive hour
Because I do not think
Because I know I shall not know
The one veritable transitory power
Because I cannot drink
There, where trees flower, and springs flow, for there is
nothing again

Because I know that time is always time
And place is always and only place
And what is actual is actual only for one time
And only for one place
I rejoice that things are as they are and
I renounce the blessed face
And renounce the voice
Because I cannot hope to turn again
Consequently I rejoice, having to construct something
Upon which to rejoice

And pray to God to have mercy upon us
And pray that I may forget
These matters that with myself I too much discuss
Too much explain
Because I do not hope to turn again
Let these words answer
For what is done, not to be done again
May the judgment not be too heavy upon us

Because these wings are no longer wings to fly
But merely vans to beat the air
The air which is now thoroughly small and dry
Smaller and dryer than the will
Teach us to care and not to care Teach us to sit still.

Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death
Pray for us now and at the hour of of death.

Mardi Gras

Fresh bread + Nutella = 2 hrs before Ash Wednesday.

Quotations: Thomas Jefferson

I've never been a huge Jeffersonian, but I found this quotation of his on a friend's blog and, after taking to it quite readily, I decided to share.

"On matters of fashion, swim with the current. On matters of principle, stand like a rock."

I would love to know the context of these words. Does Jefferson refer to political issues? Issues of religion? Or, perhaps, just fashion? -- we all know what dandies the Founding Fathers were, after all.

Quotations: "Unnatural Death"

“’Of course, I knew the man, so it wasn’t all intuition. Still, I always make it a rule to investigate anything I feel like investigating. I believe,’ he added, in a reminiscent tone, ‘I was a terror in my nursery days. Anyhow, curious cases are rather a hobby of mine. In fact, I’m not just being the perfect listener. I have deceived you. I have an ulterior motive, said he, throwing off his side-whiskers and disclosing the well-known hollow jaws of Mr. Sherlock Holmes.’ 

‘I was beginning to have my suspicions,’ said the doctor after a short pause. 

...

‘Quite right. It’s a silly kind of face, of course, but rather disarming, don’t you think? I don’t know that I’d have chosen it, but I do my best with it. I do hope it isn’t contracting a sleuth-like expression, or anything unpleasant. This is the real sleuth – my friend Detective-Inspector Parker of Scotland Yard. He’s the one who really does the work. I make imbecile suggestions and he does the work of elaborately disproving them. Then, by a process of elimination, we find the right explanation, and the world says, ‘My [goodness], what intuition that young man has!’” 

-- Dorothy L. Sayers

Snippet Saturday: Watson Towers

In the back alleys of London, in the musty grey fog of the streets, a shadowy stranger leaned casually against a mold-riddled wall. He knocked the ashes from his pipe with an aplomb akin to that of a sloth. His eyes drooped lazily, flickering like a smouldering ember beneath the dark lids. A cat came around the edge of the nearest building, nervously wavering around by the wall, eying the stranger as a tentative rubbing post. The stranger eyed the cat, watching, waiting. Eventually the cat sidled up and rubbed its arched back against the man's threadbare trousers. One leg, then the next, and the cat skipped off.

The man's eyes glowed again as a young woman walked past, her somber-colored dress melding into the colorless, cloudy streets. He watched her with interest, though as she stepped out of sight his eyes lagged again. Next, a grocer and his cart came riding by; the cart was filled with fruits and vegetables, and the strange man stepped out of the shadows to bargain for a piece of fruit. The grocer gave it gladly, and the man evaporated again into the narrow alley.

Time passed; few people were out at this early morning. The mist eventually lifted, but the man stood patiently, nursing his cooling pipe. His eyes flashed again as the young woman returned; he watched her walk past the alley opening, then slowly he turned his head and stepped out into the larger street to catch a glimpse of her as she walked away. There, she was gone; the street was deserted. The man seemed satisfied, and leaving the alley, he turned back in the opposite direction to return home.

"Towers!" exclaimed Tom Toller. "I did not think to see you here this early. I thought you were still abed."

Towers grunted. "Who's the woman?"

"She's come before; she's looking to find information on Mr. Maxwell."

The eyes lit up again. "Maxwell, eh?" Watson mused over this thought, puffing out a ball of smoke. "Her name?"

"Miss Tilly Baker. But what's it to you? has it something to do with ...?"

Towers grunted again. "It might; it might. Don't know yet."

Tom Toller nodded in curiosity. "Might it then. Well. You'll let me know, of course ..."

"Course."

Satisfied, Tom Toller turned back to his papers, and with his ink-stained fingers, pulled forth sheets from different piles, and scanned each sheet with interest and curiosity. He would exclaim at times, squinting over a word here, or a scribble there, then noting it down in his great leather-bound book. The Book, a massive volume of weight and worth equal to a printing press itself, sat comfortably, though heavily, at the centre of Tom Toller's desk. The Book was his; he wrote it, he kept it, he lived with it. Some might say, he belonged to it as much as it belonged to him. It was part of his life, part of his being; no one, not even Watson Towers, touched the Book without express permission. And that was given rarely, if ever.

Tom Toller took up his pen, with the hard-chewed end and the well-worn nib, and began to scratch away on a new page in the Book. Watson Towers still stood, thoughtfully puffing away. Neither paid any attention to the other, but both knew the other was working hard on his side of the case.

Watson thought, and Tom Toller wrote, and after ten minutes of absolute silence, Watson Towers abruptly turned and, without a word, left the building. Tom Toller did not look up, but continued scratching away.

Watson Towers strode outside again and turned the corner back into the darkened alley. This time, he walked quickly down the narrow, turning space between the crumbling brick buildings, not looking up, not looking down, not looking back, but always forward. He came out again at the other side into the bright sunlight, but he did not blink. Here, there was light and fresh air; there, behind him, he had left darkness and cold. Watson Towers stepped out of his darkness, into the sunshine of ordinary London, and strode through the golden streets, lined with emerald trees and ruby brick houses, a grey figure bringing dirt and decay to all.

The rest of the day, he spent walking about the streets; all streets, whether long or short, narrow or wide, bright or shady, he strode through them, his coat flapping with every step. Occasionally, he paused to watch a man cross a street, or to watch a group of children at their games, or to relight his pipe. Throughout the day, he spoke to no one, approached no one, touched no one, and encountered no one. No one looked at him; like a phantom in grey he tread the city's streets.

At the end of the day, when all was finished, Watson Towers returned to Causewell Lane, where he let himself into Tom Toller's shop through the back door; he slipped upstairs to the crowded attic room which was his home. There, he took off his coat and boots, pulled out his pipe, and sat thinking, his legs crossed, his eyes smoldering, through the wee hours of the morning, when the night was grey and cold.

A Feminine Anti-Feminist

No one can doubt my femininity. No one can doubt my intelligence. No one can doubt my strength. If you doubt, come see me, and we will speak. Let me show you my shoe collection. Let me show you my college essays and my grades. Let me show you my scars.

I do not say this to brag or to put myself forward as an impeccable model of everything womanly. I say this to speak out against all the thousands of women who call themselves feminists.

On Tumblr there is a post going around with four photos of famous modern women explaining why they call themselves "feminists." Three of the four say it's because of "equality" -- which they neglect to define -- the fourth says that because guys don't want to look like girls, but girls want to look like guys, somehow women are less equal than men.

??? -- and for good measure: ?!?

Equality, Equality, Equality. Equality is their watchword. These women who label themselves "feminists" -- yes, they label themselves; how degrading is that? -- can't get any more creative than "equality." Why not throw a little brotherly love in there? The French did (not that it's always a good idea to follow the French, but they did get a little more expressive with their slogans). Oh, well, because referring to "brothers" means leaving "sisters" out of it. Since when has love become sexist? Are these women so insecure in their femininity that they cannot say "brotherly love"? We'll have to start calling it "brotherly-and-sisterly love," or "sisterly-and-brotherly love," or even better yet, "siblingly love." *sigh* Not only are they confused over what it means to love, but they are also terrible grammarians. I could rant all day about the awkward, incorrect, and just plain stupid "he/she" construction -- but let's save that for later.

I've never understood why women have problems using the terms "mankind," businessman," etc. Somehow these women feel they are excluded from the huMAN race or from the work world because we don't say "womankind" and "businesswoman" (or for that matter, "huwoman." How does that sound?) I always thought we said it because men are the ones who would feel insecure at being excluded from "womankind." -- all joking aside, it's just a practical method of collectively referring to all men-women-children-teens-oldpeople-youngpeople-and-everyone-in-between-who-has-ever-lived-ever-will-live-or-lives-on-this-earth-who-pertains-in-some-way-to-this-group-of-God's-creatures. But no; saying "mankind" is discriminating against women; it just shows what a low, dirty, "patriarchal" world we live in.

Good gracious me. Of course it's a patriarchal society. We speak of God as "our Father." Well, except for those who don't ... but we'll just leave that for now. That's another issue altogether -- an important one, but not one I plan to address here.

The point is not that men are somehow better than women, but that they are the ones who are supposed to support and protect women. And trust me, ladies, we want it that way. Look at the world around you: since women have become so "equal," bringing themselves (supposedly) to the level of men, how many women are now not only figuratively but also quite literally "wearing the pants" in every relationship? She is the boss at work, the boss at home, the boss in the community and at church and with friends. Men don't know what to do with themselves anymore; women have taken charge of every facet of life, so much so that they have over-burdened themselves (making them grouchy, uptight, hen-pecking cranks) and left man nothing to do but sit around and play video games. Why do you want to burden yourself with everything? Is it too humiliating for you to ask him to help carry something for you (as an example)? Are you too proud to even allow him to hold the door (figuratively and literally speaking) while you carrying in ALL the groceries? People complain about unemployment these days; do you suppose, out of mere curiosity, that there is any connection between that problem and women taking everything upon themselves in every walk of life? (Just a thought. I've honestly no idea that there is a connection -- but it would be interesting to research).

As for ways in which men are (generally/supposedly) superior, why oh why would any woman want to be like that? Physically equal? Sorry, biology has proven that anthropomorphically incorrect. And frankly, women wrestlers/weightlifters/etc. are some the ugliest creatures I have ever seen. Emotionally? Sweetie, the only difference is that men hide their feelings, while women burst out blubbering in front of the whole world. Trust me, men are just as sensitive, needy, emotionally unstable as any of us; and the thing is, we're supposed to work together, men and women, to support and help each other in our times of need.


And this "equality" thing: since when do women want to be equal to men? In some ways, women are far superior to men. It's not sexist; it's just true. For one, women (generally) have an infinitely superior capacity for common sense. I think even my own life is a constant proof of that. For another, women (again, I generalize) are much better at connecting with other people, understanding other people, being able to help others. Men often miss the nuances of social interaction; they can become very easily confused about many things in life. This doesn't mean that women are "better" or "more equal" or whatever. It just means they are "different." And "different" is GOOD. Right? This is a world of diversity and self-expression; being feminine should not be so politically incorrect nowadays. Women, please, WANT to be different from men. You have been given so many beautiful gifts and abilities and talents, which men have not been given -- they have been given other gifts, other abilities, other talents. Why must we always want something we don't have? Why must we always be jealously searching to see what everyone else has? Why can we not thank God for what He, in His infinite wisdom, has given us?


Women used to know their position in society. -- feminists across the universe will cry out and point to this and burn me in effigy as a groveling, servile piece of chattel of some man, so let me hasten to explain. Women used to understand their position in society, in the home, in the community, as one of absolute importance. The woman's position in the home is the heart. She is the heart of the family, through which all life-supporting blood flows. The man is the brain, the woman is the heart. This does not mean that the woman is an unintelligent slob, fit only to cook and clean; but neither does this mean that the man is worthless once he leaves the office, and you should leave him to sit in front of the television. Ha ha, NO. This means a balance of complementary skills to make everything work in harmony. This means knowing thyself: recognizing others' abilities, knowing your own abilities, and giving and taking where necessary. No one person can give all or take all; each should exercise his own talents in the areas for which he is best suited. If you have problems with the grammar of this sentence, go back and read five paragraphs up again.

This isn't a rant against pants -- I wear pants. This isn't a rant against women in the workforce -- please God, in three months, I will be in that workforce. This isn't a rant against women's education -- good gracious me, I'm studying at one of the most academically-challenging colleges in the country. This is a rant against women who think they are degraded by being women and acting like women. This is a cry to all those women: "Why, why on earth, why do you think your idea of 'equality' with men will make you a better woman?"

Stop standing up for yourself all the time; no one is questioning your worth or your abilities. Sit down and chill out. Be strong. Be intelligent. Be feminine. All are equal in the eyes of God; stop looking to men as the epitome of humanity. Learn to express brotherly love to all mankind. Be yourself; be a woman.

Confessions of an Oral Idiot

So, today, I made a fool of myself in class. Once more, as so many times before, I said what I meant to say, but not in the way I meant to say it.

I'm sitting in my English class, and the professor is going around the room asking each student what they thought of today's reading. No one had finished it, of course, so I didn't feel guilty about being among that number ... but not liking it? That was another problem.

It was Franz Kafka's "The Trial." So far, it's a sort of mixture of all Enlightenment French novels ever written, plus C. S. Lewis's "Dark Tower," with a dash of Lewis Carroll thrown in for good measure. The second chapter, where the protagonist goes to the first hearing with all the old men in long beards, seems a grown-up, tragi-satirical version of the Knave's trial by the Queen of Hearts in "Wonderland."

So, when the professor comes to me and gives me the the nod to "speak now, or forever hold your peace," I reply (with oh-so-charming frankness), "Well, I don't care for it much ..."

This invites a round of half-suppressed giggles through the room.

"Oh, you don't care for it much, eh?" The prof replies, giving that half-amused, half-unbelieving smile.

"Well," I add stupidity to idiocy, "I'm willing to finish it ... and ..." -- falling into those oh-so-expressive inaudible mutters of a middle-schooler.

GOSH. Can you ever find anyone who sounds more stuck up???

That's not what I mean, I wanted to plead my case. But he had already moved on to the next person.

It was what I meant, just not in that way. I haven't particularly cared for it so far, but that doesn't mean that I won't like it as I get deeper in. I'm not a huge fan of this style of book, but that doesn't mean that I'm not willing to learn to like it. I'm willing to give it a chance -- rather, I'm hoping the book is willing to give me another chance to learn to like it. And even when it's all done, and I've finished it, I don't HAVE to like it or enjoy it, but that doesn't mean that I won't appreciate its literary and artistic qualities, its historical or social significance, etc., etc., etc. ...

Sigh. I don't particularly like Beethoven, but that doesn't mean I don't recognize him as a genius composer. I don't really enjoy learning about biology, but that doesn't mean that I don't appreciate its all-important effects on my life. I used to hate Dickens, but I've grown past that and come to love him. Give me a chance!

I suppose the prof will forget all about it. I suppose the other kids in the class will smirk and snort and go their own ways. But I'm the one left kicking myself. How is it that the right words can be so confused to mean the wrong thing?

Test Your Vocabulary: 33,700! Hooah!

http://testyourvocab.com/?r=1642645

So, there is this site that checks your vocabulary range, based of course on all of two or three dozen previously-selected words. Anywho, I scored a 33,700-word vocab hoard, which I feel sounds very impressive, as it says that most native English speakers score anywhere from 20,000 to 35K. That's a high five for homeschoolers and English majors and paracosmic introverts and multi-linguists and polymaths everywhere!

Wacky Word Wednesday: Palimpsest

Brilliant word! From the "Gutenberg Elegies":

Palimpsest: Paper, parchment, or other writing material designed to be reusable after any writing on it has been erased.

-- OED.com

It's now an obscure word, but surely something useful to know someday ...

Quotations: The Gutenberg Elegies

"There are works I set aside and forget about entirely until I pick them up again. Others hit me like a drug, altering my moods, my perceptions, and ultimately my interactions with others. If I am reading Walker Percy, for instance, everything that happens to me seems like a possible clue in some encompassing existential mystery. Anita Brookner, meanwhile, can have me moping for days over the sorrowful frailty of all human endeavor. Maybe books, like pharmaceuticals, should carry warnings: May induce sudden fits of hilarity, or, Provokes irreverence, or, If melancholy persists after reading, consult a qualified therapist. The books that matter to me -- and they are books of all descriptions -- are those that galvanize something inside me. I read books to read myself."

-- The Gutenberg Elegies, p 102 by Sven Birkerts

Thoughts on Frodo

WHY does Frodo get such a bad rap? Even in fanatic LOTR circles, poor Frodo Baggins, the main character, is at best ignored, at worst mocked and derided. Admittedly, the movie portrayal is, well, stilted and stylized, but so it is for every other character! Is it because he delivers his lines so seriously? Are modern audiences just intolerant of sobriety and epic/tragic sentiment? Is it that as pampered, spoiled modern-age children, we cannot imagine a true hardship, and so think he's whining and being a wuss? Will someone explain?

My Nerdy Valentine

Sooooooooo ... it's February, the beastliest month in the year, and thankfully the shortest, and definitely the weirdest with its special annually-quartorial day (no, that is not a word, but who cares?). And of course, our favorite holiday of the month is -- yes, you guessed it! President's Day! And that's why I am giving you some matchmaking pointers:

#1 Red roses are kind of cliche, but if you aren't sure about the girl, you'd better stick to that. It's the generic I-don't-know-you-well-enough-to-know-what-kind-of-flowers-you-like move.

#2 For some of us, chocolate is depressing. Seriously. I think it's the caffeine + sugar mix; you get a bit of a high, and then a really bad low. So, unless you want her to be blubbering all over the place (which is kind of weird to want, but whatever), stick to gummy bears.

#3 Chick flicks are totally overrated, but this is the one day of the year that you most definitely do NOT want to suggest a shoot-em-up type. Man up, sit tight, and try your very best to understand the dialogue (you know, the part where the characters' lips move and coherent, full sentences come out ...).

And just in case you needed some, here are a couple fav nerdy/wordy pitches/pick-up lines ...

* Life without you is like a broken pencil ... pointless.

* If I could rearrange the alphabet, I would put U and I together.

* Literally yours ...

And, just to make it perfect:

Thoughts on Mr. Darcy

Mr. Darcy. Mr. Darcy. Mr. Darcy. Blahhhhh ...

How is it that Mr. Darcy, of alllllllll the fictional characters of the entire fictional world, has become every woman's paragon of a dream man? He is rude and stuck up, grumpy and bad-tempered, loves her against his will and reason and judgment, and only after her basically humiliating herself in front of him (and it's not even her fault, it's her immature sister's fault ... but that's another post), does he come round and think, "oh, gee, maybe she's, like, the most wonderful woman I've ever met in my entire life and I would be a blankety-blank fool to let her marry someone else" ???

Why not Mr. Knightley? Or Edward Ferrars? -- I admit, he doesn't seem to be the brightest of bulbs (esp. as portrayed by the droolly-St-Bernard-eyed Hugh Grant), but at least he is kind and devoted.

...

No, you're right, that doesn't count for much.

...

Or for that matter, Will Ladislaw, or Mr. Thorton, or Mr. Rochester, or Sir Percy, or Lord Peter, or ... or anyone else you can think of. I'm just thinking of some of my favorites, but there are so many countless fictional men to admire; why has Mr. Darcy become the stereotypical heartthrob?

WILL SOMEONE EXPLAIN?

LEAVING FOR EVER

Ohmygoodnessgracious, Sarah Jane Smith and her son just walked into the house next door! Where is it?! Where is the TARDIS??? Forget the coat, all I need are my Converses ... and I'm running to find him! DOCTOR! WAIT FOR ME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Quotations: "Gaudy Night"

Some of my favorite quotations of all times ...

***

"I have the most ill-regulated memory. It does those things which it ought not to do and leaves undone the things it ought to have done. But it has not yet gone on strike altogether." pp64

"One First of April, the question had arrived from Paris in a single Latin sentence, starting off dispiritedly. 'Num ...?' -- a particle which notoriously 'expects the answer No.' Harriet, rummaging the Grammar book for 'polite negatives,' replied, still more briefly, 'Benigne.'" pp 65

"'however. Should you catalogue me as a heart or a brain?' / 'Nobody,' said Harriet, 'could deny your brain.' / 'Who deniges of it? And you may deny my heart, but I'm damned if you shall deny its existence.' / 'You argue like an Elizabethan wit -- two meanings under one word.' / 'It was your word. You will have to deny something, if you intend to be like Caesar's sacrifice.' / 'Caesar's ... ?' / 'A beast without a heart. Has your napkin gone again?'" pp 68

"'Peter, you don't seriously think --' / 'I avoid serious thought like the plague.'" pp 414

"... Is there yet any that is left of the house of Saul? ... Look! one poor warrior hiding behind the coal-scuttle -- remnant of a mighty army.' / He held up the solitary red pawn, smiling; and then scrambled hurriedly to his feet. / 'My dear girl, don't cry about it. What the hell does it mater?' / 'I loved them,' said Harriet, 'and you gave them to me.' / He shook his head. / 'It's a pity it's that way round "You gave them to me, and I loved them" is all right, but "I loved them and you gave them to me" is irreparable. Fifty thousand rocs' eggs won't supply their place. "The Virgin's gone and I am gone; she's gone, she's gone and what shall I do?" But you needn't weep over the chest of drawers while I have a shoulder at your disposal, need you?'" pp 440

"'He's aging rapidly. I should think he'd nearly got to the sixties by now. With beautiful, golden side whiskers. I really think you ought to rescue him before his bones start to creak and the spiders spin webs over his eyes.' / 'You and your uncle,' said Harriet,' should be set to turn phrases for a living.' pp 466

Operator Success ... on Tumblr!

So ... the whole "operator failure" issue (see below) was because I was trying to follow someone else's tumblr and, well, followed myself instead. (How is it that a verb like "follow" can become so strange to use now with all these nouns being used as verbs? I am super confused ...). So, long story short, I am still following myself on my blog (I should probably take myself down, though, it makes me feel conceited) AND I have set up a tumblr Growlery.

catherinesgrowlery.tumblr.com

The reasons are two.

I. (I love Roman numerals, don't you?) I want to be able to follow my friends on tumblr who haven't blogs, and I can't figure out how to do that with just a blog.

II. (yay for Roman numerals!) I feel silly posting silly pictures and quotations on the blog, so I will do so with much less guilt on a tumblr built for such frivolities.

So. Welcome to the Growlery -- in photos!

Operator Failure ... Know Thyself

I think I just "friended" myself on this blog (or whatever it is -- followed, became a disciple of, yadda yadda yadda). Sigh. It's about time, don't you think? I really should be making more of an effort to get to know this person with whom I spend so much of my time ...

Snippet Saturday #3

A bit of a time-travel something I've been working on for a while ...

***

And suddenly they came to the edge of a great gaping abyss. Selena clung to Jeremy, but he let go of her. "No, don't. You can't throw off the time warp. You have to go by yourself."

Selena stared into the endless black and thought about her parents, her brother, her new lock on the basement hideout. She wondered whether her brother would have opened it by now. He would have tried, of course -- he would be trying from the moment she left the house.

"Remember to bend your knees and roll when we land."

"Are you crazy?" Selena tried to shout about the roar of the wind, but her words were caught up in the whirlwind and pulled away from her. Jeremy didn't hear, but he knew what she said.

"Don't think about it - just put your arms out and - JUMP!"

Together, they fell through the great vast black tunnel, sucked away by the burning of time and space, swooped into the vortex of wind and noise and whirling about them and about their heads and in their ears and - silence.

Silence. The noise ceased; the wind blew no more. Enigma lay on her back, unaware of any sensation. She knew existence. She knew consciousness. And then, failure. Dread. Anxiety. Worry. Jeremy? Failed. Dead? Dead. Gone. And she would die too - dead already? Probably.

Suddenly, laughter. It was not hers; it came from somewhere else. Laughter. Jeremy. Dead and laughing? Only he would do that. Suddenly, she found herself shaking her head. Dizzy. She wasn't shaking; the room ... the outside ... was shaking. Something hung above her head. There it was, that thing; that was making the laughing.

"You forgot to bend your knees, I think," and there he was, helping her to sit up. She stared as the world around her came into focus.

They had done it. They had landed in ... well, what looked like a great white nothingness. Was that a shadow? Something moving? Well, maybe it wasn't all nothingness ...

"Come on," and Jeremy helped her to her feet. "Wobbly, eh? Don't worry, it'll come back. You can hold on to me for now." He began leading her away through the whiteness. Something about it continued to shift and sway, and shadows came and bent before her. Something sparked; something lit, and there a flash of color flew. Lines grew thicker, bolder; shapes began to form and appear. Soon enough, the whiteness rolled away, and out fell the world again, in all its colorful glory.


"Where -- where are we, then?" She stared down the unfamiliar street at its nondescript buildings, the average-looking trees, the mediocre people milling aimlessly around.

"The question is when," Jeremy replied, "and if my calculations are correct, we're just in time for a lecture on the dimensional proximity theory by a very good friend of mine. Come on."

Digital Reading: The Kindle (encore)

I know I've already discussed the Kindle Question to some degree, but I thought I would review what I had said earlier and update my thoughts, as I've been spending a little more time with it now. 

Well, first off, the Kindle will never replace books, at least for me. There is something very fundamental about a book, something solid and basic and trustworthy. I don't know; that might sound silly, but the problem is that with a Kindle (I'll say Kindle, but of course I mean any digital reading device), you only have the words; no smell (which I love; if they ever make a car freshener that smells of old libraries, I will SO buy it!), no physical contact, no ink even. And each time you open the "book" or text on the Kindle, everything shifts, so the same words aren't even on the same page anymore (there are actually no page numbers because of this: very strange! how can you read a book without page numbers???).

Another thing is that when you read on a Kindle, it's hard to lose yourself in the story as you lose yourself in a book. You know, of course, what I mean. It's when you suddenly look up from a book and realize that for the past -- well, whatever amount of time it was, you're not really sure -- for the past while, you've been in another world and another time, and now you're pulled back into the reality of homework and roommate troubles and matchmaking crises and everything you could possibly imagine. With the Kindle, it's not impossible to reach that level of concentration, but it's much more difficult, especially with noisy distractions. If I'm sitting by myself in my room, with no one else around, I can sometimes get there, but as soon as someone else walks into the room, I've lost it, and it takes a long time to get it back. 

As for its influence on human thought and the life we lead today: I don't know. I honestly think the Kindle is the least of our worries in this age of Facebook and online dating and all sorts of nonsense, not to mention all the other sorts of inherently evil stuff you get online. Like any tool, the Kindle can be either used or abused; it is a wonderful thing to have when traveling around, or somewhere where you can't carry thirty books with you! It's also nice to be able to download something that you're not sure you want to pay full price for -- a lot of digital books are either free or only a few dollars, so if there is something you are interested in, but not sure you want to keep or want to pay full price for, you can just download it to the Kindle, read or skim through it there, and then decide whether you want to buy a hardcopy or not, or just leave it on the Kindle, or even delete it (if it were that terrible). 

But like I said, as with any tool, you can use or abuse it. Technology is quickly taking over our lives, but if we use it well and carefully and with moderation, it can be a wonderful thing. I think the issue with the Kindle vs. the Book is not so much a micro-issue, as a macro-issue: our entire way of life is taking on a revolutionary change. The Kindle is just one aspect of this. Of course, the Book issue is a huge deal and a very poignant example of what is happening in society, but we have to remember that in its time, the Book itself was an issue and a novelty. When Gutenberg introduced moveable type into the printing process, society was inundated with these things called books, and a lot of people didn't know what to do with them. People didn't know how to read, for one thing; they were also afraid that the written word would take over the oral tradition, and so for a long time people read aloud, even to themselves. It's funny when we think about it, but I think it's sort of the situation we have now; people are afraid that computers will take over the world and we'll stop reading. I think it's probably true that people will read less from physical books, but the moral consequences of that are up to us :) So, the tools are only as good as those who use them, in my opinion.

And a lot of these pensees, if you will (thanks, Dr. S., for the inspiration ;) come from Sven Birkerts's fantastic book The Gutenberg Elegies, in which he addresses this very issue. If you get a chance, I would highly recommend it; it's an easy though thoughtful read, well written and well expressed, with a lot of thought-provoking ideas and a good balance between "the world is falling apart because of our lack of books" and "the world is going to be so much better if we all embrace technology." He also addresses the issue of authors in the age of modern publishing and modern audiences, which, as a writer wannabe, fires synapses in at least my brain on that issue as well. Hmmmmm ... maybe I should get an IT degree ....