Ta-da!
Saturday, March 31, 2012
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.
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.
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.
Monday, March 26, 2012
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 ..."
-- 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.
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.
Sunday, March 25, 2012
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???
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.
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.
Saturday, March 24, 2012
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.
"My myriad of Myrmidons and mermaids miss me."
... and then rapidly deteriorates from there.
Friday, March 23, 2012
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 ..."
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 ..."
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
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 ...
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.
Yikes.
Monday, March 19, 2012
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
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
Saturday, March 17, 2012
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.
***
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.
Friday, March 16, 2012
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.
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.
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
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 ...
Monday, March 12, 2012
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.
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.
Saturday, March 10, 2012
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
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.
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.
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
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.
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.
Monday, March 5, 2012
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 ...
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 ...
Sunday, March 4, 2012
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.
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.
Saturday, March 3, 2012
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.
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
"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.
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.
Thursday, March 1, 2012
I Think ...
... someone should create a fantasy/sci-fi monster that looks like a dried fig, bitten open.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)