April 23, 2009

Bingo Bango Bungo

I'll serve no whine before it's time.

To paraphrase the great Samuel Johnson, "One of the disadvantages of whine is that it makes a man mistake words for thoughts."

Of course he said "wine".

Ach! But bingo doom I face, the teeth of boredom and wearying fatigue staring me down the barrel of the Thursday night gun...I am restless, hungry for the esprit d' corps of a sight-seeing vacation.

I would make a bad monk.

Blame it on Rio, or the Rio weather that approaches. Or blame it on my cursed Irishness that always drives one westward. I'm dingle-dangled by even the whiff of book, allured by titles and jackets such as Memoirs of a Teenage Amnesiac by Gabrielle Zevin despite the subject matter promising to be of little interest but recommended on the Columbus library website.

The restlessness is amplified by the long pre-announced keen weather up & coming, eighty degrees by Friday, a prospect too promising to be filled, the garden already in... I may take a vacation day tomorrow and drive to Cleveland.

Chicago tantalizes more but for the time commitment. And what is there to see in Chicago besides the art museum & Wrigley anyway? Cleveland has the promise of a day trip while Chicago would only make me mourn for New York; it's the Little Debbie roll to Manhattan's King Don.

One of the anecdotes to restlessness is reading of the Lives of Saints. It lends perspective. A steadying influence. A couple days ago, on his feast day, I was hungry to read about St. Anselm, whose name was completely familiar but whose life and work was completely opaque. In other words, I knew absolutely nothing about him other than he was one of those famous "A" theologians of the Middle Ages: "Ambrose, "Abelard", "Anselm", "Aquinas"...

My interest was piqued when I learned at mass that he was the founder of scholasticism, or at least one of the earliest scholastic scholars. "The seed of Aquinas!" I thought, and as someone always interested in the source of great rivers I longed to read more about him. I hie'd back to my towered canopies, to my amazonian library, and picked up the red leather-bound, fifty year old Lives of Saints and read at a clipper pace. He'd been restless too, after his saintly mother had died, living then under the chafing of an angry and domineering father. (His life refutes the fiction that only those with good earthly fathers can have a positive image of our Heavenly one.) I then picked up the 1911 Britannica, the print of a size that required my magnifying reading glasses, and read more about Anselm and those faraway days...

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