Honestly I can't imagine not working now. Maybe that's sad but I enjoy the structure and time-occupation aspect of it too much, aided and abetted by ample accrued vacation time. How I've changed! Perhaps it's partially due to my lack of curiosity as far as travel goes. I don't feel the desperate need to have time off in order to either "find myself" or read the great books or travel to exotic places. I don't want (obviously given my vows to God and wife) to meet young women. I don't want to spend the day in the gym as I did back in the day. Retirement seems more appealing if you're college-aged and enjoy long drinking parties, playing basketball, traveling? I'm sure the Taj Mahal is nice but I have a sneaking suspicion that if I got there I'd say, "That's a darn fine building...but..."
Hit Eucharistic Adoration at lunch Thursday though was bereft of my liturgy of the hours since I forgot my iPod, which also meant the after-work workout was sans music. (Get out the violins!) I am darn dependent on that damn thing. Or, I am damn dependent on that darn thing. My boss is arguably worse - he has three of them in case he loses/breaks one. (It's one of my sins to always be comparing - "be contributory, not comparative" a wise men said.) Dee-tach-ment, where art thou?
At Stations of the Cross Friday certain Scriptural passages seemed to especially jump out at me. The grave Douay-Rheims edition seemed to help; there is sometimes a gentleness in the Douay despite/because of its formality: "And there appeared to him an angel from heaven, strengthening him. And being in an agony, he prayed the longer. And his sweat became as drops of blood, trickling down upon the ground."
You feel like you're there. In times past the Bible version made no difference to me but now it makes perhaps too much difference. I'm at times distracted by the words rather than the meaning, but that usually happens when the words are "wrong". In a good Bible version, as in good writing, the author/translator disappears.
Was taken aback when after Mass Kim said, "The Illiad? I haven't read that since high school." It took me a second to process that she was talking about the blog and about something I'd quoted in Spanning the Proverbial Globe. It's always startling when I find someone in "real life" is reading this. It makes me want to go back and read my own blog and say, "what am I writing here?" and view it from the perspective of that individual, in this case my former bingo-worker Kim. I still cringe when I think how I printed off all my bingo posts for the leader of Bingo and how she (the bingo leader) was underwhelmed with it. Humbling, my shamelessness, and I'd never do that now. I don't think.
Modern science is marvelous but it can't overcome the distance between what we were designed for (movement) and what we're doing now (lack thereof, including me). This is today's PSA.
BD recently deftly used a bit of reverse psychology, for the quickest way into STG is saying you won't be. But seriously, blogging is not an Olympic sport and one of the cool things about it, in my estimation, is being able to appear in a proverbial bathrobe once in awhile. Your fans will forgive you; save your finery for church and special occasions, I say. And so, to back what I say I'll don my bathrobe:
When did I become
When did I start longing
for iPod speakers
or a room midship'd by skylight?
Comfort, you false god!
You siren of the middle-aged,
You affliction of the connected,
You sable against the skin of
What if there
was "lake effect sun"
and it spilled all over the yard and driveway
and you had to shovel it
by the sweat of your browsie brow, brow?
Ouch...maybe the following hits too close to home....about a amateur painter in a Louise Erdrich novel:
Painting china plates was how it started. Now, each Wednesday and Friday at noon, the painting teacher comes from university and the two seclude themselves for hours, engrossed in an intense exploration of form and color.
...Placide bites back on her words, as if to tell me that I have once again shown my true philistine stripe, my low valuation of her talent. She thinks of very little other than the unfolding of this fascinating side of herself, this vibrational urge, as she calls it.
It's a weekend full of spring, full of the sun. 'Twas two days ago, for the first time, I smelled the scent of it in the briney air. Already we can see the days lengthening in sturdy fashion. An excerpt of a Rimbaud letter for the occasion:
These are the months of love; I'm seventeen, the time of hope and chimeras, as they say, and so, a child blessed by the hand of the Muse (how trivial that must seem), I've set out to express my good thoughts, my hopes, my feelings, the provinces of poets - I call all of this Spring.
A reminder from the book of Wisdom:
"But thou has mercy upon all, because thou canst do all things, and overlookest the sins of men for the sake of repentance. For thou lovest all things that are, and hatest none of the things which thou hast made: for thou didst not appoint, or make any thing hating it. And how could any thing endure, if thou wouldst not? or be preserved if not called by thee. But thou sparest all: because they are thine, O Lord, who lovest souls.
O how good and sweet is thy spirit, O Lord, in all things! And therefore thou chastisest them that err, by little and little: and admonishest them, and speakest to them, concerning the things wherein they offend: that leaving their wickedness, they may believe in thee, O Lord."