Video Meliora, proboque; Deteriora sequor

Journal Excerptables

Lent nears and I look forward to the opportunity to read Neuhaus’s “Death on a Friday Afternoon” as well as a book on the seven last words of Christ published by The Word Among Us (though someday I must read Fulton J. Sheen’s version). Will watch The Passion of the Christ again too -- sometimes you just need the excuse/permission to do things, as if watching TPOTC at any other time of year is strangely out-of-season.

Serving at bingo has been a way to break the inertia in a small way. It's about serving others, constantly attending to their cries of “Instant, Instant!” which refers to the term “instant winning tickets” but also to the expectations in terms of speed of delivery of those tickets. There is much diversity in terms of clientele. I heard recently of a study that said that criminals tend to be ugly, which, translated, means that they probably didn't receive the love and acceptance that the more atttactive get, with the result in the lashing out of anti-social behavior. The tyranny of lookism is worse than we think.

Went to Barb the barber. She tells me that it’s amazing how much people tell her while under the influence of her clippers and humming razors. They confide in her like they do a bartender. I say that instead of torturing terrorists we should get them a drink and a haircut and they’ll spill all in the truth serum of relaxation. The most drunken I normally feel is after getting a haircut like this, and during the walk home the light bends and Naughten Street in downtown Columbus becomes Main Street, Hamilton, Ohio circa 1972 and packed with memories that lay elusively just on the cusp of recall. The cars on that sun-streamed street morph from SUVs to Chevy Impalas but I ruin it by pulling out the Columbus paper I have in my coat pocket and reading about Ken Blackwell’s race for governor. The mirage is instantly broken and I recognize anew that politics is the perfect anti-reverie.

The cruise last month interrupted my grim single-minded determination to knock down the pins of winter’s bowling alley. There’s no question that it felt like cheating, like a parole of sun and thick inked books while fellow prisoners were left behind. I feel pangs of guilt since Ham o’ Bone couldn’t do the same, though that’s surely false regret since he could easily go, financially speaking, if he wanted to. Still, there are those who can’t afford it and that rankles. Meanwhile Amy Welborn goes to Rome, something more fitting and worthy.