
Video of the Papal Mass at Yankee (aka "the reverent one"). Beautiful.
HT: Christopher Blosser
"It is indeed ironic, and paradoxically perplexing, that this most delirious of Shakespeare's plays is usually considered a tragedy, even though, for those who see with the eyes of Lear, or Edgar, or Cordelia, it has a happy ending. Perhaps the real tragedy is that so many of those who read Shakespeare do not possess the eyes of Lear, Edgar, and Cordelia. In the infernal and purgatorial sufferings of life it is all too easy to lose sight of the promise of Paradise. If we succumb to this self-inflicted, self-centered blindness, we will see only a tragedy where we should see a Divine Comedy."
Author: "I was a pizza guy for about 2 and a half months..."
Mike McConnell: "...can you profile tippers?"
Author: "Mike, the thing that was sort of shocking to me is I would deliver a pizza to a trailer, and the person who answered the door has no teeth, and they'd tip me five bucks. But I'd battle my way into a gated community and the millionaire would tip me two bucks. I firmly believe if you want even a shot of going to heaven you tip the pizza guy five bucks."
A one-cent loan at six percent made on January 1st, 1 A.D. [would be repaid] with spheres of gold the size of this planet. Something is rotten in the state of YenMark.Well, he got my attention on the bookstore idea.
Ideally, the entire world should be living off its investments. And not working.
Wait...
Money doesn't grow. Money is a tool. It's a useful tool, but a hammer alone doesn't build a house. A hammer sits there. Money is dead. Leave a green five-dollar Lincoln alone for thirty years and you won't return to a family of baby Lincoln pennies. In a "productive" loan, all the new wealth comes from humans at work. They couldn't have done it without the lender's money, but that's why they have to give it back. It's his tool. He contributed money, he keeps his money. They created new wealth, they keep the new wealth.
Interest, then, is claiming wealth you didn't actually make. Interest, I'm afraid, has a startling similarity to theft.
In our present culture, of course, not only do I refrain from judging anyone on this score, I immediately add that many folks invest, with considerable self-denial, for the sake of their spouses, families and even charity. It would be ridiculous not to mention that I myself benefit from such generousity...
Still, what's the alternative to interest? To work for every cent we ever make? That sounds horrible. Every hour we trade for mere dollars seems consumed. We yearn for our time to grow and bear fruit.
Perhaps our craving for growth is just that - a craving for growth, a repressed agricultural impulse. The desire is good; the mistake is appropriating the fruits of fellow humans...
So imagine a world without usury. The end of all growth? Nonsense. Even lending would still be profitable. Borrowers do do things with their money. If Coca-Cola shares would bring exactly the same interest rate as a startup bookstore down the street - zero -, where would you put your money? Which would give you a greater tangible benefit? No more free money, true, but you might get a free bookstore. Down the street. And it'd be the sensible, good stewardship, warm-fuzzies-of-maturity thing to do.
Now imagine everyone investing like that.
"That's when I proffered my words of wisdom, that waste is the highest virtue one can achieve in advanced capitalist society. The fact that Japan bought Phantom jets from America and wasted vast quantities of fuel on scrambles put an extra spin in the global economy, and that extra spin lifted capitalism to yet greater heights. If you put an end to all the waste, mass panic would ensue and the global economy would go haywire. Waste is the fuel of contradiction, and contradiction activates the economy, and an active economy creates more waste." - Haruki Muramaki's "Dance, Dance, Dance"
When [Lisa] refers to "the racial drama with which our culture continues to live", to most Americans it's a "drama" in the sense that a daytime soap is: You're aware it's still out there somewhere, decade in, decade out, and you fully expect to be channel-surfing in 2023 and come across it for five minutes, but you don't want to have to live with it every day.
Imagine if Colin Powell, the genuinely post-racial man Obama merely claims to be, had run in 1996. Would the campaign have dwindled down to Aids conspiracy theories and the genetic predisposition of clapping rhythms? No. Because that's not where Colin Powell lives.
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Should we not also think of how much Christ suffers in his own Church? How often is the holy sacrament of his Presence abused, how often must he enter empty and evil hearts! How often do we celebrate only ourselves, without even realizing that he is there! How often is his Word twisted and misused! What little faith is present behind so many theories, so many empty words! How much filth there is in the Church, and even among those who, in the priesthood, ought to belong entirely to him!   - via "Open Book"
The naked/nude question is a subcategory of — and inevitably leads to — the Big Question: What Is Art?
Bruni's photograph has made it a more potent question not based on the photograph's merits or even who she was in 1993. Its value now seems based on who she has become, a personage rather than a person, someone with the potential to exert influence, even power, on an international, political level.
...
Lord Clark, in discussing naked and nude, did not take very seriously the ascension of photography as an art form in the latter part of the 20th century and the role it would play in the genre of nude portraiture. As we all know, a photograph today can be manipulated every bit as much as a painting. But it has the illusion of unadulterated reality which affects our sensibilities about it, especially in this instance, with an immediacy and intimate directness. A photograph can convey a feeling of voyeurism far more often than a painting or sculpture. That and its potential to be endlessly reproduced often distinguish it in people's minds from paintings and sculpture. Nor did Clark reckon with the pervasive influence of popular contemporary culture.
Every 'human resource' in the company is an asset, and assets that do not appreciate in value over time actually lose money for the company when measured against inflation; so they have to be gotten rid of...Assuming there are "the other kind of people", which is admittedly likely in a global economy. An equilibrium is presumably reached at some point in between the corporation's desire to get a 10%+ rates of return on people and a much lower rate of return much of the workforce may want. GE's Jack Welch was famous for his occasional firing of the bottom 10% of his workforce, but to avoid being in the bottom 10% is relatively easy. 90% succeed after all.
People who enjoy what they do and want to do it for the rest of their careers and live like human beings may be made miserable by that situation, but they aren't the ones who will contribute large leaps of growth to the business anyway, so they don't matter. It is more profitable to get rid of them and staff with the other kind of people.
...it is clear that Montfort meant much to St Louis-Marie, who preferred to be called simply "the priest from Montfort", probably because it was there that he was baptised. Baptism, for him, was perhaps the most important moment of life, being the moment when he was dedicated to God. In the Maison Natale, a beautiful ceramic by Fr. Leidi, Italian Montfortian, commemorates Louis Marie's baptism and the moment when he ratified this for himself in his personal consecration to Jesus through the hands of Mary.From wikipedia:
Worn out by hard work and sickness, he finally came in April 1716 to Saint-Laurent-sur-Sèvre to begin the mission which was to be his last. During it, he fell ill and died on 28 April 1716. He was 43 years old, and had been a priest for only 16 years. His last sermon was on the tenderness of Jesus and the Incarnate Wisdom of the Father.
Thousands gathered for his burial in the parish church, and very quickly there were stories of miracles performed at his tomb. Almost three centuries later, on September 19th 1996, Pope John-Paul II came to the same site to meditate and pray on the adjacent tombs of Saint Louis and Blessed Marie Louise Trichet in Saint-Laurent-sur-Sèvre.
It was probably inevitable that commonplace books would eventually blend with another early-modern invention, the journal. By 1720, when Jonathan Swift writes “A Letter of Advice to a Young Poet” and recommends the keeping of a commonplace book, he seems to have something very like a journal in mind: “A book of this sort, is in the nature of a supplemental memory, or a record of what occurs remarkable in every day’s reading or conversation. There you enter not only your own original thoughts (which, a hundred to one, are few and insignificant) but such of other men as you think fit to make your own, by entering them there.” It’s interesting that Swift thinks that by writing down the thoughts and ideas of others you are “making them your own”; elsewhere in the letter he refers to such a book as a bank from which you can make withdrawals of wit and wisdom. As T.S. Eliot would later say, “Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal.” Swift recommends theft.
...
It is curious that the history of the weblog, insofar as it can be fully understood, mirrors that of the commonplace book. The term weblog seems to have been coined by a very strange man named Jorn Barger, and for him it is simply a log of interesting stories he discovers on the Web. It consists of links with brief descriptions, nothing more. But of course what most of us now think of when we use the word blog is a kind of online journal or diary; and that is indeed the path the weblog or blog has, generally speaking, followed. What was once a log of things other people said on the Web is now a log of my own life, which I make available to readers, and which may (but need not) contain links and references. So when we speak of blogs we don’t mean what Jorn Barger does; we mean—well, something like what Jonathan Swift recommended to his young poet friend: “a record of what occurs remarkable in every day’s reading [or viewing or iPod-listening] or conversation.”
We also saw lions and tigers (no bears), and ingeniously close via the inventive viewing areas. Later a train trip gave a close-up of zebras as well as the whole park. The employees were apparently instructed to wave, but you can’t mandate enthusiasm so it was humorous, if embarrassing, to see the half-hearted attempts of some of the rail employees. Shades of the “Sign of Peace” at Mass?
"We have not been given background notes as to who to credit for introducing the Holy Father to aspects of the aesthetic suffering endured by the faithful in America."Ha! I had to rewind and play it again in order to confirm he was taking a shot at the organizers. It was marvelous in its subterfuge - he said it so calmly as to give all indication that he was praising the organizers. It was also said cryptically enough, as if by design, as if intending that for those not paying much attention it'd could've been missed, perhaps by those non-elites who might be fans of the music. (Reminds me of how I bury things in trip logs that I don't want to emphasize, figuring only a few would read in full.) Fr. Neuhaus seemed to say in a lot of words such that the word 'suffering' might be missed.
Bingo burnout - n. often marked by the tendency to want to kiss a customer just for giving you exact change.The apocalyptic mood was heightened by the newest instant lottery game: "Bass Hole". How's that for subtly? If that doesn't represent bingo jumping the shark then I don't what does. Pass me the Metamucil, I'm heading for the door. The only question is to whether to try to limp till the next bingo volunteer recognition picnic which involves free catered food.
Bingo madness - n. a form of insanity brought on by fatigue and tedium that causes you to say things you otherwise wouldn't, short of consuming a twelve-packWriting this from the clear-headed morning, I now recall (fortunately sans hangover) saying something about the pain of a catheter and expressing the great distance it had to travel. I don't know, you can't take me anywhere, least of all bingo.
My wife was waiting in the car while I borrowed time we didn't have (missing a flight for the sake of books seems unreasonable, though explicable, to me).
“And then suddenly….last summer…”Oh how ineffably cruel, the car that takes you away, away from that bay. How cruel the jet that takes you from the sparkling sands and jet-blue skies!
Too short. Sat-Sun-Mon and a little nub of Tuesday, which was cruelly compacted into 9-10:30am beach reading “The Historian”, stretching out in the sand languorously as a cat with feet in the cooling sand, and then a 10:30-11:15 run around town before one last green gemstone water splashing shore sprint.
Eccentric Florida house
The lock waitsSteven mentioned how bad form it is to criticize another blogger’s poetry. Silence is best in that situation; why tear down? I think writing poetry is like sex in that even if you’re terrible at it you’ll still like it. Which is why far more people write than read poetry. Writing prose also must be sufficiently universally pleasing to warrant so many blogs.
attached to door or safe,
Some stationary value.
A key moves
agile and unencumbered
seeks the lock.
A miracle it seems
that key finds lock so often,
such that to the uninitiated
it looks effortless.
Ben Franklin said that beer is proof that God loves us, but that apologetic seemed a means to an end. As would seem my early fascination with whether Shakespeare was a secret Catholic. Back in the day my reverence for literary geniuses outpaced my reverence for spiritual geniuses such that if the Bard was Catholic that helped make the case for Catholicism more that, say, St. Francis. Perhaps this was due to thinking that saints are freaks of (super) nature and were “command performances” in that God made them saints while he made the rest of us average. But Shakespeare Catholic!? Whoa, that would be cool, I thought, because it would’ve seemed a “guy like the rest of us” (except for being a literary genius of course) chose Catholicism. Heresies we have always with us, to one degree or another.
Ceremonial first use of Guinness bottle cap opener/hat
The Eyes Have ItThe sea is green and cold this time of year. “For watching, not for swimming,” says my wife. (Later it would get warmer.)
Mudpaste He applies
to the blind man’s eyes
till sight restored
a life fresh moored.
The reverse be true?
for the man who rue
too keen of sight
and Aphrodite’s might?
Prim and properThere’s a pelican on the beach today unable to fly. A fish-hook with line has penetrated his abdomen and shoulder and so the bird’s wings are trapped in the line. A young man slowly sidles up to grab the neck and hold it close so another guy can cut the line and deal with the hooks. The big bird didn’t fly off immediately after the “surgery” but tried his wings on the ground for awhile before summoning the energy of lift-off.
in the water
sits the pelican.
Ungainly in flight
like Orville Wright
till like a thunderbolt she falls.
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I love and hate life just enough:
ibis in the dawn clouds' tracery wouldn't bring
me to tears, nor would ash in my mouth
at our schizoid communions,
nor the halt in my step, once so sure,
nor the pain in my neck from gazing up
at the stars, roaming cataclysms
thrown about the void on a whim and a word.
I won't remember bygone days
vernal and wet with sun showers, footprints
impressed in the grass, light glinting
off green blades like porcelain,
golden rain trees dropping blossoms in the dark;
no, I love and hate life just enough. - Endlessly Rocking
Vexed by Musselmans aggressyve.
Hie and thither to the Arche-Bishop's manse
The pilgryms ryde and fynde perchance
The hooly Bishop takynge tea
Whilste watching himselfe on BBC.
Heere was a hooly manne of peace
Withe bearyd of snow and wyld brows of fleece
Whilhom stoode athwart the Bush crusades
Withe peace march papier-mache paraydes.
Sayeth the pilgryms to Bishop Rowan,
"Father, we do not like howe thynges are goin'.
You know we are as Lefte as thee,
But of layte have beyn chaunced to see
From Edinburgh to London-towne
The Musslemans in burnoose gowne
Who beat theyr ownselfs with theyr knyves
Than goon home and beat theyr wyves
And slaye theyr daughtyrs in honour killlynge
Howe do we stoppe the bloode fromme spillynge?" - Blogger at "Iowa Hawk" via Karen Hal
I thought I saw an opportunity, an opportunity to bridge a gap between people of different perspectives in the Church. So, I threw my hat into the fray and it was fun, for a while. It even appeared that I might make some progress in this endeavor and perhaps even accomplish some goals that I had set for myself in becoming aware of the various dimensions of the Catholic blogosphere... And, at first, there seemed to be some hope of success at this, and there are still a coterie of bloggers (you know who you are) that give me hope in this regard. Yet, I’ve grown tired of swimming against the tide. The most negative of Catholic blogs still continue to be the most popular and, like myself, the more positive bloggers seem to be posting with far less frequency.
Lately I've noticed a style of moral theologizing in which moral uprightness, understood as external conformity with precepts that can sometimes be quite technical, is presented as a sine qua non not just of the Christian life itself but even of—well, basic credibility. I don't want to call that Pharisaism, exactly; the precepts involved are typically more important, objectively speaking, than many of those the Pharisees thought important. But we have here a kind of moralism particularly seductive for highly intelligent Catholics who, if they succumb to it, thereby become prone to impugn the character of those who disagree with them about one or more of the technical precepts at issue. Such moralism is a problem for both "the Right" and "the Left," i.e. for the rigorists and the laxists. It is important that moral theology not become moralism because, if and when it does, it becomes at least as much an obstacle as an aid to Christian spiritual growth.
Progressive, conservative or orthodox? Traditionalist or Novus Ordo Mass? Commonweal or National Catholic Register? Do you buy your books from Our Sunday Visitor, Ignatius or Paulist? Do you love EWTN or want to scrape it off your cable lineup? Scott Hahn or Ron Rolheiser? Boston College or Thomas Aquinas? What’s your favorite swear word? Apologetics? Social Justice? “Gathering Song”?
And never the twain shall meet, it seems. What kind of witness is that, the Pope is asking?
Not that he’s suggesting that a round of Kumbaya (or Tantum Ergo) followed by sharing (or a beer) will fix it all up. But he’s calling Catholics to focus on Christ and serve him … sacrificially. And let the Spirit work.
So it is in America. The two most powerful parties are so equal in strength that a victory can be determined by a few ambiguous ballots cast in Florida.
It doesn't take the teams long to figure out that while the platform can be balanced with everyone in the middle, it can also be balanced with everyone at the edges. In fact, there are an infinite number of configurations that will balance the platform. But everyone has to work together. The movement of any player on either side requires a compensating movement by someone else.
Then they notice that if the goal is to avoid the clunk, and not necessarily to keep the platform level, the platform can in fact be tilted a little in one direction or another.
Snorkelin'
Just their presence makes me smile
those pirate fins so sleek and true,
carry muscle mem'ry of the hug
before the slide-under oyster-blue...
Under, Lo! where the sea fills the cavities
and canisters till you cheat death diving
down where no man has gone before to
spin amid the gaudy sea-breathers till
Uisce debt! Gulp to hale-in, rinse
the mask and return to Lilliputia...
There carol downward spiral
Weightless as an astronaut,
bare sand mounds like village greens
undulating to infinities...
Heed we the call of the water
and give us the margaritas!
'Cuz it ain’t real 'less it's salty
till the brine-sand sole burns
for we’re sailin’ straits
for that Floridian meridian...
Pardon & Peace - Fr. RandolphSpeaking of Liberal Fascism, Jonah is engaging in Fascism-spotting. Back in May of '03, I received an email accusing Bush of fascism. My reply was:
American Sucker - David Denby
It's All About Him - Denise Jackson
Turning Back the Clock - Umberto Eco
Divine Mercy - Robert Stackpole
The Thought of Benedict XVI - Aidan Nichols
The Geography of Bliss - Eric Weiner
Liberal Fascism - Jonah Goldberg
"Since the dictionary definition of fascism is: 'Strict regulation and control of the economy by the regime through some form of corporatist economic planning in which the legal forms of private ownership of industry are nominally preserved but in which both workers and capitalists are obliged to submit their plans and objectives to the most detailed state regulation and extensive wage and price controls, which are designed to insure the priority of the political leadership's objectives over the private economic interests of the citizenry.' ...and since George Bush doesn't control wages and prices I guess he escapes the 'fascist' tag. "
Also present was a young Voinovich aide, Garrette Silverman, who called the experience of seeing and hearing the Pope live quite incredible.
"There was such an amazing energy," Silverman said.
When Pope Benedict XVI said "'God bless America,' it was the first time I ever felt the true meaning and weight of the phrase," Silverman said. "It was an electric moment for everyone around me as well - we talked about it on the way out."
- Jonathan Riskind
From a sermon by Saint Peter Chrysologus, bishop
I appeal to you by the mercy of God. This appeal is made by Paul, or rather, it is made by God through Paul, because of God’s desire to be loved rather than feared, to be a father rather than a Lord. God appeals to us in his mercy to avoid having to punish us in his severity.
Listen to the Lord’s appeal: In me, I want you to see your own body, your members, your heart, your bones, your blood. You may fear what is divine, but why not love what is human? You may run away from me as the Lord, but why not run to me as your father? Perhaps you are filled with shame for causing my bitter passion. Do not be afraid. This cross inflicts a mortal injury, not on me, but on death. These nails no longer pain me, but only deepen your love for me. I do not cry out because of these wounds, but through them I draw you into my heart. My body was stretched on the cross as a symbol, not of how much I suffered, but of my all-embracing love. I count it no less to shed my blood: it is the price I have paid for your ransom. Come, then, return to me and learn to know me as your father, who repays good for evil, love for injury, and boundless charity for piercing wounds...
Paul says: I appeal to you by the mercy of God to present your bodies as a sacrifice, living and holy. The prophet said the same thing: Sacrifice and offering you did not desire, but you have prepared a body for me. Each of us is called to be both a sacrifice to God and his priest. Do not forfeit what divine authority confers on you. Put on the garment of holiness, gird yourself with the belt of chastity. Let Christ be your helmet, let the cross on your forehead be your unfailing protection. Your breastplate should be the knowledge of God that he himself has given you. Keep burning continually the sweet smelling incense of prayer. Take up the sword of the Spirit. Let your heart be an altar. Then, with full confidence in God, present your body for sacrifice. God desires not death, but faith; God thirsts not for blood, but for self-surrender; God is appeased not by slaughter, but by the offering of your free will.
82 Intervention Specialists including...:It's interesting how over the years the mission of "school" has expanded. Now it includes elaborate sports programs and psychologists, and probably sports psychologists. :-)
*17 "gifted" instructors & 19 psychologists (Does not include 33 Guidance Counselors)
*17 "gifted" teachers & 40 Reading Recovery/Title reading teachers
*13 Kindergarten Intervention teachers KINDERGARTEN????
"C'mon. It'll get the blud flown."But to completely switch gears, Steven's post got me thinking, as did something else I saw recently - that of a blog of an apostate - a term that sounds harsh if descriptive, a believer turned atheist. A young man of pyrotechnic philosophic reading, he is trying to enter the sheepfold (that is, Truth) but not through the gate. He reminds me of how one has to be a little child to enter the Kingdom for it does haunt, in the back of my head, that there could be something in his reading that would much challenge, even, rob me of my faith. This is partially a fear of the unknown: you don't know what you don't know, of course. The unknown is usually worse than the known. But then there's the consolation that nothing outside us can rob us of that gift (although one doesn't want to necessarily test it either). Then too, I'm reminded of a priest friend of the late William F. Buckley who consoled WFB over a young apostate. The priest said that all the young lose their faith for a time. "I didn't!" Buckley said, his face incredulous at the very thought.
That was the gist of the answering machine message from a fellow Korean war vet recruiting for the annual Burgundy Regatta, named for a founder with a penchant for red wine.
It was like a reunion of twenty-five Charles Bukowski's and I feared for my life while on Boomer's sickle though it was a familiar enough ritual. We'd gather in the basement of Trenchant's Drugs. I'd hitch a ride on Boomer's motorbike, and we'd fan out to smuggle shooters to the non-ambulatory. Then we'd head to Morey's and drink till the "blud" flowed or coagulated, whichever came first.