April 30, 2014

Interesting Graphic

Quotable and Notable

Love the old-fashioned prose and Latinate asides of Richard Burton. It has that old-fashioned crypticness, like Shakespeare.

A winsome sample, talking in the 1700s about what could pass for today's pundit-"journalists":
And for those other faults of barbarism, Doric dialect, extemporanean style, tautologies, apish imitation, a rhapsody of rags gathered together from several dunghills, excrements of authors, toys and fopperies confusedly tumbled out, without art, invention, judgment, wit, learning, harsh, raw, rude, fantastical, absurd, insolent, indiscreet, ill-composed, indigested, vain, scurrile, idle, dull, and dry; I confess all (‘tis partly affected), thou canst not think worse of me than I do of myself.


There is no greater cause of melancholy than idleness, no better cure than business, as Rhasis holds: and howbeit, stultus labor est ineptiarum, to be busy in toys is to small purpose, yet hear that divine Seneca, aliud agere quam nihil, better do to no end, than nothing.

To this end I write, like them, saith Lucian, that recite to trees, and declaim to pillars for want of auditors: as Paulus Aegineta ingenuously confesseth, not that anything was unknown or omitted, but to exercise myself, which course if some took, I think it would be good for their bodies, and much better for their souls; or I might be of Thucydides’ opinion, to know a thing and not to express it, is all one as if he knew it not.

‘Tis most true, tenet insanabile multos scribendi cacoethes, and there is no end of writing of books, as the wiseman found of old, in this scribbling age, especially wherein the number of books is without number, (as a worthy man saith,) presses be oppressed, and out of an itching humour that every man hath to show himself, desirous of fame and honour (scribimus indocti doctique——) he will write no matter what, and scrape together it boots not whence. Bewitched with this desire of fame, etiam mediis in morbis, to the disparagement of their health, and scarce able to hold a pen, they must say something, and get themselves a name, saith Scaliger, though it be to the downfall and ruin of many others.

April 24, 2014

The Hills Tell One Another

Listened to Jack Nicholas lamenting the sad state of golf, how there are something like 28% fewer golfers today than 20 years ago. I thought it odd to evangelize for golf, a mere game. I suppose it's that the game gave so much to him he feels beholden to give something back to the game. Gotta dance with the gal that brung ya.

He said the reasons for golf's declining popularity are threefold, and I can readily attest to the veracity of all three: 1) takes too long 2) it's too expensive and 3) it's too difficult. He joked that he's been involved in making things worse for golf on all three fronts, presumably by designing difficult, expensive golf courses.

I definitely think sports in general take way too long. Two hours should be the max for any sporting event, including golf. People complain if Mass goes five minutes long but sit through three-and-a-half hour pro football games/marathons. People don't even have sex, self included, for that long.


A Blake poem on Spring!:
Oh thou with dewy locks, who lookest down
Through the clear windows of the morning, turn
Thine angel eyes upon our western isle,
Which in full choir hails thy approach, O Spring!

The hills tell one another, and the listening
Valleys hear; all our longing eyes are turn'd
Up to thy bright pavilions: issue forth
And let thy holy feet visit our clime!

Come o'er the eastern hills, and let our winds
Kiss thy perfumed garments; let us taste
Thy morn and evening breath; scatter thy pearls
Upon our lovesick land that mourns for thee...


Yesterday I captained the cubical chair, all decks on hand, all hands on deck. After morning tidy-me-ups, I heeded headlong into the back-brains of SQL, exerting massive effort over the course of the next eight hours. An uphill climb with buckets of dendrites being burnt along the way, filling flagons of pitied lights. Oh so much angst, of obstacles encountered at every turn but overcome, steadily, over the hours.

So just massive, brain-numbing exertions that made me suitably hungry for beer and stories. Have enjoyed a spot, here and there, of readerly delight in the eves. Specifically last night's oasis of Rick B's novella. Just what the doctor ordered: a sense of place (north Florida) that reminded me at times of a John D. MacDonald novel and a sense of humor, often long-lacking in “serious” novels.

Also been galloping through the Pete Rose biography. Compulsively readable, and it's amazing how much I've forgotten about Rose's story. Part of it is that several have said that Pete is “unknowable” (including his old skipper Sparky Anderson). They said the same thing about Ronald Reagan. In both cases you have these charismatic figures who achieved amazing things despite humble, unpromising backgrounds or abilities. You wouldn't think Reagan could've been as effective as he was, nor Pete either. They both had some drive and yet are said to be “all surface, no depth”. Is it a lack of perceived depth that makes people unknowable? You'd think it'd be the opposite.

Also read me some more of that fine entertainment book on country music. In the latest chapter we find fictitious names assigned to what surely is ahem (famous country singer's name retracted) trying to sleep her way into a record contract. The producer, a sleazy type, had a clapper hooked to his bed-in-the-wall. He claps, the bed springs down for action. They get into bed and a later there's a thunderstorm and the thunder causes the bed to spring back into the wall, leaving them stuck. They have to break the bed to get free, and in the ensuing fracas the guy loses his attached-like-glue toupee. "Julie" laughs like crazy and now she's got something on him; he produces her records even though they fail for like ten years before striking gold. The industry applauds his tremendous patience when, in truth, it appears he just didn't want her letting the cat out of the bag about the embarrassing incident. Sounds almost like an urban legend, but can you make something like that up?


I remember hearing that Fr. L charged a dollar for his bible studies because he said "people don't respect anything free."

And here it is in print, a 17th century author quoting a philosopher from the thousands of years ago:
"The King of Fez and Morocco spent three pounds on the sauce of a capon; it is nothing in our times, we scorn all that is cheap. 'We loathe the very light' (as Seneca notes) 'because it comes free, and we are offended with the sun's heat and those cool blasts, because we buy them not.' This air we breathe is so common, we care not for it; nothing pleaseth but what is dear.“
I wonder if Jesus had to pay so dear a price, his suffering and death, that we might not take salvation lightly.


Read the intro to Anatomy of Melancholy and Pullman states that the opposite of depression is not happiness but energy, and that energy is contagious. Which suggests why people with energy are seen as charismatic - we want some of that energy to ward off depression. I'm not sure I buy into that opposite of depression being energy theory. I've been happily tired and energized depressed/frustrated/angry. There's a link between anxiety and depression and anxiety has about it plenty of energy, albeit negative energy.


On Good Friday I read several translation of the heart-rending 53rd chapter of Isaiah, the seemingly half-hidden suffering servant chapter. So many Old Testament books of law, prophets and wisdom and lo and behold, stuck towards the end of one of forty-six OT books, a few paragraphs of what would become hugely significant in hindsight. As in many cases, God likes to hide a bit, likes us to search that we may find. Like finding Easter eggs.

The chapter reads like a fifth gospel and it's interesting that they sure didn't make the same “mistake” in the gospels as Isaiah. The suffering servant theme is huge in all four gospels, with the Passion taking up a sizable portion of each. No missing the message of the cross there.

Jesus famously gave the example of leaving the 99 sheep for the one, but He did one better: He left himself, so to speak, for the sake of the sheep. In other words, God lost himself, or forsook some of his divine power, in order to catch the lost. I'm under the distinct impression that God loves us.


Picked the new Updike biography and there's a line about how Updike's mother tried teaching elementary school and walked out on the class that first afternoon! She couldn't control the class. And it made me wonder about what it is that makes some people able to control a class and others not. Is it that the kids, like dogs, can smell fear and react accordingly?


One thing I've learned over time is people are far more complicated (and fragile) than people think. I'm certainly shocked by events and actions that seem inconceivable. For example, a Catholic writer, uber-Catholic, who left his wife and four kids for another woman. Words can't express by how shocking that event now maybe eight-ten years ago was. I was under the naive impression that traditionalist Catholics, the kind who are so obedient to the church to the point they avoid artificial birth control, would find that sort of mortal sin impossible. And on the other end of the expression I would've bet, oh, $10,000 that my wfie's neice Natalie would never have become Catholic. The common denominator of most of these folks is they are young, under 35. The young seem to have the advantage or disadvantage (as the case may be) of radical change. At least in my limited experience.


Novelist David Eggers in "The Circle":
“What had always caused her anxiety, or stress, or worry, was not any one force, nothing independent and external…It was internal: it was subjective,: it was not knowing….it was not knowing the consequences, the future. If she knew these, there would be calm…She could know, instantly, the temperature in Jakarta, but she couldn't find one man on a campus like this?”

One of the things about childhood is how it all sort of becomes conflated. Everything seemed to happen in my memory around the age of ten, even though in actuality that's between age 7 and 13. It seems important now to honor the memory by trying to put a date on a given era or incident. For example, when were driving to a wedding in Louisville when the Tanya Tucker song “Delta Dawn” came on the radio? When was I on the way to baseball practice with Dad when the song “Billy, Don't Be a Hero” came on? When did my sis and I intentionally mis-sing the lyrics to Barry Manilow's “Weekend in New England” only to be surprised by Mom's horrified, negative reaction? (In hindsight understandable: we changed every time Manilow sang “love” to “hate”, i.e. “With you I could bring out / all the hate that I can” is probably not the funniest bit ever).

Most of these dates, even rounded off to years, are lost to me but for the fact that we have the Internet now and the Internet tells us when the soundtrack to our lives, i.e. our music, came out. So I can pretty easily tell what year my sister and I satirized “Weekend in New England” by searching for when that song came out.

It's a harmless enough exercise if perhaps not particularly meaningful, in assigning dates to these anecdotes. But maybe given as a whole it'll might reveal influences and patterns.


Easter felt particularly celebratory given the astonishing spectacle of a whole family converting to Catholicism, i.e. my wife's neice and family. Perhaps a tiny bit of triumphalism reared its ugly head today because I went to the family gathering mostly to hear the backstory of the unlikely event of a blue-collar couple, raised mostly unchurched, joining the Church despite the rather significant obstacle of spending every Monday night for seven months receiving catechesis.

“And a little child shall lead them,” is operative here, perhaps fittingly so. Their middle boy in second grade (of three boys) learned about Peter baptizing a “whole household” and he asked why all of them can't get baptized instead of just him. And so they did, almost a year later. The husband said that his youngest, who was giving fits and crying all liturgy -- until the third dunk in the baptismal pool when it seemed the Holy Spirit came into him and he was an angel the rest of the time, going up to strangers afterward and hugging them fiercely. Quite out of character for him according to the father.

Strangely, it's nice to feel humbled. It's nice to feel inspired by other people, to see what the family went through to become Catholic. I feel humbled when I listen to music that I could never produce, or when I see people striving for a noble goal. At the very least it makes me think the world isn't completely going to hell in a hand-basket.

I entertained the idea of skipping Holy Thursday mass on account of the Easter Vigil but really now, how can one pass up the most inspirational Roman Catholic liturgy on the calendar?

Oh the irony of THE mass of the year, the mass of the Last Supper, is not a day of obligation. Only the serious and hardcore show up and perhaps that's the intent of not making it a day of obligation. This is a marquee day in the church and it's amazing to me that Ash Wednesday is more crowded. As it says in the eucharistic prayer for today, “On the day he was betrayed, that is, today….”.

The readings were powerful. I thought about how the Passover was celebrated so strongly by the Jewish people, how they were celebrating God's saving action, saving them, as it were, from His wrath. Their most holy celebration is one celebrating not the creation of man, nor any sort of miraculous event that could be attributed at least partially to man (such as David's victory over Goliath or any of Israel's military victories), but pretty much God's action alone, God saving his people by recognizing the blood of the lamb on the lintel.

And there's ever something moving about a celibate man and priest, who theoretically has little physical contact with people as compared to say, a mother or a father, is there washing the feet of the teenage wise-acre and debutante gal. Among others. He says it's very “humbling”, and is for all priests, which was interesting to hear.

Appreciated the “Godincidence” of an answer to my question about how Jesus fulfilled the odd Psalm expression, “I can count all my bones”, albeit it's gruesome. From a Catlick website: "Describing the scourging of another first century man named Jesus—Jesus ben Ananias—Josephus, a first century Jewish historian, relates how his bones were 'laid bare' (B.J. 6.304)."


Seems freaky to see this on First Things after reading that Jack Gilbert poem on appearances:
"Even beauty must be stripped of its surface in order to become an intelligible object of contemplation. As he writes in De virginitate, “The man who has purified the eye of his soul is able to look at such things and forget the matter in which the beauty is encased.”

Also read a bit of the introduction to Guissani's American Protestant Theology. Specifically:
Reason is the energy that calls us to recognize the reality of the world as a sign: “Reason, in order to be faithful to its nature and to the nature of such a calling, is forced to admit the existence of something else underpinning, explaining everything.” Quoting St Thomas Aquinas, Guissani calls for a necessary revelation in order to “render this salvation more universal and more certain.”


"I have to work because it keeps me from feeling miserable....guilty-miserable, you know. When I write I know I'm doing what I'm here for." - Shelby Foote's explanation for how he overcomes the problem of not wanting to write but perhaps applicable to sin since we feel the guilt-hangover afterward.

April 15, 2014

Snippets Tied with Asterisks

Saturday got by me in a flash-point of light. Highlight was a little trip to Middle Eastern restaurant in Columbus appended with a visit to a nature store nearby - a museum of fossils, crystals and seashells where I purchased a $15 unbroken geode and my wife used her Christmas gift certificate on a new supposedly grackle-proof bird feeder. (Seems the squirrels are now feasting on the idea.)

[The geode turned out to be bust, literally. Hardly any crystals.)

Started reading lushly of the (THE) Updike biography via free first chapter download on Kindle. Not sure I can pass that up and I immediately succumbed to Updike's latest, last book of poems because I'm morbidly interested in last words and testaments. He had a good line about self-righteous peaceniks at the time of the Iraq war. Here it is sans line breaks:
Vietnam's gaudy gear and mount their irreproachable high nags called Peace, Diplomacy, and Love. I think that love fuels war like gasoline, and crying peace curdles the ears of doves.
So a grand amount of reading on - wonder of wonders! - the first sunny, warm weekend since Pete Rose's 44 -game hitting streak, or at least in the vicinity. I got transfixed by a project to try to list, chronologically, movies, books, music, talk show host influences of the past. I wondered if perhaps Shirley Maclaine's spiritual memoir Out on a Limb set the groundwork for a later enlivening of Catholic faith. I wonder if her book didn't soften me as far as the unseen. The next big landmark was 1992's John Paul's Crossing the Threshold of Hope...


Saw painting of first Joyful mystery of the Rosary and it occurred to me that my thinking is flawed on the Annunciation. Rather than see it as God asking Mary for something of an imposition, a radical change in her life's plan, I saw it today as a marriage proposal! That's why Gabriel was on one knee before Mary, he was asking, on God's part, to marry Mary, to overshadow her spiritually and produce a baby with her. How beautiful is that?

Also deeply moving to hear Matthew's account of the Agony in the Garden, specifically a detail I'd never heard before, i.e. that Jesus not once but three times asked the Father if it were possible that this cup might pass.

I'm touched by Jesus being touched by the woman who anointed him with oil before his passion and death. There's something affecting about how even though he was God he still cared about the little things, little acts like that. Jesus appreciated human kindness for sure, human thoughtfulness, even if it wasn't something he needed. I would think that anointing him with perfume would not be something too important to Him, primarily because it seems like there was no need for it in a utilitarian way. Anointing wasn't needed, for example, to mask the smell of bodily corruption and there was no spiritual benefit. It seems something of a pious custom. But he could read hearts and surely saw what it meant to the woman too.


Wow does St. Jerome well articulate how Gnostics then and now disdain the flesh while attending it:
And yet I wonder why they who detract from the flesh live after the flesh, and cherish and delicately nurture that which is their enemy. Perhaps indeed they wish to fulfil the words of scripture: “love your enemies and bless them that persecute you.” I love the flesh, but I love it only when it is chaste, when it is virginal, when it is mortified by fasting: I love not its works but itself, that flesh which knows that it must be judged, and therefore dies as a martyr for Christ, which is scourged and torn asunder and burned with fire.

Listening to jazz, writing in the journal, anticipating the experiential (not just calendar-ic) beginning of spring. Read a line from a Jack Gilbert poem that reminds me of the novena to Blessed Margaret of Castello: “God wished Blessed Margaret blind from birth so that she could more clearly see the value of spiritual realities…”

The Gilbert poem goes,

“Best of all are the gardens; hidden places where they have burned down the buildings and kept the soil poor so the plants won't grow with vulgar abundance, Like the Japanese gardens made only of rocks and sand so that their beauty would not be obscured by appearances.”

April 10, 2014

Kick it Diarist Style

Jonah Goldberg goes diary style!:

In order to turn a grind into a groove, I'm going to kick it diarist style. “What is diarist style?” you ask…Well, diarist style isn't quite a column and it's not quite a “news"letter, but you just might get a slice of cantaloupe at the end, if by cantaloupe you mean something that only in the vaguest sense could be compared to a cantaloupe. A loose inspiration for my technique is the old "Diarist” feature in The New Republic of the 1980s; a bunch of unrelated observations very loosely hung together by a topic sentence that masquerades as an unbelievably forced segue.


Work battered me; I felt like Fort Sumpter. I was hog-tied and whip-corded by the rather complex programmatical computer program. It was tiring more so because of the unexpected nature of the task; I'd anticipated a short putt and ended up needing a long drive. And difficult to debug! This one gives up her secrets reluctantly, like Lake Superior giving up her dead. But 'twas at least an easy inaugural day of the workweek. Took it by the “smooth end of the handle” then, as Thomas Jefferson once advised.

While on elliptical read more of the excellent country music songwriter's book. Hilarious and a perfect spice in my reading repertoire. Need a funny, brainless book to liven up the mix much as “This Town” did for me earlier this year.

Then read more of O'Malley's history of Vatican II. The author is painfully biased on the side of the more progressive proponents of the Council but it's a decent read as far as information goes. You do get a sense of how difficult the key issues were and I think to a certain extent both sides can now say, “I told you so.”

Progressives can say, “isn't this so much better, especially given Islam, how we're on the right side of religious liberty? And that Catholics are reading and studying the bible now? And that they can understand the Mass better? And that with less clericalism the flock is better set up to understand its duty to evangelize instead of just relying on priests?”

And the conservatives can say, “Oh didn't I tell you? Look at how we've stripped mystery from the Mass, decreased reverence, undermined the authority of church leaders! Look at the statistics on Mass attendance, vocations to the priesthood and religious life…How much good did Vatican II really do?”


I always read the Deuterocanonicals and wonder what, exactly, St. Jerome had against them. I always think of him as THE ultimate Bible expert given that he translated them from the original languages at such an early date in church history. I found this on the 'net so it has to be true:
In his later years St. Jerome did indeed accept the Deuterocanonical books of the Bible. In fact, he wound up strenuously defending their status as inspired Scripture, writing, “What sin have I committed if I followed the judgment of the churches? But he who brings charges against me for relating the objections that the Hebrews are wont to raise against the story of Susanna, the Son of the Three Children, and the story of Bel and the Dragon, which are not found in the Hebrew volume (ie. canon), proves that he is just a foolish sycophant. For I wasn't relating my own personal views, but rather the remarks that they [the Jews] are wont to make against us” (Against Rufinus 11:33 [A.D. 402]).
I always think I'd like to read some of the salty St. Jerome. He's got some of that St. Pio type of person in him, the type that tells it like it is and lets the chips fall where they may.

So I ran to my Logos app and found the letters of Jerome. Sweet! And I came across this immediately - loved the first line:
After shipwreck one has still a plank to cling to; [ed. note - A favourite metaphor with Jerome to describe the nature of Christian penitence.] and one may atone for sin by a frank confession. You have followed me when I have gone astray; follow me also now that I have been brought back. In youth we have wandered; now that we are old let us mend our ways. Let us unite our tears and our groans; let us weep together, and return to the Lord our Maker. Let us not wait for the repentance of the devil; for this is a vain anticipation and one that will drag us into the deep of hell. Life must be sought or lost here.
This is well-stated by St. Jerome:
Does any one wish to praise Origen? Let him praise him as I do. From his childhood he was a great man, and truly a martyr’s son....So greatly did he abhor sensuality that, out of a zeal for God but yet one not according to discernment, he castrated himself with a knife. Covetousness he trampled under foot. He knew the scriptures by heart and laboured hard day and night to explain their meaning. He delivered in church more than a thousand sermons, and published innumerable commentaries which he called tomes. These I now pass over, for it is not my purpose to catalogue his writings. Which of us can read all that he has written? and who can fail to admire is enthusiasm for the scriptures? If some one in the spirit of Judas the Zealot1 brings up to me his mistakes, he shall have his answer in the words of Horace:
'Tis true that sometimes Homer sleeps, but then
He’s not without excuse:
The fault is venial, for his work is long.
Let us not imitate the faults of one whose virtues we cannot equal.

Oh the occasional gold nugget I get from Lino Rulli's Catholic Guy show. Yesterday he talked about potentially having Greg Kinear on the show, an actor who is playing a role in an upcoming film based on the bestselling novel about the boy who went to Heaven. (I think the book is called “Heaven is Real”.) And co-host Fr. Kegron said that he doesn't want to read the book because it makes Heaven so much less mysterious. It makes too much like Earth! I much agree. Like the kid makes it sound like, “oh yeah and I saw Uncle Joe up there. He said to say, 'hi'”. And that you see your pets up there and all that and Lino said a funny and true thing about how for most people God is like number 5 or 6 on their list of who they want to see, after their kids or parents or grandparents or pets.


The weather is inching up towards fine-spiritedness. It definitely has its moments of late especially when the sun is out and the wind is down. Still not porch-sitting weather but I tried it out anyway for a few minutes. The grasp of winter is loosening its death-grip.

Meanwhile the Reds lose regularly as could be predicted by events beyond their control: very difficult opening schedule combined with too many injuries and the killer loss of Chu-Chu Soo.


Set up my new Google Chrome browser, thanks to Mozilla firing their chief for having done the unthinkable and contributed to an anti-gay marriage campaign. You can't make the intolerance up. I'm sure Google isn't any better than Mozilla but it was motivation enough to switch browsers. It was surprisingly enjoyable, setting up the bookmarks on the bookmark toolbar, organizing the favorites folder and playing with the new look and feel.


A nugget from the Rachel Cusk piece in The Paris Review:
The electric light, with the absolute darkness outside, made people look very fleshly and real, their detail so unmediated, so impersonal, so infinite. Each time the man with the baby passed, I saw the network of creases in his shorts, his freckled arms covered in coarse reddish fur, the pale, mounded skin of his midriff where his T-shirt had ridden up…

I thought about "look[ed] very fleshly and real, their detail so unmediated, so impersonal, so infinite" was similar to how people on the beach look with details not unlike her description of a fellow with "mounded skin of his midriff where his T-shirt had ridden up". And yet it's hard to see her interpretation of this. I see the beach as a sort of unexpected revealing, a small intimacy, what she sees as "impersonal" and "infinite". I do get the unmeditated part though. Unmediated by clothes.Ah and sad, but I think I'm going to have to give up The Americans. Way too much nudity.


Chinese spoken in next cube over;
they laugh in English.


Another from Cusk:
I remembered the way, when each of my sons was a baby, they would deliberately drop things from their high chair in order to watch them fall to the floor, an activity as delightful to them as its consequences were appalling. They would stare down at the fallen thing—a half-eaten rusk, or a plastic ball—and become increasingly agitated by its failure to return. Eventually they would begin to cry, and usually found that the fallen object came back to them by that route. It always surprised me that their response to this chain of events was to repeat it: as soon as the object was in their hands they would drop it again, leaning over to watch it fall. Their delight never lessened, nor did their distress. I always expected that at some point they would realize the distress was unnecessary and would choose to avoid it, but they never did. The memory of suffering had no effect whatever on what they elected to do: on the contrary, it compelled them to repeat it, for the suffering was the magic that caused the object to come back and for the delight in dropping it to become possible again. Had I refused to return it the very first time they dropped it, I suppose they would have learned something very different, though what that might have been I wasn’t sure.

So true, that imperviousness to suffering in babies and others. Reminds me of some who spend into debt relentlessly without being chastened despite bankruptcies. I suppose there is in addiction a sort of repeal of the normal cost-benefit analysis: addicts want what hurts them and makes them miserable (such as in the case of Heather King's alcoholism in which there was no joy in drinking) although admittedly perhaps there's still cost-benefit going on since to give up on the addiction is a different kind of ache, and a big one given the pain of drug withdrawal.


So heard a Dominican on XM radio talk about how the Church's Lenten disciplines are not prohibitions for the sake of the exercise of power but directional indicators, which are meant to turn us towards the good. The preacher said that most people today want a “freedom of indifference” rather than a “freedom of excellence”. The first kind of freedom is a freedom to do whatever you want without goal or meaning. The second kind is illustrated by the virtuoso piano player. The pianist became great through practice and that practice leads to the freedom to play great pieces.


Make the longish trek down to the barber I noticed tall skyscrapers of stone that showed darker streaks or patches where still damp with recent rain. I rather liked this human sort of thing, that buildings of inhuman height still bow before the Creator of rain by showing that evidence on their walls. As much as man may think he has tamed the environment even a simple thing like rain can alter the appearance of man's impressive works.


There's a Bible professor on Twitter who posted a snarky picture of Willie Wonka with the caption, “So, Jeremiah 29:11 is all about you? Remind me again about your time in the Babylonian Exile”.

The prof says “I use Jer 29:11 in my classes as an example about the importance of context.” (The verse goes, “For I know the plans I have for you… plans to prosper and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.”)

It reminds me of one of my blog tags: “Can't I love Isaiah too?”, recognizing, of course, that my historical situation is different that Isaiah's intended audience.

But really what a killjoy the professor is, as well as those who posted the snarky picture. Isn't that verse applicable to everyone, or does God not know the plans for some and wish to harm others? I know it's easy to cherry pick Bible verses, but really the Bible has comforting verses for a reason.


They had Miss Development on the company radio show today. Development is pita (pain in the ass) in which we have to basically learn something new tangentially related to our job, etc.. It's a way to force you to feign interest in something you're not currently working on to check off some sort of activity that looks good on paper. But I like the “and/both” character of her answers: “We feel the employee owns his or her own development but we also expect supervisors to motivate and hold employees accountable.” Genius. Supervisors AND employees own their development. Why didn't I think of that? Reminds me of the classic “you have two number one priorities” line.

Then the host asked “what if someone is happy where they are and doesn't want to do development? Will that be used against him?” Again the pluperfect answer from a corporate perspective: “No, it won't be used against him but development is not optional.” A bit oxymoronic. How can this be?

I asked the following in the chat window: “How come development can't be seen more broadly, more in a liberal arts sense, such as taking a class in music appreciation, reading a classic novel, or learning a language?”

She said that was a good question but we need be focused on what can improve the bottom line more directly. Again predictable but I had to ask.


Tiredage! A non-word so let the lawsuits fly. The day was sprung early; I moved with alacrity from bed in order to imbibe in my rich reading life. Reading is the reason to get up in the morning, with coffee a close second.

Read Bill Luse's buddy's novel, Rick B's, and it's surprisingly engaging. The guy writes with verve; humorous and biting. There are some excellent images in there, such as referring to the cycle of unwed mothers begetting more of the same as the “apostolic succession of single mothers”. A character in the story refers to the lower class as “mean but loyal”. It surprises me how interesting the writing. Eccentric but in a pleasing way.

Also read more of the intriguing backstage look at country music titled Country Music Broke My Brain. And then all about George W. Bush's new painting career (googled for images of the paintings). So interesting. Bush's painting hobby seems like something I might want to take up when retired ala Churchill, Bush and Bill Luse. Seems like that's a retirement activity par excellence. It's interesting that Bush would go in that direction though. He seems not the type. As he said in an interview with his NBC-employed daughter, whoda thunk he would be a painter and she'd be working for the enema?


That Jennifer at Conversion Diary is normally pitch-perfect as far as understanding her audience, but I wonder if she's (over)plugging her book, ala Fr. James Martin. Doesn't even come out till the end of this month. On the other hand, I understand she's a new author and enthusiastic and in a blog you're going to write what's on your mind.


Thought about the ceaseless nature of a priest's work, how our priest gave us the “balm of Gilead” today in word and sacrament as he does every Sunday. There's a Sisyphean quality to Mass: the priest performs a ritual that appears to have a temporary effect in that spiritual muscles will tighten inexorably and there is thus a constant need for the softening agents of word and sacrament. Reminds me how my uncle, a priest, saw his homilies as useless given most people don't remember them very long. Unlike, say, constructing a building, which has a long-lasting tangibleness. But that's to judge by human standards and ignores the great reality that our bodies and spirits are creaturely and are designed by God to need refreshment, and the highest good is the human, not the material.

April 04, 2014

It's All Good Until Somebody Gets Hurt

Well, it took over a decade but I actually know someone who got taken in by Nigerian scammers.

Yes, the seemingly impossible has happened: my father-in-law's cousin is now $25,000 shy.  I'd like to know more but obviously it's a very sensitive subject.

It amazes me that this could happen this late in the email evolution/revolution, at a time most of us have been thoroughly conditioned to ignore mail that start like this (which I received this very day):
My Dearest One,

This is Miss Marina Sanzel from Trinidad & Tobago. I am writing from the hospital in Ivory Coast , therefore this mail is very urgent as you can see that I’m dying in the hospital which I don’t know what tomorrow will be.

I inherited some money ($2.5 Million) from my late father and I cannot think of anybody trying to kill me apart from my step mother in order to inherit the money, she is an Ivorian by nationality. 
That last sentence is a doozey.  "Some" money?  $2.5 million is some serious cash in my world.  And then the dramatic "I cannot think of anybody trying to kill me" with the quick reversal "apart from my stepmother".  Ah yes the evil stepmother trope. I think we need to kill that plot-line, too predictable.  But the beauty of it all is the sudden non-sequitor: "She is an Ivorian by nationality."

(Cue ominous music.) 

So is this supposed to mean something, as if Ivorians are not to be trusted? Or am I meant to stay tuned, the "Ivorian" a brilliant foreshadowing that will make sense later? I think you see by now the literary depth involved in these emails.  Later she writes:
Give 20% of the money to my servant Mathieu as he has been there for me through my illness and I have promised to support him in life. I want you to take him along with you to your country and establish him as your son.
Hey, wow! Now there's a plot twist.  You're not just getting money, you're gaining a son.

So these ruses must work else they would not exist. The word hasn't gotten out. You can never underestimate the limits of communication, that someone will not hear that there is such a thing as email scammers. If that "obvious" piece of information has not been universally communicated, what else hasn't? 

April 03, 2014

Columbus Seven Church Tour

Columbus Jubilee Museum:


So Saturday was the big ol' seven churches tour (“Sevenchurchtour.com” as Fr. W plugged early and often).  Off to big bus at St. Brendan's, which rolled towards our first stop at Holy Cross. Our priest-tour guide was quite a card, wearing a goofy hat with large bear ears.

I think he removed his hat for the Rosary we said on the way down, the Sorrowful mysteries for Lent. The tour was roughly in chronological order and so we started at the 1833 church Holy Cross. He gave an interesting history and we said a relevant prayer at this and all the subsequent churches.
The church was not overly impressive as far as art or architecture but explained this was an immigrant generation without much money and that you could see how much more ornate the second generation churches became. Second generation immigrants are among the wealthiest generation, he said, because they are bilingual.

He also talked about the Irish and German splitting, the Irish from Holy Cross heading off to St. Patrick's. He handled that intriguing subject of Irish/German relations straightforwardly, explaining people simply like to be with people similar to them. He illustrated this by saying in Rome, where he lived for four years, he could immediately tell the Americans from their clothes, shoes, and cockiness. He said he naturally fell in with fellow Americans even though he thinks he probably wouldn't have been chums if they'd been in the U.S.

Fr. W is a good self-promoter and not shy about expounding on his language skills (speaks fluent Italian) or time management skills. Definitely has some Bill O'Reilly in him, which my father noticed as well.

After Holy Cross we headed into a driving chill rain towards St. Patrick's, a rain that would accompany us everywhere in various manifestations of intensity and windiness.   Later churches toured included St. Mary's in German Village, St. Joseph's Cathedral, Holy Family, St. John the Baptist in Italian Village and then St. John the Evangelist – where a smashed vodka bottle rested by the side of the road and our bus driver helpfully kicked the glass out of the way. Rough part of town where “you don't want to be skipping at midnight” as Fr. W put it.

We had lunch near Holy Family, in the archdiocese Jubilee Museum where they “feed the body downstairs in the soup kitchen and the soul upstairs in the museum”. We arrived late to the auditorium since we had sat in the back of the bus and it looked like standing room but for a collection of ornate leather chairs around an oval glass table. It looked off-limit-y, but a lady who looked in charge said we could sit there and so we did and so we ended up with quick access to the box lunches and later the best tour guide, an opinionated and self-assured padre wearing old-style traditional clerical attire. Lunches were tasty if low on protein: ceasar chicken sandwiches, heavy on the bread, with potato chips, an apple and a cookie; later someone would end up with low glucose. Fr. W sat next to me; he wasn't overly talkative but I asked him why he didn't become a Dominican and he said he only briefly considered them and then added that he considered more seriously the Jesuit order due to liking St. Ignatius.

The tour of the museum was fabulous. I'd looked around at the dumpy auditorium where we ate and it looked like a forlorn junk store saddled with Catholic kitsch. I thought the museum would be similar, or at the very least small, but it was capacious as the day is long and filled with striking rooms full of books and art. (One was a “nun room”!?) The priest guide was entertaining and well-spoken and gave a spicy defense of Catholicism against Jewish and Protestant naysayers. He also mentioned something I should've realized: that there is no such thing as a “traditional Gaelic Mass” as the Irishfest advertises given that the Mass was in Latin for practically a millennium.

In the beginning he made a plea for funds that was off-putting and overly pushy, going so far as to make fun of a guy who placed a ten dollar bill in his hands as if he was doing the good padre a favor. But the museum itself won me over, as well as his enthusiastic tour talk. He spoke surprisingly emotionally about St. Peter's, a church on Fifth Avenue that had met its demise around 1970 when a lot of parishioner houses were swept away by the installation of Interstate 71. His long defense against those who said the church was demolished due to I-70 seemed curiously eccentric and overkill, yet he had gigantic visual aids showing the church property before and after I-71.

Much too soon that part was over and we headed into the cruel rain towards an Italian church I'd never seen before. Very colorful, with a bright blue-sky ceiling. Then off to Fr. W's home church, St. John the Evangelist, a handsome one modeled after many a church in Germany. Fr. W then said Mass for our group using the homily to tell us about the church and his role in it but also inspirational in how the destruction of the main stained glass window in the back led to the church's eventual restoration and how God does similarly with our souls.

On the way home we picked up Outback and then a generous happy hour followed by downer of a movie starring Matthew McCaughney titled “The Dallas Buyer's Club”. The 94% favorable rating swayed me too much. As someone wrote in a major publication, we are living in the golden age of television, not movies, and I for one would much rather see Justify or Nashville than anything at the local movie joint.


Was buoyed by the surprising news that my wife's niece is becoming a Catholic this Easter. Am reminded of the Flannery O'Connor's words about a voluntary conversion being a miracle and indeed with all the gloom and doom of the state of the world it's just always an amazing thing to see anybody converting. I'm curious at what brought her to this point, especially given that you can't convert without “supreme effort”, i.e. going to RCIA classes for a long, long time. That would seem to make converting to the Catholic Church a far more impressive thing than, say, getting married, since you can do that on a whim, in Vegas, in ten minutes. No barrier to entry to marriage and I wonder if the Catholic Church is the only non-educational institution that requires a barrier to entry with no financial reward. My workplace, for example, has a barrier to entry - usually a college degree of some sort - but they pay you. Clubs and organizations offer free or very cheap membership dues.

My wife was invited to the Easter Vigil; she doesn't want to stay for the whole thing but I do; the Easter Vigil is a bit long and brutal unless someone you know is being initiated into the Church (such as my sister-in-law a year or two ago) and then it's inspiring.

I wonder what impact, if any, my own wedding had on my wife's niece. Was it her first Catholic Mass? She would've been maybe 16 then. I think she might've been the one who received Communion illicitly but I can't recall. I wonder if Fr. G had planted a tiny, tiny seed in his dramatic, idiosyncratic narration of the Words of Institution. Stranger things have happened!

Later went for the obligatory run even though legs and lungs were DOA. A forced march, as it were. Went so slow that confused dogs were unsure, for barking purposes, whether I was running or walking....

Diaristic Wanderings

So the day was maelstrom-y, though with a crazily juxtaposition of peace during which my mind bloomed with the agate of sleep; I pictured a luminescent blue sea that became caramelized as stone that I could carry in my pocket. I drifted off, drifted in....

Great was the much-needed exhilarating run, a good half-hour, running free. The first five or ten minutes were great. The last five or ten minutes were great. It was the middle, oh, fifteen that sucked. In mid-stream I was too tired from the beginning and had not yet reached the fabled runner's high. Perhaps a metaphor for the spiritual life: we start with consolations galore, we go through a long period of grind, then we achieve the Beatific vision. If all goes well.


I feel like I want to subscribe to The Paris Review permanently, such is my affection for something so refreshingly apolitical and free of news. It's likely a phase, an infatuation, but I'm certainly picking it more than I ever did the New Yorker. Life's too short to read about politics and there seems a greater depth to fiction, suffused with a dreamy quality.

The story by Rachel Cusk has been riveting. She seems a pessimist by experience; she's recently divorced and her writing is suffused with that sensibility of loss and suffering.
“Sometimes it seems that life is a series of punishments for moments of unawareness, that one forges one's own destiny by what one doesn't notice or feel compassion for; that what you don't know and don't make the effort to understand will become the very thing you're forced into knowledge of. While I spoke, [he] looked more and more aghast. That is a terrible notion only a Catholic could come up with…”
But really, is not the paragraph above a pluperfect retelling of the moral of the parable of the rich man and Lazarus?

A character in her story says he writes everyday of his childhood in order to “recall it piece by piece, every little detail.” In the character's case due to his happy childhood. Funny but I don't know if I had a happy childhood or not. I think back and it seems a mixed bag. I felt certainly a lack of control and autonomy. I had a perfectionist mindset that bedeviled me at certain times, of frustrations. I recall of course many fights with my sister, the cutthroat world of high school popularity that seemed just beyond my reach, just elusive enough to tantalize. If I just tried harder perhaps I could be popular, which was the take of my cheerleader (and uber-popular) cousin Kathy. (Who was in my class and thus in the know.) Glen DuBruck (always teased as “Glenda Bruck”) was a case study for popularity; he transformed himself between 10th and 11th grade into a social climber and climb he did. From nerd to bird.

I suppose childhood doesn't include adolescence and thus I'm mixing memories. Childhood, well, who doesn't have a happy childhood? Even those who suffer often don't think of it being suffering at the time given they have nothing to compare it to.  The famous line about being poor but not knowing you were poor. The resiliency of youth is apparent - how many pre-teens get diagnosed with depression or commit suicide? Almost none, suggesting childhood is a special state of bliss.

I remember clearly the speed of childhood, of moving fast, of unadulterated joy in the simple game of tag, of sprinting! I miss sprinting, sprinting with legs of freshly made sinews, of the sheer and present joy of motion unimpeded. I miss feeling like a dolphin in water, of how simply diving off a two-foot diving board was a craved feeling. Oh did we exult in movement as kids while the elderly spend their dotage in dread of it!

Still, I like the idea of recording my childhood perhaps because it is a perishable resource, perishing in my mind as we speak. Already I've forgotten so much … I wish much I've have recorded what I could recall years ago. I would love to recover at least a chronology of major events in my young life: to see where the “markers” of deep feeling occurred.