“Very easy to do justice. Very hard to do right,” says Sir Robert Morton in “The Winslow Boy.” But is that right?
Justice, from jus, juris: law. Portia, in Merchant of Venice, reminds us of the shortcomings of justice in praising mercy:
“It is an attribute to God Himself;
And earthly power doth then show likest God’s
When mercy seasons justice.”
Justice is not enough. In the case of the Winslow Boy (an excellent movie based on a play, which is presumably also excellent), justice would have been following the technicalities of law, which would have resulted in doing wrong. This was partly because human justice is imperfect. But even pure “justice” which knows all the facts does not go far enough. It leaves us all condemned; unless we go beyond the justice of the law to the justice of grace. “Whatever the law says, it says to those who are under the law, that every mouth may be stopped, and all the world may become guilty before God. Therefore by the deeds of the law no flesh will be justified in His sight, for by the law is the knowledge of sin.” Justice is, in a sense, very easy. It is written where we may all see, declaring all of us guilty.
Except that Someone took upon Himself the harder course of “right,” and made it just. Or rather, made us just, even though we were guilty. That is the righteousness apart from the law, in which we are justified freely by His grace through the redemption that is in Christ Jesus, “that He might be just and the justifier of the one who has faith in Jesus…therefore we conclude that a man is justified by faith apart from the deeds of the law (emphasis added).”
It’s also easier to accept justice than right (or grace). If we were justified by law, we would all know that we got what we deserved. Under grace, we know we don’t deserve what we get; we deserve nothing, and are not capable of justifying ourselves. This is the stumbling-block simplicity of Christianity: there is nothing we can do for ourselves, for we are justified only by grace through faith.
This is what makes the chapter before Javert’s suicide in Les Miserables so powerful: he is an exact picture of someone who is so riveted on justice that he cannot accept grace. When the law condemns him, he refuses to acknowledge that there is a higher law which will save him, the law of right, and so he condemns himself.
And this is ultimately the problem with an idea of salvation based on works: it’s setting ourselves up as God, the arbiters of a different standard than the one He set. But it is easy to produce our own rules, by which we can condemn others and save ourselves, and much harder to admit that we are nothing, that we can do nothing, that we deserve nothing but punishment. That we need a God who will make us just because He is righteous.
“If when we were enemies we were reconciled to God through the death of His Son, much more, having been reconciled, we shall be saved by His life.”
“Grace, grace, God’s grace:
Grace that will pardon and cleanse within;
Grace, grace, God’s grace:
Grace that is greater than all our sin."
Sunday, July 30, 2006
Friday, July 28, 2006
Mi Amiga
She wears red fingernail polish and hot pink lipstick, gold rings on her fingers (and possibly bells on her toes); but she is not gaudy, only vibrantly alive. Her red brick cottage overflows with radiant flowers; the fuschia bougainvillea which came with her from Mexico is most like her, and I think it’s secretly her favorite.
[we interrupt this blog post for a moment of poetry:
"Till she gave me, with pride to make no slip,
Its soft meandering Spanish name.
What a name! Was it love, or praise?
Speech half asleep, or song half-awake?
I must learn Spanish one of these days,
If only for that slow, sweet name’s sake."]
She has a lovely lilting Spanish name and a lovely lilting Spanish accent to go with it; sometimes I catch myself listening to her voice instead of what she is saying. She tells me about growing up in Guadalajara, heaven on earth, the city of fountains and roses; not too many people, like in OKC, or too few, like the gasping little town she’s in now, but perfect. Her family was well-off, but her father insisted she learn to sew, and go to cooking school. "Why?" she asked. "The maid can do that." "Yes," her father answered, "but you will need to know how to do these things if you marry a poor man, and how to order it done if you marry a rich man."
She married a poor man from here when she was 18, because all her friends were getting married and she didn’t want to be an old maid. "Tell me you aren’t even thinking about getting married yet, hahnee," she turns to me seriously. "You have plenty of time."
["Roses, if I live and do well,
I may bring her one of these days
To fix you fast with as fine a spell,
Fit you each with his Spanish phrase…"
We interrupt this poetry with your regularly scheduled post. Hasn’t anyone ever told you it’s rude to interrupt?]
When she crossed the border, the patrolman asked her why she had picked the worst state in the union to live in. "Don’t you know there are wild Indians there? They’ll shoot you with their bows’n’arrows and scalp you." "Is that true?" she whispered to her new brother-in-law.
["But do not detain me now,
For she lingers
There, like sunshine over the ground..."]
It was November when she came, and there was snow on the ground. The only shoes she had were sandals. She cried in her pillow every night.
["Is there no method to tell her in Spanish
June's twice June since she breathed it with me?"]
She worries that she’ll be cranky when she gets old (she’s only 70 now), because she’s always liked to be independent. But I know she’s sweet. She can’t go back to Mexico now, because she takes care of her ex-husband. He’s at their son’s for a couple of weeks so she can go to the doctor, and the cat she bought him tries to sleep in her bed, but she won’t let it. She doesn’t want it getting attached to her, so he can feel like it’s his very own. She speaks well of her daughter-in-law, and buys a chocolate malt for her dentist.
["Roses, you are not so fair after all."
~Robert Browning, from "The Flower's Name"]
[we interrupt this blog post for a moment of poetry:
"Till she gave me, with pride to make no slip,
Its soft meandering Spanish name.
What a name! Was it love, or praise?
Speech half asleep, or song half-awake?
I must learn Spanish one of these days,
If only for that slow, sweet name’s sake."]
She has a lovely lilting Spanish name and a lovely lilting Spanish accent to go with it; sometimes I catch myself listening to her voice instead of what she is saying. She tells me about growing up in Guadalajara, heaven on earth, the city of fountains and roses; not too many people, like in OKC, or too few, like the gasping little town she’s in now, but perfect. Her family was well-off, but her father insisted she learn to sew, and go to cooking school. "Why?" she asked. "The maid can do that." "Yes," her father answered, "but you will need to know how to do these things if you marry a poor man, and how to order it done if you marry a rich man."
She married a poor man from here when she was 18, because all her friends were getting married and she didn’t want to be an old maid. "Tell me you aren’t even thinking about getting married yet, hahnee," she turns to me seriously. "You have plenty of time."
["Roses, if I live and do well,
I may bring her one of these days
To fix you fast with as fine a spell,
Fit you each with his Spanish phrase…"
We interrupt this poetry with your regularly scheduled post. Hasn’t anyone ever told you it’s rude to interrupt?]
When she crossed the border, the patrolman asked her why she had picked the worst state in the union to live in. "Don’t you know there are wild Indians there? They’ll shoot you with their bows’n’arrows and scalp you." "Is that true?" she whispered to her new brother-in-law.
["But do not detain me now,
For she lingers
There, like sunshine over the ground..."]
It was November when she came, and there was snow on the ground. The only shoes she had were sandals. She cried in her pillow every night.
["Is there no method to tell her in Spanish
June's twice June since she breathed it with me?"]
She worries that she’ll be cranky when she gets old (she’s only 70 now), because she’s always liked to be independent. But I know she’s sweet. She can’t go back to Mexico now, because she takes care of her ex-husband. He’s at their son’s for a couple of weeks so she can go to the doctor, and the cat she bought him tries to sleep in her bed, but she won’t let it. She doesn’t want it getting attached to her, so he can feel like it’s his very own. She speaks well of her daughter-in-law, and buys a chocolate malt for her dentist.
["Roses, you are not so fair after all."
~Robert Browning, from "The Flower's Name"]
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
conversation of the day
[after a discussion of the differences between Jehovah's Witnesses and evangelical Christians, part of which included their changes to the Bible]
Anon: I read my Bible, 'cause that's what I grew up with.
Me: Oh, yes? What kind of Bible do you have?
Anon: A Holy Bible.
Anon: I read my Bible, 'cause that's what I grew up with.
Me: Oh, yes? What kind of Bible do you have?
Anon: A Holy Bible.
Tuesday, July 25, 2006
Life in the Zoo
The little girl who had a little curl is sleeping with plastic bags around her bed. The reason: our house has become the domicile of undomesticated beasts. It happened while I was gone…
The house was silent; the inhabitants resting peacefully. The children were nestled all snug in their beds, while visions of baseball bats danced in their heads. And then they heard something which sounded like a woman screaming. It was. My mother, to be exact, who had been rudely awakened by the clattering of a tea cup — landing beside her. From the shelf over her head. Knocked off by a four-foot snake. In the ensuing battle there was unfortunately no carnage; the snake slipped through their fingers (metaphorically speaking—dad was actually using a broom handle and a baseball bat). And somehow the cover on the electrical outlet got busted.
It was enough to make my sister set up a guard across her door and around her bed. Unfortunately, I stepped on it two nights ago, and almost got shot. I would hate to be the snake if he meets up with a shriek like hers…
The coon in the back yard decided to take the opportunity to create a little havoc himself. And the scorpions thought the next day would be a good time to clean up in our bathtub. And then there are all the Yahoos...no. My brothers and sisters may be what they are, but they have not reached the point of Yahoo-ness. Wahoos, perhaps, but not Yahoos.
I voted yesterday in the Republican primary. But first I had to change into my red-and-white striped shirt, so I would coordinate when they gave me the "I voted" sticker with the American flag. I filled out all the lines very neatly straight across, coloring them in to the edges so that they were even, instead of leaving two half-arrows with a too-thin line between. When I was finished, I confessed to my mother what I had done (both about the arrows and about changing clothes) and found out she had done both of those things too. Then we went to the photography studio and straightened pictures in the waiting area.
I was amused when I read on the ballot that if you couldn’t write you should put your mark here. Theoretically, I suppose, you could read and not write, but the two usually go together. When I am dictatrix del mondo (yes, I know I’m mixing my languages, but I can do that when I’m in charge) I think I shall establish some basic requirements for voting, which include literacy. I shall also require voters to pass a proficiency test in history, and a mental competence test, which will consist of the following question: "do you intend to vote for Empress Hannah I?" A negative answer would, of course, prove that the individual was not responsible enough to have a vote.
We slept outside last night, although curl-girl wasn’t sure at first, with all those wild rabbits running around. We told her we’d let the snakes take care of them. And then she was the one pretending to be a snake crawling on me--can you imagine?
The snake spake unto the woman with a voice which strangely resembled that of the middle Backseat Boy.
The Caboose and I have different ideas of camping, incidentally. I wanted to sleep outside without the tent. He wanted to sleep inside with the tent. Sometimes I wonder.
We argued over whether lights were stars or airplanes, or falling airplanes or stars which had just taken off. We talked about snake repellent and falling tsars (not a typo), pretended to be cowboys camping on the Chisolm Trail who were about to be massacred, and (for the comfort of some) pretended to be inside the house pretending to be outside.
I recited The Highwayman with almost all the melodrama in my power. And when I was finished, the first sound was the Caboose: "I don’t get it." sigh. So I tried to explain it in as terribly boring prose as possible. I fell asleep to L telling Dr. Pepper stories…
The house was silent; the inhabitants resting peacefully. The children were nestled all snug in their beds, while visions of baseball bats danced in their heads. And then they heard something which sounded like a woman screaming. It was. My mother, to be exact, who had been rudely awakened by the clattering of a tea cup — landing beside her. From the shelf over her head. Knocked off by a four-foot snake. In the ensuing battle there was unfortunately no carnage; the snake slipped through their fingers (metaphorically speaking—dad was actually using a broom handle and a baseball bat). And somehow the cover on the electrical outlet got busted.
It was enough to make my sister set up a guard across her door and around her bed. Unfortunately, I stepped on it two nights ago, and almost got shot. I would hate to be the snake if he meets up with a shriek like hers…
The coon in the back yard decided to take the opportunity to create a little havoc himself. And the scorpions thought the next day would be a good time to clean up in our bathtub. And then there are all the Yahoos...no. My brothers and sisters may be what they are, but they have not reached the point of Yahoo-ness. Wahoos, perhaps, but not Yahoos.
I voted yesterday in the Republican primary. But first I had to change into my red-and-white striped shirt, so I would coordinate when they gave me the "I voted" sticker with the American flag. I filled out all the lines very neatly straight across, coloring them in to the edges so that they were even, instead of leaving two half-arrows with a too-thin line between. When I was finished, I confessed to my mother what I had done (both about the arrows and about changing clothes) and found out she had done both of those things too. Then we went to the photography studio and straightened pictures in the waiting area.
I was amused when I read on the ballot that if you couldn’t write you should put your mark here. Theoretically, I suppose, you could read and not write, but the two usually go together. When I am dictatrix del mondo (yes, I know I’m mixing my languages, but I can do that when I’m in charge) I think I shall establish some basic requirements for voting, which include literacy. I shall also require voters to pass a proficiency test in history, and a mental competence test, which will consist of the following question: "do you intend to vote for Empress Hannah I?" A negative answer would, of course, prove that the individual was not responsible enough to have a vote.
We slept outside last night, although curl-girl wasn’t sure at first, with all those wild rabbits running around. We told her we’d let the snakes take care of them. And then she was the one pretending to be a snake crawling on me--can you imagine?
The snake spake unto the woman with a voice which strangely resembled that of the middle Backseat Boy.
The Caboose and I have different ideas of camping, incidentally. I wanted to sleep outside without the tent. He wanted to sleep inside with the tent. Sometimes I wonder.
We argued over whether lights were stars or airplanes, or falling airplanes or stars which had just taken off. We talked about snake repellent and falling tsars (not a typo), pretended to be cowboys camping on the Chisolm Trail who were about to be massacred, and (for the comfort of some) pretended to be inside the house pretending to be outside.
I recited The Highwayman with almost all the melodrama in my power. And when I was finished, the first sound was the Caboose: "I don’t get it." sigh. So I tried to explain it in as terribly boring prose as possible. I fell asleep to L telling Dr. Pepper stories…
Monday, July 24, 2006
Money, Money, Money
TEFL certification/visa/plane ticket to Bologna: $2,000 (well, okay, so I'm rounding and don't have the exact figures, but it's something like that).
Living in Italy: $3,000 (per month)
Obeying God's call to share His love with the Italians: priceless.
Yes, I have passed the grueling trial and have been appointed a missionary. Now I get to begin the really grueling part: raising support. If only I would get a letter in the mail saying that someone was supporting me for my whole amount without me even having to tell them about it. That would be so much easier. But no. I have to ask.
Why is this so hard for me? I have a sneaking suspicion that it has something to do with my Tocquevillian independent-American-young-woman streak, that wants to be self-reliant and never need nothin' from nobody. And work ethic is a good thing. But the pride that never wants to ask for help is definitely not good--it's what makes me try to be good enough to please God. I can't live as a Christian by myself--I have to ask for God's mercy and grace not only for salvation, but for everyday life. Neither can I go serve Him by myself. I need His strength, and I need the support of others in the church, even (gulp) financial support.
It helps to think of it as asking others to give to the Lord, and me trusting Him for it, but I'm still the one who has to take the initiative. And it helps a lot more when I think of It--I am very ready to love It, but I have to get there first. Lots of people are probably still wondering why there? But besides the obvious cultural draws (Ferraris, you know), Italy really needs Jesus. Less than 1% of the population are evangelical Christians. Most of them are trying to work their way to heaven, and don't know about God's wonderful grace. Please pray that my heart will be broken over their lostness as His is. And pray that I will have the silly little courage to ask people for support.
And if I possibly happen to ask you--please know that it's ok to say no and don't go hide around a corner when you see me coming. I'll love you anyway.
"Italy, we're gonna love you forever..."
Living in Italy: $3,000 (per month)
Obeying God's call to share His love with the Italians: priceless.
Yes, I have passed the grueling trial and have been appointed a missionary. Now I get to begin the really grueling part: raising support. If only I would get a letter in the mail saying that someone was supporting me for my whole amount without me even having to tell them about it. That would be so much easier. But no. I have to ask.
Why is this so hard for me? I have a sneaking suspicion that it has something to do with my Tocquevillian independent-American-young-woman streak, that wants to be self-reliant and never need nothin' from nobody. And work ethic is a good thing. But the pride that never wants to ask for help is definitely not good--it's what makes me try to be good enough to please God. I can't live as a Christian by myself--I have to ask for God's mercy and grace not only for salvation, but for everyday life. Neither can I go serve Him by myself. I need His strength, and I need the support of others in the church, even (gulp) financial support.
It helps to think of it as asking others to give to the Lord, and me trusting Him for it, but I'm still the one who has to take the initiative. And it helps a lot more when I think of It--I am very ready to love It, but I have to get there first. Lots of people are probably still wondering why there? But besides the obvious cultural draws (Ferraris, you know), Italy really needs Jesus. Less than 1% of the population are evangelical Christians. Most of them are trying to work their way to heaven, and don't know about God's wonderful grace. Please pray that my heart will be broken over their lostness as His is. And pray that I will have the silly little courage to ask people for support.
And if I possibly happen to ask you--please know that it's ok to say no and don't go hide around a corner when you see me coming. I'll love you anyway.
"Italy, we're gonna love you forever..."
Friday, July 21, 2006
no longer a "missionary-to-be..."
Avant Ministries
by authority of the International Board of Directors, and upon the recommendation of the Candidate Committee and successful completion of Candidate Orientation, hereby appoints
me
to missionary service.
In testimony wherof, they have affixed the Seal of Avant Ministries and signed by their hand this Twenty-Second day of July, in the Year of Our Lord Two Thousand and Six.
Saturday, July 15, 2006
Happy Birthday!
to someone who doesn't share Miranda's worry, but requires the same answer (and it's an excuse for me to post Ogden Nash, which I never refuse).
To a Lady Who Thinks She is Thirty
Ogden Nash
Unwillingly Miranda wakes,
Feels the sun with terror,
One unwilling step she takes,
Shuddering to the mirror.
Miranda in Miranda's sight
Is old and gray and dirty;
Twenty-nine she was last night;
This morning she is thirty.
Shining like the morning star,
Like the twilight shining,
Haunted by a calendar,
Miranda is a-pining.
Silly girl, silver girl,
Draw the mirror toward you;
Time who makes the years to whirl
Adorned as he adored you.
Time is timelessness for you;
Calendars for the human;
What's a year, or thirty, to
Loveliness made woman?
Oh, Night will not see thirty again,
Yet soft her wing, Miranda;
Pick up your glass and tell me, then--
How old is Spring, Miranda?
To a Lady Who Thinks She is Thirty
Ogden Nash
Unwillingly Miranda wakes,
Feels the sun with terror,
One unwilling step she takes,
Shuddering to the mirror.
Miranda in Miranda's sight
Is old and gray and dirty;
Twenty-nine she was last night;
This morning she is thirty.
Shining like the morning star,
Like the twilight shining,
Haunted by a calendar,
Miranda is a-pining.
Silly girl, silver girl,
Draw the mirror toward you;
Time who makes the years to whirl
Adorned as he adored you.
Time is timelessness for you;
Calendars for the human;
What's a year, or thirty, to
Loveliness made woman?
Oh, Night will not see thirty again,
Yet soft her wing, Miranda;
Pick up your glass and tell me, then--
How old is Spring, Miranda?
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
H's Feet on High Places
Like the top of the stairs.
"I went to Kansas City on a Sunday
By Monday I learned a thing or two
But up 'till then I didn't have an idea
Of what the mod'rn world was comin' to...
Everything's up to date in Kansas City
They gone about as fer as they can go
They went an' built a skyscraper seven stories high
About as high as a buildin' orta grow.
Everything's like a dream in Kansas City
It's better than a magic lantern show...
They've gone about as fer as they can go.
They've gone about as fer as they can go!"
~from Oklahoma! (slightly modified)
Yessir, that's right. Here I sit, in that very up-to-date city, properly having visited KC, since I've eaten BBQ twice. And yes, it was KC style BBQ that made me do a double take, it was so sweet. But that hasn't been the sweetest thing in this half-week...
Where do I begin
To tell the story of how great a love can be?
The sweet love story that is older than the sea
The simple truth about the love He brings to me
Where do I start?
~From Love Story (also slightly modified)
Yes, I'm at Candidate Orientation, and yes, it's amazing. I keep meeting people who know people I know. And all of them know my Father, because He's their Father, too! These people are thoroughly passionate about God, and committed to the concept that if we believe Christianity is real, it's going to affect the way we think and talk and plan and live!
So far, we're studying cultural differences, and interpersonal communications, and writing prayer letters. I'm realizing how many things I take for granted that are really only part of our culture, and aren't exactly normal in a different culture, and how helplessly American I am. For example, one question we had was: what irritates you most? My answers really reflected American values: "lack of honest communication, laziness." In other places, politeness is often more important than honesty, and people might not be so open to telling you everything about themselves. And what I see as laziness, a lot of other cultures would just see as being relaxed and enjoying life. So, I'll have some growing to do. We also talked about some of the things we will miss, and a lot of those make me think too: independence, the ability to be smart (how stupid am I going to look trying to speak Italian?!), being in a position of importance.
But I'm going to Italy!!!! This is starting to hit me. People who have been there keep telling me how much I am going to love It (coffee! chocolate! art! music! history!) and how much It is going to love me (warm, smiling people; as opposed to Germans and Czechs, who don't like smiling or making eye contact). They're making plans for getting my visa (pray about that please; it can be hit-or-miss)! I'm going to Italy!!! And they won the World Cup. Viva Italia (or something to that effect)!
God's grace is amazing.
"I went to Kansas City on a Sunday
By Monday I learned a thing or two
But up 'till then I didn't have an idea
Of what the mod'rn world was comin' to...
Everything's up to date in Kansas City
They gone about as fer as they can go
They went an' built a skyscraper seven stories high
About as high as a buildin' orta grow.
Everything's like a dream in Kansas City
It's better than a magic lantern show...
They've gone about as fer as they can go.
They've gone about as fer as they can go!"
~from Oklahoma! (slightly modified)
Yessir, that's right. Here I sit, in that very up-to-date city, properly having visited KC, since I've eaten BBQ twice. And yes, it was KC style BBQ that made me do a double take, it was so sweet. But that hasn't been the sweetest thing in this half-week...
Where do I begin
To tell the story of how great a love can be?
The sweet love story that is older than the sea
The simple truth about the love He brings to me
Where do I start?
~From Love Story (also slightly modified)
Yes, I'm at Candidate Orientation, and yes, it's amazing. I keep meeting people who know people I know. And all of them know my Father, because He's their Father, too! These people are thoroughly passionate about God, and committed to the concept that if we believe Christianity is real, it's going to affect the way we think and talk and plan and live!
So far, we're studying cultural differences, and interpersonal communications, and writing prayer letters. I'm realizing how many things I take for granted that are really only part of our culture, and aren't exactly normal in a different culture, and how helplessly American I am. For example, one question we had was: what irritates you most? My answers really reflected American values: "lack of honest communication, laziness." In other places, politeness is often more important than honesty, and people might not be so open to telling you everything about themselves. And what I see as laziness, a lot of other cultures would just see as being relaxed and enjoying life. So, I'll have some growing to do. We also talked about some of the things we will miss, and a lot of those make me think too: independence, the ability to be smart (how stupid am I going to look trying to speak Italian?!), being in a position of importance.
But I'm going to Italy!!!! This is starting to hit me. People who have been there keep telling me how much I am going to love It (coffee! chocolate! art! music! history!) and how much It is going to love me (warm, smiling people; as opposed to Germans and Czechs, who don't like smiling or making eye contact). They're making plans for getting my visa (pray about that please; it can be hit-or-miss)! I'm going to Italy!!! And they won the World Cup. Viva Italia (or something to that effect)!
God's grace is amazing.
Thursday, June 29, 2006
Dante's Ninth
level, that is. Of a place that is not Paradiso. (not really--I just like euphemizing.)
Last night I was a spy in Communist Bulgaria. I was supposed to eat certain papers if I was ever discovered. Dr. Van was there--but I don't know if he was a friend or enemy. My family was there, too, and I didn't want anything to happen to them if I got caught, so I tried to put barriers between us. N was a spy, but he told Them that he was an actor, which I thought was pretty stupid and tried to cover up by insulting his acting ability, but I was nervous and made it worse. I thought they might be on to me--they made me watch the capture of a spy. But I wasn't sure. I desperately needed to tell someone something before they caught me. But I wasn't sure whether to disrupt the CC TV where They were always watching (thus making myself more suspicious) and make a dash for it, or wait them out. I was trying to decide...when my alarm went off.
I turned it off and rolled over, wanting to find out what happened to me. But then I remembered--I had to go to work.
5:45 is not my favorite time of day, but it's better than 4 (my mornings have been somewhere between these all week). At least there's a glimmer of light, which makes it seem not so bad. And I generally get home fairly early, which would be nice, if my inability to nap or go to bed early didn't hang on so persistently. I'm getting to know the road to the City well enough to drive it with my eyes closed, and I'm about ready to try. But tomorrow I get to sleep in until almost 7...
There are definitely good parts too--I'm reading a lot, and talking seriously with people. And I get to see a lot of the countryside. And yesterday I got to hang out at one of our new Starbucks popping up (which one of my regular riders perpetually refers to as "Starbuck"). I talked to the lady sweeping up and people who were adulterating their coffee, since my seat was near there (one guy asked me which was cream, so I told him I thought it was the one that said "half and half" sitting right in front). I read L's Father Brown book, and put in a good word for Chesterton to those who asked about my book (but one man told me he only read mysteries). The supervisor told me they wouldn't sell me any more refills. I laughed, which meant he was joking.
Today I told my riders they didn't want to see me without coffee. They thought I was joking.
I'm so tired, N, that I would be breathless giggling at the worst joke you could come up with. And since you're not here, I'm having to make the jokes myself.
Last night I was a spy in Communist Bulgaria. I was supposed to eat certain papers if I was ever discovered. Dr. Van was there--but I don't know if he was a friend or enemy. My family was there, too, and I didn't want anything to happen to them if I got caught, so I tried to put barriers between us. N was a spy, but he told Them that he was an actor, which I thought was pretty stupid and tried to cover up by insulting his acting ability, but I was nervous and made it worse. I thought they might be on to me--they made me watch the capture of a spy. But I wasn't sure. I desperately needed to tell someone something before they caught me. But I wasn't sure whether to disrupt the CC TV where They were always watching (thus making myself more suspicious) and make a dash for it, or wait them out. I was trying to decide...when my alarm went off.
I turned it off and rolled over, wanting to find out what happened to me. But then I remembered--I had to go to work.
5:45 is not my favorite time of day, but it's better than 4 (my mornings have been somewhere between these all week). At least there's a glimmer of light, which makes it seem not so bad. And I generally get home fairly early, which would be nice, if my inability to nap or go to bed early didn't hang on so persistently. I'm getting to know the road to the City well enough to drive it with my eyes closed, and I'm about ready to try. But tomorrow I get to sleep in until almost 7...
There are definitely good parts too--I'm reading a lot, and talking seriously with people. And I get to see a lot of the countryside. And yesterday I got to hang out at one of our new Starbucks popping up (which one of my regular riders perpetually refers to as "Starbuck"). I talked to the lady sweeping up and people who were adulterating their coffee, since my seat was near there (one guy asked me which was cream, so I told him I thought it was the one that said "half and half" sitting right in front). I read L's Father Brown book, and put in a good word for Chesterton to those who asked about my book (but one man told me he only read mysteries). The supervisor told me they wouldn't sell me any more refills. I laughed, which meant he was joking.
Today I told my riders they didn't want to see me without coffee. They thought I was joking.
I'm so tired, N, that I would be breathless giggling at the worst joke you could come up with. And since you're not here, I'm having to make the jokes myself.
Monday, June 26, 2006
from Conversation: a History of a Declining Art
"Swift lists two common faults in conversation that are difficult to remedy: talking about one’s own profession … and ‘impatience to interrupt others, and the Uneasiness of being interrupted ourselves.’ There are also those who suffer from ‘the Itch of Dispute and Contradiction, [and the] telling of Lies.’ And there are people "who are troubled with the Disease called the Wandering of the Thoughts that they are never present in Mind at what passeth in Discourse.’ According to Swift, ‘Whosoever labours under any of these possessions, is as unfit for Conversation as a Mad-man in Bedlam.’"
"‘Good conversation,’ [Swift] says, ‘is not to be expected in much company, because few listen, and there is continual interruption.’"
"Swift has a simple recommendation for improving conversation: include women. He praises the conversation at the court of Charles I: ‘the Methods then used for raising and cultivating Conversation, were altogether different from ours’ because ‘both Sexes … met to pass the Evenings in discoursing upon whatever agreeable Subjects were occasionally started.’"
"‘When [Esther Johnson] saw any of the company very warm in a wrong opinion, she was more inclined to confirm them in it than oppose them. The excuse she commonly gave when her friends asked the reason, was that it prevented noise and saved time.’"
"Swift says that if we lack the ‘useful Pleasure’ of conversation, ‘we are forced to take up either poor Amusements of Dress and Visiting, or the more pernicious ones of Play [gambling], Drink and Vicious Amours.’"
"The New York Times reports that Finland, a country where ‘silence is a sign of wisdom and good manners,’ and where people rarely have conversations during meals, has one of the world’s highest rates of suicide, depression, and alcoholism."
"Yet if conversation suffers from a lack of politeness, it also suffers from an excess of politeness…to question someone’s views is to risk being labeled judgmental or rude or arrogant (or worse)…instead of conversation we have confession…and conversation will languish because of suffocating politeness."
"‘Good conversation,’ [Swift] says, ‘is not to be expected in much company, because few listen, and there is continual interruption.’"
"Swift has a simple recommendation for improving conversation: include women. He praises the conversation at the court of Charles I: ‘the Methods then used for raising and cultivating Conversation, were altogether different from ours’ because ‘both Sexes … met to pass the Evenings in discoursing upon whatever agreeable Subjects were occasionally started.’"
"‘When [Esther Johnson] saw any of the company very warm in a wrong opinion, she was more inclined to confirm them in it than oppose them. The excuse she commonly gave when her friends asked the reason, was that it prevented noise and saved time.’"
"Swift says that if we lack the ‘useful Pleasure’ of conversation, ‘we are forced to take up either poor Amusements of Dress and Visiting, or the more pernicious ones of Play [gambling], Drink and Vicious Amours.’"
"The New York Times reports that Finland, a country where ‘silence is a sign of wisdom and good manners,’ and where people rarely have conversations during meals, has one of the world’s highest rates of suicide, depression, and alcoholism."
"Yet if conversation suffers from a lack of politeness, it also suffers from an excess of politeness…to question someone’s views is to risk being labeled judgmental or rude or arrogant (or worse)…instead of conversation we have confession…and conversation will languish because of suffocating politeness."
Sunday, June 25, 2006
Life
Within the last few days, I have:
1. learned Russian for "butterfly," ("Babutchka"--"Babushka" is Grandma), and heard it for many other things, such as "I don't want to," "lets do ___," "this is," but unfortunately I can't repeat them all.
2. reconnected with my inner horsy nature. Neigh!
3. seen my former dentist as Gloucester in a Shakespeare in the Park. Don't quit your day job (actually, Edmund was pretty evil, and Lear enjoyable--he reminded me a bit of a mad Bilbo Baggins). The best part was right after intermission, when a small boy wandered through the lights, with a small "Daddy?" picked up by the microphones. The ducks also waddled through inimitably.
4. fallen in love. He has wonderful eyes and a wonderful smile, even if he only has six teeth. We don't speak the same language, but we can communicate easily. Unfortunately, he's about 20 years + 10 mos. younger than I am. And then, I may have to keep fighting my sister and all other females for his attention...
Yes, we have missionaries visiting (yay!). Mariya is 2 1/2 and speaks both languages (her mother is Russian), sometimes at the same time. Oh, that I had so much energy! And Lord Peter the Great is walking around in his race car and putting everything in his mouth. They are dolls--and I got to babysit in the nursery today. =) He wasn't very happy to see me, though--he had just fallen asleep when I took him away from his mother, and he opened his eyes and knew I was not her. Oh, well...
1. learned Russian for "butterfly," ("Babutchka"--"Babushka" is Grandma), and heard it for many other things, such as "I don't want to," "lets do ___," "this is," but unfortunately I can't repeat them all.
2. reconnected with my inner horsy nature. Neigh!
3. seen my former dentist as Gloucester in a Shakespeare in the Park. Don't quit your day job (actually, Edmund was pretty evil, and Lear enjoyable--he reminded me a bit of a mad Bilbo Baggins). The best part was right after intermission, when a small boy wandered through the lights, with a small "Daddy?" picked up by the microphones. The ducks also waddled through inimitably.
4. fallen in love. He has wonderful eyes and a wonderful smile, even if he only has six teeth. We don't speak the same language, but we can communicate easily. Unfortunately, he's about 20 years + 10 mos. younger than I am. And then, I may have to keep fighting my sister and all other females for his attention...
Yes, we have missionaries visiting (yay!). Mariya is 2 1/2 and speaks both languages (her mother is Russian), sometimes at the same time. Oh, that I had so much energy! And Lord Peter the Great is walking around in his race car and putting everything in his mouth. They are dolls--and I got to babysit in the nursery today. =) He wasn't very happy to see me, though--he had just fallen asleep when I took him away from his mother, and he opened his eyes and knew I was not her. Oh, well...
Thursday, June 22, 2006
Rustico, Rusticare
Have I ever mentioned that I like living in the country?
I like getting directions like this: "when you come into town, go past first street and second street, and turn on the first paved road" (although, just for clarification, this is unusual even here).
Or someone telling me that when she started dating someone from a town 15 miles away, her dad asked if he couldn't find anyone there, and she replied that they were all related.
Or when someone I meet knows who I am and where I live and talks about calling my next-door neighbor to keep up on the news at our church.
Or when I ask someone if their children live close by, and they reply, sighing heavily, "No. They live in ___ (the next town over)."
But I still don't like Toby Keith.
I like getting directions like this: "when you come into town, go past first street and second street, and turn on the first paved road" (although, just for clarification, this is unusual even here).
Or someone telling me that when she started dating someone from a town 15 miles away, her dad asked if he couldn't find anyone there, and she replied that they were all related.
Or when someone I meet knows who I am and where I live and talks about calling my next-door neighbor to keep up on the news at our church.
Or when I ask someone if their children live close by, and they reply, sighing heavily, "No. They live in ___ (the next town over)."
But I still don't like Toby Keith.
Tuesday, June 20, 2006
Be fuddled, be mused, be wildered
I think that I shall never see
Anything as bewildering as me.
Or bewildered, perhaps. Especially when I wake up at a time I'm not expecting. Witness a conversation between me and my long-suffering roommate after I fell asleep (or after I woke up) on a Sunday afternoon sophomore year:
Me: Oh my goodness! I'm going to be late for class!
S:???
Me: It's 5:00! Why is it so light outside? And where is everyone? I need to get to class!
S: No you don't. It's Sunday. You took a nap.
Me: It's Sunday? I took a nap?!!!
Or between me and my long-suffering sister last week:
Me (shaking, because I slept until the alarm actually went off, and it scared me): C, it's 3:30.
C (groaning at being awakened--it was 3:30): so?
Me: Didn't you ask me to wake you up?
C: No. *(why would I do that when I can sleep?)*
Me: Oh. I guess not. I thought you did. Sorry.
C: zzzz
Or this morning:
Me: Oh, no! It's 3:00! I must have slept through my alarm! I'm an hour late! (leaping from bed, grabbing clothes, heading downstairs. Start to think about how I can make up lost time. Think: I was supposed to pick those people up at 6:00, which means I was going to leave town at 5:30, which means...oh. I was going to sleep until 5.)
I think I'm going to start setting two alarms so I can sleep better.
Otherwise, my day was quite uneventful. Read most of Lord Peter in the waiting room, took a few turns around outside, tried to take a nap (ha!). On the way home, I started hearing a flapping from the off hind tire. Pulled into a driveway to investigate. It wasn't flat, but there was a piece of duct tape sticking to it. I pulled this off, got back in the car, heard nary a noise, and drove off feeling happy.
I've also been reading Ralph Moody's books, and highly recommend them (they start with Little Britches). Fascinating and clearly-written autobiography about a boy/man who becomes the Man of the Family at 11 when his father dies, and how he works to provide for them and himself. Really enjoyable light reading--especially if you happen to like farming and ranching, but fun for anyone.
Anything as bewildering as me.
Or bewildered, perhaps. Especially when I wake up at a time I'm not expecting. Witness a conversation between me and my long-suffering roommate after I fell asleep (or after I woke up) on a Sunday afternoon sophomore year:
Me: Oh my goodness! I'm going to be late for class!
S:???
Me: It's 5:00! Why is it so light outside? And where is everyone? I need to get to class!
S: No you don't. It's Sunday. You took a nap.
Me: It's Sunday? I took a nap?!!!
Or between me and my long-suffering sister last week:
Me (shaking, because I slept until the alarm actually went off, and it scared me): C, it's 3:30.
C (groaning at being awakened--it was 3:30): so?
Me: Didn't you ask me to wake you up?
C: No. *(why would I do that when I can sleep?)*
Me: Oh. I guess not. I thought you did. Sorry.
C: zzzz
Or this morning:
Me: Oh, no! It's 3:00! I must have slept through my alarm! I'm an hour late! (leaping from bed, grabbing clothes, heading downstairs. Start to think about how I can make up lost time. Think: I was supposed to pick those people up at 6:00, which means I was going to leave town at 5:30, which means...oh. I was going to sleep until 5.)
I think I'm going to start setting two alarms so I can sleep better.
Otherwise, my day was quite uneventful. Read most of Lord Peter in the waiting room, took a few turns around outside, tried to take a nap (ha!). On the way home, I started hearing a flapping from the off hind tire. Pulled into a driveway to investigate. It wasn't flat, but there was a piece of duct tape sticking to it. I pulled this off, got back in the car, heard nary a noise, and drove off feeling happy.
I've also been reading Ralph Moody's books, and highly recommend them (they start with Little Britches). Fascinating and clearly-written autobiography about a boy/man who becomes the Man of the Family at 11 when his father dies, and how he works to provide for them and himself. Really enjoyable light reading--especially if you happen to like farming and ranching, but fun for anyone.
Monday, June 19, 2006
South of the Border
"The sun has ris,
The sun has set
And here we is,
In Texas yet."
Or was (were), at any rate.
Yes, we had a very enjoyable time. It was great fun to
meet my dad's relatives he grew up with and see his stomping grounds. My family are very welcoming and likable, and we heard lots of good stories and saw a lot of family resemblences (my dad has a twin uncle). We ate at Jim's (home of the best onion rings in the world) and went to the Alamo, and C almost set off the smoke detector in our room. And we found a trail of Starbucks along the way.
It was only slightly confusing at times, given the gorsy-ness of my family. An example: my great-aunts and uncles started talking about their Aunt Ollie coming. This took me a moment, because Aunt Ollie is also my great (count it- one)-aunt. And, while she is their aunt by marriage, she's a cousin (by marriage) to their step-brothers and sisters. This is because my grandma's half-siblings on her mother's side, although sharing no parent with her half-siblings on her father's side, are their first cousins once removed. No prizes for figuring it out, but you see why it's sometimes difficult to say exactly how someone is related to me (and kind of hard to keep track of their names, as their parents liked alliterative R names ending in ie/y). It might mean that I end up being some kind of cousin to myself, but I haven't gotten that far yet.
On the way back we went the less-interstate and more scenic route, winding around west Texas (not to be confused with West, Texas) hills and between cell phone towers. We started out with water over the road in San Antonio, but by the afternoon it was hot enough that the only water we saw disappeared just before we could get to it. The glare was bright enough that I thought I saw flashing lights in my rear view mirror once.
We wandered around to the metropolis of Santo, stopping at the convenience store to meet Aunt Ollie (yes, the very same). Then we took out across the railroad tracks, down the road, and had to turn around because the bridge was out. After going about twelve miles out of the way, we made it around to the other edge of the bridge, where we turned into someone's driveway and drove past the house and through the gate and across the cattle guard through their pasture, past some inquisitive cows and a calf that dashed across in front of us, through another gate, where my mom waved the flag and I put on my sunglasses/security/motorcade look, across a high railroad crossing where we scraped the bottom of the car, through a couple more gates, and into the East Santo Cemetery.
My family had done some history detection in April, and found, in the very back corner, my great-great-grandparents, Isaiah and Amandy, and an unmarked grave we believe to be that of my great-grandmother, Katherine Serena. After planting some flowers and waving to the engineers of the train going past, we wandered around looking at the graves that had names, all of whom seem to be relatives of some sort or another. C and I had fun running our fingers over mossy slabs trying to make out the letters. One I finally figured was "infants of" who "was borned April 20, 1877." Eventually we headed back to air conditioning and cold drinks and the cookies Aunt Ollie had brought us. CLC said I'm going to be like Aunt Vicky--I let them have cookies before supper.
From there we headed to my mom's twin's house and family, where we spent a short night and morning/afternoon. We girls actually had a slumber party at the neighbors' house, since they weren't there (well, except their daughter) and it was Saturday night with one shower. Then church--their pastor used to be one of my parents' professors in Bible college. He has a marvelous Scottish accent, even if he has given up the bagpipes. Then more food and visiting, and eventually
home.
The sun has set
And here we is,
In Texas yet."
Or was (were), at any rate.
Yes, we had a very enjoyable time. It was great fun to
meet my dad's relatives he grew up with and see his stomping grounds. My family are very welcoming and likable, and we heard lots of good stories and saw a lot of family resemblences (my dad has a twin uncle). We ate at Jim's (home of the best onion rings in the world) and went to the Alamo, and C almost set off the smoke detector in our room. And we found a trail of Starbucks along the way.
It was only slightly confusing at times, given the gorsy-ness of my family. An example: my great-aunts and uncles started talking about their Aunt Ollie coming. This took me a moment, because Aunt Ollie is also my great (count it- one)-aunt. And, while she is their aunt by marriage, she's a cousin (by marriage) to their step-brothers and sisters. This is because my grandma's half-siblings on her mother's side, although sharing no parent with her half-siblings on her father's side, are their first cousins once removed. No prizes for figuring it out, but you see why it's sometimes difficult to say exactly how someone is related to me (and kind of hard to keep track of their names, as their parents liked alliterative R names ending in ie/y). It might mean that I end up being some kind of cousin to myself, but I haven't gotten that far yet.
On the way back we went the less-interstate and more scenic route, winding around west Texas (not to be confused with West, Texas) hills and between cell phone towers. We started out with water over the road in San Antonio, but by the afternoon it was hot enough that the only water we saw disappeared just before we could get to it. The glare was bright enough that I thought I saw flashing lights in my rear view mirror once.
We wandered around to the metropolis of Santo, stopping at the convenience store to meet Aunt Ollie (yes, the very same). Then we took out across the railroad tracks, down the road, and had to turn around because the bridge was out. After going about twelve miles out of the way, we made it around to the other edge of the bridge, where we turned into someone's driveway and drove past the house and through the gate and across the cattle guard through their pasture, past some inquisitive cows and a calf that dashed across in front of us, through another gate, where my mom waved the flag and I put on my sunglasses/security/motorcade look, across a high railroad crossing where we scraped the bottom of the car, through a couple more gates, and into the East Santo Cemetery.
My family had done some history detection in April, and found, in the very back corner, my great-great-grandparents, Isaiah and Amandy, and an unmarked grave we believe to be that of my great-grandmother, Katherine Serena. After planting some flowers and waving to the engineers of the train going past, we wandered around looking at the graves that had names, all of whom seem to be relatives of some sort or another. C and I had fun running our fingers over mossy slabs trying to make out the letters. One I finally figured was "infants of" who "was borned April 20, 1877." Eventually we headed back to air conditioning and cold drinks and the cookies Aunt Ollie had brought us. CLC said I'm going to be like Aunt Vicky--I let them have cookies before supper.
From there we headed to my mom's twin's house and family, where we spent a short night and morning/afternoon. We girls actually had a slumber party at the neighbors' house, since they weren't there (well, except their daughter) and it was Saturday night with one shower. Then church--their pastor used to be one of my parents' professors in Bible college. He has a marvelous Scottish accent, even if he has given up the bagpipes. Then more food and visiting, and eventually
home.
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
Non
I had thought about posting on (among other things) the goodness of Work. However, after a 13 hour workday yest. (beginning around 4) I have decided to pone this post. Instead, I offer you some of the less interesting thoughts I had during the day.
Interesting and/or common driving hazards in my state:
A. wind
B. dirt (see A)
C. animals (deer, coyotes, armadillos, possums, skunks, the most common--wildcats don't get hit very often, and snakes, rabbits, and squirrels, although hit, do not present much hazard; cattle or sheep/goats can also prove a hazard if they get out)
D. cars backing up down Main Street
E. tractors/wheat trucks/combines, etc. driving slowly down the highway
F. little old ladies who can't see over the steering wheel (kids who can't reach the pedals stay on the backroads, so they don't present much of a hazard)
G. people stopped to talk in the middle of the road (not on the highway)
other hazards, although not as common, include the usual rain, sleet, snow, hail. However, it is possible to get stuck in sand without moisture the same way you get stuck in mud or snow.
Other thoughts:
I think I have figured out how people here vote Democrat. It's very simple:
1. Presume that no one else in the world knows anything or is capable of rational thought.
2. Do not attempt rational thought yourself, because you have no need to think, as you already Know.
3. Presume that you are Entitled to Everything at no cost to yourself.
4. Regurgitate (while removing every bit of an attempt at a veneer of logical thought, because you don't need it) something someone told you, believing it to be your own Original Idea (which it now is) because, of course, no one else knows anything.
5. Vote
We have wild turkeys hanging around--they make very interesting noises.
And now, for something like substance:
Please pray for our family over the next few days. My grandmother's step-mother died, and my dad was asked to preach the funeral, so we're all packing up and driving to San Antonio and back, and taking my grandparents. This will be the first time we kids have met a lot of my dad's side of the family (yes, this is a gorsy part of the bush--"Nanny" was the Second Widow). Most of them are not Christians, but my dad says he wouldn't be afraid to be in a dark alley with any of them (and that is a reasonable comment, from what I hear). Please pray for him especially.
Hasta Luego!
Interesting and/or common driving hazards in my state:
A. wind
B. dirt (see A)
C. animals (deer, coyotes, armadillos, possums, skunks, the most common--wildcats don't get hit very often, and snakes, rabbits, and squirrels, although hit, do not present much hazard; cattle or sheep/goats can also prove a hazard if they get out)
D. cars backing up down Main Street
E. tractors/wheat trucks/combines, etc. driving slowly down the highway
F. little old ladies who can't see over the steering wheel (kids who can't reach the pedals stay on the backroads, so they don't present much of a hazard)
G. people stopped to talk in the middle of the road (not on the highway)
other hazards, although not as common, include the usual rain, sleet, snow, hail. However, it is possible to get stuck in sand without moisture the same way you get stuck in mud or snow.
Other thoughts:
I think I have figured out how people here vote Democrat. It's very simple:
1. Presume that no one else in the world knows anything or is capable of rational thought.
2. Do not attempt rational thought yourself, because you have no need to think, as you already Know.
3. Presume that you are Entitled to Everything at no cost to yourself.
4. Regurgitate (while removing every bit of an attempt at a veneer of logical thought, because you don't need it) something someone told you, believing it to be your own Original Idea (which it now is) because, of course, no one else knows anything.
5. Vote
We have wild turkeys hanging around--they make very interesting noises.
And now, for something like substance:
Please pray for our family over the next few days. My grandmother's step-mother died, and my dad was asked to preach the funeral, so we're all packing up and driving to San Antonio and back, and taking my grandparents. This will be the first time we kids have met a lot of my dad's side of the family (yes, this is a gorsy part of the bush--"Nanny" was the Second Widow). Most of them are not Christians, but my dad says he wouldn't be afraid to be in a dark alley with any of them (and that is a reasonable comment, from what I hear). Please pray for him especially.
Hasta Luego!
Sunday, June 11, 2006
Grace and Peace
"He saw me ruined by the fall
Yet loved me notwithstanding all,
He saved me from my lost estate,
His lovingkindness, O how great!"
~Samuel Medley
"God is love, I surely know,
By my Savior's depths of woe.
O how vile my low estate
Since my ransom was so great."
~Robert C. Chapman
Yet loved me notwithstanding all,
He saved me from my lost estate,
His lovingkindness, O how great!"
~Samuel Medley
"God is love, I surely know,
By my Savior's depths of woe.
O how vile my low estate
Since my ransom was so great."
~Robert C. Chapman
Wednesday, June 07, 2006
Silliness
While reading through Eliot, I was reminded of a spoof I wrote during Brit Lit last year. And even though I am now so far separated and graduated, I still remember this feeling. So, for your amusement (one way or the other) I present:
The Paper-Writing Song of -----
And indeed there will be time
Time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And a thousand more revisions;
But how should I begin?
And what should I presume?
I have measured out my term with coffee spoons.
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the coffee, M&Ms, DP,
Among the frenzied late-night ASEs;
Would it have been worth while
If one, setting down a red pen, emptied, by my name
Should say: "That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant at all."
No! I am not Shakespeare, nor was meant to be;
Am full of run-on sentences, not quite acute;
At times, indeed, almost illiterate—
Almost, at times—Forsooth!
I grow old...I grow old...
I shall wear my curlers rolled.
I have lingered at my desk
By books covered with letters black on white
Till my roommate’s voice has waked me, at the end of night.
And would it have been worth it, after all?
The Paper-Writing Song of -----
And indeed there will be time
Time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And a thousand more revisions;
But how should I begin?
And what should I presume?
I have measured out my term with coffee spoons.
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the coffee, M&Ms, DP,
Among the frenzied late-night ASEs;
Would it have been worth while
If one, setting down a red pen, emptied, by my name
Should say: "That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant at all."
No! I am not Shakespeare, nor was meant to be;
Am full of run-on sentences, not quite acute;
At times, indeed, almost illiterate—
Almost, at times—Forsooth!
I grow old...I grow old...
I shall wear my curlers rolled.
I have lingered at my desk
By books covered with letters black on white
Till my roommate’s voice has waked me, at the end of night.
And would it have been worth it, after all?
Monday, June 05, 2006
East of Enid
Soon--going to the City. Visiting man from our church in the hospital, visiting aunt and uncle, returning N to school by means of the airport. And then returning tomorrow, so I can start work. =[
Happy news: Enid now has a Starbucks. ( =D!!!)
Happy news: Enid now has a Starbucks. ( =D!!!)
Sunday, June 04, 2006
In Other Worlds...
If I recollect correctly
Things which never were,
I knew you (with incorrigibility) in a world
Of possibilities,
When Time was not submitted to the tyranny
Of Coming-Into-Being (being thrown),
But we waited for a property, existence,
To pass to us, and through us in the proper way;
Waiting in your eyes I saw things later-than--
Unactualized
In this poor universe
Of pure and simple facts of accidence.
Things which never were,
I knew you (with incorrigibility) in a world
Of possibilities,
When Time was not submitted to the tyranny
Of Coming-Into-Being (being thrown),
But we waited for a property, existence,
To pass to us, and through us in the proper way;
Waiting in your eyes I saw things later-than--
Unactualized
In this poor universe
Of pure and simple facts of accidence.
Saturday, June 03, 2006
Happiness
In lieu of other posts (brewing, but not boiling), I present to you the List of Works (but is it a work, or a text? and where is the Meaning in all of this? or isn't there one?) sitting before me filled with the knowledge of their importance (or the importance of their knowledge?). In top to bottom order (incidentally, it is very pleasant not to be graded on what one is writing. I can stick in as many parentheticals as I jolly well please!):
Tristram (now I know where that name comes from! At least he's not Tramtris!) Shandy
(and speaking of which, H, somehow I walked off with your copy of) Le Morte D'Arthur
The Woman in White, Wilkie Collins
Impressions of Theophrastus (where, I wonder, that one?) Such, George Eliot
The Consolation of Philosophy, Boethius/ The Imitation of Christ, Thomas A Kempis/ Religio Medici, Thomas Browne
The Once and Future King, T. H. White
Aeschylus, Sophocles, Euripides, Aristophanes
Browning and Italy
(and also, being read in between times--and in between innings at baseball games, although they really deserve a Sunday afternoon--,)
Collected Poems, T.S. Eliot
Selected Works of Robert Browning
Bring Me a Unicorn, A.M.L. (mine! my own, my--)
(Oh, that I had one of the many languages at the disposal of the previous authors for an intelligent and educated-sounding interjection of happiness)
Works I tried to get, but not there when N went to the Enid Library with my list:
The Divine Comedy, trans. Esolen or Sayers
Bleak House, Dickens
The Hunchback of Notre Dame, Hugo
The War of the Roses, Desmond Seward
The Iliad
and Unknown Books
Just finished All the King's Men, Robert Penn Warren. A Fascinating and Gripping and Thinking and Imaginative sort of book, although anyone interested should also be warned that it contains some objectionable content and a good deal of objectionable language. But it re-inspired (good or bad) my love of Reading to the Exclusion of All Else (When my mother saw N return from the library, she said "Oh, no.")
Also intending to re-read (much slower and more thoroughly) history and philosophy sorts of books.
This sounds very ambitious (notice, I haven't touched the more-so ones yet),
But where shall I begin? And what should I presume?
(does anyone have any suggestions? for what to read Next? or additions or subtractions or multiplications or vectors or mathematical sorts of things to do to my list? I want the Right One.) In the meantime, I sit and looook at them, with a similar expression to that inspired by Dr. Pepper, nectar divine (and not even by Lord Goring, or others who shall rename mainless).
Tristram (now I know where that name comes from! At least he's not Tramtris!) Shandy
(and speaking of which, H, somehow I walked off with your copy of) Le Morte D'Arthur
The Woman in White, Wilkie Collins
Impressions of Theophrastus (where, I wonder, that one?) Such, George Eliot
The Consolation of Philosophy, Boethius/ The Imitation of Christ, Thomas A Kempis/ Religio Medici, Thomas Browne
The Once and Future King, T. H. White
Aeschylus, Sophocles, Euripides, Aristophanes
Browning and Italy
(and also, being read in between times--and in between innings at baseball games, although they really deserve a Sunday afternoon--,)
Collected Poems, T.S. Eliot
Selected Works of Robert Browning
Bring Me a Unicorn, A.M.L. (mine! my own, my--)
(Oh, that I had one of the many languages at the disposal of the previous authors for an intelligent and educated-sounding interjection of happiness)
Works I tried to get, but not there when N went to the Enid Library with my list:
The Divine Comedy, trans. Esolen or Sayers
Bleak House, Dickens
The Hunchback of Notre Dame, Hugo
The War of the Roses, Desmond Seward
The Iliad
and Unknown Books
Just finished All the King's Men, Robert Penn Warren. A Fascinating and Gripping and Thinking and Imaginative sort of book, although anyone interested should also be warned that it contains some objectionable content and a good deal of objectionable language. But it re-inspired (good or bad) my love of Reading to the Exclusion of All Else (When my mother saw N return from the library, she said "Oh, no.")
Also intending to re-read (much slower and more thoroughly) history and philosophy sorts of books.
This sounds very ambitious (notice, I haven't touched the more-so ones yet),
But where shall I begin? And what should I presume?
(does anyone have any suggestions? for what to read Next? or additions or subtractions or multiplications or vectors or mathematical sorts of things to do to my list? I want the Right One.) In the meantime, I sit and looook at them, with a similar expression to that inspired by Dr. Pepper, nectar divine (and not even by Lord Goring, or others who shall rename mainless).
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