Twas the night before New Year

I feel compelled to write something to usher out the old year - to somehow acknowledge the passing of Time - despite any inability to control said Time, although I may certainly control how I use it! Itsa curious thing, Time I mean. I tend to write quite a bit about it, contemplate it, ever since learning my Einstein and then reinforcing that with Agustine, although it ought to be the other way around, but there's the public school system for you! "All our yesterdays have lighted fools the path to dusty death." I should hope I never become Macbeth-y, or Havesham-y. *brrr*

But it is awe-full to sit and consider time, and the weight of time, the current inexorability of time - and then to counter that with the uselessness of time in Heaven, or to God. Were we to allow ourselves to be crushed by any of the dimensions - the third, materialistic, the fourth, temporal - I imagine we should all throw up our hands and become absurdists, or at least yell with Auden, "Oh let not Time deceive you! You cannot conquer Time!" From this mentality comes all the extremes of the pendulum, the gnostics, the hedonists, the epicurians, the puritans - all those who don't know what to do with the body in time because it's all so fleeting. The middle two declare that it's fleeting, so one ought to live it up and then kill oneself. The first says it's all garbage so you might as well live it up or give it up entirely and then kill oneself. The last says that it's all evil, so one ought to abjure it altogether and wait to die.

However, there is another route - and it does not fall between the this and the that "lies the shadow" as Eliot would put it - but rather the knowledge that what is here is NOT evil (although we may use it so), but only a foretaste of what is to come. Consider, I tell the students frequently that Heaven is outside of Time as we know it, and so it is - but just as it is the perfection of all that is and could be and ought to have been, so Time there, one presumes, is perfected too - that is, there is just enough of it and we do not waste it and it HAS no end. Curious to think - we always forget and accord Time divine properties - that Time has an ending, too. In fact, Time must be defined by its finiteness, by its beginnings and endings, just as we ourselves are so defined in our third dimention. But our soul is not finite, nor is it bound by either of those two things which are finite. Yet when those two things are perfected, it shall join the soul once more. The soul absolute, I should mention - absolute in its perfection or its dissolution. And the only finiteness which shall exist will be that the souls who reject God create themselves. Who was it who said, "The Gates of Hell are locked from the inside." Huh - Hell is infinite finiteness. Wuh. Gah. Don't go there. Neverending nothingness. Eternal ending. Blaugh.

So, lessee, must finish said letters. Will send off tomorrow. Was barred from doing so today by visit of Kr. Pru. Loverly visit. Must write to my FUS profs. In other news, Ruse has ended. What? Why? Aaaaaaaaaaaaugh! How will I be satisfied never knowing whether Simon and Emma ever got together? Whether Simon has a sigil pin for a reason? What Emma's gifts are? What happens to Partington? Noooooooooo! There's so much world left to explore! I am quite put out! :( Why is it, precious, that they are constantly KILLING the best comic book lines. Hrumph. Nicht so frolich! Pas de TOUT. I have modified a smallish picture of myself from college to be Rss. Evangeline Green. May change later on, I hope. Put on a huge hat. Amazing what Photoshop can do. See, all those years playing with paper dolls have finally paid off! Sad, isn't it, when drawing becomes another form of dress-up? Not sad, perhaps - rather, extension of what is good in childhood into meaningful goodness in adulthood. Randominity: I don't have to chaperone any more dances! (Unless they force me to do prom. Please, God, no.)

Right, right. Off to (really, really) finish up loose ends. Quite at a loss re: what was at the Vieux Lu. Must figure out if Vieux Lu is the Palais Juste, or whether Palais Juste is on different grounds? Seems far more likely that they are one and the same. Shoot - must double check last article written, then. And what exactly did Prince Alexi do? And HOW did they catch him? Lessee - Juste is, what, 25 now? So he was...12 when the latest nialten happened. I'm guessing that he had something to do with being able to overthrow the local branch of Reyjori. Drat. Must come up with more substantial history than the one I currently have vaguely floating around in les petites celles gris(e? - prob. bad Franglais anywho). Note to self: stop writing like BJD! Right, so obviously the main folk who needed overflowing were the Khlaov and the Khlaovnja, and their kids. But that's in Reyjori proper (nearish Cimoren or no?). Can't think that ill of Alexi at moment - I mean I don't, not that others couldn't. Anywho, so...he spliced together animals. What sort would he have on hand? One's local variety of course, but they had trade with...need name of continent rather than what currently stands: the triumverate of D, H & DK. So...he'd have had access to more exotic Serengheti-type stuff. Which he then spliced together and...were they killed? Did he splice them together with MACHINERY? I'm thinking that the Second Khlaov was way big into technology, yes? Which is then kept during this particular nialten, and then the Third Khlaov rose - is THAT the one with the Ori? Or was this one. Imp. point - must consider. And THEN they not only smashed sorcery but technology - with exception of Factory and other such useful things that Wardens controlled - which makes me wonder whether Wardens exist at this point? Naw - they must rise later, yes? Or do we have Wardens NOW? Because they survived through all these nialten....

Pete wants me to watch Willow. I shall take my computer with me, and MST3K the heck out of it whilst writing furiously about the Fete and/or the death of Alexi. Poor guy. Perhaps I ought to start with that second and see what Alexi says for himself. Now what am I trying to say? Or am I saying anything - or rather, am I trying to make folk see humanity as more than compartmentalization?

Mood: Perplexed
Music: Enigma, taking the place of Dangerous Beauty. Neither one is giving proper mood. Shall soon be bad Willow music. Will laugh heartily.
Thunk: Ah, White Zinfandel tonight. Yee-HAW. All quarter glass of it! (Oy.)
What the HECK is that ad? C'est moi! Much manipulated. And wigged. And birded. (Cerebellumed!) Tee hee hee!

Josh Groban & BJD

An odd combination. I have taken the majority of today off - I doubt I'll end up taking the night off, insomniac that I am - and have finished reading The Da Vinci Code. Utter stupidity. Painful at best. Ran errands which included a trip to the library where...my book is on the shelf! I happened to face it out. Near the JKR books. ...snicker.... Picked up BJD since I'm feeling non-fantasist and to read someone else's epist. novel (kinda) to see how she did it re: mucking with time, etc. Well written if completely modern British. Rather sad, really. Can people - DO most people - really live like this? Really believe this? How terrible! Regardless, rather funny. Images of the movie actors overshadow everything, giving it flesh as it were. V. helpful. And now I am writing like her - augh! It's like when I spoke in a southern accent while reading Gone With the Wind.

Fortunately, I wrote about 1.6K words last night. Hurrah! I'm about to finish up writing Giselle's account of the Liberation Fete, and then I'll finish up Dr. Snow's account of his trip to Celestime, and then I'll print it all out, proof it and send it off tomorrow afternoon. Hip hip hoorah! Still have to make a picture for the last Thine Ocular cutting. Am thinking of making it a cutting and not the full page. Hrumph!

And now to dinner. Or rather, to sit with family whilst they eat. I have a tech meeting tonight. Not particularly nervous, thank God. However, I'm never very good when I have something LOOMING late in the day. I feel as though I can't do anything BEFORE said "Loom Point." It's the reason I hate working part-time. I end up wasting so many hours WAITING for my work to begin.

BJD is not realistic. That is to say, I've no doubt it's highly factual and that such lives are lived all over the modern western secular world...but it is a fantastic, unrealistic way to live. It is not truthful. It is not neeful. Who was it? Eliot? Who wrote that wonderful phrase: "Unreal city." That's BJD. My room smells of gingerbread candle. *snerk* Josh Groban's newest CD is mournfully crooning in the player. I think I'll turn him over for something else when I come back down to write for a bit before I leave. Loverly conversation with Jules late last night - about nothing in particular. My goodness, can she sew! GORGEOUS gown she made herself. Once again, I am full of dress-envy. But I'm really pleased for her and massively impressed. This is not a skill I have (or rather, one I probably COULD have but have no desire to acquire at the moment). It is not a passion I have might better way of putting it. I am so glad things are not weird at my house. Pete finished The Carniverous Carnival. He seems to be feeling better. And I am full of randominity!

Mood: Existential
Music: Josh Groban, something Italian-sounding
Thought: Curious that soy in lasagna can taste like meat. Whoda thunk?

Walk through my door

I am substantially stuck for the first time this vacation for what to write. My brain has gone *ppppft.* Not helping this is the stumbling upon a journal wherein my surname (in regards to myself) is mentioned unfavorably and then ambigiously--the first by one who presumably knows me and yet whom I don't know whatsoever. What is that about eavesdroppers, whether they be electronic or not, receiving precisely what they deserve? Regardless, the reading of the unfavorable opinion of myself, of what I do, and of what I believe, was...surprising to say the least (particularly even more so since I do not know the speaker). I think I'll take my sister's perennial advice and stop reading reviews, as it were! *sigh*

In other news, I'm nearly done with The Da Vinci Code. I've had a faboo time writing all over its margins, refuting it--but alas more frequently yawning at it. At the risk of perpetrating the very thing that made me saddened, I must admit that this book is VERY badly written, particularly in its repetitiveness again in which it repeats things redundantly...in case the obtuse reader can't recall what happened two pages ago. Give me Terry Pratchett please! Ah well.

Saw Peter Pan last night. Despite some flaws and reworkings of the plot, I enjoyed it immensely. It was rather like watching a moving Maxwell Parrish picture--GORGEOUS lighting. It ought to win an Oscar for lighting at least, if not for effects as well: Tink was tres impressive, and Pan's shadow was better than I'd ever imagined it. Jason Isaacs needs to wear wigs and 17th century garb more often (most men do). :) Other viewings have included Down With Love in which it is reaffirmed that Ewan MacGregor was meant to be a darkie, and the...aherm...tail end of Babe which brought me to sniffles. I've been using Mom's car lately which is currently playing Julie's "Concerning Hobbits" Tape. On it is the hobbit suite by the guy who composed an LOTR symphony--my copy of which broke (dunno why it broke, it simply decided to crack in half one day)--and which, when listening to it, makes me whimper, "Oooooh-ho! Saaaaaaaaaaam!"

Which brings me to Krissy-tina's phone call last night. Merveilleux! (Sp?) It was superloverly to chat until a ridiculous midnight with her about this, that and the other. She teased me to no end about fearing to go nuts with my hair, she the combat-booted one. She is quite right. But whilst comparing...aherm...Regency notes, as it were, she started laughing at me, saying as though in my voice, "Why, I could never even consider marriage to a man who was not bent upon improving himself!" LOL! So true, and so well put. I must put that in a novel somewhere. I'm wondering if I can get Giselle to say it somewhere--I think I may be able to. And somewhere, as K pointed out, I must also put in the whole scene that happened at Sh.'s wedding rehearsal reception when I was exonerated from dating EE by the very woman who has more or less adopted him. Such validations happen infrequently in real life.

But here's a question: right, so in the heavenly scheme, we ARE living a part of the great story so, ought we be truly surprised if "story moments" happen in real life? And after all, isn't art in some senses a mirror of life?

I'd like to be more M&My. Alas, oranges et al are not around at the moment. Which is good because I need to keep writing this dumb novel. Actually, not dumb at all. I'm really enjoying it--except of course when it screeches to a halt. Putting my years on the Cardinal to good use, writing up all sorts of articles for the pseudo-newspaper. I've promised it to Arx this week, and am confident that I'll be able to get it off by Wed. at the latest--presuming the printers have ceased striking, that is. And then, alas, I must do my other jobs: blocking sheets, more blocking sheets, Rumplestilkskin-worthy-heaps of paperwork and grading and lesson plans. I know it's horrible, but I'd forgotten how much I really enjoy waking up each day, getting breakfast, making small talk, and then spending the majority of the day before my screen writing, with occasional stints upstairs, out on errands, and my daily constitutional. I shall especially miss my daily consitutional. My time is going to be so tightly planned for the next three months, I'll be surprised if I remember to breathe. This is not conducive to living. And of course I want to live as soon as my dreams of being ridiculously overworked are realized. I am linty.

And this has been an utter waste of space. But y'know what--not all thoughts are great, and were I not attempting to jump-start my writing juices I'd be obsessively playing Free Cell in an even MORE futile attempt to jump-start myself. I'm up to 20 wins in a row already. Far better to write drivel just to get my body back in the habit of typing away than upping my score by another 20 consecutive wins. Ah the dilemma! (Di-lem-ma. DEE-lem-maaaaaugh.)

Off I go! Just and Giselle, here I come! Gonna make it...gonna make it....

Mood: *thunk thunk thunk*
Music: Gaelic Storm, Tree - we need something cheerful, precious. Too many baroque symphonies can drive us mad!
Thought: Praise God for folk coming over Wed. & Fri. - sigh PoP meeting tomorrow night - sigh even more that freedom is cut short in six more days. And Em, honestly babe, not everyone's going to like you. You don't like everyone. Silly rabbit!
Yes please!: See the picture over yonder. Sigh. Robin Hood! Errol Flynn! Now that's a kiss! None of this sloppy stuff that's on TV these days. Oh, and I want her wardrobe. It was so sad when Jules and I went to see Peter Pan, we kept gripping each other every time we saw another one of Mrs. Darling's (aka Jane Fairfax!) gowns. Yes Please!
What Made My Day: My ever-wunderschoene Julie-San! WHEEEEEEEE! Oh, that and taking a walk with Mumsy this afternoon.
What Ruined My Day: Me. But not by a lot.
The Purpose and Meaning of Microsoft Excel Spread Sheets: To Make CALENDARS For My Novels! Glory glory halleluja! Yes, precious, thank God we can know what day so and so sent a letter and when such and so received it and whether they crossed paths and precisely in what order everything happened...so we can PLAY with it and MESS with READERS MINDS!!! Bwahahahahhahahahah! Oh, and we've got to seriously cut back on the accent marks over letters.
What I Ought To Do At Some Point: Reread all my JA stuff to get a "feel" again for that time period. Giselle is so Regency. Poor thing. I quite feel for her.

Question:

Why is it, that when one does not agree with an action of a person, one is accused of hating the person and not the action? The two are related but do not - or ought not necessarily - make up the same thing. If I am a person doing good things, I would hope that someone else can look at the good things I do and approve of them jointly AND separately from who I am and who I am becoming. Likewise, if I am a person doing bad things, I would hope that someone else can look at the bad things I do and disapporve of them jointly AND separately from who I am and who I am becoming.

Regard those students I have who are into drug culture. I despise, loathe and will not tolerate within my sphere of influence their behaviour...but I love, cherish and welcome my students fully within my life. I recognize that what they do does not wholly make up who they are. However, I am also not so ignorant to wholly divorce action and being. What they do in part defines who they are, or who they want to be, or who they have in spite of themselves become. Thus, I can love who they are at HEART while despising that which they have grafted onto themselves which ought not be any part of themselves - which is, in fact, drawing themselves away from who they ought to be. Drugs narrow a person to a nothingness. I can despise this nothingness BECAUSE I love the person. I can despise the action which takes away their personage.

Same thing for other actions which are, in this present age - and only in the past forty years, really; century if you'd like to stretch it - considered "controversial subjects." I'm speaking, of course, about all those subjects having to do with one of Freudian's primal urges, or what Rousseau and Hitler called the means of controlling society, or what millenia of regular Joes have simply called the natural family. I am speaking about the whole gamut of means whereby we may either prevent life or destroy it: abortion, birth control, pre-and-extra-marital sexual relations, homosexuality, assisted suicide, euthenasia. Were we to side wholly with Darwin's social theory, we should rather demand that for the fittest to survive "the world must be peopled!" (to switch to Shakespeare :).

Yet those who beg for life are "fundie gay-haters" who apparently want to kill those with same-sex inclinations? All those who oppose abortion are naturally those who would blow up an abortion mill at a moment's notice (which is why 99.9% of protestations against abortion are non-violent? Do we point out the Civil Rights riots or do we champion Martin Luther King? Unfortunately, there are always wackos who garner publicity rather than EVERYONE ELSE who is simply and peacefully exercizing their right to assembly). Those who would deny a person's right to kill themselves are naturally in league with Nazis (who would champion such a death - ironic and self-defeating and self-accusing accusation! "Methinks the lady doth protest too much").

All this vitrolific is merely that. Sprung from well-meaning hearts that nevertheless believe a general idea that has been fed them that those who stand for life are those who would take it. 1984 anyone? Rather, why not believe that those who stand for life are FOR life? That those who stand for life can separate action from being; that they can hate an action because it is killing the person and wholly love the person despite their actions? Why is there the frequent supposition that those who are for life desire their opponents deaths...unless those who are so supposing themselves desire their opponents deaths and thus presume the same mentality on others?

This is the culture of death: someone opposes the culture of death; he must be killed.

This is the culture of life: someone opposes the culture of life; he must be brought to reason, and if he cannot be reasoned with yet we must provide him with laws that will at least keep him from making choices that will be detrimental to his and others' health, and if he still seeks out death by his own means then we will have done all that we could.

Simply put: there are some "rights" which cannot be allowed - which are, in fact, not "rights" at all.

In America, we have been told time and again that we have the right to "life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness." To LIFE, to liberty - that is freedom TO do something, that is something that is within bounds of the first which is LIFE - and to the pursuit of HAPPINESS - not pleasure, not convenience, not comfort, although these things are certainly part of happiness, but happiness as the philosophers tell us (and our Founding Fathers were nothing if not well-vesed in their philosophers!) is longer lasting, is transcendent, is not a "quick fix," is in fact the pursuit of eternity. And whether we like it or not, each of us feels written on his heart this feeling that he must confront eternity - and eternity with a someone who will either be pleased or displeased with our actions, a someone who loves us but who can also see whether we have embraced who we were meant to be in life and through liberty, or whether we have abandoned goodness for simple expedient highs.

Hence, there are some things which, legally, cannot be allowed as a right. First and foremost among them must be that no one has the right to take a life from another person. The only exceptions must be in those situations of self-defense, either on a personal or a social level. And by self-defense, I do not mean the defense of selfishness - such is the reason for most abortions, uses of birthcontrol, assisted suicide and euthenasia, wherein to allow life is an "inconvenience" (how much more self-centered can we become?!) - but rather if one's own life (ability to draw breath, not to have a cushy income), whether individually or as a nation, is positively and actively threatened by another party. We do not allow the right to murder - why ought we allow murder of infants and grandparents and those unwanted?

Moreover, we do not have the right to abuse our own bodies and to deny ourselves the right to life, except again in self-sacrifice of one's life FOR another, such as in martyrdom or in wars. This one is a bit more tricky because everyone does have the incontravenable right to free will, that is moral choice, which is itself defended by God for our benefit and through His justice, mercy and unconditional love. So I ought not exercize my right of free will to kill myself either by a slow or a quick death. If a student threatens suicide, we intervene immediately: the threat to the student's life is immediate. If a student is caught with alcohol or drugs, we attempt to intervene immediately: the threat to the student's life is perhaps a longer journey to ruin, and yet we can see the road and legally and individually attempt to keep him away from ruin.

If a student is engaging in pre-marital sex, we ought not throw condoms at her: STDs slip through condoms, and thus we have just encouraged a slow death. Moreover, by encouraging sexuality outside of its place, we may have condemned her to pre-cancerous cells in her uterus, we may have just thrown off her entire reproductive organs, we may have helped her contract endometriosis, cervical cancer, infertility, blood-clots, cysts...the list goes on. By throwing the pill at her we've upped her chances for breast cancer and therefore have ourselves been the cause of her eventual death. Moreover, we may have ruined emotionally her ability to ever fully commit herself to any man and thus mucked with her psychosis, and emotional stability of any children she and her potential-ex(s) might have, and the ruination goes on. Moreover, we are upping the potential that she MIGHT get pregnant anyway and thus abort her baby and thus we have been the cause of the death of an infant.

Homosexual activity is likewise physically damaging. Although AIDS has since moved into the heterosexual sphere it certainly was prevalent initially in the homosexual circles. Homosexual culture does not promote monogomy but rather a series of increasingly meaningless "quick pleasure fixes" which have a damaging effect on the self-esteem of one engaging in such a lifestyle. He will eventually feel cheapened and yet unable to see any means of breaking the cycle, because of an ever-increasing need for love and attention - no matter how fleeting. For more on how emotionally and physically damaging participation in a homosexual lifestyle can be, see here: Eve Tushnet, a Catholic-convert who is still struggling to live chastely despite a same-sex attraction, ditto for Sed Contra aka David Morrison, who is also one of the members of Courage. For more health risks, take a look here.

We abhor pornography because it is degrading to those who make it, and degrades those who view it. (See my previous article on this.) We abhor smoking because it burns the lungs. We abhor tripping because it burns the mind. We abhor overeating (and I can attest to this) because it is a slow death. Why, then, are we not constant in viewing the difference between action and person? I am fat but I hope I am loveable. A good friend of mine smokes, and yet I don't despise him. Action and being are different; the one impacts the other for better or worse, but to desire a certain action out of a person's life does not desire the termination of that PERSON, rather the termination of that ACTION so the person may live.

Perhaps the answer is that the more sunk you are in something, the more you make that thing your identity. I certainly am sunk in my drama - and that is part of my identity. Should that become the ENTIRETY of my identity, I'll worry. Because anything to excess is bad. To engage in various actions which have a culture all their own is for the person himself to confuse his action with himself. I engage in drug culture, thus to criticise my actions is to criticise me because I AM my drugs. Same thing with sexuality: "don't tell me to stop because this is all of who I am."

Get out! Breathe the free air! There is more to each individual than occupation! I'm very much afraid I'm going to continue to refuse to allow anyone to define themselves solely by an action - good or bad, but particularly bad. I'm afraid I'm going to keep loving the whole person. Let me be Sam! "I can't carry [this burden] for you, Mr. Frodo...but I can carry you!"

Hmmmph!

Mood: Silly people. Oy.
Music: The Essential Baroque in prep for delving back into the Sable Valentine.
Randominity: Wicked, wicked cool logo for the newspaper Thine Ocular - tres proud of it. Can't wait to figure out the Happenny Press. Tee hee hee! Jules's stuff re: the Island of Carooga is faboo. And The Da Vinci Code is badly written! Oy! "Why are you telling me this?" Gah! Why in the world is this a best-seller? More on THAT later! ;P Right, off to write the exploits of Juste.

"Silence is deep as Eternity,
speech is shallow as Time."

~ Thomas Carlyle

Quite a bit to report, yet no current inclination to do so. I am free, I am free, I am free. For two weeks I am, more or less, free. Free to write The Sable Valentine. Free to sit down and converse at length with Mom. Free to see LOTR:ROTK (twice, precious!) without constantly worrying about the Next Thing/Appointment/Rehearsal I Must Do. Free to wear jeans. Free to dye my hair a slightly deeper auburn (sometime this vacation! It's something I've had the dye for, for the past two years but have never gotten around to doing or have been prevented by fear of looking silly before admininstration/students/folks I have to keep a certain profile around. But now that my position is securing itself better - or at least, I am less fearful of keeing it secured, it is at last time to deepen those reds already in my hair! Yippee! :). Free to burn the many candles at my disposal thanks to wonderful students. Free to wear fuzzy slippers. Free to organize costume-y stuff for MSND. Free to finish blocking for both that and Pirates. Free to enjoy music as more than background noise. Free to play gin rummy with Mum and whoever decides to join in. Free to consider knitting scarves with Jules. Free to take long, long walks with occasional bursts of running. Free to visit Sh. Free to take a better look at my accounts and consider that long-awaited external HD. Free to perhaps edit (but write first, write first). Free to perhaps use a Biore strip (ooooh, the shocking scandal! The self-indulgence!). Free to play the piano more and less violently. Free to enjoy Christmas lights. Free to enjoy Christmas. Free to sing at vigil Mass. Free free free!

And I am happily content. On to writing! *siiiiiiiiiiigh* :)

And finally, "Oh-ho! Saaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaam!!!"

Mood: Goony smile and vanilla scent
Music: Schindler's List with a long line-up of "mood music" for TSV.
Prayer: Little Patrick and little Robin, please pray for us! Pray for your brother, and your mom and for dad to get a job. Pray for us all. Lift us, like Sam lifted Frodo, and guide us to salvation to meet with you at last. Amen.

Thine was the prophet’s vision, thine

The exaltation, the divine
Insanity of noble minds,
That never falters nor abates,
But labors and endures and waits,
Till all that it foresees it finds
Or what it can not find creates.

~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, "Keramos"

The children's eyes see too much;
They peek round corners,
Poke into truths ill-hid
Beneath a placid Mona Lisa smile
Or the diplomatic word.

Their lips, with bubble-laughter
Hide secret pricks, that burst
The slim and slippery facade,
The many-hued oiliness
Of one's so-careful layered face.

They see too much, and speak too much as well.
Their eyes are sharp, their quips acute,
Their grins a razor, delicately slid upon the skin -
They sever.

How to stanch the flow of blood?
A smile will not do - and so I frown;
Distance becomes a bandage
And chillness a scab.

I close my mouth lest other words slip out
Than those I have so fragiley composed.
I lower my eyes when you enter the room;
I blush when you sit near me.

They see too much - they sever.

The blood they spilt in carelessness
Creeps upward from my heart
Into my very cheeks.
It leaks from toe to fingertip,
Suffuses my brow and lips -
It blinds me.

I cannot let another see
What these children saw.
I cannot see the truth myself.
Run from it, hide from it -
(Strange that children's laughter
Should still affect the soul)
Trap it in a box and cover it with earth.

If I run fast enough, will time reverse itself?
Stop up the mouth that first trapped me -
Keep myself from turning -
Smooth my features, suffer nonchalance -
Brave further whispers
And smile when you arrive?

(Whispers beneath well-gloved hands
Between young girls just old enough
To wonder at those older than themselves.
Their eyes pursue me - they see, farseeing -
I run, yet hear their laughter still.)

Hide your hearts, all those in first blush, do!
Bind them deep within your breasts,
Let nothing flush them out -
Not laughter, nor accusation, nor knowing eyes.
Hide your hearts.

Else, brought forth too soon they shall whither and die
Like a babe before his time,
Or the bud plucked before in bloom -
We all shall whither and die.

But in our time, oh in our proper time!
Until then, look not at me,
Nor wonder when I raise not my eyes
(Eyes that solely long) to look again on you.

Mood: Confuzzled and self-kicking
Music: Norah Jones Come Away With Me which Is Not Helping
Various Other: Y'know, I manage to dramatize everything? Thirteen stinking hours at work today. But, alleluia, great retreat for the Sophomores. So, I'll forget my own stupidities if their souls were in anyway drawn to God. Progress Reports finished for the nonce. St. Anthony - I need to find that one paper, please! So tired! Good auditions this afternoon. First auditions I ever felt completely calm before - most likely due to the stress of everything else. Concerned that I don't have enough actors yet. Aaaaaaaah! More auditions on Thursday and Friday. Chaperoning dance on Friday. Full full full week. I'd love to sit down and just be with my family. I come home and more or less fall down face first on my bed. Or rather, I had a few days there - maybe a week - of wonderful discussions. I sincerely hope I haven't blown in it. I'm just ubersensitive. What's up with this? I can speak candidly of so much, and then when faced with that one fault of my character (not that there aren't plenty faults - but this one in particular) I grow distressed. I'm like a hawk caught by her jesses. But caught by whom? By what? When? That ought to be its own poem. I'll need to think about that. My many apologies for the above poetry - poor, I know. Deal. Tired tired tired. Gute nacht.
What made my day: Reading A. McC's quarterly
What ruined my day: See above; my own emotions; progress reports
What I hope for tomorrow: A sudden surge of energy and joy!

Round and round, like a dance of snow

In a dazzling drift, as its guardians, go
Floating the women faded for ages,
Sculptured in stone on the poet’s pages.

~ Robert Browning, "Women and Roses"

Many thanks to bartleby.com for providing a link to Bartlett's Famous Quotations!, without which I would not have known that Browning poem.

Shovelled today - snow and snow and snow. Snow that sticks to shovels. Snow that covers ice beneath the snow. Snow that will not lift from the pavement. Snow that gets in socks. Snow that sprays back into one's face from where one threw it. Snow that stings one's cheeks. Snow that numbs one's ears. Snow that drifts in odd, solid-seeming, sweeping sculptures. Pristine snow; slushed snow; snow that drags on tire wheels. Snow that defies salting. Snow that bars the way to Mass. Snow that keeps one all inside and think of chocolate in the pot. Advent snow that hastens fathers to frying pans where pancakes in fantastical shapes are made. Homely snow that brings mothers downstairs with cups of tea and books on Chesterton, to sit in silence with daughters who grade avalanches of papers (alas that the papers are less unique than snowflakes!). Snow that might make school an impossibility, and rehearsal, too - interfering snow. Snow that comes to prove that at least one season in New England knows what month it is! Snow that excites with the thought of delayed openings, late mornings slept in, exercise begotten of necessity. Snow that muffles the last hope of fading autumn, that strains the muscles on the ill-created shovel, that throws into disarray the best laid plans of mice and men. Snow that turns us to lighting candles. Snow that melts off shoes and into carpets. Snow that demands grilled cheese sandwiches and tomatoe soup. Snow that is lovely to look upon. Snow in crisp, cool air that warms he who does not fear it. Snow that promises Russian melodies. Snow that conjures up dreams of books read in armchairs. Anastasia snow; Elspeth snow; Schindler snow. Pillow my dreams, clothe me in whiteness, chill my heart beneath the snow until spring comes again.

Mood: Nicht so bose, danke
Music: Music by Which One Mellows I - lots of Russian-type stuff, actually
Thought: Not particularly sure whether I'd prefer it to continue snowing or not.

Pretty


Maine is your state. It's pretty and nice and
quiet and not crowded. I love Maine, so do
you.


What State Is Perfect For You?
brought to you by Quizilla

Or, if you prefer:


You're so sick of quizzes that you have gone so far
as to transform into this bottle of Windex
window cleaner.


HOW SICK ARE YOU OF QUIZZES???????
brought to you by Quizilla

The snow is falling, the cars are up to the tops of their tires, the windowsill is waiting for a photographer and tomorrow we shovel and most likely go to an evening mass. And I? I am going to bed.

Mood: Sleepy
Music: The Two Towers - uber-special edition
Thought: Precious of late, non? I'm afraid I've no thought worth writing at the nonce! Perhaps tomorrow. (And tomorrow and tomorrow - huh, suddenly that whole speech of Macbeth's takes on new meaning. To think that he is speaking also of procrastination, of the "unexamined life [which] is not worth living." Shakespeare read in light of Socrates....)

Weeeell, maybe just a leeeetle chocolat...

First for the stupid quiz du jour (I was sure I'd be French...):


You are an Italian.


What's your Inner European?
brought to you by Quizilla

And now onward and upward! Upstairs, that is. Pirates of the Caribbean on! Waaaah-hahahahha! Johnny Depp! *sobs and slumps onto the floor.* Better stuff most likely later. Nyah.

Mood: Snerk...POMF...Fwah. About real life, too. Pppptht!
Music: Evanescence. At odds with the mood, but suitably dramatic
Thought: FWAH! Did I mention Fwah? Yeah. Fwah-diddity-fwah. Neener. ...snerk...

Sing it with me, now!

Ooooooooooooooooooooooooooh!!!
What a beautiful moooorning!
Oh! What a beautiful daaaaaay!
I've got a beautiful feeeeeeeeeeling,
Everything's going my way!

I've watched two movies this ni-ight,
Two romantic movies this ni-ight,
They're not very helpful in clear reasoning...
But when chocolate is needed, they're just the thing!

Oh, what a loverly Daaaaarcy!
Oh, Colin your jaw's just sublime!
Brendan Frasier I thank your good acting
(And your skintone is simply divine).

Poor actors are viewed just like cattle,
Poor actors are used just like cattle -
We poke and we brand, want our movies well-done...
And I can't think of a clever rhyme to extend this paltry metaphoooooooooor!

Oh, Fever Pitch was just aaaaawful!
Oh, With Honors is awf'lly PC
Tonight is Horatio Hoooornblower!
(Thank God for the Beee-Beee-Ceeee!)
And thank God for Peeeee-AAAAAND-P!

Mood: Dreamy. Snerk.
Music: Washing machine's going. I have done something productive this morning!
Thought: I had meant to write a poem beginning with "The hands begin the dance" or something to the like. I may yet tomorrow. Must create a test for Sophomores now since last year's test on same subject is poot-y. Thought I was quite purged after abducting Jules last night and jabbering her ear off. Movie nights and Advent have proved me wrong in part. I am that long-disused awakened animatronic. Nyah. Oh, and it appears that for the second year in a row I have been "dissed" in going to see the Shakespeare. Perhaps I am wrong and simply have missed the memo. Checked the mailbox this afternoon. No memo. Field trip Thursday. This is...I need a word. Not Kindertransportish, but, hmmm, SZLAT-ish. Yes. That's what I'll call immense yet politely bottled frustration: szlat. Oh, Mr. Weeeeb-ster? >batting eyelashes furiously.< BTW: "Peeee-AAAAAND-P" is Pride and Prejudice for those who missed it. See the accompanying picture of "The Look" from Mr. I-Love-And-Cherish-You Colin Firth. POMF!

Randominity

The cherry blossoms bloomed beneath the sweet spring rain
Beneath those spreading boughs, I stood
Drenched and happy,
White petals gathered at my feet,
Droplets glistening on my upturned face.
I thought, Ah here is joy enough to last me -
Here is spring eternal.

The summer came; the cherries bloomed
Far, far away from where I walked (in search of spring again).
Other hands gathered them,
Other lips ate them,
Other ears bore them, nestled in dark hair.

Autumn shimmered fiery light
To strip the cherry tree of all his finery.
Snow flew instead of rain,
Froze and did not nourish.
We froze together, although apart.

To the cherry tree I came again -
To see bare branches lifted high
Against the pale, chill light.
Prickled boughs, prickled brow
Where once I had known a fleeting happiness.

The spring is slow in coming.
I cannot seem to see it.
My steps take me away from my sweeping tree
To look for other spring, false spring,
Speck of green, needle thin poking through the snow.

Do not stray so far from me!
The wind keens through the thorny crown,
Spring is coming, though winter here,
Wait but a while for the rains
To wash us new once more.

I have tended many trees;
Bent my back, dug within the soil,
Planted seedlings and cared for them.
I have tended many trees,
I tell the keening wind.
I have tended, but never reaped.

(I look for false spring,
For the shoot I did not plant
To reap what little fruit I may steal.
Although it be bewormed -
I may claim it mine.)

Come back to me, the wind keens
Ever distant as I retreat
Following a patch of blue, like a pool of still waters
In the cloudy dome of Heaven.
Come back to me.

My heart rebels against my feet,
I stumble and land upon the snow.
Behind me my steps spread out
To reveal my drunken reeling
Far away from shelter.

I have tended many trees,
I answer. But the wind snatches my reply -
Tears it into tatters from my lips.
I fear I shall lose happiness,
I say with better truth, and the wind lets me speak.
I fear other hands will reap.

My hand touches upon an early weed,
Jaunty, jaundy dandilion
With thorny leaves, diffracted blades -
A feast ready for the taking.
Come back to me,
Come back to me.

What will you want? I ask the keening wind.
(My hand wraps round the dandilion
To pull it roots and all from the ground.
Perhaps it will pull me into the earth
Where the wind cannot steal my lament.)

What will you want?
I long to say that I am ageing, I am tired.
I long to say that my bones want to gather themselves
Beneath the spreading cherry's boughs, within his very roots,
To slumber there until that final slumber.

But I have tended too many trees
And reaped from them naught but further toil.
Can I bear to tend to one who will not shelter me?
I am ageing, and the weed is firm within my hand.
Is not subtle dandilion better than inconstancy?

Come back to me, the wind soughs,
Rustling the edges of my white-winged sleeves.
I open up my hand, loose free the dandilion
That seems to shrink into a brown putresence,
Indistinguishable from the hard and winter dirt.

I lift my head and feel the first few drops of rain
Upon my weary, wrinkled brow.
They feel like tears.
My bones protest the spring,
Protest another year spent readying the soul for sorrow.

But I return and place my parchment hand
Upon the green-leafing bark.
The skin is warm to touch and the boughs dip down to kiss me.
I am old, yet not so old
To tend once more the changing cherry tree.

Rain down, rain down,
I whisper to the Heavens.
Give us life once more.

Mood: Sad, confused, befuddled, and something more than orange M&M's. These are dew-dropped cherries.
Music: "The Stolen Child," music by Loreena McKennit a la the Merry CD.
What (nearly) ruined my day: Child Molestation Prevention Training in-school program. Ugh.
What made my day: Long, long rambling talks about everything with Ch.
What I desire: A lack of e-mails; more hours for philosophy