The Sacred and the Profane

Dappled Things

2006-04-08T23:45:00.000-04:00

The Lent/Easter 2006 edition of Dappled Things has been published. Check it out!

How much do you really know about yaks?

2006-03-29T11:35:00.000-05:00

(Reprinted from the Portsmouth Abbey Beacon, February 27, 2002)

Across Portsmouth Abbey, speculation is rife concerning the strange, foul-smelling creatures behind the Stillman Dining Hall. They are not yaks, as many ignorant people believe. Though they resemble these worthy animals in appearance, and in their strange fascination with cornbread, the true Himalayan yak is never found at low altitudes, preferring the health benefits of the rarified mountain air. Nor are they Scottish Highland cattle, as many supposedly “educated” people claim. For one thing, their accent is Lowland Scottish, distinguished by shorter vowels, simpler diphthongs, and a vibrating “r” sound.

Our own Matt Papi and Justin Bauer have just spent a term as Community Service interns studying these remarkable and fascinating animals. It is especially fitting that our Community Service program has taken the first step towards dialogue between students and yaks, for dialogue is the first step towards understanding. Although complete understanding has not yet been reached- our custom of Morning Lunch is as incomprehensible to them as their obsession with backgammon is to us- nevertheless we have learned much about these wonderful creatures, and hopefully they have learned much about us as well.

What do yaks like to do in their free time? Besides backgammon, at which they excel, they enjoy cornbread and reruns of “Star Trek.” Some time ago they were successfully introduced to the multi-player computer game “Half-Life”, and proved quite adept at it, but they have since been barred from the Computer Lab for trying to download inappropriate material from the Internet. Their strong competitive instinct has allowed them to dominate in pick-up soccer games and Ultimate Frisbee against Abbey students, and they are sometimes seen playing one-on-one basketball in the gym. For relaxation, they like to listen to ethnic Albanian music which causes them to fall into a hypnotic state.

There is one question concerning the yaks that is surely on everyone’s mind. Are they being raised for mystery meat? The answer is certainly no. Yak meat is easily identified by its chewy consistency and savory aroma when grilled, and is widely prized as a delicacy. It cannot be considered “mystery meat” except in parts of Scandinavia where it is virtually unknown, reindeer being considered superior.

What to do if you ever encounter a yak in an unexpected place such as the library or an elevator: Most importantly, do not attempt to solicit the assistance of bystanders. You are probably doomed, and yelling for help will only endanger the lives of others. If you are lucky, you can hold the yak off long enough for everyone else to escape. Do not panic. Yaks respect bravery in a victim. If you know a little Latin, now would be a good time to use it. “Morituri te salutant” is the customary formula in such situations.

Beneath their gruff exterior, yaks are gentle and fun-loving creatures. In fact, they seldom attack unless provoked. Some might even argue that they are the Abbey’s greatest asset, although most would reserve that honor for General Tso’s Chicken. Many students are totally dependent on these animals for meat, clothing, transportation, and yak butter tea. Its hair is woven into rugs and blankets to protect against the frigid Portsmouth winters and its horns are carved for decoration and made into utensils. Even the dung is dried and used for fuel.

In the news

2006-02-13T13:27:00.000-05:00

The National Catholic Register interviews Dappled Things. Check it out!

Also, four more days to submit to our Lent/Easter 2005 issue!

Chesterton Quote of the Day

2006-02-03T00:46:00.000-05:00

FEBRUARY 2nd (Candlemas)

But as I sat scrawling these silly figures on brown paper, it began to dawn on me, to my great disgust, that I had let one chalk, and that a most exquisite and essential one, behind. I searched all my pockets, but I could not find any white chalk. Now, those who are acquainted with all the philosophy (nay, religion) which is typified in the art of drawing on brown paper, know that white is positive and essential. I cannot avoid remarking here upon a moral significance. One of the wise and awful truths which this brown-paper art reveals is this: that white is a colour. It is not a mere absence of colour, it is a shining and affirmative thing: as fierce as red, as definite as black. When (so to speak) your pencil grows red hot, it draws roses; when it grows white hot, it draws stars. And one of the two or three defiant verities of the best religious morality -- of real Christianity, for example -- is exactly this same thing. The chief assertion of religious morality is that white is a colour. Virtue is not the absence of vices or the avoidance of moral dangers; virtue is a vivid and separate thing, like pain or a particular smell. Mercy does not mean not being cruel or sparing people revenge or punishment: it means a plain and positive thing like the sun, which one has either seen or not seen. Chastity does not mean abstention from sexual wrong; it means something flaming like Joan of Arc. In a word, God paints in many colours, but He never paints so gorgeously -- I had almost said so gaudily -- as when He paints in white.

'Tremendous Trifles' via Chesterton Day by Day

Fabula de lupo qui ad lunam volavit

2006-01-19T13:35:00.000-05:00

For the second meeting of my Free University Latin class I had my students write a story. Having gone over basic grammar in the first class, I gave them a list of vocabulary (first and second declension nouns, first conjugation verbs, adjectives, et al) and let them have at it. For simplicity, the present tense is the default, though that reads a bit awkwardly. Translation follows below.

Amica lupum ad lunam iactat. Lupus ad caelum volat, ergo iratus est. Amicam laudo. Dum saltamus cantasmusque in agro, lupus vaccas lunae salutat, quae purpurae sunt; sed alias non salutat, quia mortuae sunt. Agricolam, qui in lunā habitat, lupus culpat pro vaccis mortuis. Lupus cum agricolā pugnat. Amicam meam rogo per quam viam ad lunam navigabimus.
"Viā magnā et umidā," amica cantat.
"Cur cantas?"
"Quia in tabernā eram."
Gladios magnos portantes viam navigamus. In lunā, cum gladiis saltamus. Agricola lupusque nos laudant. Vaccae purpurae lunae de nobis fabulam narrabit. Finis.

My friend throws the wolf to the moon. The wolf flies toward the sky, therefore he is angry. I praise my friend. While we are dancing and singing in the field, the wolf greets the moon-cows which are purple; but he does not greet the others, because they are dead. The wolf blames the farmer who lives on the moon on behalf of the dead cows. The wolf fights with the farmer. I ask my friend by what road we will sail to the moon.
"By the great wet road," my friend sings.
"Why are you singing?"
"Because I was in the tavern."
Carrying large swords we sail the road. On the moon, we dance with our swords. The farmer and the wolf praise us. The purple moon-cows will tell the story about us. The end.

And who says Latin's dead?

20-C-M-B-06

2006-01-06T13:07:00.000-05:00

Feast of the Epiphany

The Wise Men
G.K. Chesterton

Step softly, under snow or rain,
To find the place where men can pray;
The way is all so very plain
That we may lose the way.

Oh, we have learnt to peer and pore
On tortured puzzles from our youth,
We know all the labyrinthine lore,
We are the three wise men of yore,
And we know all things but truth.

We have gone round and round the hill
And lost the wood among the trees,
And learnt long names for every ill,
And serve the made gods, naming still
The furies the Eumenides.

The gods of violence took the veil
Of vision and philosophy,
The Serpent that brought all men bale,
He bites his own accursed tail,
And calls himself Eternity.

Go humbly ... it has hailed and snowed...
With voices low and lanterns lit;
So very simple is the road,
That we may stray from it.

The world grows terrible and white,
And blinding white the breaking day;
We walk bewildered in the light,
For something is too large for sight,
And something much too plain to say.

The Child that was ere worlds begun
(... We need but walk a little way,
We need but see a latch undone...)
The Child that played with moon and sun
Is playing with a little hay.

The house from which the heavens are fed,
The old strange house that is our own,
Where trick of words are never said,
And Mercy is as plain as bread,
And Honour is as hard as stone.

Go humbly, humble are the skies,
And low and large and fierce the Star;
So very near the Manger lies
That we may travel far.

Hark! Laughter like a lion wakes
To roar to the resounding plain.
And the whole heaven shouts and shakes,
For God Himself is born again,
And we are little children walking
Through the snow and rain.

Happy New Year

2006-01-03T00:12:00.000-05:00

Eheu fugaces, Postume, Postume,
labuntur anni...

-Horace, Odes 2.14

Happy New Year from all of us here at the Sacred and the Profane. (Well, I guess that's just me.) I find myself back at school on the eve of what promises to be an interesting Winter Study, my last at Williams. As of this morning, I am taking a class called Aikido and Ethics, for which I had previously signed up but didn't get into; I got an email today informing me that a spot had opened up, so I took it as a sign. I still hope to sit in on J.R.R. Tolkien, Middle Earth, and Modern Medievalism which is what I had been registered for. The latter is of course a bit more up my alley, but the Aikido class looked like a good opportunity to try something I'd probably never otherwise do, so I'm glad I got the chance to take it after all. We'll see how it works out.

Of course, this adds up to a somewhat busier schedule than I had anticipated. I'm also hoping to teach two courses in the "Free University" offered this month: "Introduction to Gregorian Chant" (co-taught with a professor in the PoliSci department) and "Is Latin Dead?", a quick (and hopefully entertaining) intro to the basics of the Latin language for anyone curious enough to sign up. I tried to offer the chant class last year and got a good number of signups, but unfortunately lost my voice for the entire month (I could talk, but not sing) and had to call the class off. I'm hoping for better luck this time.

Then, of course, there are the traditional Winter Study pastimes of sledding (and snow bocce, the most fun you'll ever have with a dining hall tray) and watching movies. Williams Catholic is also fielding (rinking?) a broomball team at my instigation, making our debut on the ice tomorrow night. After tossing out names from "The Ice Crusades" and "The Spanish Inquisition" (nobody expects them) to "Corporal Mortification" and "The Council of Trent" we settled on "The Papal Bulls". Yes, my principal motive in forming a team was to come up with as many wildly inappopriate names as possible. But the broomball part should be fun too.

And so it begins! Further updates as events warrant.

Chesterton Quote of the Day

2005-12-26T13:42:00.000-05:00

There are innumerable persons with eyeglasses and green garments who pray for the return of the maypole or the Olympian Games. But there is about these people a haunting and alarming something which suggests that it is just possible that they do not keep Christmas. If so, where is the sense of all their dreams of festive traditions? Here is a solid and ancient festive tradition still plying a roaring trade in the streets, and they think it vulgar. If this is so, let them be very certain of this: that they are the kind of people who in the time of the maypole would have thought the maypole vulgar; who in the time of the Canterbury pilgrimage would have thought the Canterbury pilgrimage vulgar; who in the time of the Olympian Games would have thought the Olympian Games vulgar. Nor can there be any reasonable doubt that they were vulgar. Let no man deceive himself; if by vulgarity we mean coarseness of speech, rowdiness of behaviour, gossip, horseplay, and some heavy drinking: vulgarity there always was, wherever there was joy, wherever there was faith in the gods.

'Heretics' via Chesterton Day by Day.

Not for nothing am I known in some circles as Joe "D'Exciting Revelry" McDonough.

In dulci iubilo

2005-12-24T19:06:00.000-05:00

...let us our homage show;
our heart's joy reclineth
in praesepio,
and like a bright star shineth
matris in gremio,
Alpha es et O, Alpha es et O.

Yes, Aquinas, There is a Santa Claus (Touchstone)

O Jesu parvule,
I yearn for thee alway,
Hear me, I beseech thee,
O Puer optime!
My prayer let it reach thee,
O Princeps gloriae!
Trahe me post te, trahe me post te.

Hrodulf the Red-Nosed Reindeer (Old English Pages)

O Patris caritas,
O Nati lenitas!
Deeply were we stained
per nostra crimina,
But Thou hast for us gained
coelorum gaudia;
O that we were there, O that we were there.

The House of Christmas (G.K. Chesterton)

Ubi sunt gaudia,
In any place but there?
There are angels singing
nova cantica,
There the bells are ringing
in Regis curia;
O that we were there! O that we were there.

-14th century German

December at Williams...

2005-12-20T21:41:00.000-05:00

is blurring through the last two weeks of classes, running from class to rehearsal to dinner to rehearsal to Rosary to homework to sleep; on Friday, the last day of class, dyeing my hair green and telling people that St. Patrick's day fell early this year (the Celtic church and their lunar calendar, you know); returning from dinner and collapsing onto my bed, exhausted; it is also getting up the next morning, a Saturday, to take a self-scheduled Greek exam at 8:30am so that it can be finished in time for a 10:30 rehearsal with an impromptu schola before a two-hour choir rehearsal at 11:00...

Later that day, it is singing carols up and down Spring Street with the Elizabethans, ducking into the post office for our yearly attempt at Handel's Hallelujah chorus (this year, for the first time, with sheet music) and then gathering around and closing our eyes to sing Rachmaninoff's Bogoroditse Devo because it's beautiful enough not to need a reason. That night, sledding down Bee Hill in the light of the not-quite full moon, the lights of Williamstown to the north, the wide dark expanse of Greylock southward, Orion askew in the east, Sirius twinkling madly above the horizon. Then, on Sunday, Lessons and Carols in Thompson Chapel, playing the organ and chanting with the schola and singing with the choir, twice; putting the choir robes away for the last time and hanging the jingle bell ribbon with the first three; I notice two are red, two purple.

Back in the Chapel on Monday for three hours of recording for the next Elizabethans CD, then gathering around the piano to plunk out Christmas carols because we don't want to stop singing if it means studying for exams, or maybe just because we don't want to stop singing. Tuesday and Wednesday, writing a paper, wishing I was more of a writer and less of an obsessive prose stylist; Thursday, two exams and the bittersweet feeling of another semester down. Then three days of throwing together the inaugural online edition of Dappled Things (q.v.), fussing over style sheets and applying endless html tags, searching through my files for appropriate winter photos to replace the autumn leaves motif, finally running outside to capture icicles and snowbound vistas, finally catching the sunlight as it broke through the clouds to illuminate the hills beyond the dark evergreens, administering a little artful cropping to eliminate the roof of the athletic complex just below. Publishing, finally, and settling down to clean my room and pack. Sic transit, indeed. Is it over already?

And how did it get to be almost Christmas so soon?

Two from GKC

2005-12-11T00:47:00.000-05:00

DECEMBER 10th

A MAN must love a thing very much if he not only practises it without any hope of fame or money, but even practises it without any hope of doing it well. Such a man must love the toils of the work more than any other man can love the rewards of it.

'Browning.'

DECEMBER 11th

AMONG all the strange things that men have forgotten, the most universal and catastrophic lapse of memory is that by which they have forgotten that they are living on a star.

'Defendant.'

Chesterton Day by Day

Almost a Humorous Mystery

2005-12-08T23:43:00.000-05:00

In honor of the Feast of the Immaculate Conception

Then the scribes and the Pharisees brought a woman who had been caught in adultery and made her stand in the middle. They said to him, "Teacher, this woman was caught in the very act of committing adultery. Now in the law, Moses commanded us to stone such women. So what do you say?" They said this to test him, so that they could have some charge to bring against him. Jesus bent down and began to write on the ground with his finger. But when they continued asking him, he straightened up and said to them, "Let the one among you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her." Again he bent down and wrote on the ground. (John 8:3-8)

Suddenly a single stone came flying from the crowd. Jesus turned. "Mother, I was trying to make a point!" (apocryphal)

This story, while not found in most manuscripts of John and eventually excluded from the canon, shows that the Doctrine of the Immaculate Conception (not to be confused with the Virgin Birth) was already present in some form in the early Church. Apart from the admittedly problematic elements associated with Mary throwing stones, from which it is easy to see why it was condemned as apocryphal, the story itself is clearly an affirmation of Mary's immaculate purity and freedom from sin. Of course, a crucial strike against the story was the observation of some theologians that her sinlessness cannot be affirmed through a sinful action (throwing the stone), although others have argued that the action was not sinful, being prescribed by the Law and done in accordance with the literal words of Our Lord. (The Catholic Encyclopedia article inexplicably makes no mention of this debate).

The Third Humorous Mystery

2005-12-07T19:50:00.000-05:00

The Third Humorous Mystery is the Storm at Sea.

Then he made the disciples get into the boat and precede him to the other side, while he dismissed the crowds. After doing so, he went up on the mountain by himself to pray. When it was evening he was there alone. (Matthew 14:22-23)

Remember what Chesterton said about Jesus going up on a mountain to pray. Clearly it was in a moment of mirth on the mountain that Our Lord decided to go check up on his disciples. A little practical joke would show that there were no hard feelings about their lack of faith in the whole multiplication of the loaves business that afternoon. "You think that was a big deal? Look! Watch me walk on water!" He could just imagine their faces.

Meanwhile the boat, already a few miles offshore, was being tossed about by the waves, for the wind was against it. During the fourth watch of the night, he came towards them, walking on the sea. When the disciples saw him walking on the sea they were terrified. "It is a ghost," they said, and they cried out in fear. At once Jesus spoke to them, "Take courage, it is I; do not be afraid." Peter said to him in reply, "Lord, if it is you, command me to come to you on the water." (14:27-28)

Jesus knew he could count on Peter to blurt out something he'd immediately regret. And don't think He wasn't going to hold him to it.

He said, "Come." Peter got out of the boat and began to walk on the water towards Jesus. But when he saw how strong the wind was he became frightened; and, beginning to sink, he cried aloud, "Lord, save me!" (14:29-30)

Omniscience includes knowing when a joke has gone too far, and the Lord is "merciful and gracious... abounding in kindness" (Psalm 103:8).

Immediately Jesus stretched out his hand and caught him, and said to him, "O you of little faith, why did you doubt?" After they got into the boat, the wind died down. Those who where in the boat did him homage, saying "Truly, you are the Son of God." (14:31-33)

We laugh, of course, but at least Peter got out of the boat when he was called- however much he may have regretted ever speaking up in the first place. Would that we always had the courage to do as much, no matter how strong the wind or high the waves. Ora pro nobis.

(The First and Second Humorous Mysteries)

Photo Credit: Felicity

Chesterton Quote of the Day

2005-12-02T00:38:00.000-05:00

Our wisdom, whether expressed in private or public, belongs to the world, but our folly belongs to those we love.

from 'Browning' via Chesterton Day by Day.

Goodbye November, Hello March

2005-11-29T23:08:00.000-05:00

I take back what I said about "loca frigidissima." The rains have washed away the snow and temperatures have been pushing 60 degrees here in Williamstown. Guess I didn't need those winter clothes after all.

In other news, the Elizabethans will be presenting a concert as explosive as his blazing automatics this Saturday, December 3rd at 4:00pm in Thompson Chapel. My on-campus readership is highly encouraged to attend. If you don't mind me referring to you collectively.

First Sunday of Advent

2005-11-27T22:41:00.000-05:00

Happy liturgical New Year!

Rorate caeli desuper, et nubes pluant justum.

(Sive apud Gulielmenses, loca frigidissima, ningite.)

Ne irascaris Domine, ne ultra memineris iniquitatis: ecce civitas Sancti facta est deserta: Sion deserta facta est: Jerusalem desolata est: domus sanctificationis tuae et gloriae tuae, ubi laudaverunt te patres nostri.

Comsolamini, consolamini, popule meus: cito veniet salus tua: quare moerore consumeris, quia innovavit te dolor? Salvabo te, noli timere, ego enim sum Dominus Deus tuus, Sanctus Israel, Redemptor tuus.

Status Report

2005-11-21T22:50:00.000-05:00

Sic transit gloria autumnalis. October showers have given way to a balmy November, decidedly rare for these Berkshire climes, though a welcome deferment of the inevitable. I had been worrying that I hadn't brought enough winter clothes to last me through to Thanksgiving break, only to end up walking around campus in shorts and sandals, or occasionally in bare feet- for the novelty, my own enjoyment, and the delight of passerby, for whom I feigned mere absent-mindedness. But there's no escaping the leaves crunching underfoot and the stark branches overhead, nor the hills faded to dull purple in the light of the setting sun. These are trying times for the melancholic temperament.

As a break from the hectic pace of academics, I spent a very enjoyable few days the weekend before last at a retreat with the Legionaries of Christ at their seminary in Cheshire, CT. Ran into a few old friends from the COMPASS fellowship- Fr. Michael, who's been visiting Williams every other week to say Mass, and who led the retreat; Jeremiah from MIT, Ryan Richardson, former COMPASS staff member, now a seminarian, and in a surprise appearance, Fr. David Daly. Prayer and reflection were interspersed with copious helpings of junk food (donated, so somebody had to eat it, right?) and fast-paced games of basketball, football, and ultimate frisbee (at which the seminarians defeated us handily).

The highlight of this past weekend was a trip to the Berkshire Mall to see the latest installment in the Potter franchise, Goblet of Fire. As luck would have it, we arrived shortly after 7:00 only to find that all shows were sold out until 10:35. Unwilling either to admit defeat and drive back to campus or to wait around for three hours, we stood in the ticket line and debated, vacillating, until someone made a decision in favor of the latter course of action. With plenty of time to kill, we wandered over to the toy store and invested in a set of "Mega Bloks", out of which we began assembling an Abrams Tank in the food court. I suppose there are better ways to kill three hours, but few more enjoyable. Oh, and we did remember to catch the movie when the time came, though I'll refrain from comment for the time being except to say that- no, i'll just refrain from comment.

Thanksgiving break begins tomorrow, the deep breath before December and finals. It will be good to spend a few days at home, see how much the little siblings have grown, catch up on sleep and extra helpings, perhaps meander about my childhood haunts if a suitable cloudy November afternoon presents itself. I'm also under orders to read Chesterton's Outline of Sanity, to which, if time permits, I'll add a few other "for fun" readers in between school work and sundry other odds and ends which ought to get done. After my unplanned thirteen-hour nap last Friday night, I'd like to think I've gotten a head start on catching up on sleep, but we'll see. I suppose reading through Swallows and Amazons the other night also constitutes a head start on the reading for fun (thanks, Emily). So I guess I'm really on top of this vacation thing. Or really behind on this work thing. Or both.

dum loquimur, fugerit invida aetas (Odes 1.11)

"But Can You Teach?"

2005-11-11T09:34:00.000-05:00

All men are mortal.
Socrates is mortal.
Therefore, Socrates is a man.

I raised my hand. "Birds are mortal too, aren't they?" I asked, hoping he would correct his error.

"Yes," our teacher agreed.

"So Socrates could be a bird?"

He smiled benignly. "No. Socrates doesn't have feathers."

You can't make this stuff up. More sobering is the fact that I need to get going on a job search of my own. Read the whole thing. Via Arts and Letters Daily.

Homesick at Home

2005-11-04T09:28:00.000-05:00

The modern philosopher had told me again and again that I was in the right place, and I had still felt depressed even in acquiescence. But I had heard that I was in the wrong place, and my soul sang for joy, like a bird in spring. The knowledge found out and illuminated forgotten chambers in the dark house of infancy. I knew now why grass had always seemed to me as queer as the green beard of a giant, and why I could feel homesick at home.

'Orthodoxy' via Chesterton Day by Day

The True Meaning of Halloween

2005-10-31T22:32:00.000-05:00

Turner tells it like it is.

"In Western society, the traces of rites of age- and sex-role reversal persist in such customs as Halloween, when the powers of the structurally inferior are manifested in the liminal dominance of preadolescent children. The monstrous masks they often wear in disguise represent mainly chthonic or earth-demonic powers -- witches who blast fertility; corpses or skeletons from underground; indigenous peoples, such as Indians; troglodytes, such as dwarves or gnomes; hoboes or anti-authoritarian figures, such as pirates or traditional Western gun fighters. These tiny earth powers, if not propitiated by treats or dainties, will work fantastic and capricious tricks on the authority-holding generation of householders -- tricks similar to those once believed to be the work of earth

Fig. 1. Endowed with the powers of feral, criminal autochthonous and supernatural beings, Diane prepares to manifest the powers of the structurally inferior.

spirits, such as hobgoblins, boggarts, elves, fairies, and trolls. In a sense, too, these children mediate between the dead and the living; they are not long from the womb, which is in many cultures equated with the tomb, as both are associated with the earth, the source of fruits and receiver of leavings. The Halloween children exemplify several liminal motifs: their masks insure them anonymity, for no one knows just whose particular children they are. But, as with most rituals of reversal, anonymity here is for purposes of aggression, not humiliation. The child's mask is like the highwayman's mask -- and, indeed, children at Halloween often wear the masks of burglars or executioners. Masking endows them with the powers of feral, criminal autochthonous and supernatural beings."

-Victor Turner, “The Ritual Process,” pg. 172

Happy Halloween!

2005-10-31T22:31:00.000-05:00

More photos of pumpkin fun with Williams Catholic at WSO's Photoshare.

Chesterton Quote of the Day

2005-10-30T23:25:00.000-05:00

Do you see this lantern? Do you see the cross carved on it and the flame inside? You did not make it. You did not light it. Better men than you, men who could believe and obey, twisted the entrails of iron, and preserved the legend of fire. There is not a street you walk on, there is not a thread you wear, that was not made as this lantern was, by denying your philosophy of dirt and rats. You can make nothing. You can only destroy. You will destroy mankind; you will destroy the world. Let that suffice you. Yet this one old Christian lantern you shall not destroy. It shall go where your empire of apes will never have the wit to find it.

'The Man who was Thursday' via Chesterton Day by Day

Pope on a Pumpkin

2005-10-29T20:12:00.000-04:00

WILLIAMSTOWN, MA- Just weeks after a Jackson, MI family spotted the likeness of John Paul II in a pancake, several Williams College students have reported a nearly identical image of the late pontiff on a pumpkin. "Such repeat apparitions are extremely rare," said Joe McDonough, local Catholic student. "The similarity of the papal profiles is unmistakeable. If I didn't know better, I would say that only the first is authentic- the second must be a forgery of some sort."

With the cause for John Paul's beatification already underway, continued McDonough, such apparitions could serve as crucial evidence towards proving the requisite miracles. Although appearances on foodstuffs have not been the norm among already canonized saints, grilled cheese sandwiches notwithstanding, "the Holy Father was known to have a sweet tooth during his lifetime. Perhaps this is merely his sense of humor still at work. What's next? Pizza, perhaps?"

The pumpkin is currently on display at the entrance to the Cardinal Newman Catholic Center in the basement of Thompson Chapel. There are currently no plans to sell it on EBay or elsewhere.

The chair of the Theology Department at Williams College was unavailable for comment.

Happy Mole Day!

2005-10-23T06:02:00.000-04:00

(to the tune of "Deck the Halls")

Deck the lab with moles and woodchucks, fa la la la la, la la la la
'Tis the season to earn mole bucks, fa la la la la, la la la la
Don we now our safety glasses, fa la la, la la la, la la la
As we measure weights and masses, fa la la la, la la la la.

See the blazing Bunsen burners, fa la la la la, la la la la
Dang'rous to unwary learners, fa la la la la, la la la la
Bunsen burners do require, fa la la, la la la, la la la
Supervision while on fire, fa la la la, la la la la.

Chemists all now join the chorus, fa la la la la, la la la la
Chemistry is not to bore us, fa la la la la, la la la la
It is fun and it is jolly, fa la la, la la la, la la la
Deck the lab with boughs of holly, fa la la la, la la la la.

(Dug up from sophomore year of high school. "Mole bucks" were a form of extra credit. If I didn't get any for singing this in class, I should have.)

The Second Humorous Mystery...

2005-10-22T21:52:00.000-04:00

as many have guessed, is the Boanerges-

"James, the son of Zebedee, and John the brother of James, whom he named Boanerges, that is, sons of thunder" (Mark 3:17, see also Luke 9:52-56).

One cannot help but admire the impetuous character of these two brothers upon whom Our Lord bestowed so evocative a name. "Lord, do You want us to command fire to come down from heaven and consume them?" Like Peter, James and John are admirable in their courage and lovable in their faults- even if we are understandably relieved when Jesus rebukes their more appalling suggestions. And indeed we see that they like Peter are particularly favored among the apostles, John in particular frequently being referred to simply as "the disciple whom Jesus loved." One cannot help but wonder, though, if Our Lord could not help having a little fun at their expense:

Then the mother of the sons of Zebedee approached [Jesus] with her sons and did him homage, wishing to ask him for something. He said to her, "What do you wish?" She answered him, "Command that these two sons of mine sit, one at your right and the other at your left, in your kingdom." Jesus said in reply, "You do not know what you are asking. Can you drink the cup that I am going to drink?" They said to him, "We can." He replied, "My cup you will indeed drink, but to sit at my right and at my left is not mine to give but is for those for whom it has been prepared by my Father." When the ten heard this, they became indignant at the two brothers. But Jesus summoned them and said, "You know that the rulers of the Gentiles lord it over them, and the great ones make their authority felt. But it shall not be so among you. Rather, whoever wishes to be great among you shall be your slave. Just so, the Son of Man did not come to be served but to serve and to give his life as a ransom for many. (Matthew 20:20-28)

Preceding this passage in Matthew's Gospel, tellingly, is the third prediction of the Passion: "As Jesus was going up to Jerusalem, he took the twelve aside by themselves, and said to them on the way, 'Behold, we are going up to Jerusalem, and the Son of Man will be handed over to the chief priests and the scribes, and they will condemn him to death, and hand him over to the Gentiles to be mocked and scourged and crucified, and he will be raised on the third day" (Matthew 20:17-19). James and John are blissfully unaware of what must have been to Jesus an almost painful irony. Expecting Christ to usher in an earthly kingdom, they had no idea that the places they coveted would be crosses on Golgotha- though perhaps John, who would be present at that hour, remembered when he heard the words of the repentant thief:

"Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom."
"Amen, I say to you, today you will be with me in Paradise." (Luke 23:42-43)

or perhaps in the garden of Gethsemane:

"My Father, if it is possible, let this cup pass from me; yet, not as I will, but as you will." (Matthew 26:39)

For the moment, Jesus seems to lead them on only to disappoint them- "Can you drink the cup that I am going to drink? My cup you will indeed drink, but to sit at my right and at my left is not mine to give but is for those for whom it has been prepared by my Father." Indeed it seems almost cruel- 'You can't have what you want, but you can pay the price anyway.' James, at least, was indeed martyred under Herod Agrippa (Acts 12:1-2) although John survived these early persecutions of the Church, living to write the Gospel which bears his name.

As for us, we should not be too smug about the benefit of hindsight as we chuckle over the disciples' frequent inability to understand what Jesus is saying to them. Taking the central events and indeed the purpose of Our Lord's life for granted, we forget how utterly unexpected and unthinkable was the Crucifixion and death of the Messiah to them, no matter how explicit the predictions. No doubt we too can be similarly thick when it comes to listening to Jesus, being too concerned with our own desires and agendas. Contrast James and John, who at the call of Jesus got up and left everything, abandoning their nets to become fishers of men (Matthew 4:18-22). Boanerges, ora pro nobis.

(The First Humorous Mystery)

Mountain Day

2005-10-21T00:14:00.000-04:00

Illos montes salutamus cantacis carminibus
Quibus echus recinantes silvosis culminibus
Cum cantacis admiscebunt ab ventis et fontibus
Dum resonant hilariter collibus et vallibus.

Okay, so I fudged a little bit on the meter. The Washington Gladden original, in a more suitably cheesy vein, can be found with background story here. For those not familiar with the idiosyncracies of Williams College, one of the first three Fridays of October is declared "Mountain Day", announced the morning of by the chiming of "The Mountains" from the bell tower, and celebrated- classes having been cancelled- by festivities held on Stony Ledge, featuring a spectacular view of Mt. Greylock and environs.

I began my fourth and final Mountain Day in the bell tower at 7am, having been given the coveted task of "ringing in" the festivities. Tensions were high this year as the first two Fridays of the month were passed over due to rain. This time, however, it seemed that Morty- that is, President Schapiro- had managed to placate the weather gods and a cloudy morning gave way to a gorgeously sunny, brisk autumn day.

After Mass and a quick breakfast, 10:15am found me assembling in the Field House in gaudy floral attire, along with three others similarly garbed, in order to take part in what the Outing Club called the "Eco-Challenge"- a combination climbing wall traverse, mountain bike route, and run/hike to the summit of Stony Ledge. Representing the Williams College Choir, the letters "SATB" emblazoned in duct tape on our backs, we led off the competition at around 11am and were the first to arrive at Stony Ledge with a time of 1:57, though we were ultimately edged out time-wise by subsequent arrivals. We did, of course, claim the award for best costumes, which turned out to be vintage pewter plates from the 1996 winter carnival (in case you're ever wondering how I came to possess the 2nd place award for the Women's Giant Slalom).

The highlight of the Eco-Challenge itself, besides my utter inability to traverse the climbing wall, was biking down Stone Hill Road and glancing at an oncoming Jeep only to be momentarily stunned by an apparently empty driver's seat staring back. After the first second of shock we realized that the driver was on the right, and the jeep was apparently an unmarked mail delivery vehicle, at least judging from the frequent stops it made at mailboxes after turning around and passing us again. After that rather surreal experience the rest of the course passed relatively without incident.

After hanging out on the ledge, downing doughnuts and apple cider, witnessing performances by a capella groups and singing with the Choir, we headed back down to our bikes at the foot of the mountain only to encounter the "other" Team Choir who had unfortunately become lost en route and never made it to Stony Ledge, having wandered up and down the wrong mountain for several hours. Thankfully they were all right, albeit rather tired and hungry. Biking back to campus, I grabbed dinner before attempting (lamely) to start some homework and instead ending up collapsed on the Newman couch for a pre-Friday-night-Adoration nap. Sic transit Mountain Day. May it continue long after I have passed into crusty alumhood.

Flippin' Sweet!

2005-10-11T22:10:00.000-04:00

I guess you could say this is one of the "batter" apparitions to appear on the news lately. Msgr. Oder, are you reading this?

"This Sign Will Convert the Nations" -Mark Shea

"I wonder if backyard apparitions (you know, the Polaroid stuff... it's always a Polaroid) ever inspire Protestants to convert. After all, when was the last time you saw Calvin appearing in a foodstuff?" -Andrew of Holy Whapping

The Humorous Mysteries

2005-10-10T23:55:00.000-04:00

VATICAN CITY- The unpublished notes of John Paul II reveal that he was planning to announce yet another set of Mysteries for the Rosary this year, just a few years on the heels of the groundbreaking Luminous Mysteries introduced in 2002. The Humorous Mysteries (Mysteria Iocorum) are a meditation on that most elusive and sadly neglected facet of the character of Our Lord: His sense of humor. It is often said of God that He must possess a sense of humor- did He not create the platypus? -yet we often overlook this in considering the character of Jesus (concerned, poor sinners that we are, by more pressing matters such as His justice and mercy). The Humorous Mysteries, devoutly contemplated, should bring the faithful to a deeper understanding of what G.K. Chesterton was getting at when he wrote:

Joy, which was the small publicity of the pagan, is the gigantic secret of the Christian. And as I close this chaotic volume [Orthodoxy] I open again the strange small book from which all Christianity came; and I am again haunted by a kind of confirmation. The tremendous figure which fills the Gospels towers in this respect, as in every other, above all the thinkers who ever thought themselves tall. His pathos was natural, almost casual. The Stoics, ancient and modern, were proud of concealing their tears. He never concealed His tears; He showed them plainly on His open face at any daily sight, such as the far sight of His native city. Yet He concealed something. Solemn supermen and imperial diplomatists are proud of restraining their anger. He never restrained His anger. He flung furniture down the front steps of the Temple, and asked men how they expected to escape the damnation of Hell. Yet He restrained something. I say it with reverence; there was in that shattering personality a thread that must be called shyness. There was something that He hid from all men when He went up a mountain to pray. There was something that He covered constantly by abrupt silence or impetuous isolation. There was some one thing that was too great for God to show us when He walked upon our earth; and I have sometimes fancied that it was His mirth.

The first Humorous Mystery is the Petrine Pun.

When Jesus went into the region of Caesarea Philippi he asked his disciples, "Who do people say that the Son of Man is?" They replied, "some say John the Baptist, others Elijah, still others Jeremiah or one of the prophets." He said to them, "But who do you say that I am?" Simon Peter said in reply, "You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God." Jesus said to him in reply, "Blessed are you, Simon son of Jonah. For flesh and blood has not revealed this to you, but my heavenly Father. And so I say to you, you are Peter and on this rock I will build my church, and the gates of the netherworld shall not prevail against it. I will give you the keys of the kingdom of heaven. Whatever you bind on earth shall be bound in heaven; and whatever you loose on earth shall be loosed in heaven." Then he strictly ordered his disciples to tell no one that he was the Messiah. (Mk 16:13-20)

In Aramaic, of course, the words for Peter and for rock are one and the same: kepha. Our Lord's sense of humor is apparent not only in his play on words, but in his paradoxical choice of Peter, who will later deny Him three times, as the foundation of his Church against which the gates of the netherworld shall not prevail.

When Christ at a symbolic moment was establishing His great society, He chose for its comer-stone neither the brilliant Paul nor the mystic John, but a shuffler, a snob a coward--in a word, a man. And upon this rock He has built His Church, and the gates of Hell have not prevailed against it. All the empires and the kingdoms have failed, because of this inherent and continual weakness, that they were founded by strong men and upon strong men. But this one thing, the historic Christian Church, was founded on a weak man, and for that reason it is indestructible. For no chain is stronger than its weakest link. (G.K. Chesterton, Heretics)

The final punchline, of course, is the literal fulfillment of Christ's promise; excavations beneath St. Peter's basilica have discovered what is very likely the tomb and mortal remains of the Apostle himself, Pope St. Peter. "On this rock..."

To be continued...

2005-10-09T20:32:00.000-04:00

white founts falling in the courts of the sun

2005-10-07T00:17:00.000-04:00

Remember Lepanto.

Our Lady of the Rosary, ora pro nobis.

Chesterton Quote of the Day

2005-10-04T22:39:00.000-04:00

Feast of St. Francis of Assisi

For most people there is a fascinating inconsistency in the position of St. Francis. He expressed in loftier and bolder language than any earthly thinker the conception that laughter is as divine as tears. He called his monks the mountebanks of God. He never forgot to take pleasure in a bird as it flashed past him, or a drop of water as it fell from his finger; he was perhaps the happiest of the sons of men. Yet this man undoubtedly founded his whole polity on the negation of what we think of the most imperious necessities; in his three vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience he denied to himself, and those he loved most, property, love, and liberty. Why was it that the most large-hearted and poetic spirits in that age found their most congenial atmosphere in these awful renunciations? Why did he who loved where all men were blind, seek to blind himself where all men loved? Why was he a monk and not a troubadour? We have a suspicion that if these questions were answered we should suddenly find that much of the enigma of this sullen time of ours was answered also.

from 'Twelve Types' via Chesterton Day by Day

Sundry

2005-10-02T11:13:00.000-04:00

Check out Dappled Things, a new Catholic literary magazine founded this summer by a friend of mine from the 2004 COMPASS fellowship. We hope to publish our first online edition this Advent and a printed issue by the end of next year. There's still time to submit before our October 20th deadline!

Update from home
My silly sister:

[Diane] was funny in the museum too. I showed her a painting of the sunset and commented on how the artist had captured the brilliant colors. She asked, "how did he CAPTURE them?" So I reminded her how fast the colors disappear when you watch the sunset....and said he took his paints and put the colors in the picture so he could look at them forever. So she immediately looked around and said, "I don't see him looking at them NOW...!"

Over the hills and far away

Went hiking the Saturday before last- my habitual route west to the Taconics via RRR Brooks and Shepherd's Well, north along the crest and then back through Hopkins forest. By delaying my departure until after lunch, I was able to persuade a few friends to come along, and we had a great time hunting for blazes on the elusive Birch Hill trail'k, wading through the shoulder-high goldenrod of Shepherd's Meadow, admiring the view from the Shepherd's Well overlook (still smelled like blueberries!), and chatting about anything but homework. Perhaps I'll post pictures at some point.

Conspiracy Theory of the week

Upon returning from the hike, we were eating dinner at Greylock and someone commented that the dining hall seemed unusually empty, even for a Saturday night. "That's probably because less Williams students are choosing to take on human form this year" replied another. I didn't know we had a choice, but evidently the "other three thousand" Williams students have elected to "live in holes in the mountains". Perhaps this is not unrelated to the recent preponderance of squirrels and chipmunks in the Odd Quad, subject of many a Driscoll conversation? Shades of the Blue Potato...

Autumn Rain

2005-09-29T10:22:00.000-04:00

a haiku:

autumn rain frolics
nimbly on my windowpane.
I'm doing homework.

Incipit Finis

2005-09-19T23:37:00.000-04:00

Conjugate your verbs, she says.

It's funny until you actually have to do it. In Greek.

If this were last year, today would have been my first day of school. Not having jury duty this year has made me unexpectedly appreciative of actually being able to attend the first week and a half of classes. This semester I'm taking Musics (sic) of the 20th century, Intermediate Greek, Reading the Hebrew Bible (in translation, but Biblical Hebrew is being offered during Winter Study) and Reading German for Beginners. All are going well so far, but of course I've got the usual extracurricular lineup to distract me- chairing Williams Catholic, singing in the Concert and Chamber Choirs, more singing with the Elizabethans, Williams for Life, bell-ringing, organ lessons...

As if I needed to be reminded that there's not much sand left in the Williams hourglass, Saturday's Convocation served to rub it in. I always thought becoming a senior was something that happened to other people...

A Bolivian Odyssey, Part II

2005-08-27T13:25:00.000-04:00

Now with photos. Read Part I here.

The courtyard at Urubicha, the first mission at which we stayed. Usually filled with little kids playing soccer.

The Corpus Christi procession at Urubicha.

Hic est domus Dei et porta coeli. The church at San Javier...

... and the bell tower.

The fountain at the hotel in Concepcion.

The six-fingered man in an unflattering pose.

"I want to see mountains again, Gandalf, mountains!" (apologies to Marc)

"Whence are thy beams, O sun?"

Chicken on the Bottom

2005-08-27T13:21:00.000-04:00

It's Chicken of the Sea meets Fruit on the Bottom and it's the new revolution in protein drinks! Are you tired of big-name companies bottling tap water, lacing it with minerals ("for a pure, fresh taste") and selling it to you at exorbitant prices? Maybe nothing says "pure and untainted" like a bounty of minerals, but you can get water like that from your kitchen sink. We wanted something more. When we created Chicken on the Bottom bottled water, we used only clear, sparkling water from the mountain springs which gush down from the hills above our bottling facilities. When we talk about our "Chicken Preserve" we're not referring to a new kind of jam, but the spacious wildlife refuge where our chickens roam free in their natural state, just as their prehistoric ancestors did before chickens were domesticated and left to languish in cruel, heartless chicken farms. So what are you waiting for? Grab a bottle of Chicken on the Bottom bottled water and "shake it on up" to taste the chicken-enhanced flavor. Now available in Kentucky Fried and BBQ flavors. Coming soon: Buffalo Wings and Cornish Game Hen on the Bottom, and for the vegetarian, Soy Nuggets on the Bottom.

Check out our new line of books, such as the inspirational Chicken on the Bottom for the Soul and the children's bestsellers Harry Poulterer and the Giblet of Fire and Harry Poulterer and the Half-Brood Prince.

from the makers of
Froot Spread: 100% artificial - Unnaturally tasty!
Sugar Boogers: You hope they're raisins!
and Dagobah Organic Chocolate

Summer Readers

2005-08-27T11:26:00.000-04:00

Harrius Potter et Philosophi Lapis by J.K. Rowling, translated by Peter Needham

Dominus et Domina Dursley, qui vivebant in aedibus Gestationis Ligustrorum numero quattuor signatis... This Latin translation of the first Harry Potter book is better than the original- if you're a nerd!This book kept me awake on the plane rides to and from Bolivia- when I wasn't sleeping, reading something else, or looking out the window- and also made a great conversation piece. Latin translations of popular children's books have become something of a novelty item lately-Dr. Seuss books, The Little Prince, Winnie Ille Pu- but I was surprised to see something like Harrius Potter on the shelves, mentally constructing a Venn diagram of Harry Potter fans and people with enough Latin savvy to tackle a 250-page novel, and wondering who decided that the overlap was big enough to justify translating even so popular a book as Harry Potter into a dead language. Still, if one does fall within the overlap, it's hard to resist. Much of the fun lies in seeing how modern terms are translated; Lee Jordan's dreadlocks, for instance, are "Rastafarian hair" and Hagrid's borrowed motorcycle is a birotula automataria (compare birota ignifero latice incita). Beyond that, well, you know what they say- quidquid latine dictum sit, altum viditur.

The Man Who Was Thursday by G.K. Chesterton

When I wasn't reading Harrius Potter, I was borrowing back my copy of The Man Who Was Thursday from Emily. I first read this book in high school; it was my introduction to Chesterton's fiction, as Orthodoxy was my introduction to his nonfiction. I don't remember getting much out of either at the time, but subsequent rereads have established them- and Chesterton- as indispensables. Like all of his writings, The Man Who Was Thursday is at once witty and profound. Orson Welles called it "shamelessly beautiful prose" and remarked in the preface to his radio dramatization: "Roughly speaking, it's about anarchists... and roughly speaking, it's a mystery story. It can be guaranteed that you will never guess the solution until you get to the end- it is even feared that you may not get it then." I think I finally got the ending this time. At least, it makes sense to me now, whereas I had always had a little trouble understanding quite how it fit in with the rest of the book- it's easy to get caught up in the story and miss everything happening underneath, but rereading never fails to bring out some new insight or understanding.

Dandelion Wine by Ray Bradbury

Rereading this book has become something of a summer ritual. Bradbury waxes unabashedly nostalgic in a series of vignettes about the summer of 1928 as seen through the eyes of a twelve year old boy in Green Town, Illinois. I need to get me a pair of those Royal Crown Cream-Sponge Para Litefoot Tennis Shoes.

Biffen's Millions by P.G. Wodehouse

One of my favorite Wodehouse books. Edmund Biffen Christopher is about to inherit millions from his eccentric godfather- on the condition that he not be arrested before his 30th birthday. How can his friends make sure he doesn't forfeit the money by getting drunk and running afoul of the police? Sneak into his apartment while he's asleep and steal his pants.

At Swim-Two-Birds by Flann O'Brien (Brian O'Nolan)

"This is just the book to give your sister – if she's a loud, dirty, boozy girl" said Dylan Thomas of At Swim-Two-Birds. My sister, needless to say, was not flattered. Having just read O'Brien's The Third Policeman, and still reeling from the implications of the atomic theory of bicycles, I was browsing one of the dorm libraries for something to read on one of the summer school movie trips and came across a battered copy (now in an advanced state of disintegration) of At Swim-Two-Birds. First of all, gotta love the bizarre 70's cover, the kind that normally seems to have no discernable connection to the contents of the book, although in this case I'll give it the benefit of the doubt. Truth be told, I frequently lost track of what was going on in this book, and although I would normally attribute this to my short attention span, I think in this case credit must be given to (or blame shared by) the bizarre and convoluted plot structure. It is a book about a book about a book, in which three openings (first, second, and third) and three conclusions (antepenultimate, penultimate, and ultimate) frame narratives ranging from the aestho-autogamous creations of the eccentric author Dermot Trellis to the exploits of the legendary Finn MacCool- the latter, in its phrasing and imagery, a spot-on parody of Irish myth. I subsequently read, and enjoyed, O'Brien's The Dalkey Archive and a collection of his newspaper columns, published under the pseudonym Myles na gCopaleen.

The Three Musketeers by Alexander Dumas

My copy is a WalMart paperback, the cover emblazoned with a bright "2 for $1" sticker and the proclamation "Superheroes of the sword, they fought for honor, for glory- and for girls!" (Well, I suppose that's as good a description as any.) But once you get past the cheesy cover and the 6-page defense of literary "classics" (A lot of people think 'classic' means old or boring. As a result, they miss out on some of the most interesting, engaging stories ever told!) it's down to complete and unabridged business. Good stuff, to which my movie adaptation (Quid Agis, 2001) didn't quite live up although we had a lot of fun filming the fight scenes between the Musketeers and the Cardinal's guards before we started going off on tangents involving chem labs and used car salesmen.

And now back to my latest book purchase, a Greek grammar. I'm such a nerd.

Harry Potter VII

2005-08-20T01:36:00.000-04:00

With the publication of the sixth and penultimate Harry Potter installment, speculation has never been rifer- nor security tighter- regarding the eagerly anticipated conclusion to the series. It is therefore with justifiable pride that I present to you the following information, which- though still in the realm of guesswork- represents my latest and most controversial research into the dark secrets of J.K. Rowling's plans for the seventh and final book. On the cost by which I have obtained this knowledge, I will not dwell. Suffice it to say that you, my readers, have no doubt noted the recent dearth of blog updates, just as my family has puzzled over my unannounced absences, cryptic remarks, and withered right hand. At this time I would like to warn spoiler-conscious readers to read no further.

Continue...

Harry Potter and the Revenge of the Slyth
co-written by George Lucas

The wizarding world is crumbling under attacks by the ruthless Deatheaters and their sinister master, Lord Voldemort. In a stunning move, the traitor Severus Snape sweeps into the Ministry of Magic headquarters and kidnaps the Minister, Rufus Scrimgeour. Harry and Ron fight their way through an army of Inferi to reach Scrimgeour, who is being guarded by Draco Malfoy. A duel ensues in which Harry defeats Malfoy, and at Scrimgeour's urging kills him. Harry and Ron evade Snape and return Scrimgeour to the Ministry. In apparent gratitude, Scrimgeour appoints Harry as his personal representative at Hogwarts, where Harry is to begin his seventh year. Headmistress McGonagall reluctantly accepts Harry as a member of the staff, but refuses to grant him the title of Professor, although the position of Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher is still vacant. Harry is torn between his personal dislike of Scrimgeour and the Ministry and his resentment of what he perceives as McGonagall's mistrust, which he suspects stems from his refusal to confide in her the secrets entrusted to him by Dumbledore. When Harry questions her about Horcruxes, still without revealing his true purposes, she concludes that he is seeking the knowledge for his own purposes, perhaps to insure himself against the inevitable showdown with Voldemort, and grows even more mistrustful.

Meanwhile, despite the warnings of his conscience, Harry cannot bring himself to break off his secret romance with Ginny Weasley, who tells him that she is pregnant. Harry begins to be troubled by disturbing presentiments of her death in childbirth. Scrimgeour, displaying an uncanny ability to read Harry's mind, is sympathetic, hinting that there are ways to save people from death that cannot be learned at Hogwarts. "It's not something Dumbledore would have told you." Harry remembers the many times that Dumbledore withheld information from him, but is loath to confide in the Minister- until Scrimgeour casually drops the H-bomb, and he is suddenly all ears. "You know about Horcruxes, sir?"

"Harry, if one is to understand magic, one must study all its aspects, not just the dogmatic, narrow view of your Hogwarts professors. Be careful, Harry. They fear you. In time they will destroy you. Let me train you."

"I won't be a pawn of the Ministry. Hogwarts is my home."

"Only through me can you achieve a power than any other wizard. Master the Dark Arts, and you will be able to save Ginny Weasley from certain death."

"What did you say?"

"Use my knowledge, I beg you..."

"You're Lord Voldemort!"

Harry suddenly realizes the truth. He whips out his wand and points it at Voldemort, but after a tense moment lowers it. "I'm going to turn you in," he says. Voldemort makes no move to stop Harry as the latter rushes off, returning not long after with Professors McGonagall, Flitwick, and Slughorn, who attempt to put him under arrest. "The Ministry will decide your fate," announces McGonagall grimly.

"I am the Ministry!"

Voldemort's wand suddenly appears in his hand, and Flitwick and Slughorn are on the floor, dead.

Harry is paralyzed as McGonagall and Voldemort duel. Bolts of lightning shoot from Voldemort's wand, but McGonagall parries them with her own. Voldemort appears to weaken and appeals to Harry for help. "You can't kill him, Professor," Harry pleads. "He must stand trial."

"He has too much control of the Ministry and the Wizengamot. He is too dangerous to be kept alive."

Harry makes his decision. "Expelliarmus!" he shouts, disarming not Voldemort but McGonagall, who is blasted out of the window by Voldemort's lightning bolts. "Power! Unlimited power!" cackles Voldemort.

"What have I done?"

"You are fulfilling your destiny, Harry. Become my apprentice. Learn to use the Dark Arts."

"I will do whatever you ask."

"Good."

"Just help me save Ginny's life. I can't live without her. I won't let her die. I want the power to stop death."

"To cheat death is a power only I have achieved, but if you will become my apprentice, I will share it with you."

"I pledge myself to your teachings. To the ways of the Slyth."

Voldemort waves his wand and Harry's name appears in the air. Another wave of his wand, and the letters rearrange themselves.

"A powerful Slyth you will become. Henceforth, you shall be known as HARPY ROTTER."

"Thank you, my Master."

"We must move quickly. I want you to go to Hogwarts. We will catch them off balance. Do what must be done, Harpy Rotter. Do not hesitate. Show no mercy. Only then will you be strong enough in the Dark Arts to save Ginny."

Harry arrives at Hogwarts at the head of an army of Inferi. He finds a group of first-years hiding in the Gryffindor common room, where they have fled to escape the Inferi.

"Harry, there are too many of them. What are we going to do?"

"Avada-"

Harry intends to leave Hogwarts in flames, but on his way out is confronted by his old friend Ron. They duel as the castle burns around them. Part of the ceiling caves in, pinning Harry to the ground, and Ron disarms him.

"You were the Chosen One! It was said that you would destroy the heir of Slytherin, not join him!"

Ron picks up Harry's wand and begins to walk away. He stops and looks back. Harry screams as his robes burst into flame.

"I hate you!"

"You were my best mate, Harry. I loved you."

Ron leaves Harry for dead and escapes Hogwarts with Ginny only moments before Voldemort arrives to recover his apprentice. Ginny dies not long afterward, but not before giving birth to twins, one of whom is placed in the care of Hagrid, the other given to Bill Weasley and Fleur Delacour to raise as their own. Meanwhile, Voldemort fits his apprentice with a new body of gleaming silver and tells him that Ginny was killed in the destruction of Hogwarts. The stage is set for the second septology, in which Harry's children, grown to adulthood, redeem their father and finally bring to an end the evil rule of Lord Voldemort.

TO BE CONTINUED

While I Was Out

2005-08-19T20:48:00.000-04:00

AUGUST 16th

I AM not prepared to admit that there is, or can be, properly speaking, in the world anything that is too sacred to be known. That spiritual beauty and spiritual truth are in their nature communicable and that they should be communicated, is a principle which lies at the root of every conceivable religion. Christ was crucified upon a hill, and not in a cavern, and the word Gospel itself involves the same idea as the ordinary name of a daily paper. Whenever, therefore, a poet or any similar type of man can, or conceives that he can, make all men partakers in some splendid secret of his own heart, I can imagine nothing saner and nothing manlier than his course in doing so.

'Robert Browning.'

AUGUST 17th

ONCE men sang together round a table in chorus; now one man sings alone, for the absurd reason that he can sing better. If scientific civilization goes on (which is most improbable) only one man will laugh, because he can laugh better than the rest.

'Heretics.'

AUGUST 19th

IN a hollow of the grey-green hills of rainy Ireland lived an old, old woman, whose uncle was always Cambridge at the Boat Race. But in her grey-green hollows, she knew nothing of this; she didn't know that there was a Boat Race. Also she did not know that she had an uncle. She had heard of nobody at all, except of George the First, of whom she had heard (I know not why), and in whose historical memory she put her simple trust. And by and by, in God's good time, it was discovered that this uncle of hers was really not her uncle, and they came and told her so. She smiled through her tears, and said only, 'Virtue is its own reward.'

'The Napoleon of Notting Hill.'

Chesterton Day by Day

Chesterton Quote of the Day

2005-08-03T11:01:00.000-04:00

Even among liars there are two classes, one immeasurably better than another. The honest liar is the man who tells the truth about his old lies; who says on Wednesday, 'I told a magnificent lie on Monday.' He keeps the truth in circulation; no one version of things stagnates in him and becomes an evil secret. He does not have to live with old lies; a horrible domesticity.

Introduction to 'The Old Curiosity Shop' via Chesterton Day by Day

The Legend of the Blue Potato

2005-08-02T15:45:00.000-04:00

Of all the vegetables known to mankind, few if any capture the imagination as does the elusive blue potato. Once considered mythical, it has figured in the tales and folklore of many cultures. Indeed, the mystery surrounding this vegetable seems far out of proportion with its humble identity. Yet this cannot account for the widespread occurrences of the blue potato in varied and unlikely times and places. It is not known whether there is an actual “Blue Potato” that in effect embodies the essence of this vegetable, or if the prevalent occurrence of the name is merely a persistent but coincidental phenomenon. The vegetable figures particularly in the lore of the Gorfuans, especially in the southern province of Bleauburghy, which was believed to be the location of the primeval potato patch in Gorfuan mythology. The tales of the Freddegar, the little-known dwellers of the Tolmaar steppes, often mentioned a “Blue Potato” that would arrive to aid the people in their time of need, and the name of the Blue Potato was often invoked in that people’s struggle against the tyrannical Fidlumbrian Empire. At the battle of Garyfells the Freddegars fought under the banner of a blue potato on a silver field, which was supposedly stained with the blood of their commander when he was killed by the third and final Fidlumbrian charge. The flag was preserved and now is in the possession of the Imperial Museum in Tyronryff.

Righteous indignation

2005-07-31T20:45:00.000-04:00

Soror mea, ingrata puella et ignavus, queratur me non renovavisse blogem meam. Propterea quod hinc scripsi. Felixne tu?

Addendum: Sunt qui mussantes brevitatem meam vituperant. Portionem Iosephitatis poscent, ergo plures scribam quasi sicut ethnici in multiloquio meo exaudiar. Heu, Musam meam ad vacationem misit et naiadibus abitis fons inspirationis siccus est. Ite, puellae, ad libros.

St. Swithin's Day if thou dost rain...

2005-07-15T15:06:00.001-04:00

St. Swithin's day quote via Chesterton Day by Day

ONLY in our romantic country do you have the romantic thing called weather -- beautiful and changeable as a woman. The great English landscape painters (neglected now, like everything that is English) have this salient distinction, that the weather is not the atmosphere of their pictures it is the subject of their pictures. They paint portraits of the weather. The weather sat to Constable; the weather posed for Turner -- and the deuce of a pose it was. In the English painters the climate is the hero; in the case of Turner a swaggering and fighting hero, melodramatic but magnificent. The tall and terrible protagonist robed in rain, thunder, and sunlight, fills the whole canvas and the whole foreground. Rich colours actually look more luminous on a grey day, because they are seen against a dark background, and seem to be burning with a lustre of their own. Against a dim sky all flowers look like fireworks. There is something strange about them at once vivid and secret, like flowers traced in fire in the grim garden of a witch. A bright blue sky is necessarily the high light in the picture, and its brightness kills all the bright blue flowers. But on a grey day the larkspur looks like fallen heaven; the red daisies are really the lost-red eyes of day, and the sun-flower is the vice-regent of the sun. Lastly, there is this value about the colour that men call colourless that it suggests in some way the mixed and troubled average of existence, especially in its quality of strife and expectation and promise. Grey is a colour that always seems on the eve of changing to some other colour; of brightening into blue, or blanching into white or breaking into green or gold. So we may be perpetually reminded of the indefinite hope that is in doubt itself; and when there is grey weather on our hills or grey hair on our heads perhaps they may still remind us of the morning.

'Daily News.'

Ora, Labora, Olives

2005-07-11T15:44:00.000-04:00

Today is the feast of St. Benedict, patron saint of Europe and founder of Western monasticism.

If you've been following the prophecies of St. Malachy, the phrase gloria olivae must have leapt to mind when Cardinal Ratzinger sibi nomen imposuit Benedict XVI last April (transcript; audio via Cnytr). That's because St. Malachy reportedly attributed this motto, meaning "the glory of the olive", to the 111th Pope, counting inclusively from Celestine II (Malachy lived in the 12th century, and reserved his prophecies for future Popes, the bygone papacies generally being considered old news).

Speaking of olives, today is also the feast of my confirmation saint, the Irish martyr Oliver Plunkett (beatified by Pope Benedict XV, wouldn't you know it). But more to the point, how does Benedict XVI fit into the prophecies? Well, it so happens there's a branch (pun not intended) of the Benedictines known as the Olivetans. Chalk it up to the omniscience of hindsight? Sure, except the prophecy buffs picked up on the connection well in advance and have long predicted that the Pope in question would be from the Benedictine order.

If the election of Ratzinger (who turned out not to have been a Benedictine after all) cast a momentary shadow of uncertainty upon the hearts of St. Malachy's devotees, his choice of name must have banished all doubts that he was in fact the one prophesied to bring balance to the Force... wait, wrong prophecy. (After all, for all his ludicrous and undeserved characterization as the "Darth Vader" of the Catholic Church, Ratzinger would be the last person to fall for the sort of moral relativism that snagged Anakin Skywalker, and whatever Obi-Wan Kenobi may say, absolutes are precisely what a Sith doesn't deal in. Did anyone else notice the implications of Palpatine's characterization of the Jedi as "rigid and dogmatic" in Revenge of the Sith? But I digress.) At any rate, chalk up another one to St. Malachy, but don't make any long-range plans, because it turns out this is the end. The 112th prophecy reads:

In the final persecution of the Holy Roman Church there will reign Peter the Roman, who will feed his flock amid many tribulations; after which the seven-hilled city will be destroyed and the dreadful Judge will judge the people. The End.

And that's it, folks. Though if you still find the "olive" connection a little dubious, you're welcome to seek a second opinion.

There was something familiar about [Ratzinger] when our eyes met during that episode when he had "looked" back at me through the television. I recognized this person. The next day it dawned on me that it was Ata-i-lek, a top-ranking Green Reptilian military commander from Atasoon. I realized that he had just recently begun overshadowing Cardinal Ratzinger! ...Ata-i-lek had just "come into" the human body of Joseph Ratzinger shortly before the conclave commenced. It is no wonder that he was able to win the election so quickly.

This is just weird. But there's this strange reference to something that sounds like the Rapture!

As promised, the evacuation of the animals from Alukar Heights commenced in April 2005. Already, 15 of them have been physically picked up. More will follow, but remember, not everyone will be physically evacuated. If you are not in the physical evacuation, do not be concerned. Many will be leaving in other ways. All will be well.

I think my chances of being raptured are pretty slim in either case, but I have taken the precaution of registering with www.raptureletters.com. If and when the Rapture occurs, I will receive this letter informing me of the occurence (sent automatically in the event that the website staff are themselves "taken up") and giving me a chance to mend my erring Papist ways before it's too late.

Do I still want to bother applying to grad school?

Hinc lucem et pocula sacra

2005-07-06T22:43:00.000-04:00

Summer school is the sweet, sweet taste of IBC root beer, the taste that only comes from a glass bottle, like the bottle I am holding with the hand that is not holding the box of leftover pizza, strolling slowly homeward in the cool night breeze from the bay, looking for stray fireflies and whistling idly. Well, that's not strictly true, let alone grammatically coherent. IBC root beer, despite its undeniably sweet, sweet, taste, is not summer school. Summer school is faculty meeting, assembly, Newspaper class, Chamber music class, and lunch; summer school is also study hall and Tuck Shop. Tuck Shop is when I permit myself the sweet, sweet taste of IBC root beer (the taste that only comes from a glass bottle). I close up the Tuck Shop and walk home, looking for stray fireflies and whistling idly, pondering the many and divers questions attendant on one for whom the time has come to contemplate the impending reality of a post-graduate existence. To wit, having double-majored in Music and Classics, should I spend two more years pursuing an additional B.A. from the department of Anglo-Saxon, Norse, and Celtic at Cambridge University so that I can pick up insular Latin, Old English, Old Irish, and other assorted knowledge pertaining to languages and literature of the medieval British isles (that is to say, knowledge of the sort commonly considered useless, much like my current fields of study, but more so?) To which the answer of course is, "if they'll take me!"

"To live without faith...

2005-07-04T23:33:00.000-04:00

...without a patrimony to defend, without a steady struggle for truth, that is not living, but existing."

-Bl. Pier Giorgio Frassati (April 6, 1901- July 4, 1925)

Chesterton Quote of the Day

2005-06-29T09:11:00.000-04:00

JUNE 29th- ST. PETER'S DAY

WHEN Christ at a symbolic moment was establishing His great society, He chose for its corner-stone neither the brilliant Paul nor the mystic John, but a shuffler, a snob, a coward -- in a word, a man. And upon this rock He has built His Church, and the gates of Hell have not prevailed against it. All the empires and the kingdoms have failed because of this inherent and continual weakness, that they were founded by strong men and upon strong men. But this one thing -- the historic Christian Church -- was founded upon a weak man, and for that reason it is indestructible. For no chain is stronger than its weakest link.

from 'Heretics' via Chesterton Day By Day

Down Baghdad Boulevard

2005-06-17T13:04:00.000-04:00

I found out a few months ago that the irrepressible John Walsh, my high school advisor and the reason I went to Williams, has run off to a civilian contracting job in Iraq. Since then I have enjoyed reading the periodic updates he has been sending out by email. One of these letters, "Down Baghdad Boulevard", has been published online and you can read it here at the American Spectator.

Those of you who know Spanish might also be interested in this article (and radio interview) at the Argentinian newspaper La Nacion.

Update, 6/22: the second installment has been published.

Seriousness is not a virtue

2005-06-15T16:21:00.000-04:00

Sage advice from ertandberni at Tremendous Trifles, to whose many insightful posts I don't link nearly often enough. I suspect the Tolkien anecdote is apocryphal, but the point stands. I do have to quibble with one trivial detail, however: blue hair. You gotta have blue hair.

Seriousness is not a virtue. It would be a heresy, but a much more sensible heresy, to say that seriousness is a vice. It is really a natural trend or lapse into taking one's self gravely, because it is the easiest thing to do. It is much easier to write a good TIMES leading article than a good joke in PUNCH. For solemnity flows out of men naturally; but laughter is a leap.

Chesterton, Orthodoxy

Though, just to confuse the issue, Robert Frost is credited with the claim "I am never so serious as when I am joking." An intriguing thought. I think I need to reread The Napoleon of Notting Hill.

A Bolivian Odyssey

2005-06-15T16:19:00.000-04:00

Sing, O Muse, of that choir which was never at a loss, which travelled far and wide after they had packed the famous hall of Chapin. Nine long days did they endure the siege of Final Exams, and many a brave GPA was sent hurrying down to Hades, but on the morning of the tenth day (as rosy-fingered Dawn drew back the curtains of a sleepless night for those for whom partying took precedence over packing) when the last items of dorm-room decor had been thrown into boxes and the last boxes thrown into summer storage, clutching only a suitcase or duffel bag in which they had salvaged a few choice possessions from the ruin, they set off in their coach bus over the wine-dark asphalt...

Exchanging our earthbound transport for the winged species at La Guardia, we flew to Miami and thence overnight to Santa Cruz, bypassing a scheduled stop in La Paz at the discretion of American Airlines- the implied political unrest not boding well for the highland leg of our tour (La Paz and Lake Titicaca). For the time being, though, we would be spending the first few days in the mission towns of the relatively undisturbed lowlands. A six hour bus ride from the airport took us to the Franciscan mission at Urubicha, where we spent the next two days milling around, playing soccer and frisbee with the children and sight-reading Handel and Vivaldi with the local choir and orchestra. At night we looked upwards and vainly tried to make sense of the unfamiliar Southern sky. There's something vaguely unsettling about being "under strange stars", but we admired the Milky Way for a while and eventually someone made a strong case for the Southern Cross (and a slightly weaker one for "Son of Scorpio").

Thursday, as luck or Providence would have it, was Corpus Christi, and we were able to stay for the Mass- and procession (I love Catholic countries!)- before heading off to our next destination, the Jesuit mission of San Javier. After two nights sleeping on the floor of a storage room in Urubicha, our hotel in San Javier was quite a step up- the downside being that there weren't any little kids running around to play soccer with. Our third and final mission town was Concepcion ("where life truly begins" -Rich) where, as in San Javier, we toured the mission and gave a concert following evening Mass. Here we faced a dilemma: we were scheduled to go on to La Paz, but the political situation had not improved, and while we would probably be fine in the city itself, we would have to drop our side trip to Lake Titicaca. We could find something else to do in La Paz for two days, or we could continue through the mission towns. We opted for the former, and that's how we ended up mountain biking down the "World's Most Dangerous Road" to Coroico, a small town over the mountains from La Paz, 64km northeast and 3600 meters down. Outfitted and chaperoned by "Gravity Assisted Mountain Biking" we set off from a bare and windswept plateau above the city into a series of sweeping mountain vistas (vistae?). This was more like it. My first impression of Bolivia had been that it was too flat (and dark, though that was the fault of the tinted windows on the bus.) The high peaks and deep valleys of the Cordillera Real in the morning sunlight more than made up for it, though of course I was too occupied in making sure that I didn't plummet headlong into aforementioned valleys to fully appreciate the grandeur. All too soon the asphalt ended and we found ourselves at the beginning of the WMDR itself, so named for the number and frequency of fatal accidents- not hard to believe, as we watched ponderous trucks and tour buses awkwardly navigate the narrow dirt road meandering into the distance, carved straight into the sides of the sheer cliffs that plunged to inestimable depths. "Don't worry, most of the accidents occur when people drive this drunk."

"Why would anyone drive this road drunk?"
"If you were sober you'd know better."

Cautiously we started off, but it wasn't long before a spill off the bike persuaded me to ride out the rest on the bus- not having ridden a bike since middle school, the WMDR was a bit much, and far too bumpy and dusty to be enjoyable. Whether I was really safer on the bus was debatable, but at least I could enjoy the view, which was pretty spectacular. We had left the stark highlands behind and were now in a dense subtropical forest, the southwestern border of the Amazon basin. A picturesque town perched on a hillside, Coroico could have passed for a town in Southern Europe, though the surrounding mountains were decidedly Andean. We crashed at the Hotel Esmeralda, feeling indescribably decadent as we entered our rooms to find them equipped with private balconies, hammocks, and (best of all) hot showers. Later, Emily tipped me off to the book exchange, offering intriguing titles such as "The Night Life of the Gods" and "What the Seers Predict for 1971" (sample prediction: the violent death of Fidel Castro). The next morning I got up early and hiked up the hill in search of an elusive waterfall vaguely indicated on the map- a vain search, as it turned out, though I was treated to an impressive chorus of dogs and roosters floating up on the morning breeze from the valley below. Returning to the hotel, I had breakfast on the porch, where we were treated to classical music of a vaguely apocalyptic vein (a Dies Irae, perhaps, I don't remember) from speakers which apparently doubled as a bees' nest. The bees didn't seem to mind, though we found the music amusingly incongruous as we admired the birds gliding lazily above the valley and the distant snowcaps occasionally visible through breaks in the clouds which clustered above the nearer hills.

After a brief cultural exchange and impromptu dance party with a group from the local Afro-Bolivian community, we hopped onto buses for the trip back up the Death Road to La Paz. That night was our final concert and official farewell dinner in deference to the seniors leaving a day early for pre-Graduation festivities back in Williamstown. The next day we were free to explore the city, dodging protests and residual tear gas, and that evening we had our unofficial farewell dinner at the Vienna Restaurant where Veda regaled us with tales from his childhood in a Buddhist commune. Our final Bolivianos spent, we traversed the urban obstacle course back to the hotel and packed for our 3AM departure, so timed in order to get us to the airport ahead of any blockades that might be set up later on. We made it onto the plane without incident and were soon on our way back home by way of Santa Cruz and Miami. National Treasure kept me awake for the first two hours (gotta love cheesy conspiracy theories- Jono, if he's reading this, should get a laugh out of it) and then I staved off the boredom by swapping my aisle seat for a window and spent the remainder of the flight contemplating the Brazil, Colombia and/or Venezuela, Jamaica, Cuba, and the intervening Caribbean. (Did I mention I'm also a big fan of clouds? I could watch those all day.) Landed in La Guardia, and thence home courtesy of Ellie and her brother, bound for Boston.

And that's it for now, though I might have some pictures to post later, and I'll probably elaborate on individual aspects as fancy strikes me or by request. 4:19 press return.

Two Types

2005-06-06T08:52:00.000-04:00

There is a subtle art to updating 'blogs. Post too frequently, and you risk conveying the impression that you have no life, which- although I won't try to argue otherwise in my case- is generally considered embarrassing. Trying to remedy this impression by dropping gratuitous references to a vibrant social life ("Sorry I haven't updated for a few hours, I just got back from the pub and...") tends to backfire, as the reader can safely assume such references are fabricated. Moreover, the frequent poster risks sensitive readers taking offense at the implication that they themselves have nothing better to do than check back constantly for new updates, unless of course these readers are primarily college students in which case the issue is moot.

At the other end of the spectrum is the infrequent poster who will occasionally allow entire weeks to pass between updates. Procrastination is a way of life to this shady character, so much so that what to others is merely an idle diversion becomes just another link in a complex chain of procrastination. Those who can still feel the tiny pangs of conscience will occasionally offer bizarre and farfetched excuses for their neglect, often pleading prolonged absence from internet access. Be wary of explanations involving travel to foreign countries and be sure to independently verify all suspicious claims. For instance, any excuses involving a recent visit to Bolivia must immediately be called into question given the recent political instability in that country and therefore the decreased likelihood of recent tourism to that area.

And now for some housekeeping. I'm sorry to inform whoever found this site by googling italian profane hand jesters that this item is currently out of stock and backordered. We do have a fine selection of French profane hand troubadors, if you're interested....

Sic Transit

2005-05-22T17:45:00.000-04:00

Breaking of the hatches up and bursting of the holds,
Thronging of the thousands up that labour under sea
White for bliss and blind for sun and stunned for liberty.
(Chesterton, Lepanto)

And so the third and penultimate year of my college career draws to a close. The time of tribulation has past; exams are but a fading memory, and the three-month reign of peace and requiescence is at hand.

I remember being in elementary school and thinking about the seemingly interminable succession of school years standing between me and adulthood, the latter being (to my naive imagination) infinitely preferable to my present state insofar as it involved being able to set one's own bedtime.

Needless to say, I now find myself somewhat disillusioned... it seems so long ago now, although recent years have of course been flying by. No doubt the hectic college lifestyle is to blame. College didn't even enter into my understanding back then- the realization that four more years of formal education lay beyond twelfth grade would have been a crushing one to my young and impatient mind. Now, of course, these four years seem all too short- not because I fear their impending end per se, but because they're so short a time in which to do all that should be done. Ah well.... but enough, before I try to pass off these unoriginal sentiments as some sort of deep philosophical insight.

Tomorrow I'm off to Bolivia on the Choir tour, report to follow upon my return.
O fortes peioraque passi mecum saepe viri, nunc vino pellite curas; cras ingens iterabimus aequor!

I dreamed a dream

2005-05-15T21:32:00.000-04:00

The following is the text of an email I just sent out to those going on the Williams Choir Tour to Bolivia next week.

Last night, I dreamed we were in Bolivia, but apparently tensions among the populace were running high and we were recommended not to leave our hotel. After about a week Brad decided it was hopeless and that we had better leave the country in case anything bad really happened, and told us to be packed up by a certain time so that we could depart ahead of schedule (in case anyone was planning to try to stop us). I remember being disappointed that we didn't get to sing any concerts. What a waste of time! And here we are trying to sneak out (like we're in the Sound of Music or something, escaping over the mountains to Peru?) For some reason (not the kind that makes sense) we all decided to wander out to the town square in search of food and cheap souvenirs before we left. Unfortunately, we were quickly spotted as foreign tourists and rounded up. A policeman somehow guessed that we were planning on leaving early and in an apparent attempt to delay us, ordered us to circumambulate the square, stopping at certain "stations" along the perimeter which he pointed out to us. We had to go one by one, and no two people were allowed to be at a station at the same time, nor were we allowed to rush from station to station. It seemed a rather strange way of holding us up, but effective nonetheless as we figured it was better to go through with it then cause trouble. Maintaining a cautious distance from the person in front of me, I arrived at the first of the stations and realized that they were the Stations of the Cross, so I knelt in prayer before continuing on to the next. Things continued in this way until a couple of stations later, when the policeman approached me as I was kneeling in front of a station partially obscured by a street vendor's display. In unaccented English, he asked me if I was upset...

"No," I told him, "Should I be?"
"I'm upset that your friends have been buying cheap souvenirs and destroying the rainforest," he said, shoving some kind of gaudy native handicraft in front of me, much like those being displayed by the street vendor. It was labelled 'Not harmful to the rainforest.' "They say that they're not harmful to the rainforest," he told me. "But they are!"
"I'm sorry to hear that," I told him. But he wasn't listening. He was pointing at a faded mural on which I could make out the words "National Geographic" and a splash of the magazine's signature yellow. "I saw your friend reading National Geographic," he said. "Do you read National Geographic?"
"Sure," I told him, "I used to read it all the time."
"National Geographic is destroying the rainforest!" he shouted. Grabbing me by the neck, he said, "Are you upset that I made you all walk around the square?"
"Not really," I answered, honestly, a little worried that things were about to turn ugly, but unwilling or unable to put on a good show of being upset for his benefit."You're not upset enough!" he screamed, tightening his grip on my neck with one hand and drawing back with the other-

At this point my extremely vivid recollection of the dream ends, and I suspect things did indeed turn ugly, but my subconscious sees fit to spare me the details- which is uncommonly thoughtful of it, I think, and probably for the best. Anyway, just something to put you in the mood, and no, I didn't make any of this up. You were probably hoping that I would admit something of the sort, so that you could write off as feeble humor what you now have no choice but to acknowledge as the surreal hallucinations of a dangerously unbalanced mind. I'll understand if you are never able to take me seriously again. I myself gave up on that years ago.

But please, leave your National Geographics at home.

Joe

On a related note, I need to start taking my malaria pills this week. Side effects are reported to include vivid dreams...

Pentecost

2005-05-15T09:07:00.000-04:00

Happy Birthday to the Catholic Church!

"When Pentecost day came round, they had all met in one room, when suddenly they heard what sounded like a powerful wind from heaven, the noise of which filled the entire house in which they were sitting; and something appeared to them that seemed like tongues of fire; these separated and came to rest on the head of each of them. They were all filled with the Holy Spirit, and began to speak foreign languages as the Spirit gave them the gift of speech.

Now there were devout men living in Jerusalem from every nation under heaven, and at this sound they all assembled, each one bewildered to hear these men speaking his own language. They were amazed and astonished. ‘Surely’ they said ‘all these men speaking are Galileans? How does it happen that each of us hears them in his own native language? Parthians, Medes and Elamites; people from Mesopotamia, Judaea and Cappadocia, Pontus and Asia, Phrygia and Pamphylia, Egypt and the parts of Libya round Cyrene; as well as visitors from Rome – Jews and proselytes alike – Cretans and Arabs; we hear them preaching in our own language about the marvels of God.’" (Acts 2:1-11)

A year ago today (liturgically speaking) found me sitting at the organ in the choir loft of the Sebastiankirche, on a hill above a small village in Austria. Today on this anniversary of sorts I shall be doing much the same thing, albeit closer to home, in St. Patrick's at 4:30. Maybe I'll celebrate by pulling out all the stops for the last verse again (literally, of course!) .

Veni, Sancte Spiritus...

Chesterton Quote of the Day

2005-05-14T09:39:00.000-04:00

When the business man rebukes the idealism of his office-boy, it is commonly in some such speech as this: "Ah, yes, when one is young, one has these ideals in the abstract and these castles in the air; but in middle age they all break up like clouds, and one comes down to a belief in practical politics, to using the machinery one has and getting on with the world as it is." Thus, at least, venerable and philanthropic old men now in their honoured graves used to talk to me when I was a boy. But since then I have grown up and have discovered that these philanthropic old men were telling lies. What has really happened is exactly the opposite of what they said would happen. They said that I should lose my ideals and begin to believe in the methods of practical politicians. Now, I have not lost my ideals in the least; my faith in fundamentals is exactly what it always was. What I have lost is my old childlike faith in practical politics. I am still as much concerned as ever about the Battle of Armageddon; but I am not so much concerned about the General Election. As a babe I leapt up on my mother's knee at the mere mention of it. No; the vision is always solid and reliable. The vision is always a fact. It is the reality that is often a fraud. As much as I ever did, more than I ever did, I believe in Liberalism. But there was a rosy time of innocence when I believed in Liberals. (Orthodoxy)

Catechism Rock

2005-05-13T10:08:00.000-04:00

There's a place you'll go if you die in a state of grace
but the temporal effects of your sins have not been erased
What's it called?

Listen to the MP3
Catechism Rock brought to you by Victor Lams.

Brought to you by the letter I and the number...

2005-05-12T14:52:00.000-04:00

A few tidbits from the Globe and Mail's Social Studies via Mirabilis via Dappled Things.

Father Reginald (Reggie) Foster, a Wisconsin native, is the Pope's senior Latinist, reports The (Milwaukee) Journal-Sentinel. The renowned Latin teacher and fluent speaker of complex Ciceronian Latin has served four popes over 36 years, despite a curmudgeonly temperament and intemperate outbursts of personal opinions. When Karol Wojtyla began signing papal documents in Latin as "Joannes Paulus II," instead of "Ioannes Paulus II" after being elected pope 26 years ago, Father Foster quickly pointed out to a papal adviser that there is no letter "J" in Latin. "I said, 'By the way, friend, there's no J,' " he recalled. "And the answer kind of came back that the pope said 'Well, now there is.' Well, fine, fine. He's the boss. And if you look at his tomb, the J is gone. One of my brethren said, 'Well, he enjoyed his J for 26 years, and now it's gone.' His tombstone has 'I'. "

Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade

616: "A newly discovered fragment of the oldest surviving copy of the New Testament indicates that, as far as the Antichrist goes, theologians, scholars, heavy metal groups and television evangelists have got the wrong number," reports The Independent on Sunday. "Instead of 666, it's actually the far less ominous 616. The new fragment from the Book of Revelation, written in ancient Greek and dating from the late third century, is part of a hoard of previously unintelligible manuscripts discovered in historic dumps outside Oxyrhynchus in Egypt."

Remnant

And so do I, apparently...

Speaking of Limericks...

2005-05-12T10:18:00.000-04:00

Happy birthday to Edward Lear, famous writer of limericks and other "nonsense lyrics". Few poets have attempted- much less achieved- so profound an expression and depth of feeling, so keen an understanding of the eternal questions of mankind; the quest for the unknown and the insatiable thirst for understanding, the perennial themes of abandonment and unrequited love, and of course the baffling transience of human existence. Fewer still can boast so nimble a command of wit and whimsy at the same time.

'How pleasant to know Mr Lear!'
Who has written such volumes of stuff!
Some think him ill tempered and queer,
But a few think him pleasant enough.

Fragment of a Greek Tragedy

2005-05-11T17:30:00.000-04:00

For anyone who's ever had to slog through the real thing, as I should be doing at the moment:

CHORUS: O suitably-attired-in-leather-boots
Head of a traveller, wherefore seeking whom
Whence by what way how purposed art thou come
To this well-nightingaled vicinity?
My object in inquiring is to know.
But if you happen to be deaf and dumb
And do not understand a word I say,
Then wave your hand, to signify as much.

The opening of "Fragment of a Greek Tragedy" by A.E. Housman, whose "Loveliest of Trees" has also been on my mind of late, it being the proper season for such sentiments, though I have sadly outgrown it as of last Thursday.

"Behold, I make all things new."

2005-05-10T15:56:00.000-04:00

If all things are always the same, it is because they are always heroic. If all things are always the same, it is because they are always new. To each man one soul only is given; to each soul only is given a little power- the power at some moments to outgrow and swallow up the stars. If age after age that power comes upon men, whatever gives it to them is great. Whatever makes men feel old is mean -- an empire or a skin-flint shop. Whatever makes men feel young is great -- a great war or a love-story. And in the darkest of the books of God there is written a truth that is also a riddle. It is of the new things that men tire -- of fashions and proposals and improvements and change. It is the old things that startle and intoxicate. It is the old things that are young. There is no sceptic who does not feel that men have doubted before. There is no rich and fickle man who does not feel that all his novelties are ancient. There is no worshipper of change who does not feel upon his neck the vast weight of the weariness of the universe. But we who do the old things are fed by Nature with a perpetual infancy. No man who is in love thinks that anyone has been in love before. No woman who has a child thinks there have been such things as children. To people that fight for their own city are haunted with the burden of the broken empires. Yes... the world is always the same, because it is always unexpected.

G.K. Chesterton, The Napoleon of Notting Hill

Oh, and...

2005-05-08T11:28:00.000-04:00

my 21.005479...th birthday party last night was a blast, even though nobody wanted to take me on in Jenga. Probably because of my reckless tactics which tend to intimidate opponents... I can't really explain my fascination with Jenga, seeing as I'm normally given to caution and careful deliberation, whereas put a Jenga tower in front of me and I go straight for the most difficult and structurally significant blocks, trying to bring the tower to the brink of collapse and hoping that I won't be the one to actually bring it down. This is incomprehensible to the people who think Jenga is meant to be a game of teamwork and cooperation, which is probably why I ended up playing solo. We did, however, have an excellent game of Scrabble:

Fin

And that, my friends, is a Williams education in action.

Glorious!

2005-05-08T01:08:00.000-04:00

Normally, in a spirit of charity and common courtesy, I keep my speakers turned down to a reasonable level when listening to music in my room. But occasionally, on those rare and wonderful nights like tonight, the party down the hall is so loud anyway that I can gleefully crank up the volume and listen to (for example) the sixth movement of Dona Nobis Pacem in all its glory.

For as the new heavens
and the new earth...

Current Music: Vaughan Williams: Dona Nobis Pacem
Current Mood: awash and reveling

Should I be disturbed...

2005-05-07T15:58:00.000-04:00

...that my 'blog is currently the #1 result on Google for profane limericks? I'm afraid that whoever stumbled upon it via such a search was disappointed... though they might take consolation in the "p-hysics" limerick posted by Emily in the comments of my previous entry.

Down to one week of classes remaining. Last night was the Choir concert, which went well despite being a bit longer than the audience (and, for that matter, the singers) might have liked- but it was a good program, featuring a variety of Mass settings (Machaut, Palestrina, Desprez, Martin) along with other pieces by Brahms, Poulenc, Whitacre, Barber and Ives, whose Psalm 90 was a satisfying conclusion complete with string ensemble and local church bells. And now remaineth Sunday's Chamber Choir concert at the Clark, the 'Bethans recording session, and the Choir tour, but the greatest of these is the Choir tour. Bolivia, here we come- though our ability to sing effectively at high altitudes has not yet been proven. Should be interesting...

Passing through Greylock later last night I was waylaid by Mel ("Joeey?") who persuaded me to pay a visit to the choir party which was currently in occupation of 4th floor Carter, much, I'm sure, to the dismay of any residents who had their hearts set on a good night's sleep. Even Brad made an appearance, and soon gathered a crowd (in various stages of inebriation) eager to discuss details of the concert, reminisce about (and in some cases, fabricate) past choir memories, and (inevitably) decry the proliferation of a cappella groups on campus. Singing along to techno (the system is down!) and drifting between this and a few side conversations (involving, among other things, my personal views on alcohol consumption, the relationship between morality and common sense, and the centrality of ethnicity to Jewish identity) I finally decided around 1:30 that it was past my bedtime (considering I was getting up at 6:30 for Mass) and headed home. Not a wasted time (pun not intended) by any means, though. I'm belatedly getting to know a fair number of choir people this year, now that I see some of them outside rehearsals (and not just at drunken parties) which is nice. Mel informed me at lunch a few days ago that I was her "Surprise Friend of the Year." (Kind of like being on the cover of TIME magazine?)

In other news, Hue will be back from her semester in Spain in a week or so, just in time to distract me from my final exams- but of course, if I really want to approach my exams honestly, I should refrain from any sort of studying beforehand, since they ought to measure how much I've really learned from my classes, not how much I can cram immediately before and forget immediately afterwards, right? Well... I suppose it also depends on whether I really believe solely in education for its own sake, or whether I secretly care about grades as well. But you'll just have to ponder that question on your own, because I'm certainly not giving it away...

Dies Natalis Mihi, or 5+5+5=21

2005-05-05T09:33:00.000-04:00

In accordance with what I have been led to believe since childhood, or as Chesterton would say

"Bowing down in blind credulity, as is my custom, before mere authority and the tradition of the elders, superstitiously swallowing a story I could not test at the time by experiment or private judgment,"I am forced to conclude upon noticing today's date- the fifth day of the fifth month of the fifth year of the new millenium- that on this date, the anniversary of my birth I am now twenty-one years of age, with all the attendant rights and privileges thereof (however few of which I have any intentions of exercising in the immediate future). Birthdays have a habit of sneaking up on me- or maybe it's just that I'm at Williams where everything does- and I tend to be rather nonchalant about their observance, probably a holdover from my middle school days when divulging one's birthday meant certain humiliation at the hands of over-enthusiastic teachers. Far preferable was being woken this morning at 5:55 by the horn of the Birthday Honk-Honker high up Mt. Zorn:

at which, I'm sorry to say, I merely rolled over and went back to sleep for another half hour, because I don't live in Katroo. At any rate, I anticipate a relatively quiet and uneventful day- sitting around pondering How did I get so old so soon?- but on the plus side, I am aware of no apocalyptic predictions centered on this date (though I must say that my sixteenth birthday was somewhat anticlimactic after all the hype of planetary alignment, polar shifts and worldwide catastrophe.) Be that as it may- now that I've quoted Chesterton, referenced Dr. Seuss and alluded to a conspiracy theory (and an outdated one at that!) attentive readers will conclude that we are rapidly nearing the end of this post. And I'm certainly not going to disappoint you, attentive readers. Nunc dimittis, then, until next time.

Speaking of Socks

2005-05-04T11:04:00.000-04:00

A relic from high school English, loosely inspired by Chesterton's brilliant Variations on an Air. Points if you can identify some or all of the references.

White socks glinting in the rays of the sun,
as they’re put out with the washing when the laundry has been done,
and the socks upon the clothesline were as banners in the breeze,
for the wind is blowing westerly and whispers in the trees.

There are footprints in the sod,
where the feet of men have trod,
and they leave their footprints everywhere they go;
Feet in socks and socks in shoes,
white socks, black socks, reds and blues, but
whose socks were the blue socks I don’t know.

On the feet of kings and princes are the socks of high renown,
and they wear their socks upon their feet as proud as any crown;
The socks upon their heraldry are sable as the night,
but the socks upon their feet are glinting golden in the light.

I don’t want to open the drawer with my socks,
I’ve got it closed up now with all kinds of locks;
I do not trust it, whatever it is,
Timeo Danaos et soccos gerentis.

Finis

Thanks be to God for

2005-05-03T10:14:00.000-04:00

the odes of Horace, augmented sixth chords, dandelions, palatalization of velar stops before front vowels, the mountains at sunrise, climbing trees, flying kites, Renaissance polyphony, conspiracy theories, the color blue, socks, Carolingan minuscule, the melancholic temperament, hyperbole, plagal cadences, walking home to Mission in the afternoons, old memories, railroad tracks, prepositions, and the birds on my walk to church this morning-

Check it out

2005-05-02T22:20:00.000-04:00

In keeping with our longstanding commitment to pleasing graphic sensibility and miscellaneous profound content, we here at The Sacred and the Profane (and we use the plural loosely) feel it's high time we directed our patrons to the website of Jonathan "Jono" Dowse and his clickable IPA chart. (Never mind that the IPA is a sinister Freemason plot, the modern-day equivalent of the Tower of Babel- more on that later.) Lacking only a flash intro and a hideous array of animated GIFS, the "bunch of related pages" that comprise jbdowse:web float serenely in the sea of the world wide web like an archipelago... an archipelago of quality. Check it out! And remember to (1) read the Postscript if you want to or (2) not read the Postscript if you don't want to.

De Trinitate

2005-05-01T23:59:00.000-04:00

May 1st- Feast of St. Joseph the Worker (ora pro nobis!)

Today's Gospel (Sixth Sunday of Easter)
"If you love me, you will keep my commandments. And I will pray the Father, and he will give you another Counselor, to be with you for ever, even the Spirit of truth, whom the world cannot receive, because it neither sees him nor knows him; you know him, for he dwells with you, and will be in you. "I will not leave you desolate; I will come to you. Yet a little while, and the world will see me no more, but you will see me; because I live, you will live also. In that day you will know that I am in my Father, and you in me, and I in you. He who has my commandments and keeps them, he it is who loves me; and he who loves me will be loved by my Father, and I will love him and manifest myself to him." (John 14:15-21)

At dinner the other night I was asked to explain the Holy Spirit. Dutifully I explained that the Holy Spirit was the third person of the Blessed Trinity, who proceeds from the Father and the Son, the three being consubstantial but distinct as persons. The Old Testament makes it clear that God is One; from the New, we deduce that the Father, the Son, and the Spirit are somehow equal sharers in the Divine Nature, and between the two we derive the Trinity. In a way it seems so simple, even obvious; after all, it is not as if we professed One God who was also Three Gods, or One Person who was also Three Persons, either of which (though suitably mystical and mysterious) would be a blatant contradiction and affront to reason; no, it's a simple matter of God being three with respect to the Divine Persons and one with respect to the Divine Nature. And how fitting! Thus (and only thus) can we say, not as a mere platitude, that God is love, for love can exist only between persons, plural; thus God can say "Let us create man in our image" and create two persons whose love begets a third.

Simple, even obvious? Then why was I surprised to hear from my questioner that this was the first explanation he had ever heard which made sense? More than that- why was I just as surprised that my explanation had made sense as I was that the explanations of others had not? Granted, the latter is (sadly) all too believable. But the former- how could I have so easily explain what has baffled the minds of theologians for centuries? The answer is of course, that I didn't. I was only stating the facts. We know, through reason and through revelation, certain facts about God, and the Trinity is what fits these facts, or more properly what these facts fit. Faith assents to it, reason raises no red flags of contradiction; but to explain it, to understand it- there we run up against the mystery; it is utterly beyond us. St. Augustine, it is told, was walking along the seashore trying to understand the Trinity when he saw a small boy trying to empty the ocean with a seashell into a hole in the sand. One can no more comprehend the Trinity, he realized, then pour the ocean into the sand. Which puts me, or anyone trying to explain it, in the awkward position of trying to explain something that cannot really be understood in the way that any questioner might reasonably want to understand it. Sure, we can admit that it's beyond human comprehension- in fact, if we're honest, we must- but of course that sounds suspiciously like a cop-out. We might say the same thing about a God who is Three Gods, the only difference being, of course, that the Trinity does not actually violate reason, it merely transcends it. A crucial difference, though a subtle one. But this gets into faith and reason, which will be the subject of future musings, so for now, (lest we forget) back to the Holy Spirit:

Veni, Sancte Spiritus, reple tuorum corda fidelium,
et tui amoris in eis ignem accende;
Emitte Spiritum tuum et creabuntur/Et renovabis faciem terrae.

"I have a far more solid and central ground for submitting to Christianity as a faith, instead of merely picking up hints from it as a scheme. And that is this; that the Christian Church in its practical relation to my soul is a living teacher, not a dead one. It not only certainly taught me yesterday, but will almost certainly teach me to-morrow. Once I saw suddenly the meaning of the shape of the cross some day I may see suddenly the meaning of the shape of the mitre. One fine morning I saw why windows were pointed; some fine morning I may see why priests were shaven. Plato has told you a truth; but Plato is dead. Shakespeare has startled you with an image; but Shakespeare will not startle you with any more. But imagine what it would be to live with such men still living. To know that Plato might break out with an original lecture to-morrow, or that at any moment Shakespeare might shatter everything with a single song. The man who lives in contact with what he believes to be a living Church is a man always expecting to meet Plato and Shakespeare to-morrow at breakfast. He is always expecting to see some truth that he has never seen before." (Chesterton, Orthodoxy)

Quid sit futurum cras

2005-04-29T12:27:00.000-04:00

Just a reminder to my readers on campus that the Elizabethans will be performing tomorrow (Saturday) afternoon at 3:00pm in Brooks-Rogers. You are highly encouraged to come if you like any of the following:

Music from the thirteenth century
Music from the twentieth century
Music from after the thirteenth century but before the twentieth century
Costumes from the Renaissance
Bad puns
Worse puns
Other

In other news, just when I thought I had my schedule for next year all figured out, I've decided I'm not going to do a music thesis after all. I've enjoyed taking composition classes here, but I don't have the kind of ambition or aesthetic consciousness (to say nothing of free time!) that would justify to the music faculty- or, for that matter, to myself- undertaking a project of such magnitude. I will likely still take a semester of composition next year, pending discussion, but this will open up space for another class or two, possibly a refresher in Latin or Prof. Porter's highly-recommended "Greek and Roman Drama". An unexpected change, to be sure, but I think a fortunate one.

Chesterton Quote of the Day

2005-04-24T22:39:00.000-04:00

How high the sea of human happiness rose in the Middle Ages, we now only know by the colossal walls that they built to keep it in bounds. How low human happiness sank in the twentieth century, our children will only know by these extraordinary modern books, which tell people to be cheerful and that life is not so bad after all. Humanity never produces optimists till it has ceased to produce happy men. It is strange to be obliged to impose a holiday like a fast, and to drive men to a banquet with spears. (from 'George Bernard Shaw.')

One Pitch To Tune Them All

2005-04-23T22:08:00.000-04:00

The Elizabethans' Spring Concert is coming up in just a week- next Saturday, April 30, at 3:00 PM in Brooks-Rogers. Yours truly was assigned to come up with a poster, and after experimentation with a variety of puns deemed too awful for the broader campus audience, e.g. Sumer is A-Comin' In and La Guerre/A Capellapolypse Now, many hours of quality procrastination yielded the result above. The concert will run the usual musical gamut from the 13th-century round Summer is A-Comin' In to U2's MLK (via a King's Singers arrangement), stopping along the way at the Battle of Marignan (La Guerre), an Italian hunting expedition (Alla Cazza), and in vineyards literal (Margot) and metaphorical (Vinea Mea)- finishing, of course, with the our trademark PDQ Bach My Bonny Lass She Smelleth and this year's surprise ending...

C is for Conspiracy Theories

2005-04-22T22:11:00.000-04:00

-Nihil sanctum estne?
-What does that mean? Oh, it's Latin, isn't it.
-Is nothing sacred? -Rushmore

Apparently not. Case in point, as Jonah Goldberg reports: it seems the folks at PBS have deemed Cookie Monster an inappropriate role model for impressionable kids who might seek to emulate his dietary habits. Lest children grow up thinking that "C is for Cookie" constitutes a mandate for unlimited snacking, his offending trademark song has been replaced with "A Cookie Is a Sometimes Food."

"To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven," quoth Qoheleth, David's son, king in Jerusalem:

a time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted; a time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up; a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance; a time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing; a time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away; a time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak; a time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace.Birth, death, love, hate, war, peace; all of these, the Good Book tells us, are Sometimes Things. Each has their appointed time. We might expect then that there is a time for eating cookies, and there is a time for not eating cookies. But the Bible does not say this. In fact, the Bible maintains a reverent silence on the subject of cookies. What then are we to conclude? Are cookies a Sometimes Food? It seems that they are not. How else can we explain their glaring omission from Ecclesiastes 3:1-8?

Logically, we are left with two possible conclusions: cookies are an Anytime Food, or they are a Never Food. The fact that the Bible does not specifically prohibit them speaks tellingly in favor of the former. "The curtness of the Ten Commandments," notes Chesterton, "is an evidence, not of the gloom and narrowness of a religion, but, on the contrary, of its liberality and humanity. It is shorter to state the things forbidden than the things permitted: precisely because most things are permitted, and only a few things are forbidden." In fact, the aforementioned Biblical silence on the matter of cookies, far from connoting disapproval, actually conceals a hidden code, a secret message from God to His Creation:

1 c. 1 Samuel 25:11
1 c. Genesis 24:11
1/2 c. Judges 5:25
1 tsp 1 Corinthians 5:6
1 c. Jeremiah 6:20
1 Isaiah 10:14
1 3/4 c. 1 Kings 4:22
1/4 tsp Leviticus 2:13
1 1 Kings 10:2
1/2 c. Numbers 17:8
1 tsp Exodus 16:31

Combine first three scriptures then bring to Job 41:31. Remove from the heat. Cool. Add remaining scriptures. Then follow the advice in Proverbs 23:14; first clause. Pour in a greased 15x10x1 pan and Exodus 12:39 with confectioners Jeremiah 6:20 or frost while warm. Enjoy.That's right; the Bible is nothing but an elaborate recipe passed down through the ages. "Heaven and Earth will pass away," Jesus tells us, "but my words will not pass away" (Luke 21:33). Ergo, cookies are an Anytime Food, and PBS is unbiblical. The seat of Cookie Monster is vacant, for the one who now sits in it is an imposter to the throne, an anti-Cookie Monster if you will, for he who is not for cookies is against them. Anathema sit!

In fact, much like the Catholic Church, PBS has relapsed to the pagan beliefs of ancient Egypt. It's obvious, when you consider that PBS stands for "Ptah Bastet Sekhmet", the names of ancient Egyptian gods and goddesses, but perhaps most damning is the incontrovertible evidence below:

Mark my words: the apostasy of Cookie Monster is a sign of the coming apocalypse. Woe unto PBS on that day, when judgment falls upon them like a rolling pin, and condemnation like a cookie cutter! Already the fiery furnace is being preheated for those who will not repent of their iniquity. Woe to PBS when the Food Pyramid is cast down like the Tower of Babel, and the Master Baker comes in all his glory to judge the stewards of his kitchen!

Quid Novarum

2005-04-21T09:56:00.000-04:00

You know it's going to be a good day when you've bought a Greek dictionary before breakfast. Just ordered a used copy of the "Little Liddell", figuring it's about time I stopped relying on the back-of-the-book vocab, particularly since we just started on a book that doesn't have any.

Other recent highlights of the past few days include Tuesday's organ recital, for which I played Telemann, Couperin, and Zachow. Beyond a few unfortunate mishaps in the last piece, such as not realizing that the swell box was closed until I started playing, and a subsequent near-train wreck as I tried to rectify the problem, my set went well. Three more students were slated to perform after me, but only two did, as the last was apparently unable to get out of lab- another reason why I don't take real science courses any more. In other organ news, I'm having a piece published in the Hartford Organ Book this summer, a publication of the Hartford AGO. It's a short little piece that I played for the Family Weekend service last Sunday- a bit awkwardly, since though not particularly difficult it does require a bit more hand-foot coordination than I currently possess. Didn't make any blatantly embarrasing mistakes, fortunately, or those in attendance might have thought that I wrote it that way, which would be even more embarrasing!

Tuesday night was the third and final room draw of my Williams Career. Jono and I picked into Prospect House, which is being renovated this summer and hopefully will be all new and shiny next year. The rooms will be small, but having lived in Mission for the last year, I doubt I'll mind. I've got a corner room facing south, which should mean plenty of sunlight and a nice view of the southern Taconics beyond the rooftops of urban Williamstown. The only drawback is that with the renovations, much like with Mission two years ago, it won't open until a couple of days after the other dorms, so if I have to be back here earlier, as I probably will, I'll have to camp out somewhere. Worst-case scenario is, of course, that the renovations will be delayed and a tent city will spring up on the Odd Quad lawn, but we'll cross that bridge if we come to it.

That's all I can think of for the moment, unless you want to hear about my trip to the Health Center to get vaccinated up for the choir tour to Bolivia this summer- ...No? Very well. I'll be off then to come up with some more interesting exploits with which to amuse you all. Until next time!

Little did we know...

2005-04-19T22:34:00.000-04:00

The 2004 Prince of Liechtenstein Fellows with Pope John Paul II following his General Audience on Wednesday, June 16, 2004...

... and with Joseph Cardinal Ratzinger, now Pope Benedict XVI, later that same day.

Annuntio vobis gaudium magnum

2005-04-19T15:32:00.000-04:00

Habemus Papam, Benedict XVI, the Pope formerly known as Joseph Cardinal Ratzinger.

``Dear brothers and sisters, after the great Pope John Paul II, the cardinals have elected me - a simple, humble worker in the vineyard of the Lord.

``The fact that the Lord can work and act even with insufficient means consoles me, and above all I entrust myself to your prayers.

``In the joy of the risen Lord, trusting in his permanent help, we go forward. The Lord will help us and Mary his very holy mother stands by us.''

Viva il Papa!

"Is Jesus Mainstream Enough?"

2005-04-19T08:38:00.000-04:00

Jeff Miller at The Curt Jester has written this parody for Spero News.

JERUSALEM (Canaan News Network CNN) In the last few months there has been increasing speculation on a relatively fast rising Rabbi from Nazareth as to whether he is the one we have been waiting for...

...Many people regardless of their political parties consider that Jesus is just too far out of the mainstream. That his ideas about forgiveness and loving even your enemies are just to radical to be taken seriously as a candidate for being the Messiah. Public opinion polls show this split among the people that while they might admire some aspects about Jesus they are uncomfortable with the whole package. (Full Article)

While you're waiting for that white smoke, you can also check out the Pope-U-Lator to predict who will be the next Pope and what name he will choose. All in good fun, of course. Particularly interesting are the Papal Name Stats. Among the less likely possibilities are John Paul III (JPIII, we love thee?) and Sixtus VI (try saying that ten times fast). Fr. Dave predicts "Karol Mary" though that seems about as likely as "JPIII" and I can just see the uproar when "Carol Mary" is proclaimed as the first woman Pope. Peter, Franciscan that he is, predicts "Maximilian Mary" after St. Maximilian Mary Kolbe. Currently at the top of the Pope-U-Lator's list is Benedict XVI, which would make some monks I know very happy.

I'll leave you for now with Peggy Noonan's lastest column, a fascinating look into the mind of a fictitious Cardinal of the Catholic Church:

"If that is true," said the cardinal from Asia, "It would seem our duty is to choose a great man who is not necessarily a dramatic or endearing figure. The Holy Spirit will give him voice. Our time will need greatness. 'For nowadays the world is lit by lightning.' " Full Article

Veni, sancte Spiritus...

Wherein I digress

2005-04-14T22:54:00.000-04:00

It's high time I burdened you all with details of my personal life, rather than post actual content- not that I've ever made that a priority in the past, so if you don't remember any, don't go on a wild-goose chase through the archives thinking you missed it. So without further ado, allow me to present to you my life a la Livejournal.

It's that time of year again, for more things than one. Finals are beginning to loom (see previous post), and next year's room draw and class preregistration are just around the corner. Concert season is about to get underway, with Chamber Choir this afternoon, Elizabethans in two weeks, and Concert Choir the week after that. Lots of good music all around, particularly the Renaissance pieces in the Chamber Choir repertoire and the Martin Messe fur zwei vierstimmige Chore being split between the Concert and Chamber choirs. Chamber is also doing two of Poulenc's Quatre Motets pour un temps de Penitence, including- you guessed it- "Vinea Mea" which I also happen to be conducting in 'Bethans this semester. Concert Choir, in addition to the Credo and Sanctus of the Martin Mass, is singing Barber's Agnus Dei (Adagio for Strings, transcribed for voices), Psalm 90 by Charles Ives and an Eric Whitacre setting of "i thank you God for most this amazing day" by e.e. cummings.

Perhaps I'm merely becoming jaded in my old age, but I'm beginning to lose patience with this last. I enjoy the poetry of e.e. cummings in small doses; it's sweet and fluffy, but like marshmallows, too much leaves you - or leaves me, I'll leave you out of this (you're welcome)- feeling slightly sick and hungering for a substance that just isn't there. Whitacre, of course, delivers an excellent setting but this only compounds the problem- not to disparage him, as I really like some of the stuff he does (Leonardo Dreams last year was fantastic, and not just insofar as it facilitated some of the greatest bass pranks of all time) but he's not above a bit of saccharine fluffiness either. On the other hand, I'd probably not like the Ives as much were it not so refreshingly stark in comparison, so I suppose it evens out.

To be honest, I can't say I haven't been guilty of sentimentality in my own writing, though I find I can't keep up a musical straight face on it for very long- for instance my piece A Medicine for Melancholy, performed two years ago by Student Symphony, in which a rather schmaltzy and melancholic first half turns out to be a parody of the jig tune which follows it- somewhat paradoxically, of course, since you hear them in the opposite order from how they were written. At any rate, I'll save further discussion of my own music for the 15-page paper on the subject that I'll have to write next year in addition to my composition thesis- not something I'm looking forward to (the paper, that is.) The thesis should be fun, and in fact I'm optimistic about my classes next year in general, since it looks like everything will fit together nicely- always a relief for a double major like me. Two more classes each for Music and Classics, plus the thesis, and I'll still have space for something fun and non-major.

I had been thinking of taking an intro modern language like German or Italian, but the prospect of early morning classes five days a week is less than appealing (not to mention that it would make it difficult to get to daily Mass). So you can imagine my delight when, browsing the course catalogue online, I stumbled purely by chance upon "Reading German for Beginners", which looks like it could actually be one of the more useful classes I take here at Williams, especially if I end up doing further work in music or classics. Beyond that, I hear it's a great class from a friend who, as it turns out, has been taking it all year and never saw fit to mention it to me before. (Just kidding, Emily!) In all seriousness, I've been so fortunate with class scheduling in the past that I was bracing myself for the inevitable conflicts next year- I must be due for them- but it looks like things will actually work out quite nicely, which is a pleasant surprise. That just leaves the question of where I will live, which will be resolved between 8:30 and 9:00pm next Tuesday evening- hopefully in favor of a nice cozy room in the Odd Quad with south-facing windows.

I'm off now to practice the organ for tomorrow morning's Family Weekend service (one of those "interfaith" shindigs), tomorrow afternoon's Newman Mass, and Tuesday afternoon's studio recital.

Current mood: Sabbatarian
Current music: Respighi- The Pines of Rome

Solvitur acris hiems

2005-04-11T15:02:00.000-04:00

Spring comes to Williamstown. Spring, that delightful time of year when a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of- well, love, but I was thinking more about the transience of human existence, to tell you the truth. You can't believe everything you read in Tennyson.

Vanitas vanitatum omnia vanitas; quid habet amplius homo de universo labore suo quod laborat sub sole? A mere five weeks remain before the semester comes crashing down, and the days of judgement fall upon the children of Ephraim. Then will there be much cramming and hashing of ideas. But lo, their deliverance shall come upon the tenth day, as it is written in the book of the Registrar.

A Parable

2005-04-11T00:26:00.000-04:00

Suppose that a great commotion arises in the street about something -- let us say a lamp-post, which many influential persons desire to pull down. A grey-clad monk, who is the spirit of the Middle Ages, is approached on the matter, and begins to say, in the arid manner of the Schoolmen, 'Let us first of all consider, my brethren, the value of Light. If Light be in itself good -- -- -- ' At this point he is somewhat excusably knocked down. All the people make a rush for the lamp-post, the lamppost is down in ten minutes, and they go about congratulating each other on their unmedieval practicality. But as things go on they do not work out so easily. Some people have pulled the lamp-post down because they wanted the electric light; some because they wanted old iron; some because they wanted darkness, because their deeds were evil. Some thought it not enough of a lamp-post, some too much; some acted because they wanted to smash municipal machinery; some because they wanted to smash something. And there is war in the night, no man knowing whom he strikes. So, gradually and inevitably, to-day, to-morrow, or the next day, there comes back the conviction that the monk was right after all, and that all depends on what is the philosophy of Light. Only what we might have discussed under the gas-lamp we must now discuss in the dark.

from 'Heretics' via Chesterton Day by Day

Fun with Limericks

2005-04-09T10:59:00.000-04:00

I am sick unto death of obscure English towns that exist seemingly for the sole accommodation of these so-called limerick writers -- and even sicker of their residents, all of whom suffer from physical deformities and spend their time dismembering relatives at fancy dress balls.

Editor of the Limerick Times (Limerick, Ireland)

Those who are unmoved by the above may enjoy the following.

The Omnificient English Dictionary in Limerick Form

Nunc dimittis servum tuum, Domine...

Chicken Soup for the doppelganger

2005-04-06T22:55:00.000-04:00

It's mildly disturbing how often we pass over menu items in the Dining Hall without pausing to take in their implications. For instance, how many of us stop to think about what makes "Double Chicken Soup" double? Whence derives its duplex- dare I say duplicitous- nature? Does it simply refer to an increased chicken content relative to normal chicken soup- analagous to Raisin Bran's "Two Scoops"? Perhaps it means that the soup contains both dark and white meat, in which case it would be more properly described as "dualist"- light and darkness, equal and opposite, locked in a microcosmic struggle; Zoroastrianism in a bowl... in which case, renouncing the heresy of the Manichees, we ought of course to demand Triple or Trinitarian Soup- one broth, three chickens. This may put us on firmer theological ground, though it might ignite an arms race of sorts among the dining halls as they compete to offer more chicken than their rivals. Already, we have a scenario in which one dining hall can offer twice as much chicken in their soup as another- and you can bet that no student in their right mind is going to settle for the lesser of the two. But it won't stop at double or triple or even quadruple chicken soup. No, unless an upper limit of chicken content can be fixed, there's no telling where this will end. And so we are faced with a terrible choice: we must renounce double chicken soup, or face culinary Armageddon.

Laughter and Love

2005-04-05T11:33:00.000-04:00

The equal and eternal human being... sees no real antagonism between laughter and respect, the human being, the common man, whom mere geniuses like you and me can only worship like a god. When dark and dreary days come, you and I are necessary, the pure fanatic, the pure satirist. We have between us remedied a great wrong. We have lifted the modern cities into that poetry which every one who knows mankind to be immeasurably more common than the commonplace. But in healthy people there is no war between us. We are but the two lobes in the brain of a ploughman. Laughter and love are everywhere. The cathedrals, built in the ages that loved God, are full of blasphemous grotesques. The mother laughs continually at the child, the lover laughs continually at the lover, the wife at the husband, the friend at the friend... We have been too long separated; let us go out together... Let us start our wanderings over the world. For we are its two essentials. Come, it is already day.

'The Napoleon of Notting Hill.'

Via Chesterton Day by Day

John Paul II, We Love You

2005-04-03T12:34:00.000-04:00

Sto lat! Sto lat! they chanted. May you live a hundred years!
It's easier to sing than to do, he said...

They call us the John Paul II generation. Teenagers and twenty-somethings, we are too young to have known or remembered any man but this man in the chair of Peter. And what a man. Our elders are at a loss to understand the incredible appeal that John Paul II held for us. That an aged, celibate old man in Rome should command such respect and devotion among the inheritors of the sexual revolution, among other things, is baffling and indeed disturbing to those who expected our generation to follow in their own footsteps. They cite his charismatic presence, his vibrant personality, his energetic spirit. But to conclude that we loved him for his character and merely tolerated or smiled indulgently at his quaint orthodoxy would be a mistake. We loved him for his orthodoxy, for his passionate witness to the Gospel. We loved him because he spoke to us, and his words rang true in our hearts. Dear young people! he said. Be not afraid! Open wide the doors to Christ! In a world where love and sexuality and human dignity were being cheapened all around us, he told us that these things were greater than we imagined. He told us not to fear the culture of death or our own weakness, but to take courage in the victory of Christ over the world: This is no time to be ashamed of the Gospel! It is the time to preach it from the rooftops!

The world did not understand this man because he was a contradiction to them. They praise him for his humanitarianism, his instrumental role in the downfall of Communism, his steadfast opposition to war and capital punishment. At the same time, he is criticized for his unflinching fidelity to tradition, for refusing to capitulate to abortion, contraception, or euthansia. The world forgets that Christ was also a contradiction. They are fond of the Sermon on the Mount, but conveniently pass over the Crucifixion. In fact, it is not John Paul II or Christ or the Catholic Church which is contradictory, but the world. It is the world which has strayed from the truth and no longer recognizes it for what it is. Especially in America, we live in a world of cafeteria Catholicism, a world that sees nothing absurd in picking and choosing those elements of the truth that please us and ignoring the rest. Is it any wonder that the Church contradicts their own contradictions?

John Paul II knew what is was to surrender oneself to the Gospel. His life was not his own; or rather, he found the truth that one must give up his life in order to find it. His motto, totus tuus, bespoke his total dedication to Jesus through Mary, a dedication that was evident throughout his life, but never more than in the final years when physical infirmity began to take its toll. He accepted the cross of the papacy with joy in spite of the immense suffering he bore as a result, and was under no illusions that his life was anything but a Via Crucis in union with the suffering Christ. Nor, at the end, did he cling vainly to life when the Lord called His faithful servant home. Those around him were choked up with emotion when, on Friday morning, he asked that the biblical narrative of the Passion be read to him, and as the body of Christ was being taken down for burial, he made the sign of the Cross. Do not weep, he said. Let us pray together with joy.

Ora pro nobis.

Magna est veritas

2005-03-30T19:50:00.000-05:00

Our latest piece of investigative reporting, re: the Harvard cereal crisis, has earned the "Courageous Journalism Award" from Abbot Matthew Stark, who has also graciously offered the following Latin maxim for spiritual growth:

Tecum habita: noris quam sit tibi curta supellex.
Live in your own house and recognize how poorly it is furnished.
Persius, Satire IV.52

In other news, the Portsmouth Abbey Monthly Musings had this to say about last Thursday's concert given by yours truly and his minstrel friends:

The School community was happy to see Joseph McDonough ’03 (sic) don his velvet breeches once again and arrive back on campus with his merry group of Williams College Elizabethans. Joe and his group of eleven (sic) a capella vocalists delighted the audience with a repertoire of early English, French and Italian songs, one being the earliest known recorded song in history.

Velvet breeches, indeed. Though I am flattered by my description as being of the class of '03. I guess I hide my age well- that, or it's merely a symptom of the general disbelief that I can possibly be a junior already. But flattery seems to be the name of the game when it comes to the Elizabethans in general. Thoreau himself, in a prophetic vein, once wrote:

Some are dinning in our ears that we Americans, and moderns generally, are intellectual dwarfs compared with the ancients, or even the Elizabethan men. -Walden

It's always gratifying to have one's mental stature acknowledged by no less a personage than Thoreau. And yes, Elizabethan ladies, before you start posting nasty comments about my misogynistic tendencies, I'm sure he meant you too. Nevertheless, if I may take the precaution of diverting attention with a final vix sequitur, I'd just like to extend a belated welcome to whomever happened upon this humble weblog by googling The Elizabethans flight to Lourdes. I don't know who you are or what you were looking for, but I hope you found it. Meanwhile, I need to make some arrangements for next year's tour.

Not the Bran they're looking for

2005-03-28T09:00:00.000-05:00

Would you exchange your Lucky Charms for a bowl of Marshmallow Mateys? How about pouring yourself some obnoxiously perky "Hearty Start" or vaguely nauseating "Amazon Flakes" instead of some honest old-fashioned Bran Flakes or their frosted cousins? I didn't think so, and it turns out, neither would Harvard students, reports the Boston Globe.

"I was shocked to see they had done this to our cereals. They replaced all of the familiar cereals with ones that have weird names and don't taste good." -Harvard senior

Yes, it's true- students at our nation's most elite educational institution are being forced to consume inferior brands of cereal for breakfast, and, knowing college students, probably for lunch and dinner as well. No good can come of this. If, as we all know, breakfast is the most important meal of the day, and students who eat a good breakfast do better in school, then what surer way to cripple America's future than to strike at the breakfasts of her best and brightest university students- those who will go on to become her politicians, her lawyers, her doctors, her college professors?

For there can be no doubt that these are the best and the brightest that we're dealing with. After all, this is Harvard. Why, mere sophomores are using SAT words in their everyday speech!

"While I am not a huge cereal fan... I would say that I am generally supportive of efforts to improve the quality of quotidian offerings." -Harvard sophomore

Fortunately, the students have wasted no time in demanding the return of their Cap'n Crunch and Frosted Mini-Wheats, nor have the brand-name cereals themselves been slow in responding to the crisis.

"It is disappointing for us to hear that any university would discontinue branded breakfast cereal," said Jamie Stein, a spokeswoman for Quaker Oats in Chicago. ''We expect the students to be even more disappointed."

Disappointment seems a woeful understatement, hardly an adequate response in the face of such an alarming situation. But even with the future of the Western world hanging in the balance, it's important that we not panic. If we can't keep a cool head on our collective shoulders, the terrorists have already won. We need to keep calm, like the cereal spokespeople, and seek nonviolent ways to protest this unjustice, like the Harvard students- peacefully voicing their discontent by setting up groups on thefacebook.com. Maybe in times like these what we really need to do is to to step back to the fundamentals and contemplate the wise words of David Roth, founder of Cereality:

"There's a fierce brand loyalty with cereal," he said. "Give people what they know and love. It's just something that nurtures and comforts them."

Such wisdom; so desperately needed, yet so rarely heard in our troubled times. If only we could all learn to follow such simple principles, surely the world would be a happier place. But we must begin at the breakfast table.

Easter Sunday

2005-03-27T14:57:00.000-05:00

Rise heart; thy Lord is risen. Sing his praise
Without delayes,
Who takes thee by the hand, that thou likewise
With him mayst rise:
That, as his death calcined thee to dust,
His life may make thee gold, and much more, just.

Awake, my lute, and struggle for thy part
With all thy art.
The crosse taught all wood to resound his name,
Who bore the same.
His stretched sinews taught all strings, what key
Is best to celebrate this most high day.

Consort both heart and lute, and twist a song
Pleasant and long:
Or, since all musick is but three parts vied
And multiplied,
O let thy blessed Spirit bear a part,
And make up our defects with his sweet art.

I got me flowers to straw thy way;
I got me boughs off many a tree:
But thou wast up by break of day,
And brought’st thy sweets along with thee.

The Sunne arising in the East,
Though he give light, & th’ East perfume;
If they should offer to contest
With thy arising, they presume.

Can there be any day but this,
Though many sunnes to shine endeavour?
We count three hundred, but we misse:
There is but one, and that one ever.

(George Herbert, Easter)

Tour Highlights

2005-03-27T14:52:00.000-05:00

Friday, March 18
Tour begins. En route to Saratoga Springs from Williamstown, Dave's car goes astray in the Vermont wilderness. Signs for Rt. 67 indicate a narrow dirt road disappearing into the darkness through a gap in a chain link fence. As we pass graffiti advertising "Ladies' Night", we cross a railroad and find ourselves literally on the wrong side of the tracks, in a dark, muddy lot filled with abandoned cars. Fearing for our lives, we conclude that we have not in fact found Rt. 67 and make a speedy exit.

Saturday, March 19
After a harrowing dash across the streets of downtown Saratoga Springs in full Renaissance garb, we sing our first full concert at the Arts Center. Following the concert, I attend Mass at a nearby church. Upon entering, I am disturbed by the apparent lack of a tabernacle, perhaps out of a misplaced devotion to the Fifth Joyful Mystery. In the course of the Mass it appears that the the rubrics have gone the way of the tabernacle, not to mention the kneelers. Unfortunate.

Sunday, March 20
Gig at a Unitarian Universalist church in Saratoga Springs. Theme: "Keeping Alive the Hope for Peace." Gentle readers will fast-forward to the afternoon as we drive to Matt's house in Syracuse, where his younger brother introduces us to baby pictures, a ping-pong table, and a long-suffering cat.

Monday, March 21
Embarking on a three-mile trek to morning Mass, I lose half an hour by failing to distinguish "Onondaga Road" from "Onondaga Boulevard." I later learn that an "Onondaga Street" intersects both. Following a visit to Matt's high school, we depart for Dave's house on Long Island, but not before an ill-fated gender distribution resulting in one car of all women and another of all men. The former incurs a speeding ticket and later becomes lost, arriving several hours later. The latter is blamed and is further accused by the former of being a hotbed of rampant misogyny. The third car, of mixed gender, completes the journey without incident.

Tuesday, March 22
Arriving in New York City via Long Island Rail, carnivores wander about midtown while vegetarians head for Greenwich Village. After meeting for dinner in Little Italy, we attend "Forbidden Broadway" and return to Dave's House.

Wednesday, March 23
After a gig at Flushing House in Queens, we drive to Rhode Island. Crisis ensues when car carrying food becomes stuck in traffic and falls 45 minutes behind. Crash upon arrival at my house.

Thursday, March 24
Awoken in the early A.M. by my wild younger siblings, 'Bethans get up and sing morning gig at Abbey auditorium. Afternoon drive to Daniel's house in Andover and evening concert at Maundy Thursday service at Congregational Church in Somerville.

Friday, March 25
Trip to Boston, where I attend Good Friday service at MIT Chapel. Evening gig at Daniel's temple, where we commit the faux pas of offering CDs for sale on Shabbat. Rabbi grants permission "as long as he doesn't see it." (I am reminded of the Lutheran Church we sang at two years ago, where the Gospel reading was Christ driving out the money-changers from the temple. We sold CDs there too.) Returning to Daniel's house, we engage in late-night Scrabble. A sampling of rejected words: mogulist (one who specializes in mogulry), urpox (the source of pox), dejuicer (if a juicer takes the juice out...). Guested, though hotly contested, grabs a triple word score and a 50-point bonus and ultimately puts the outcome of the game beyond dispute.

Saturday, March 26
Tour officially ends and 'Bethans depart their separate ways.

Sunday, March 27 (Rich Rodriguez reporting)
After a fitful week of feverish and hysterical wanderings all over the northeast, compounded by savage cases of gluttonous and split personalitous disorders, tour finally succumbs to the dreaded Urpox and expires upon the parting of Rich and Ariel at 5:40am at Albany Airport gate A6. Requiescat in pace.

'Bethans Tour!

2005-03-18T16:03:00.000-05:00

Does this look like someone who's excited for Spring Break? The Elizabethans Spring Tour 2005 departs this evening for Saratoga Springs, Syracuse, New York City, Rhode Island, and Boston. We'll be singing at the Abbey on Thursday morning at 10:35, following which I'll give a tour of the campus and a repeat performance of my signature gravity-defying stunts.

St. Patrick's Day

2005-03-17T00:03:00.000-05:00

And now, because it's St. Patrick's Day, Mr. John Belushi is here to discuss "The Luck of the Irish."

Thank you, thank you very much. Well, it's that time again, St. Patrick's Day has come and gone and well, the sons of Ireland are basking in the glow. Y'know, when I think of Ireland I think a lot of colorful Irish expressions like, "Top of the morning to ya," "Kiss the barney stone," "May the road rise to meet ya," "May you be in heaven an hour before the devil knows you're dead," "I'd like to smash you in the face with my shillelagh," "Danny-boy," "Begorrah," "Wail of the banshee," and "Whiskey for the leprechauns, whisky for the leprechauns." But the expression I think most people identify with the Irish, is, of course, the luck of the Irish...

If you want to know how it ends, you'll have to watch the whole skit; I can't do Belushi justice here. But now for some authentic St. Patrick (gather 'round, children.) St. Patrick was newly arrived in Ireland in the year 433 when the eve of Easter Sunday coincided with the pagan feast of Beltaine. On the hill of Slane, visible across the valley from the High King's seat on the Hill of Tara, he and his followers kindled the paschal flame in defiance of the royal edict that no fire be lit on that night except the bonfire of the Druids. "If that fire is not put out this night," warned the Druids, "it will never be extinguished in the whole of Ireland." During that night Patrick and his followers chanted the Faed Fiada or "Deer's Cry" for protection, so named because the soldiers of King Laoghaire, sent to arrest the violators of the edict and put out the fire, saw only a mother doe and her fawns. The prayer also known as the Lorica or "St. Patrick's Breastplate". The Paschal fire was not extinguished that night and the next day, Easter Sunday, Patrick obtained permission from Laoghaire to preach Christianity in Ireland. The rest, as they say, is history. St. Patrick, ora pro nobis.

I bind to myself today
The strong virtue of the Invocation of the Trinity:
I believe the Trinity in the Unity
The Creator of the Universe.

I bind to myself today
The virtue of the Incarnation of Christ with His Baptism,
The virtue of His crucifixion with His burial,
The virtue of His Resurrection with His Ascension,
The virtue of His coming on the Judgement Day.

I bind to myself today
The virtue of the love of seraphim,
In the obedience of angels,
In the hope of resurrection unto reward,
In prayers of Patriarchs,
In predictions of Prophets,
In preaching of Apostles,
In faith of Confessors,
In purity of holy Virgins,
In deeds of righteous men.

I bind to myself today
The power of Heaven,
The light of the sun,
The brightness of the moon,
The splendour of fire,
The flashing of lightning,
The swiftness of wind,
The depth of sea,
The stability of earth,
The compactness of rocks.

I bind to myself today
God's Power to guide me,
God's Might to uphold me,
God's Wisdom to teach me,
God's Eye to watch over me,
God's Ear to hear me,
God's Word to give me speech,
God's Hand to guide me,
God's Way to lie before me,
God's Shield to shelter me,
God's Host to secure me,
Against the snares of demons,
Against the seductions of vices,
Against the lusts of nature,
Against everyone who meditates injury to me,
Whether far or near,
Whether few or with many.

I invoke today all these virtues
Against every hostile merciless power
Which may assail my body and my soul,
Against the incantations of false prophets,
Against the black laws of heathenism,
Against the false laws of heresy,
Against the deceits of idolatry,
Against the spells of witches, and smiths, and druids,
Against every knowledge that binds the soul of man.

Christ, protect me today
Against every poison, against burning,
Against drowning, against death-wound,
That I may receive abundant reward.

Christ with me, Christ before me,
Christ behind me, Christ within me,
Christ beneath me, Christ above me,
Christ at my right, Christ at my left,
Christ in the heart of everyone who thinks of me,
Christ in the mouth of everyone who speaks to me,
Christ in every eye that sees me,
Christ in every ear that hears me.

I bind to myself today
The strong virtue of an invocation of the Trinity,
I believe the Trinity in the Unity
The Creator of the Universe.

Ligers and Groundhogs and Robins, Oh My

2005-03-16T13:30:00.000-05:00

Well, the Ides of March have come and gone sine coniuratione, unless you count Emily's suspicions that a large mixed-breed cat, or liger if you will, has somehow wandered downstairs to her room and eaten her scissors. Now in my opinion, anyone who leaves sharp metal objects lying around when there's a liger on the loose deserves whatever happens. Nevertheless, she has the effrontery to suggest that I am somehow responsible for the situation. Et tu, Bruce? Am I my liger's keeper? Ligers do what they want.

In other news, I would like to point out that six weeks have now elapsed since Punxsatawney Phil (King of the Groundhogs, Father of all Marmota, seer of seers, prognosticator of prognosticators) saw his shadow in that fateful February morning, plunging the world into another month and a half of gloom and depression. Were this anywhere but Williamstown, we could now confidently predict the long-awaited arrival of spring, but as it is, it seems that even the robins are untrustworthy harbingers. (How many robins can you spot in this picture?)

Restate My Assumptions

2005-03-14T13:59:00.000-05:00

12:45, restate my assumptions:

Mathematics is the language of nature.
Everything around us can be represented and understood through numbers.
If you graph the numbers of any system, patterns emerge.

Therefore, there are patterns, everywhere in nature. Evidence: the cycling of disease epidemics, the wax and wane of caribou populations, sunspot patterns, the rise & fall of the Nile. So what about the stock market? The universe of numbers that represent the global economy. Millions of human hands at work, billions of minds...a vast network, screaming with life: an organism. A natural organism. My hypothesis: within the stock market there is a pattern as well. Right in front of me, hiding behind the numbers. Always has been.

12:50, press return.

http://www.pithemovie.com

Procrastinate at your own risk

2005-03-10T22:01:00.000-05:00

Re: the comments to my previous post, let me first make it clear that seosamh.blogspot.com is not intended as a means of or aid to procrastination, nor does the author assume any responsibility for any injuries, academic or otherwise, incurred during or as a result of said misuse of his weblog.

That being said, it appears that certain readers (and I use the plural lightly, insofar as I have serious doubts regarding the authenticity of the second comment) feel that I have been insufficiently diligent in keeping seosamh.blogspot.com freshly updated with new and interesting material. Now, I suspect that were I to check the frequency of posts on Emily's Livejournal, I might find that she has not been setting an example in this regard either- and for that matter, I haven't seen much new material lately from Haydn, though I understand he used to be quite the prolific composer back in the day and would probably have something to say about my own meager compositional output if he were around now. Though I'm only 104 symphonies and 67 3/4 string quartets behind him, which I don't think is too bad given his 252-year head start.

But I'm not the sort of person that would mention any of that, or attempt to hide my own failings by calling attention to the shortcomings of others. I'm not even going to point out that it's midterm season and I've been busy with schoolwork, rehearsals, and the like to the detriment of my weblogging. No, I shall not sink to such pitiful excuses. The people have voiced their discontent, and seosamh.blogspot.com must answer. And will answer. Eventually.

My Civic Obligation- Update

2005-03-05T11:39:00.000-05:00

JOSEPH D MCDONOUGH
101 LYNDE LN
WILLIAMSTOWN MA 01267

NOTICE OF DISQUALIFICATION FROM JUROR SERVICE

Your request to be disqualified from juror service under this summons has been allowed:

YOU ARE NOT REQUIRED AND ARE NOT EXPECTED TO APPEAR

The reason for your disqualification:

You have appeared at a courthouse to serve as a juror within the past 3 years.

Respectfully,
Jury Commisioner
for the Commonwealth

This Week in (Williams) History

2005-03-02T15:49:00.000-05:00

From this week's edition of the Williams Record:

1989 The Admissions Office brings in truckloads of "fake flakes" to winterize the campus for a reshooting of the prospectus. In addition to the manmade winter, photographers manufacture cozy fireside study sessions in one corner of the Perry living room and arrange Stetson tutorials complete with posed professors, borrowed briefcases and busts of famous academics brought in for the occasion.

Bringing in the busts of famous academics (academicians?) cracks me up. Yes, we like to cultivate the impression that a Williams education is conducted under the benevolent gaze of the great minds who have gone before us. My question is, why just bring them in for the prospectus? Shouldn't we have them around all the time? You might say that the prospectus is never going to accurately reflect the college because it's an artificial marketing tool designed to make the college look better than it really is. But that's begging the question. If it looks better in the prospectus, why shouldn't it look better in real life, too? If this is how we want college to be, why not make it that way in real life instead of constructing these fantasies and then dismantling them again? If the prospectus is not going to imitate college life, then maybe it's time that college life start imitating the prospectus. We could do with some more busts of famous academics around, not to mention those cozy fireside study sessions. Also, everyone needs to be uniformly good-looking, and no picture should contain more than one person of any given ethnicity and no more than sixty percent of either gender. It should always be summer, the peak of autumn when the foliage is at its most glorious, or immediately after a fresh winter snowfall when all is clear and pristine. And these are only a few of the ways in which college life stands to benefit from imitating the prospectus. I'm sure the Admissions office and the CUL could team up and think of a lot more instead of debating all this anchor house business. I'm sure I could think up a lot more right now, but I'm late to my photo-op. Look for me in the prospectus, practicing the cello beneath a flowering cherry tree in the bright spring sunlight, except I'll be of ambiguous ethnicity, and a girl.

Chesterton Quote of the Day

2005-02-24T07:54:00.000-05:00

It is constantly assumed, especially in our Tolstoian tendencies, that when the lion lies down with the lamb the lion becomes lamb-like. But that is brutal annexation and imperialism on the part of the lamb. That is simply the lamb absorbing the lion instead of the lion eating the lamb. The real problem is -- Can the lion lie down with the lamb and still retain his royal ferocity? That is the problem the Church attempted; that is the miracle she achieved. (Orthodoxy)

Via Chesterton Day By Day.

A Personal Confession

2005-02-18T10:38:00.001-05:00

You probably thought I was joking about the connection between bells, mind control, and the Catholic Church. But the secret is finally out.

The methods are as simple as they are old:

The baptism:
A baby gets water poured over its head. Shocked by the cold water, separated from its mother by the godmother and exposed to an unfamiliar environment, the baby experiences a feeling of helplessness. In the baby's mind, this feeling becomes inseparably connected to the sound of the ringing bells, forming a psychological image. This image finally settles inside the subconscious thinking.

The bell tower: Later in life:
Each time a bell is sounded, this same feeling of uneasiness and being at someone's mercy and the helplessness encountered during the baptism becomes re-activated in the subconscious (depending on the individual's sensitivity). The countless bells ringing from every church tower - 24 hours a day - have for many centuries guaranteed a life-long, subconscious helplessness of the baptized against the sinister machinations of Catholicism.

http://members.aon.at/h.badhofer/bell.htm

Needless to say, I will be submitting my resignation as a Thompson Chapel bell ringer immediately. No longer shall I tintinnabulate my sinister Catholic machinations over the Williams campus, indoctrinating the innocent minds of unsuspecting college students and instilling the baptized with subconscious fear and helplessness. Check out the linked pages at the bottom, The war of cultures and the sinister I shall preserve life or bring death! for more zany anti-Catholicism.

When you extract life from NOTHINGNESS, the dead remains!

And Chesterton is once again vindicated, to wit, that when a man ceases to believe in God, he will believe not in nothing but in anything.

Femina Contra Mundum

2005-02-14T07:01:00.000-05:00

The sun was black with judgment, and the moon
Blood: but between
I saw a man stand, saying: 'To me at least
The grass is green.

'There was no star that I forgot to fear
With love and wonder.
The birds have loved me'; but no answer came --
Only the thunder.

. . . . . . . .

Once more the man stood, saying: 'A cottage door,
Wherethrough I gazed
That instant as I turned -- yea, I am vile;
Yet my eyes blazed.

'For I had weighed the mountains in a balance,
And the skies in a scale,
I come to sell the stars -- old lamps for new --
Old stars for sale.'

Then a calm voice fell all the thunder through,
A tone less rough:
'Thou hast begun to love one of my works
Almost enough.'

G.K. Chesterton, Femina Contra Mundum

February 11- Our Lady of Lourdes

2005-02-11T23:40:00.000-05:00

I have many fond and wonderful memories of my two trips to Lourdes in the summers of 2001 and 2002 with the Ampleforth Hospitalite from England. They range from the sacred- working with the malades in the hospitals and conveying them to and from the shrine in wheelchairs and voitures, attending Mass in the Underground Basilica, making a retreat in the village of Bartres- to the profane (har har); exploring the streets at night, watching the fireworks on Bastille Day, singing "Danny Boy" at the Ward party, eating the best country-style omelet of my life in the Cafe Eden at two in the morning, where they charged you for catsup by the packet. Perhaps my favorite memory is the torchlight procession, winding from the grotto into and around the main square in front of the basilica as the Rosary is recited. At the end, all join in the Salve Regina, and exchange the sign of peace. "Peace be with you" said someone to me in a language I didn't recognize. "Et cum spiritu tuo" I responded. "Oh, you're American!" said he, to my surprise. (Was it the accent?) The other essential element of any pilgrimage to Lourdes (at least in my opinion) is the "Grot Trot", a midnight visit to the grotto. The grotto can of course be visited at any time, but late-night visits are the most conducive to quiet reflection.

Working in the hospital I found difficult and exhausting at first, persevering merely because I had to. It was not until the first several days had passed that I began to see into the real significance of Lourdes, not by looking past the work, but through it. During a brief retreat in the nearby village of Bartres, we discussed how we could apply the lessons of Lourdes in our everyday lives. "Is there something in Lourdes which cannot be found anywhere else?" someone asked. I suggested that perhaps it was not a question of something found only at Lourdes, but that in Lourdes the value of service and the virtue of charity were somehow more focused and easily recognized. The challenge was to follow the call when it was less clear, obscured by the confusion of the outside world. From that point, although the work was no less exhausting, it was easier to understand and to recognize its value; to recognize gratitude in the faces of the malades simply for a kind word or a thoughtful gesture, and to recognize in turn that I was learning and benefiting from them and through my service to them.

Our Lady of Lourdes, ora pro nobis.

memento homo quia pulvis es

2005-02-09T13:20:00.000-05:00

"What of vile dust?" the preacher said.
Methought the whole world woke,
The dead stone lived beneath my foot,
And my whole body spoke.

"You, that play tyrant to the dust,
And stamp its wrinkled face,
This patient star that flings you not
Far into homeless space."

Come down out of your dusty shrine
The living dust to see,
The flowers that at your sermon's end
Stand blazing silently."

Rich white and blood-red blossom;
stones, Lichens like fire encrust;
A gleam of blue, a glare of gold,
The vision of the dust."

Pass them all by: till, as you come
Where, at a city's edge,
Under a tree--I know it well--
Under a lattice ledge,

"The sunshine falls on one brown head.
You, too, O cold of clay,
Eater of stones, may haply hear
The trumpets of that day

"When God to all his paladins
By his own splendour swore
To make a fairer face than heaven,
Of dust and nothing more."

G.K. Chesterton, "The Praise of Dust"

Star Light, Star Bright

2005-02-06T13:28:00.000-05:00

A chance encounter over breakfast Saturday morning precipitated an evening stargazing trip to Petersburg Pass with Jono, Devin, and Daniel. For stargazing purposes, it's hard to beat the top of a mountain in the middle of nowhere. Barring the hazy glow in the valleys to either side and the occasional passing car, the stars had the place all to themselves. To the north was the Big Dipper balancing precariously on its handle above its lesser counterpart; to the south was Orion, the original comic book superhero with his broad shoulers, narrow waist, and tiny head. Saturn and Jupiter were in attendance, the former overhead, the latter rising above the eastern horizon to the left of the twin star Al-Ghrei'loq. Sirius was twinkling madly to the south, as was Arcturus in the northeast- the latter so colorfully I first took it for an airplane.

For the full effect of being suspended in the cosmos, don't look up at the stars- try looking down at them. It's all very well and good to stand comfortably on the nice solid earth and contemplate the heavens, but try hanging precariously by your two feet and looking down at the stars floating in an infinite abyss. It will inspire profound thoughts, and possibly profound vertigo. It's also much closer to the truth. Of all Chesterton's paradoxical and wonderful insights, this is one of my favorites:

“We were talking about St. Peter,” he said, “you remember he was crucified upside down. I’ve often fancied his humility was rewarded by seeing in death the beautiful vision of his boyhood. He also saw the landscape as it really is: with the stars like flowers, and the clouds like hills, and all men hanging on the mercy of God." (The Poet and the Lunatic)

If you think about it, the force of gravity is really a wonderful metaphor for Divine Providence. It's a mysterious, invisible force that no one really understands that keeps us from falling off the face of the earth at any given moment. We don't really stop to think about it any more than we ever stop to think about the fact that we are being held in existence at every moment by nothing more than the love of God. A bit humbling, really- what have I done today to justify my existence being sustained for another 86,400 seconds? Not much... besides, um, updating this 'blog. Does that count?

Anyway, we stood out there for about an hour, pondering the vast array of Greek constellations with their Latin names and their Arabic stars, pondering the vastness of the cosmos and talking about whatever tangential topics popped into our heads. You know, when I was a little kid I used to read about astronomy, but I didn't really have a good idea of relative timespans. I used to worry a lot about the sun running out of hydrogen gas and consuming some of the inner planets, not to mention the inevitable collision of the Milky Way with the Andromeda Galaxy- both scheduled to happen about five billion years from now. I mean, sure that sounds like a long time from now- but you know humanity is gonna wait 'till like the night before and then start freaking out. I mean, what are we gonna do? And then somebody's mom is gonna be like, "How long have you known about this assignment?" and everyone's gonna be like, "um... five billion years..." And don't even get me started on black holes. I mean, what are we gonna do if one of those shows up and starts eating everything?

Of course, we'll be lucky if we make it that long. It was just five years ago or so- my 16th birthday in fact, May 5 2000, that some alarmists were predicting that the alignment of the planets would cause a net gravitational disturbance that would mess up the earth's axis, shifting the poles around and generally playing havoc with just about everything- you know, the ice caps melting and flooding everything, that sort of thing. The ancient Egyptians knew this, of course, which is why they left us all those secret messages in the Great Pyramids- and you can bet the Freemasons and the Knights Templar knew about this for a long time but didn't bother to tell anyone else. Some guy published a book- 5/5/2000 (Ice: the Ultimate Disaster) which of course I bought, after the fact. Seems he had some crazy plan for airlifting everybody for a month- well, i wouldn't call it a plan exactly- he had a list of objectives like:

a) develop a suitable airship design
b) develop a suitable propulsion system
c) develop a suitable system for recycling food and water

Way to state the obvious, buddy. It's a good thing those ancient Egyptians were just playing a practical joke on us, because if they had been serious, there wouldn't even be anyone around for you to say "I told you so" to. Not that you would be around either, unless you figured out some airship designs in a hurry.

I forgot to mention that I saw National Treasure on Saturday night which is what got me into this whole Egyptian/Masonic conspiracy mindset in the first place. The premise of this movie, for those who haven't seen it, is that the Founding Fathers- Freemasons to a man, of course- smuggled the treasure of King Solomon (previously in the custody of the Knights Templar) to America and hid it from the British, conveniently leaving a trail of clues including a secret message on the back of the Declaration of Independence for future treasure hunters to find. It was actually quite entertaining- an excellent film to watch with an audience who doesn't mind you keeping up a running commentary of sarcastic but appreciative remarks.

On that note I'll wrap up this entry with a preview of what is to come. What do bells, mind control, and the Catholic Church have in common? Tune in later for a personal confession.