 Saturday, November 26, 2005
AO gave me a handout on faith versus works, a quick study he did for his Protestant bible study. I treated it as the radioactive material it was. I’m not going there. But he gave it to me in good faith, pun intended, as he was seriously wanting to reconcile Paul & James. It sounded much like the Luthern-Catholic document on justification – basically that works come out of an authentic faith. But I do see talking religion with AO & Julie is a danger. “Win an argument lose a soul" said Bishop Sheen, but I've never not tried to win an argument and I’m no better at throwing arguments than Homer Simpson is at resisting a Krispy Kreme. *** I must’ve hit the wrong combination of keys ‘cuz that awful Office Assistant has visited my Word document. He (she?) is in the form of a paper clip and darned if I’m not having a hard time right-clicking him to oblivion. Those hang-dog eyes. Maybe I’ll keep him around like a pet while I’m writing. Uh-oh, the bastard is starting to wear out his welcome. He just got this distracting yellow light bulb over his head. I click it and it says that "Word can finish words for you". Why doesn't he mind his own bidness? Maybe I like typing! Go back to sleep doggie, I mean clippie. **** Been reading a pleasant mix of books. “Sin Killer” by Larry McMurtry, Chesterton’s biography of Francis, 1916: A Novel of Irish Rebellion and “Separated at Birth”, concerning the two Koreas. Want to get back to the Jeff Davis bio and finish that bad boy. I want to read Dubay’s book on prayer even though I suspect books on prayer are like books on sex – if you have to read about it you ain’t doing it right. Both resist formulas. (4) comments • • • • • Thursday, November 17, 2005
I’m never quite sure whether it’s better to ignore the obvious or mention it in hopes of exorcising it: Having seasonal affective disorder means never having to say you’re sorry about complaining about the weather. Or should I say that hating the winter means always assuming you have seasonal affective disorder. The obvious in this case is that it’s time to short autumn. I’m frankly bearish on the fall. I’m long on the winter. Somebody call my broker.So what’s my beef? That this string of Thanksgiving-Christmas is the longest and least pleasant stretch of the year? True, but by definition there has to be a long, unpleasant stretch of the year, at least relative to the rest of the year. If the year is a bell curve you’re always going to have outliers of suckiness, so be it. The rest of the year wouldn’t look so good but for the unpleasant stretch of the year. "Wake me when it's February" certainly sounds unduly pessimistic. (1) comments • • • • • I walk into the scent of dying books- that’s what makes old libraries smell so good - and the same is what makes Christians smell good so I wonder: Am I dying enough? (0) comments • • • • • Friday, November 04, 2005
Dublin IrishfestMusicians like Druid priests hold forth o'er secular altars bound for Lebor Gabala Erren the kings of the Tuatha de Danann sail to the macotic marshes on the sea in the melt of summer the sand statues stand in shimmer-waves depicting Picts and one-maned myths- for between bliss and blister lay a syllable. (0) comments • • • • • Went on the ceremonial “last bike ride” this week, which I assume is not so different than the condemned man’s last meal. I flirted for an hour with a sunny sky and a new housing tract, which led to the fruit of infant asphalt and a nubile street, nary a house, still in that sublime state of traffic-less reverie. I road up and down it many times, watching the sky turn into a nativity scene – all pink and blue – and I rode it sniffing the air and accusing it of graceless chill even as it wore a 65 degree price tag. Some are never satisfied, even when the temp is twelve degrees above normal. I rode the path, gorging on the red farm in the distance, the soil tilled as if serving as a frame, and I wondered why the summer feels like a woman who leaves me every year.I came back and was surprised by company. I suppose the worst time for company is after a long reverie-inducing bike ride. I came back tired and hungry and in the unsocialable mood of the daydreamer. It sometimes seems the only time we get company is when I don’t want it. It seems any sort of escapism is punished early and often. Be it escapism found while reading novels or bike rides in the country or in alcohol, you can bet there’ll be a test at the end. The moral might be make sure you escape from your escapism before you arrive back in the real world. (0) comments • • • • • Wednesday, November 02, 2005
I feel the need. The need for a beer. October always feels like the Niagra river, beautiful and rustic, rushing and hushing while hurling you headlong towards...disaster. But I eggs-asperate. I'm just a bit tahred. (that's the way they say 'tired' down south). Had Bingo Thursday eve, dinner out with AO & J on Friday, my niece, nephew, sister & 'rents on the weekend, and then last night was Trick and/or Treat in which our goal was to not get any chitlins bitten by our barking shepherd dog. Then last night, to placate my wife, was a gouge of television which, as we know, is the least nourishing part of anyone's diet. I'm in reading-beer deficit: I can't recall the last time I read a beer label. I'd ruther some 'oetry. It's amazing how a few words - Orkney, highlands, sea - can provoke a reaction similar to the actual scenes signified: The writer of the highlands left a gaping valley ascending distant mountains playing discalced pipes. Gone from the Orkney Islands the lass from Skara Brae appealed she to our better nature as well as to our worst. (0) comments • • • • • |
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