Columbus Day

And, in observance, a 1991 Time magazine column by Charles Krauthammer, "Hail, Columbus, Dead White Male."

Drinking tea with honey

and half-watching the Red Sox, who seem destined this year to make an early exit from the post-season.

Bones

Did anyone see Bones last night? I fell asleep before the identity of the murderer was revealed. So : whodunit?

Update, Sat. morn. 10.30 am : Okay, so now I've seen the episode in its entirety online, and I still don't get it. The ending was a bit too hastily contrived, and I still don't get the motive for the killing. I must be dense.

News of the world

Well. It's a step down from Messiah.

It's a bit like giving the Literature Prize to Rod McKuen, no? Or to Henry Gibson's rhymester character from Laugh-In?

The article notes that the nomination deadline for the 2009 Peace Prize was February 1st. Twelve days after January 20th.

Amazing.

Thursday note, late afternoon

Well! The interview seems to have gone fairly well. Unless I deceive myself, there are reasons for optimism. One more hurdle remains. (I know, I'm still being vague.)

Pleasant weather in this part of the world today. A bit windy and cool this morning. Lower sixties now.

Not a bad day. And evening approaches, accompanied by a considerable sense of relief. Deo gratias.

Wednesday evening note

This blog's anniversary (the seventh, to be precise) is tomorrow. Hurrah, etc.! Let joy be unconfined!

Also, I have an important appointment tomorrow. A sort of interview. Wish me luck! Or, better yet, send a prayer or two heavenward on my behalf.

Sunday note

It hasn't been the smoothest, or the happiest, or the most fun, last two weeks. One sizable calamity and several minor frustrations. But things might be looking up, a bit. Am being intentionally vague here so as not to "jinx" myself. But more on this, perhaps, later.

Quotation

Thousands who have never learned to think at all are urged to think whatever may take their fancy about Jesus Christ. But they are, in fact, forbidden to think in any way but one about Abraham Lincoln. That is why it is worth remarking that it is a Catholic who has thought for himself.

G. K. Chesterton, via Daily Readings in Catholic Classics, ed. Rawley Myers (Ignatius Press, 1992), p. 251

This is just to say

I'm thinking of changing my name to Tristan de Night-Ouais.

Coffee and rain. A slow morning. Thank Heaven for noon Masses!

Found a paperback copy of Merton's Seeds of Contemplation (not New Seeds, the 1961 book, but Seeds, the 1949 version) at a library's book sale for $1.

Haven't blogged much this past week. I'd like to pledge to resume a brisker pace, but am fairly sure that the quiet stretches will continue for a while longer.

I was deeply amused, nay, delighted! by this post from Entropy (the part pertaining to the proper spelling/pronunciation of "Enbrethiliel"!). The power of song parodies! Just wait 'til you hear my song in praise of Pope Benedict to the tune of "Goldfinger"! Or have I already inflicted that ditty upon the eager and expectant masses?

In praise of formal poems

Here. An excerpt:

For about a year, I carried around a rhyming dictionary, writing terrible sonnets, lousy sestinas, atrocious villanelles, abysmal pantoums. I felt like I was working, which was good, but it was also painful and embarrassing to write so much bad poetry.

I didn't realize then that I was doing my own clumsy version of what art students do when they learn to paint. Now every time I go to the museum I see at least one of them with a sketchbook, copying the great paintings, and it makes sense to me. I'm glad I did it, even though nothing I wrote was any good.

Via the Poetry Foundation.

Quotations : May Sarton

When the muse appears after long absence
Everything stops except the poem. It rises
In an unbroken wave and topples to silence.
There is no way to make it happen by will.
No muse appears when invoked, dire need
Will not rouse her pity.

(from "Letters from Maine," #9)

:: :: :: :: ::

It is harder to see what one sees
Than anyone knows.

(from "For Monet")

:: :: :: :: ::

May Sarton, Letters from Maine : Poems (Norton, 1984), p. 26, p. 37

Cummings : from the archives

A rare autumn poem from Edward Estlin Cummings, usually the laureate of spring!

The Holy Cross

I've updated phos hilaron for the first time in months, with something in recognition of today's liturgical observance.

John Ashbery

[...] Five days from the last clerestory
your ambiance drained into the pockmarked shutters.
Obviously the jig was up. What's that? Whose jig? O I can see
      clear
ahead into the flying; the poor don't talk much about it,
but her apron is ambrosial with trellised stars,
her stance stares down even the most unquiet,
and on days like this you ride free.
There was such numismatics in his pocket
as only jitterbugs in cyberspace could conjugate
while from fate's awning the diamond drip descended, bigger
than both of us, big as all outdoors.

John Ashbery, from "Come On, Dear," in Notes from the Air : Selected Later Poems (Ecco, 2007), pp. 228-9