Customer: "Medieval times were, like, after the Bible times, right?"
Me: "Yes." (safe answer. say as little as possible.)
Customer: "What were the differences between the two?"
Me: "The two what?"
Customer: "You know, medieval and biblical times?"
There is a rather cool interview of Marilyn Horne in the current issue of National Review. Apparently, this diva turned 75 recently, and one of her fans (who happens to write for National Review) got an interview with her on that occasion.
I know, I know. For many of you, purchasing National Review would be like my purchasing a copy of The New Republic.
If The New Republic interviewed Marilyn Horne, I'd purchase a copy.
I would not leap aboard a southbound handbasket by doing so, and I assure you that the purchase of one edition of NR will not singlehandedly fund the vast right-wing conspiracy.
There is a display of art in the theatre/arts building on campus. The pictures range from reproductions of famous photograghs to portraits of children to modern art designs. Each picture has a poem, written by the artist, hung beneath it.
There was one picture depicting what seemed to be the American assault on the island of Iwo Jima. The poem underneath was nice, if unexceptional: all about sacrifices made for the sake of freedom, et all.
The thing that struck me was that, as I started to walked away, the form of the poem struck me as unusual and...distinctive.
Three lines per stanza, and very short stanzas.
I did a quick syllable count, and then I (belatedly, I confess) saw the title of the poem.
Yes.
This poem--hung under a picture from the Battle of Iwo Jima--was quite correctly titled, "A Haiku For Art Class."
I've been tagged by planetbendigo to answer this meme. He got it from Empress Nasi Goreng, who got it from Maju. Here goes...
I drove to Texas by myself from northern-divinely-neglected-Illinois over a two-day period. I had just turned eighteen. The trip was a tad stressful. I'd never driven through a city with a population greater than 150K before in my life. My possessions were all in my car. Opening the trunk was high on my list of Things Not To Do, as doing so caused an avalanche of books. (When I later unpacked the trunk, I got a nasty bruise on my foot from a vicious hardbound Complete Works of Aristotle, which just shows that Aristotle was out to get me before school even began.) The varied clothes, books, storage containers, books, computer accessories, books, CDs and books were stacked up to the bottom of the back seat windows.
When I got to Fort Worth, I promptly missed my exit. I blame this on PTSD after driving through Dallas via I-35/I-30 on a Friday night. After going through some really interesting neighborhoods, I eventually found my way to the tiny liberal arts school that I was going to attend. This is when I first hit a spot of a snag.
Bear in mind that I'd been in Fort Worth once before, and that I hadn't driven here, and that I spent much of it alcoholic-sitting. (Even longer story. Will blog someday.)
I got to Fort Worth a week before the start of school in order to familiarize myself with the neighborhood. I'd cleared this with the school, and was supposed to stay at a guest cottage for a couple of days before moving, with two roommates, into my new house.
That snag I mentioned? It was about 9 PM on a Friday night. There was NO ONE at the college offices, or, it seemed, anywhere else.
Now, I hadn't expected that. I had called and left messages periodically through the day to let the college people know that I'd be getting in a bit late, and perhaps they could just hide a key somewhere for me. I never actually spoke to a human being that day, but I was supposed to come in that day, and they knew that.
Ergo, I was sans place to lay the head for the evening.
Bugger.
So, not terribly daunted, I hied me over to the student apartment building. I pounded on the first door, and actually found someone who seemed to remember my visit earlier in the year. I asked about the nearest hotel/motel facility. I thought that since she was a junior, she'd have no trouble telling me how to find such a place.
Ha-bloody-ha. The girl had no idea. I later wondered how on earth she could have lived in the area for that long and not been able to direct me to turn right at the next light, drive half a mile, and pick one of ten hotels. She did have a phone book that she let me use, and I called a bunch of hotels whose names I recognized until I found one with a vacancy.
More to follow tomorrow or so. Highlights will include vermin of mammalian and insect descriptions, a kitchen whose color scheme consisted of burned pumpkin and mint green and (my favorite) having the Secretary to the Chancellor teach me how to pick a lock.
I love Advent nearly as much as I love Christmas. When I was a child--before things got all-out peculiar at home, that is--we had some lovely Advent rituals which I've tried to keep alive now that I'm on my own. There's that sense of waiting, of hope, of redemption, of peace.
Through the Advent season, I usually try to attend the Tridentine Latin Mass exclusively on Sundays, rather than my usual every-few-Sundays routine. (On other Sundays, I attend various other Masses in the area.) The chant, the readings, the silence--all of those appeal to my soul.
Ad te levavi animam meam: Deus meus, in te confido, non erubescam: neque irrideant me inimici mei: etenim universi qui te exspectant, non confundentur. Vias tuas, Somine, demonstra mihi: et semitas tuas edoce me.
To Thee, O Lord, have I lifted up my soul: in Thee, O my God, I put my trust; let my enemies laugh at me; for none of them that wait on Thee shall be confounded. Show, O Lord, Thy ways to me, and teach me thy paths.
~Psalm 24:1-4, Introit of the First Sunday of Advent
Humility. Complete trust. Willingness.
The rituals I associate with the Sundays of Advent remind me strongly of the Jewish ritual of Shabbat, which isn't that surprising, as Judaism is the root of Christianity. The house is made orderly, and a pleasant meal prepared. The proper number of candles for that Sunday are lit. Scriptures are read, and songs are sung, and the meal is enjoyed by all.
I also use the First Sunday of Advent to set up my creche. Christ is not placed in the manger until Christmas Day, but the creche is a beautiful reminder of that to come.
I'm in the process of reading a collection of short stories by Alice Walker. I'd read one of these stories before ("Everyday Use"), but the rest are all new to me.
Several things leap out at me while I'm reading this book. First, that I wish I was reading this in a physical classroom rather than an online class. I'd like to discuss Alice Walker with other people who are reading or have read some of her works. I can understand some of what she is saying through her stories, but I'd like to get other perspectives on it.
Second, I think that the little I can understand of her work needs to be said. She seems--so far, at least--to write exclusively about women and often from a woman's viewpoint, and to me, that's part of what makes her work fascinating.
At the same time, I wonder if she believes that all white people and all men are inherently malicious "in real life."
It's moments like these that I would love to sit in a real English class. This online business is extremely convenient, but it isn't--and can't be--the same.
One of the (many) fanastic people I've met in the last year is the carapiccoladiva. She has inspired me repeatedly with her music and her willingness to go the extra mile (or several thousand) in order to pursue her dream. (Good heavens, that sounds like a college recommendation letter.)
Now she's living in Vienna (the center of opera) and barista-ing and opera-ing. How cool is that?
She's had something so incredibly cool and wonderful and affirming happen to her, and y'all need to go over and read about it. That's the sort of thing that happens in this world I've entered. Just reading that post, I feel more at peace and joyful and hopeful.
So go read it!
For the record: a guy who manages to
a) use one of my favorite quotes from St. Augustine
and
b) say something deep and/or meaningful about music
in the process of
c) asking for my phone number
will get it.
That is all.
It's official!
(SCREECH!)
I, UbiCaritas
(hopping up and down)
am officially a professional singer. Got my first PAID gig today, as a chorus member in a performance of Handel's Messiah. This performance will include members of the Fort Worth Symphony Orchestra, and two soloists who I know and look forward to hearing.
(generally undignified and exhuberant behaviour)
Off to gnosh upon a nice stirfry and sip a celebratory glass of wine.
I have my FIRST PAID GIG!
I am a PROFESSIONAL SINGER!
EEEEEEEEEEEK!
