Oh to be Free of Student Loans

This morning the bus passed a small sign which read, “Enjoy Saving Money.” “I do,” I thought. “Oh, I do.” I sat in satisfied communion with this kindred spirit for a few ticks of the clock until reality shifted, and the sign, standing in front of a furniture store, pointed out that it meant “Enjoy Spending Less Money than You Otherwise Would Have.”

Stranger in a Strange Land

One of my later (and therefore wetter) errands this Monday had been to drop off an application at a parish. The secretary met me at the door.

“Yucky day, huh?” she said, nervously eyeing the rivers of water escaping from my person.

“Oh, sure,” I said, thinking “‘Yucky’? It’s just fine clean water.” “I’ve come to apply for the office position.” The bulletin had read “Come by, tell us about yourself, and learn more about the position!”

“Oh, heh, heh, heh,” she responded, gingerly taking my resume while carefully blocking me from completely entering the door. She obviously needed to protect the vinyl chairs and wall-to-wall indoor/outdoor carpeting.

Then the door shut and I turned from my nascent dreams of getting half way thawed out and started hiking back to the bus stop.

The Return

I sat staring at the rain through the window of my ninth bus that day. A ten-foot-tall purple neon elephant was happily spraying neon water over itself, humming about nature’s drenching not being thorough enough. The rain which would have been sufficient to drench three states had been stopped over one greedy coastal city and most of that water had soaked its way into my jeans, where it evidently felt welcome and whistled for friends. The idea of resurrecting my blog popped into my mind. There I was, a single girl trying to make it in the big city, all the elements needed for a hit TV show. All that was needed was a slight wardrobe shift from “Wish I Were Warm and Dry” to “Miniskirt Grunge.” The moment seemed more dreary than dramatic, but the seed was planted, and we shall see how it flourishes in the Emerald City.

How to remain proud of your culinary achievements even after removing the lid from the pot.

Some humanitarian has been sending me spam whose subject lines urge me to investigate a new healthy way not to cover with shame.

I keep picturing a junior-higher at a party who accidentally continued talk/shouting at one of those random moments when everyone in the room (including the music) happened to be taking a breath. "And he turned his face to the wall, covered with shame."

But that's silly. Obviously, this is an affair of the stomach.

They probably want you to pay $19.95 for the secret (order now and get bonus "No Shame: Housecleaning Edition"! $6.95 value), but I will give them both to you for free:

What they can't see can't hurt them: always eat in romantic candlelight.

Bonus Housecleaning Edition:
What they can't see can't hurt them: only use environmentally-friendly 40 watt bulbs.

Novena Time

Just a reminder that today is the first day of the novena to St. John Marie Vianney (the Cure d'Ars).

There is another prayer request as well: a friend has discovered that she has a molar pregnancy, meaning that instead of a baby developing there is a possibly cancerous tumor. She is having surgery tomorrow, and has requested prayers. This is a very rare and serious illness but hardly ever fatal and there is hope for them being able to have children again after a year has passed. This was discovered today, and it seems like the obvious response is to say the novena to the Cure d'Ars for her and her husband as well.

Thoughts on opening Solzhenitsyn's "November 1916"

Truly, this is a book to beat off assailants with.

Has anyone else wondered if they would be charged with “assault with a deadly weapon” if they hit an assailant with their backpack? Really, the whole trial would swing on proving whether I remembered the hardbound German-English dictionary and Norton Anthology of Poetry as I was making my counter-attack.

I have a Ukrainian student with an interest in history, so I asked him about Solzhenitsyn. He said that Solzhenitsyn was famous but not popular: everyone agreed that what he said was true, but they were sick of him constantly talking about it. No one likes to be reminded of what they have done badly. Also, it is thought that Solzhenitsyn took the easy way out—yes, he only left Russia because he was exiled, but he forced the government to exile him.

His One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich is read in schools (because it is history), and First Circle is well known. The young man asked whether Solzhenitsyn had written anything lately, and I replied that he had a new book, Russia in Collapse, but that I hadn’t been able to get a copy. “Russia in collapse! Very interesting! But why would he say that? Putin is so strong. I mean, Russia compared to the Ukraine or Georgia—Russia is very strong, not in collapse.” I don’t know much about Putin, but the little I do know (a quote from an article he wrote shortly after becoming prime minister) is not auspicious: in regards to Chechnyan rebels: "we will piss on them!” Ask not what your country can do for you…

Then again, the reincarnated KGB carried out a successful assassination attempt on anti-Russian Yukrainian politician Viktor Yushchenko—meaning by successful that they got him to ingest so many times more than the lethal amount without facing any serious retribution. ("Oh my gosh! I thought that was only poisonous to guinea pigs! I could just kick myself for having made such a mistake.") Not successful insofar as the politician has remained just barely this side of paradise (to be fair, he does look like he’s crossed over).

The student strongly recommended Suvorov (Viktor?), a historian of the second World War who was also exiled by the Soviets. I must look him up.

Prayer and Fasting

The son of some family friends was murdered a few days ago. A girl was also murdered at the same time, another boy was stabbed but not killed, and then the murderer killed himself.

The horribly public nature of the tragedy can be turned to good if all of us who hear about it pray and fast for the victims, murderer/suicide, and families of the dead.

The widow of a suicide was praying in the Cure d'Ars's church one day, and the Cure d'Ars (St. John Mary Vianney) came to her and said, "Be comforted. Your husband repented before he hit the water. Remember the altar to Mary that you had in your bedroom? Although your husband was a scoffer, he would sometimes join sincerely in your prayer. Because of this, he was saved." (This is a very loose paraphrase from memory). The man had killed himself by jumping off a bridge. The amount of time required for repentance is smaller than any measurable period, so there is hope even for the murderer/suicide who shot himself in the head.

St. John Mary Vianney's feast day is August 4th, so it would be very nice if we could fast and say a novena to him, starting July 27th and ending August 4th.

Link to a long novena, with a different prayer for each day:
http://www.ewtn.com/devotionals/novena/Vianney.htm

I have been completely unable to find a short novena. If anyone knows of one, please let me know! Other possibilities for novenas are: a novena of Masses, Divine Mercy chaplets, or rosaries.

Below is an unapproved novena prayer of my own composition. I will try to find out if it is an appropriate or acceptable prayer before July 27th, and will delete it if it is not.
Our Father. Hail Mary. Glory Be. "O St. John Marie Vianney, please intercede for the souls of the victims, the families of the dead, and especially for the murderer. Please obtain for them the grace of eternal salvation from the Sacred Heart of Jesus through the Immaculate Heart of Mary. May we all grow in love and trust for our dear Lord, who turns all evil to good, even the unimaginable evil of his own crucifixion and death. May the families of the dead take comfort in his cross. Through Jesus Christ, our Lord, Amen."

R and L

Today one of my Japanese students replied, "Oh Leerry?" to a comment. I understood immediately (hooray for one year's practice!), then mused over the girl's courage in attempting such a difficult word and the way that sometimes stereotypes are remarkably apt.

I shouldn't really find it so funny, having been rrr-deprived as a child. Even now I can hardly roll my rs, which was a great handicap a couple of weeks ago when I visited some llamas, who are irresistibly drawn to r-rolling (especially if one blows softly on their noses at the same time). But would Sam have been happy had I returned covered in llama-kisses? Hard to say.

But what has puzzled me is the fact that my students can make both sounds, but switch them. Recently I discovered that the sounds are switched when they hear them as well. I asked for written movie requests, and had several for "Gradiator". I don't know why it wasn't "Gradiatol". I have a theory (of course), but something tells me that it would be beaten by the result of some "Elvis Code" numerology.

Watermelon beverages

My parents visited me last Lent, and one of their primary goals was to eat as much barbeque as possible. What with one thing and another, we ended up at a barbeque place on a Friday, which I didn't particularly mind since I'm not terribly fond of barbeque. However, my meal turned out to be quite a feast--french fries and watermelon juice. Why did I go all my life without watermelon juice? It is one of the most delicious beverages possible.

Since that time, I have kept an eye out for watermelon-inspired beverages, and I just found a good recipe at Plato's Kitchen, a brilliant cooking-blog which also offers links to fake Starbuck's Frappucino recipes.

Thoughts applicable to the war on terror

It takes two to have a war.
It takes one to rape, sack, and pillage.
It takes two to make peace.

Therefore, if one party gives serious signs of having striven after peace, the mere presence of strife should not be taken as a proof against the sincerity of their efforts.

Locked out

Last night three of my people went to bed early, while the fourth was still out—much later than my old mother would have approved of. Mother always said that the early dog gets to tell the bird a thing or two. My particular person was the last of the three, and I let her help me make the rounds. She has better self-esteem if I give her meaningful daily tasks. Of course, I retain the truly necessary duties, such as sniffing for intruders, but she can turn off lights and lock doors. Tonight she insisted on not locking the deadbolts.

“This is very irregular!” I snorted, “I cannot recommend this course of action!” But she is headstrong, and must have her will.

Sure enough, just as I suspected, the doorknob rattled and the doorbell rang shortly after we had gone to bed. (Malefactors either ring doorbells or do not ring them—both scenarios require careful inquiry.) My person leapt out of bed, mumbled something about keys, and rushed off without a thought for the brave dog waiting to be lifted off the bed! When she came back, she found me huffing in indignation and concern.

“Ho!” I said, puffing out my upper lip, “Ho!”

“I’m so sorry!” she said, “Of course you need to investigate!”

I’m not blind to my person’s impetuosity, but even the harshest critic couldn’t say that she is hard-hearted. I had already begun my inquiry while she was lifting me down: “What’s all this? What’s all this?”

Then, Dat-da-daaa, Da-da-da-da-dat-da-daaaaaaa—I was off, epic music blaring and ears fluttering heroically behind me.

And it’s just as well that I went because, after careful examination of the fourth roommate (who was now in the kitchen) and the perimeter, I found absolutely nothing suspicious, which is exactly the kind of situation that a dog of action needs to look into.

I went back upstairs and gave my report to my person and my auxiliary person. They were struck by the rightness of my actions, and spent some time talking about it. I am indulgent of their chatter, especially when it is admiring. Deeds can be left in my capable paws, and I find their happy voices soothing.

Vigilance. Always Vigilance.

Food Poisoning

Ten minutes ago I gave myself food poisoning for the second time this week.

First, a note of advice to other youths stepping out into the world. Jars of spaghetti sauce when left to their own devices for three-ish weeks in a corner of the refrigerator, feel neglected and act out. Neglected cucumbers turn themselves into little Molotov cocktails of liquid nastiness, but spaghetti sauce is passive aggressive and tends to nurse its grievance in its bosom. Or, for it is but one and the same, to develop a fairly potent mold on the inside of the lid.

Cut to me, the famished wanderer from Walla Walla, looking for dinner. As when Trimmer came across the former Mrs. Crouchback, seeing that she possessed all of the qualities to attract, but failing to observe that she was not exercising them, so I with the spaghetti jar which possessed all the qualities of edibility while somehow going wrong between the mouth and the stomach. Trimmer took advantage of the situation (being the kind of person whom no one would attempt to attract) and turned it to his own advantage. I, on the other hand, poured the sauce into the pan thinking, “I wonder if I’ll get sick,” and then thought no more of it. A bit later I said to myself, “How strange—earlier I could have sworn that I was hungry enough to eat a horse, but here I am, only halfway through, and my stomach totally refuses to accept another bite of this wonderful food!” It was only 24 hours of not being able to anything later that recognition and reversal came at the moment that I decided to attempt to eat the leftovers before they went bad.

Tonight, I was eating the last of a six-pack of bagels purchased recently (that is, I can remember buying it) and thinking, “Mmmmm, raisiny deliciousness, offset with a mysterious tang,” when I happened to turn it over and found it covered in communist mold. As I threw away the remains, I murmured

Why do sinners’ ways prosper? and why must
Disappointment all I endeavour end?

Note: 100 kisses from Sam to the reader who can successfully identify what I was reading in the three hours prior to writing this (roommies excluded).

Mark Steyn

Lately I’ve been enjoying Mark Steyn’s articles more. The New Criterion has featured Theodore Dalrymple rather less frequently of late (although, really, to feature him more they would have to rename the magazine “All Dalrymple, All the Time”), and I found that Mr. Steyn had filled the favorite-author void. The nice thing about his articles is that when he mentions people I have never heard of, I feel interested and pleased to learn about them (much like the man I saw in the ER who had been brought in for alcohol/vicaden/gunk-his-dog-found-under-the-fridge overdose—I don’t know if I’ve ever seen a human over the age of three with a more pleased, interested, and self-satisfied expression). This is a nice change from the way I feel when the editors of that magazine mention unknown people. Really the only appropriate reaction to them is to slit your wrists in despair at ever having presumed to try to learn anything, and then write in the last spurts of life-blood, “Sorry about all that…aw…damn…presumed aga…” So anyhow, I found that my mental picture of Mr. Steyn was changing from an intelligent skull to a kind of kindly skull.

The last page of this month’s New Criterion substituted a “Dartmouth Review” ad for their regular nekkid-girl-in-New-York picture. Again, pleased, I looked it over. In the middle, I was shocked to see a picture of a lumberjack on his yearly day in the city. My gaze bounced around to something more congenial. Ah, Father Rutler, looking very fatherly and intellectual. Then, yarrgghh, mountain man. Back to Father. Finally I hit on the words: “Mark Steyn,” then “Keynote speaker: Mark Steyn.” Then … Good Lord.

There seem to be two things to say. One is that there seems to be much more of Mr. Steyn to fill the void than I had imagined. The other is that I’m not certain if he looks like a skull or not, since there’s a noble growth of bushy beard between him and the onlooker.

Mark Helprin

This review was supposed to be part of a "Reviews of cool books you want to read even when not forced" article someone was writing for the school newspaper. I got jumped by old mister migraine (sometimes he's coy, sometimes he's brutal), so communicating with my species was temporarily removed from the list of possible activities. I finished it anyhow, and thought it would be a shame to waste it entirely.

Review of A Soldier of the Great War and Winter's Tale

Mark Helprin’s novels are magical realism, which accepts as truth everything in the half-world of imagination that you feel is true but must remind yourself is not. And in that it differs from fantasy, which is only what you wish were true.

What this means is that a 20-year-old feels that he can out-race the girl he loves, though her horse is far better than his, the mounted police, though they are trained soldiers, and even a train—and he does. A teenage boy is terrified that the smutty pictures hidden under his bed will defy the laws of physics and burn through the floor, dropping to the floor below and into his father’s hands at dinner—and they do. A white horse escapes his master, and the exhilaration of freedom explodes within him, so that he no longer runs, but flies.

The greatness of the novels is that in freeing the world of imagination, intuition—which is also felt to be true—is freed and allowed to speak clearly. In the novel, a father is able to respond correctly when his son hurts him. The rational faculty might prompt him to forgive so that he will be forgiven, because his son didn’t really mean it, or because his relationship with his son is too precious to be lost. These are all true, but they merely surround the center of truth, which is that the father forgives the son because he knows that his son may never forgive himself.

And throughout, each sentence is a delight. Mr. Helprin clearly loves the English language and revels in his beloved’s charms.

Teaching

As I walked around my writing class this morning, looking for students with questions, I saw more clearly that my relationship with them was not that of a peer, but rather that for these eight weeks of the teaching-relay I had the enormous responsibility of leading each one of these different people through to enjoying writing and being good at it.

It is a very great honor to be allowed to give new writers creative writing assignments, and to be allowed to read their writings. Some of them take my assignments and make them their own, showing me anew how little of me and how much of each student teaching is. Today, a student showed me a tender and beautiful essay about playing in the rain as a child. It is a beauty that I will treasure, and far more than I expected from my assignment of an autobiographical story.

Why is Kraft brand fake cheese so much better than the others?

They got all the secret government grants during the War.

Something Beautiful for God

I’ve been reading Something Beautiful for God. It is primarily Malcolm Muggeridge’s reflections on Mother Teresa, but also includes a transcript of one of his interviews with her and some of her prayers. Here are a couple of my favorite parts:

Malcolm: You took [the poor] things that they needed.

Mother Teresa: It is not very often things they need. What they need much more is what we offer them. In these twenty years of work amongst the people, I have come more and more to realize that it is being unwanted that is the worst disease that any human being can ever experience. Nowadays we have found medicine for leprosy and lepers can be cured. There’s medicine for TB and consumptives can be cured. For all kinds of diseases there are medicines and cures. But for being unwanted, except there are willing hands to serve and there’s a loving heart to love, I don’t think this terrible disease can ever be cured. (p. 73-4).

It seems to me that this disease can afflict many of the people you see in an affluent Starbucks: bitter middle-aged divorcées, the successful businessman who bullies everyone, teenagers who were only read to by daycare employees. This is the disease of the culture of death.

But there is hope, and it is not in pity but in active love.

Malcolm: I understand that [love must be expressed in action, and the poorest of the poor are the means of expressing love of God], and even in this short visit I’ve sensed it as I never have before. These lepers and these little children that you get off the street, they’re not just destitute people, to be pitied, but marvelous people. Anyone who’s well can pity a man who’s sick. Anyone who has enough can pity someone who hasn’t enough. But I think what you do is to make one see that these people are not just to be pitied; they are marvelous people. How do you do this?

Mother Teresa: That’s just what a Hindu gentleman said: that they and we are doing social work, and the difference between them and us is that they were doing it for something and we were doing it to somebody. This is where the respect and the love and the devotion come in, that we give it and we do it to God, to Christ, and that’s why we try to do it as beautifully as possible. Because it is a continual contact with Christ in his work, it is the same contact we have during Mass and in the Blessed Sacrament. There we have Jesus in the appearance of bread. But here in the slums, in the broken body, in the children, we see Christ and we touch him. [This is the other part, the greater gift, the harder part.] (p. 87).

These passages resound of Dostoevsky, especially in the Brothers Karamazov. Prince Myshkin (in The Idiot) and Ivan pity from a distance and destroy, while Alyosha and Fr. Zosima love by sharing the lives of others, and they redeem. The similarities are so strong that one is tempted to find out whether the Brothers Karamazov was in Mother Teresa’s library. But she didn’t have a library, and there’s no reason to think that this book was important to her. Dostoevsky and Mother Teresa both discovered the same and fundamental truth of the two great commandments: love of Christ lived through active love of neighbor in Christ.

The greatest evil is the lack of love and charity, the terrible indifference towards one’s neighbor who lives at the roadside assaulted by exploitation, corruption, poverty and disease. (From a reflection, p. 53). Her Home for the Dying is filled with people who were literally picked up off the street. She is doing the work of the Good Samaritan, who cared for the traveler beaten and helpless on the side of the road. But when she sees that those she serves are Christ, she sees the deeper truth of the parable. Christ is the Good Samaritan, but much more so he is the man lying on the side of the road.

Dostoevsky discovered this because—largely through his own fault—he was the man lying on the side of the road, so much so that almost all of his critics have felt free to condescend on a scale that puts Lady Catherine De Bourgh to shame. What they don’t realize is that it doesn’t matter how Dostoevsky got to be on the side of the road, but rather what matters is that once he was there he was with Christ, in pain and ignominy. He learned there that pity, helplessness, and disgust are fellow-travellers, whereas love sees only equality and the means to serve the Beloved.

Mother Teresa learned that Christ was lying on the side of the road without apparent humiliation—certainly not exterior humiliation like Dostoevsky suffered. She learned it by uniting herself to Christ in prayer and in the Sacrament. Christ gave her a profound belief in the verse that she references throughout the book: “I was hungry, I was naked, I was sick, and I was homeless and you did that to me.”

Sam and comments

Feel free to refer to Sam by name. As someone who has to be watched while he does his duties (so as to be cleaned up after), he has no privacy. His name does not appear in his posts for the same reason that Flannery does not appear in mine.

Iseult of the Fair Paw

One of the other humans that lives in my house has a small statue of a baby lying in a manger that I take care of. The straw can’t be comfortable, so I am removing it piece by piece to make room for a down bed. The down will come from the five or six birds that I am hunting as a present for my mail-order bride, Iseult of the Fair Paw. My mother told me that my father gave her a whole dead badger when they were married, and that I couldn’t get married until I could give my bride a token of my love. I’ve already killed one bird and one rabbit, but both were taken away from me. My person can be so reckless with important things! I tried to tell her that I needed the bird and the rabbit, and that I would keep them under her bed, but she ignored me. Now every time that we go outside I check all the bushes for presents, and sometimes I feel like even a cat would do! I know I just need to be patient, but I’ve already had to wait so long for my fair-pawed darling.

But Iseult never whines at me, although I know that she is unhappy at her job taking care of spoiled children. She has a great soul. Her life, though short, has been heroic. She was orphaned after her parents’ tragic escape attempt and grew up on the streets of East Berlin. (I grew up on the streets of South Dallas, so we have lots in common). Her parents tried to tunnel under the Berlin wall, but were stopped by a horde of communist sewer rats. Husband and wife fought back-to-back, and they took out rat-squadrons by the hundred, but in the end they were overwhelmed by sheer force of numbers. She always breaks down at this point, and I try to comfort her, but it’s hard when she’s so far away.

The waiting is the hardest part.

Crunchy oats and honey

If you lived in a communist country, what kind of granola bars would you bribe the officials to stock?