Till Easter

As you can probably tell, things are heating up in school (not to mention Lent).  Now the weather, that's another matter ... Anyroad, this will be the post to hold you until the Saturday after Easter.

Many Complain

... of their memory ...

Temper

... is so good a thing ...

Quastoff

I had almost forgotten about this guy; he came up some time ago in connection with Andrea Bocelli, for fairly obvious reasons.

Coincidence

There’s a nice little meme that’s been playing Facebook, something along the lines of “Check out the weather, watch the sequestration go, notice how the pope resigned—YIKES!  Who’s been playing with the TARDIS?”  (No pun on “Who” intended, I’m sure.)  The meme plays off the natural human tendency to go into panic mode when events of a certain rare kind coincide.  At times like these we’re wired to suspect—or at a minimum, in this ironic age, to jest about—conspiracies as if they were real.

Cheerfulness

... like spring ...

I Must Have Been Picking Cherries

One would think it would be a responsibility ... a paper due, an Aristotle chapter left unread.  I'm afraid it was no such thing.  I must have been picking cherries.

Our Blunders

... mostly come from letting our wish ...

"The Glory of the Lord"

I. You probably know the Handel chorus; it belongs in the suite from Messiah that they play—yes, even They—every year around Christmas.  It begins with the alto line, bald, plain, unpretentious, but doggedly determined, with the accent on the glory: And the glory, the glory of the LORD!  And of course, with LORD, all the voices sing together, like all the nations aftermentioned, and indeed, His glory is revealed.

Canticum Veterem

I'm not normally an enthusiastic Fauré fan, but there are a few exceptions ...

The Peculiarity of Ill Temper

... is that it is the vice ...

Wiggle

I sat there with my pen poised, unsure of the word I wanted.  The sonnet (Shakespeare's, not mine) stared back up at me, saucily flaunting the rather obvious pun that I had decided to annotate.  But annotate how?  One little pun didn't deserve a full-page commentary (pace Booth, whose edition I was suffering); even if it dad, I hadn't the time to rewrite Booth's commentary in the course of a single reading for a single class.

If You Go In

You may have noticed there was no music yesterday.  That is partly because Ash Wednesday ought to be penitential, and partly because, well, I had plans for this week's piece.

He That Would Have a Short Lent

... let him borrow money ...

Bother Eudaimonia

It is the task occasionally of the blogger devoted to the readers’ (as distinct from but hopefully not opposed to, her own) good, to remind said readers of an unpleasant fact or two.  Some like to refer to such unpleasant reminders as “public service announcements.”  I suspect that the usher who closed the Shrine half an hour early was merely giving the worshippers a public service announcement; and I am fairly certain that the advertisers who load my mailbox with circulars and my inbox with spam are performing a public service in so doing.  About the man who points out a smudge on my blouse of the woman who sees a spot on my tie I am less sure.  As for the professor who finds it a public service to announce the deadline for our twenty-page research papers, his proclamation may be public, and might even by a stretch be deemed serviceable; but the marriage of the two terms seems to be taking the compliment to his generosity too far.

Your Mid-Week Comedy

This past weekend I had the pleasure of seeing Ponnelle's Le nozze di figaro for the first time, and remembering just how much I love the opera.  Especially this part ...

There Are Three Things Extremely Hard

Steel, a diamond ...

To the Temple

By most calendars it's no longer Christmas.  My creche is still up; but that's only because I keep it up all year.  (Well, the important parts anyway—the sheep will be going back into hibernation this weekend.)

Patience Is a Tree

... whose root is bitter ...

Mere Charity

Most of the Inauguration I did not watch, but I wanted to hear the speech.  (These things can be important, as anyone who's just seen Lincoln or done an American literature survey course will tell you!)  I must confess, it was rhetorically quite good.  They (the speechwriters) struck an impressive balance between using conservative and libertarian language at the beginning and undermining that language, explicitly, a few minutes later.  I hope the good guys were taking notes.

Come the Drums

If you've ever wondered how it feels to have loads of Bakhtin, Mukarovsky, and Saussure to read (and if you have—in the memorable words of the Light Princess—"I pity you!"), listen no further.

A Man Never Gets What He Hoped For

... by doing wrong; and if he seems to do so ...

The Rain in Spain

Google has a snow plow up.  They must not be based in D.C.  In D.C. and the surrounding areas, it is raining.  It's enough to make a snow lover wish for sunny skies and southern climes ...

A Slip of the Foot

... you may soon recover ...

Happily Unsatisfied

One of the many pleasures of having congenial roommates is that there is no need to hunt for things to do come Friday night.  For that matter, there's no need to hunt for things to do come Monday night ... or Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday.  Between the washing of dishes after a decently timely meal and the going to bed at an indecently late hour, all sort of fascinating topics arise: from hats to denim skirts to the columns of Agony Aunts; from Mali's wars to the legitimacy of "qui" in Scrabble, with the occasional dip into the more lighthearted questions, such as how soon the Day of Judgement will come. 

My Brother Sings

As those of you who know my brother know, it's hardly shameless nepotism to post this—he's really quite good!  And the Cheese Lords aren't anything to sneeze at themselves ...

Hope for the Best

... get ready for the worst ...

I Am a Coward, Doctor

Today I tried to buy contact paper.  I am not sure why contact paper should be hard to buy; it is the sort of thing that always seemed to be around the house when I was a little girl—but then again, my mother is one of those amazing people who always seems to have one of everything.

Seasonless

But it is especially appropriate right now.  Take it away, Diana.

So Let the Old Year Die

... with a fond goodbye,
And our hopes as high as a kite ...

White Christmas

When I left my family's house on the 26th, it was snowing.  It had started snowing on Christmas Eve, and kept the habit up, on and off, with breaks for the air to crystallize, for two days.  It was the first white Christmas we've had in some time, and one of the best in memory.

Merry Christmas!

Because one song isn't enough.

Long Years Ago

Ana Maria Alberghetti:

Everything for Some Time

I was preparing to write a post along the lines of The Preacher, remarking on how little had happened since I abandoned serious blogging for Mr. Shakespeare.  The first draft (everything written should have at least two drafts) was about four hundred words strong when I put it aside for an afternoon.  Before I had a chance to come back to it, Newtown had happened, making my post on the vanity of vanities somewhat ... vain?

A Good Word

... is as soon said as a bad one.

To Enjoy a Lifelong Romance ...

... fall in love with yourself.

Finally, Mon Freres

It's not a post just for you, but it's a post—and well worth reading, thanks to the great Fr. Schall.

If Through Your Carelessness

... your wife becomes a widow, who will cook for you?

In the First and Most Penitent Place

... apologies for the extended silence.  In the second and most abject place, that silence will continue for about another week, as the school semester ties up.

When Reason Preaches

... if you don't hear, she'll box your ears.

A Guy Named Claude

As I sit here ruminating and pecking away at a paper on Hamlet, eating popcorn and wishing the kitchen weren't so far away that I have to get up to get a drink of orange juice, a typo strikes my eye and sparks a thought.

There Is Much Difference ...

... between imitating a good man, and counterfeiting him.

Dreaming of a White ...

... House.  Again.  I know.  But wouldn't you live here if you could?

From Our Mother's Arms

Here it be, mon freres.

On the Beauty of Saying Goodnight

Exercising the prerogative that sole proprietorship confers, I hereby decree Thursday to be the middle of this week, and promise (with the almost infinite condescension commensurate with such greatness) to provide a piece of music for you then.  As to the movement of the day, the Europeans and the great GKC himself give us a precedent in any case; as to the music, it may not be very much better by having been waiting for, but at least it will be—which it isn’t now—and existence, they say, is a good thing in and of itself.

The Tongue of Slander Slays Three

... the speaker, the spoken to, and the spoken of.

I've Never Been Able to Decide ...

... whether this song is the perfection of misery or the misery of perfection.

One Week Later

Aside from being a cheesily-voiced Bob Hope line from that scintillating all-star war-time radio drama entitled "Dick Tracy in B Flat" (listen to a four minute clip), "One Week Later" strikes me as being an apt way to introduce the topic of last Tuesday.

Patient Waiting ...

... is often the highest way of doing God's work on earth.

Even More Than Yesterday

We'll do see-I-told-you-so's another time.

Because We Need a Muse Today

There will be mourning or celebration tomorrow, of course.  But it seems appropriate to to express this request now rather than then.

When the Fox Preaches ...

... beware of your geese.

And Now, for Something Completely Different

So, you think "We Will Rock You" is what they played at medieval tournaments?  You think Chaucer had that on his playlist?  Think again.

Wumpick and the Wimpy Apostolate

[On occasion, when I produce some fictional missive or dialogue for this blog, I feel it necessary to remind my readers that the persons represented bear no resemblance to other persons, real.  (Their resemblance to other fictional persons is a matter of course.)  In the present instance I think it prudent to reiterate for the sake of my friends that the patient is NOT me, nor her state of mind mine.  What relation my habits of thought bear to those of the other characters in this drama, it should—even to those who know me well—be wholly unnecessary to state. ~Saturday.]

My dear Wumpick,

Have You Looked Outside Today?

Fortunately, our house is on a hill.

It Is Cruelty to the Innocent ...

... not to punish the guilty.

When Only Handel Will Do

Yes, you've seen these folks before!

Truth Has a Handsome Countenance ...

... but torn garments.

"Lazy"

Sooooo, grad school ... it brings out strange things in the heart of man (or woman). Tendencies of which one wotted not before.  First I find myself relating to Hamlet, and now this:

If You Didn't Come Here from NCR, Go Right Back

And read about Justice Scalia.

Cast Thy Bread Upon the Waters ...

... for thou shalt find it after many days.

Wumpick and the Opposite Job

My Dear Wumpick,

So, your patient is dissatisfied with her current situation?  Certain duties attendant upon her state in life, or at any rate, upon her present occupations, she finds annoying?  More damnably yet, she finds them—boring?  Boredom, you know, is the ultimate torture conceivable by the mind of modern Western man.  This only goes to show that modern Western man has a very deficient concept of torture.  Of course, in this as in all errors the humans make, there is an inkling of truth.  There are from the human standpoint many and far more painful tortures than boredom; but from our standpoint there are few more effective.  You have heard the American phrase, “The idle brain is the devil's playground.”  There is a great deal of truth in that.  Certain men’s vices can tempt them to certain sins; boredom can tempt almost anyone to almost anything.

Unavailable

That was the status of the house I was looking at.

Used to Be

So I was driving home Sunday night, listening to 88.5 FM as usual, and heard that Andy Williams had died.  Aside from the fact that he was a good singer, in the mode of Bing Crosby or Dean Martin, I knew (and still know) next to nothing about him.  But Ed Walker played a couple pieces of his that started me thinking.

The Gown is Hers That Wears It ...

... and the world is his that enjoys it.

The Bird Had It

Every weekday for the last couple months, every since I moved to the city where the night lights hide the stars, I've had to walk past an Obama campaign office.  I've mused over the little figures of the man and the woman, spray painted onto ye olde style sidewalk in blue and pink, and stylized in that oh-so-familiar way; and I've wondered whether they came with the campaign or were inherited from an earlier occupant of the office.  I've side-stepped to avoid the chalked arrows (also pink and blue, if less highly stylized—an arrow is to begin with that much less complex than a human being to begin with) and chuckled inwardly when the fall rains washed them out every evening after dark.  The arrows lead from the street back into the alley where the office door is located and, along with their obvious ephemorality and with the presence of the little man and the little woman, called to mind the story of Hansel and Gretel.  It was hard not just to taste the windows of the office; I suspected them of being sweet, and I was quite sure that the copy machine made gingerbread men.

With Certain Kinds of Awsomeness ...

... no introductory comment or apology is necessary.

Cross My Heart

There is a certain careful school of thought regarding promises.  It takes somewhat the same tack as that advised by the old man who bade his interrogator ask him no questions lest he hear lies.  Its adherents are the people who RSVP "maybe" on Facebook (guilty! guilty! I am guilty!).

He That Has Good Judgment ...

... relies not wholly on his own.

Bells Again

Remember that one week this summer, when I had to travel to a friend's wedding and couldn't write the weekly column?  Well, 'tis the season again.  This time it's a young lady I've known since we were both about ten; and while I don't have an excruciatingly long car ride to her church, I am singing with my siblings for the ceremony—which process comes with its own hassle of practices.

Recipe for an Absolutely Smashing Concert

(1) Charming singer.
(2) Wonderful friends.  (Sorry, no link for that!  You'll have to find some of your own.)
(3) Song I had not heard before from opera that I only vaguely knew about that is (a) related to my studies, (b) for some reason vaguely reminiscent of the graduate life, and (c) amazing!

Love Your Neighbor ...

... yet don't pull down your hedge.

The End of Scott: Or, a True History of One Morning Between the Hours of Six and Eight in Our Nation's Capital

I arose somewhat earlier than was my usual wont, for I had much to accomplish on that particular morning which could not readily have been undertaken in that condition in which nature so inclines me to be found at these early hours, namely, in that state of recline which is so pleasant at the beginning of the day and so necessary at the end of it.  I arose, and heard with mild chagrin a rushing sound, as it were of a river contained within porcelain walls, and hurtling down from a great height with such savage force as might have dashed a rider in a boat that sought to traverse it with much danger into the depths towards which, drawn by those intransigent forces that surround and direct, almost unseen, animate and inanimate creation alike, the river itself was irremediably drawn.  My roommate was in the bathroom.

Three Guesses What I Did Last Night

WNO managed to put on a pretty good Anna Bolena.  The costumes weren't quite as awesome as below, but Sondra Radvanovsky's Anna was ... with all respect to Netrebko ... pretty nearly this good.

Two Things a Man Should Not Be Angry At:

... what he can help,

In the Cool

Where else would you be with Bing?

In Defense of Liberty

Liberty gets a bad rap these days, especially political and religious liberty.  There are those on the progressive side of things, who pay lip-service to liberty but when pressed admit that they can only give it value to the extent that it comes under the double-headed banner of fairness and non-offensiveness.  There are those on the reactionary side of things, who openly deny that liberty is worthy of its former to-die-for dignity.

In Defense of Talking Stump

I'm not a fan of Clint Eastwood.  I haven't seen many of his movies (in fact, I don't think I've seen any except for Gran Torino).  Those who know me know I've got—personal and philosophical problems, with language and violence on film.  I spent most of The Dark Knight Rises with my head either between my knees or behind my hands.  This actually makes me uniquely qualified to be a movie critic.  After all, how many reviewers write from that perspective?

Deposuerit

I confess, I have been thinking about politics this week—probably more than a student of English literature should.  But I swear this selection was not inspired by those meditations.  Still, there's no denying it's a happy thought, this deposuit potentes.

He Is Not Laughed at by Others ...

... that laughs at himself first.

Truth, Justice, and ... Equivocation?

Yesterday an online acquaintance took a look at the long-standing controversy over the tactics of Live Action, the pro-life group has been described (both positively and pejoratively!) as "Liars for Jesus."

Belated, But ...

May you have as lovely an evening as I've had a day.

"The Help Women Want"

So I am now *cough cough* an Associate Editor for a very prestigious (wait, wait; we will be!) web magazine for which I have previously written and which you should all take a look at now and again.  Behold, my first post for the Editor's Blog.

"The Help Women Want"

Todd Akin's recent comments, and the Romney-Ryan campaign’s decision to come out against restricting abortions under certain circumstances, took me mentally to a place I do not like to go very often.  Politics has a way of doing that.  If you are reading this, and you haven’t read Altcatholicah’s current top story, “Tragedy Compounded,” I urge you to go read it.  The author speaks with much authority on the matter than I could.

Andy About the Law

There's a little known Andy Griffith Show episode that deals with Opie's school days.  Little known, because the show actually never made it onto the air—the program's producers judged that it contained a thinly-veiled anti-McCarthyite message, and chose not to run it.  Most collections of the show don't include it even as an "extra" because its tone is so different from most of the regular episodes'.  That's a shame, because it's a truly fascinating parable.

Having a Problem?

So it seems that I (and Fr. Z) were perhaps a bit harsh to the thugs of the internet world, by which he means primarily spammers and hackers but under which heading I include those fools whose comments mark them as being clearly not of good will.  The poor fellows probably can't help themselves: they were all latch-key kids growing up, and most of them, at the ripe old age of thirty-seven, still are.

Thugs and Trolls

Most of you know I have a Thing about bad manners on the internet—"bad manners" being a catch-all phrase that includes anything profane, vulgar, tasteless, illogical, irrational, uncharitable, precipitous, or just plain badly thought out.  Those of you who share this Thing (and that is all of you, oui, mon frères?) will be glad to know that the inimitable Fr. Z has a litany especially for the purpose of converting the villains who indulge in such Bad Behavior.

I Don't Play Favorites

... when it comes to Mozart's piano concertos.  'Cause really, I don't have the technique for it.  I can't even get #9 under my belt.

Please Don't Hate the Pretty People

Monday morning one of my coworkers complained about Ryan being good-looking—not in an envious way, but in frustration with the average voter.  He asserted that (for example) Chris Christie, whose political persona combines all the girth, charm, and gall of Nero Wolfe, could never be picked as a VP: he just isn't attractive enough.  Of course, underdog rooters like my coworker and I might consider this a good thing; but the point stands.

"For American Women"

Andrea Mitchell thinks Ryan is not a pick for us.

I Wonder Which Policies?

FBI probing shooting of guard at Family Research Council HQ

Our Tainted Nature's Solitary Boast

~Wordsworth.

Grossly Irresponsible

This post was going to be a love letter to Paul Ryan.  Now, it's going to be a strongly worded rebuke to fellow Catholics who can't seem to do even a wee bit of research.

The Missketeers at Home

Last night was quite amazing.  It began virtuously, with attempts to copyedit, attend lectures in support of intellectual friends, and the like, and ended with a veritable bacchanal of conversation.

I Won't Grow Up

When I was younger, shorter, and more flexible than I am today, I thought I could be a ballerina when I grew up.

Please, Please Let This Be an Urban Legend

Thus the friend of the human race pleads with fate.

It's a Great Day

~Ramona Quimby.

What great day?  Why, the Feast of the Transfiguration, in case you didn't know!  (S'OK, per usual I did not either, until noon Mass.)

Expect Nothing

... sayeth Juster's Weatherman, "and then the unexpected never happens."

This would be an excellent bit of advice, except for the fact that it is impossible to expect nothing, just as it is impossible not to think of an aqua elephant. In practice, therefore, the sentence translates into a recommendation of low expectations, which I abominate.

When Virtue Pays III: Pearl Hunting

I hope you all enjoyed the professor on Wednesday.  Harold Hill is an instructive example of a rather curious phenomenon—call it the anti-Shtcherbatsky, the hypocrite who, due to circumstances outside of his control but relating directly to his practice of hypocrisy, ends up a good man.  (Another example of the same phenomenon, I would argue, is Shakespeare’s Prince Hal—but that is another story.)

"The Glory Goes Up to God"

~Gabby Douglas.

The Tell-Tale Signs of Corruption

Last week I read about Dan Patch.  Which reminded me ... the last several MWMs have been decidedly classical.  Nothing wrong with that, of course, but it also doesn't hurt to shake things up a bit.  Dan Patch comes in at 1:50.  (Pardon the advertisement.)