Happy New Year- 2007

Happy new year!

¡Feliz año!

Buon capo d'anno!

Selamat tahun baru!

Otro poema del mismo

The power of money in the world. A dialog between Cupid and a poet

Poet:

Your empire is at an end. Now put your arrows away in your quiver, little boy.

Cupid:

But how will hearts be wooed now?

Poet:

With doubloons, bitch.

El poder del oro en el mundo. Diálogo entre Cupido y el poeta

POETA

Tu imperio ya se acaba;

guarda, niño, las flechas en la aljaba.

CUPIDO

Pues y los corazones,

¿cómo han de conquistarse?

POETA

Con doblones

From Neo-Classicism to Romanticism in Late 18th Century Spain

José de Cadalso (1741-1782)

In spring, after the death of Phylis

It doesn’t matter that stormy winds are enchained one by one in their cave

or Neptune command his element be still with his blue trident

or Amaltea fill the fertile field with fruits and flowers

and that sweet bird songs echo with renewed vigor

Nor even that the defrosted stream rush on . . .

Oh, Green Spring, for you announce your return, that men have so desired, in vain

Triumphant over cold, sad Winter.

For with Phylis dead, the Earth has nothing to hope for

But frightening mist, freezing nights,

Shadows and fear . . .

Just like my heart.

A la primavera, después de la muerte de Filis No basta que en su cueva se encadene el uno y otro proceloso viento, ni que Neptuno mande a su elemento con el tridente azul que se serene; ni que Amaltea el fértil campo llene de fruta y flor, ni que con nuevo aliento al eco den las aves dulce acento, ni que el arroyo desatado suene. En vano anuncias, verde primavera, tu vuelta de los hombres deseada, triunfante del invierno triste y frío. Muerta Filis, el orbe nada espera, sino niebla espantosa, noche helada, sombras y susto como el pecho mío.

A poem from Luis de Góngora, Quevedo's mortal enemy

Luis de Góngora y Argote (1561-1627)

Noble disappointment, I thank heavens

that you broke the rope that held me prisoner.

I’ll hang the heavy chains

of my grave errors¹ in your temple

for such a great miracle!

Because with your help I shook

the strong joints of the silver yoke off my neck.

The damp candles and broken oars

that I rescued from the sea

and offered at port will now

be an ornament to your temple walls,

your name’s glory, and a disclaimer of love.

So, you’re overpowering the youthful archer.

Then may mad hopes, vain thoughts, lost steps,

trivial desires, angry cares, poisonous jealousy

and infernal glories pull your chariot

and be your prize.

Let them write you hymns, their verses saying

that you free captives and give sight to the blind.

May a thousand fires of the Sabeus tree’s

precious sap² bow before your deity.

But who makes me delve into sensible matters

by speaking of the truth in these times

when people who dress in the latest fashion

spend most of their days in jokes and tomfoolery?

Ungrateful mistress of your own chambers,

sweeter and tastier than turnips in Advent,

lend me your ear for a time,

‘cause I want to give full reign to my rambling thoughts:

How many cold nights I was so frozen

that your dog mistook me for a street corner

and lifting his leg with grace,

he gilded my black shoes!

Oh, what nights like these, madam, I remember walking around looking for pebbles

on the ground to make a sign on your door

and upon picking one up my hands were beshat!

Oh, how many days I walked with great pains,

as if weighted down with steel,

because I was ill.

Being as skinny as I was

I looked like a cowbell,

bones on the inside and iron on the outside

How many months and years

I lived in agony on the Poor Hill without even being Beltenebros!³

Where I spent entire days writing sonnets,

eating nothing but my nails!

What foolish things I wrote on a thousand pages

that you laugh about now and I admit to.

Although there was at time

when I thought of them as discrete words

and you as come-ons.

How many midnights I sang on my instrument:

Madam, put out my fire!

when, although you did not respond,

the neighbor complied

by emptying a large bowl onto the street.

Goodbye, madam, because to me your face

is like a chimney in summer

and snow in winter-

you’ve filled my spleen with gall stones.

And I think being a dolt for six years is long enough!

1- in Spanish hierros- “chains”, yerros- “errors”

grave- “heavy” or “grave”

2- Poetic cliché from Virgil

3- Alternate identity of Amadís de Gaula, a knight-errant in medieval Spanish literature, who pretended to be a hermit after his lady insulted him.

Francisco de Quevedo and Seneca: Neo-stoicism from Baroque Spain and Stoicism in the Silver Age of Rome

Francisco de Quevedo y Villegas (1580-1645)

Via his contacts with the Flemish scholar Justus Lypsius, a young Quevedo came in contact with Neo-Stoicism, a strain of thought which responded to the growing European crisis at the turn of the 17th century drawing from the works of Seneca and other Classical Authors with a Stoic bent such as Marcus Aurelius. (However such a turn toward Seneca had also been anticipated by Fray Antonio de Guevara early in the 16th century) This Neo-Stoic influence is revealed throughout Quevedo's voluminous poetry and prose works. A case in point is the following passage from El mundo por de dentro- (The world inside out) which was part of a series of satirical visions which starts out with the Vision of the Final Judgment (El sueño del juicio final), El alguacil endemoniado (The possessed sheriff), A Vision of Hell (el sueño del infierno), The World Inside Out (El mundo por de dentro), and The Vision of Death (El sueño de la muerte). In this portion the hypocrisy of the world are revealed as the author-narrator passes through a trip wire to uncover society's hidden vices. His guide, a world-weary old man speaks to him:


By chance do you know what an hour is worth? Have you examined the value of time? It’s obvious that you haven’t, because you happily let it be stolen away by the fleeting hour which robs you of something most precious. Who told you that what has already gone will come back to you if you call for it when you need it? Tell me, have you seen any day’s trampling? Certainly not, for they only turn their heads to laugh and ridicule those who thus let them pass. Know that they and death are connected in a chain and the more the days pass on that lie ahead of you the more they push and pull you towards death. Maybe you’re expecting it and it has already arrived and by the way you live it’ll happen before you know it. I think anyone who is deathly afraid all his life that he is going to die is a fool and evil anyone who lives with such little fear of death as though it will never affect him. Because he will come to fear death when he suffers it and then overcome with fear he will find neither solution to life nor consolation at his end. Sane is only he who lives every day as if he could die at any hour on any day. (From El mundo por de dentro)


¿Tú por ventura sabes lo que vale un día? ¿Entiendes de cuánto precio es una hora? ¿Has examinado el valor del tiempo? Cierto es que no, pues así, alegre, le dejas pasar hurtado de la hora que fugitiva y secreta te lleva preciosísimo robo. ¿Quién te ha dicho que lo que ya fue volverá cuando lo hayas menester si le llamares? Dime, ¿has visto algunas pisadas de los días? No por cierto, que ellos solo vuelven la cabeza a reírse y burlarse de los que así los dejaron pasar. Sábete que la muerte y ellos están eslabonados y en una cadena, y que cuando más caminan los días que van delante de ti, tiran hacia ti y te acercan a la muerte, que quizá la aguardas y es ya llegada, y según vives, antes será pasada que creída. Por necio tengo al que toda la vida se muere de miedo que se ha de morir y por malo al que vive tan sin miedo de ella como si no la hubiese, que este lo viene a temer cuando lo padece, y embarazado con el temor, ni halla remedio a la vida ni consuelo a su fin. Cuerdo es solo el que vive cada día como quien cada día y cada hora puede morir.



Lucius Annaeus Seneca (4-65 A.D.)

Seneca the Younger came from the Roman province Hispania and the southern region Baetica from the city of Corduba, which corresponds to modern day Corboba. His father Seneca the Elder was a renowned Rhetorician and the future philosopher came to Rome at an early age to pursue his studies. There he had Greek teachers who schooled him in Stoic philosophy. Most notably Seneca later went on to be the tutor of the young Nero and actually had a benevolent influence over him for a time. However, as Nero was clearly insane this did not last. In the end he was forced to commit suicide as part of a supposed plot along with his nephew the poet Lucan Among his works are treatises such as De Clementia- On Mercy, Dialogues, and Plays. Also influential are his letters to his pupil Lucilius in which topics such as fate, happiness, and mortality are discussed.

Who will you give me, who can put some price on time, who can judge the value of a day, who knows himself to be dying, daily? For in this we are all deceived: we look forward to death, but the great portion of death has already passed. Whatever part of our life is behind us, death possesses. Therefore: do, my Lucilius, what you wrote to me that you do: embrace each hour.

Quem mihi dabis, qui aliquod pretium tempori ponat, qui diem aestimet, qui intellegat se cotidie mori? In hoc enim fallimur, quod mortem prospicimus: magna pars eius iam praeteriit; quidquid aetatis retro est mors tenet. Fac ergo, mi Lucili, quod facere te scribis, omnes horas conplectere.

(Source: Seneca, Epistulae Morales I.2)

More Quevedo: a poem addressed to his friend and editor Josef from his exile

Retreated in the peace of these deserts

with few but learned books together

I live in conversation with the deceased

and I listen to the dead with my eyes.

If not always understandable always open

they either mend or enrich my affairs

and in counterpoint with silent musicians

they speak awake to the dream of life,

the grand souls that Death abandons,

the avenger of the injustice of years- oh great Sir Josef! –

print that frees and teaches.

In irrevocable flight the hour flies

but in the best calculation

that hour betters us in lesson and study.


Retirado en la paz de estos desiertos

con pocos, pero doctos libros juntos

vivo con el comercio de difuntos

y con mis ojos oigo hablar los muertos.

Si no siempre entendidos, siempre abiertos

o enmiendan o fecundan mis asuntos

los libros que, en callados contrapuntos,

al músico silencio están despiertos.

Las grandes almas que la muerte ausenta,

de injurias de los años vengadora

restituye, D. Juan, docta la imprenta.

En fuga irrevocable huye la hora;

mas con el mejor cálculo se cuenta

la que en lección y estudio nos mejora.

Revised version of story and the namesake of this blog

Love and do what you will

After the wars were long over I went to my mother’s hometown, a village near a small mountain chain called La Peña de Francia. I had visited that forgotten place to bury my mother Pilar in a Church there. And though an agnostic I was not about to go against her wishes.

Later I went to the only bar in town and ended up waking up the mayor to serve me lunch. He obliged and made some comments about Hollywood movies while he fixed me a combination plate of pork loin, and French fries with an egg over easy. My father had been an American who came to Spain as a journalist and became one of the first American bullfighters, hobnobbing with the likes of Manolete and Hemingway. After paying for my meal I walked down the road to the bus stop and bought a one-way ticket to Madrid. I had planned to see a professor friend there who knew my father from the old days.

I first met him in the late 30’s in Paris near Montmartre. The place where they say Saint Denis was beheaded by the Romans. We met and talked at a café down from Sacré Coeur, the sound of organ grinders in the distance. Personally, I felt like Dalí making his pilgrimage to see Picasso at the turn of the century. I was that star-struck.

You see Ignacio Villarrutia was one of the illustrious five at the Complutense in Madrid. They were part of a rebirth of intellectual life after centuries of decay.
When I met him in May of that year Villarrutia was on sabbatical lecturing at the Sorbonne. Ignacio was born in Guipúzcoa near the resort town San Sebastián where old Basque fishermen sneered at vacationers. His grandmother was a staunch Carlist still embroiled in the civil wars of the last century. Ignacio or Iñaki in his native Basque dialect had been educated by the Jesuits and later studied philosophy at Madrid and then in Germany with the Teutonic masters.
He then went on to study Theology and Eastern Languages at Louvain, Belgium and began preparing for priestly orders. After pursuing this course of study he returned to present his doctoral thesis in Madrid under Javier Covarrubias a philosophical luminary of the new century.

Ignacio eventually got a job lecturing on Philosophy at University. He was a star professor in philosophy along with his mentor Covarrubias as well as Iorgos Teoupolous in Art History, Enrique Requessens for Ethics, and Julián Velázquez in Spanish Philology. As for Villarrutia students flocked to Ignacio’s lectures to hear him expound on the history of Western Philosophy.

When teaching he would speak in his usual staid tone: “Ladies and Gentleman, in truth the history of philosophy involves the history of metaphysics. Metaphysics being the basic underpinnings of the world we live in, the undercurrents of our relation to the other. In the West metaphysics involved a single seminal idea: the concept of Creation. This means not manipulation or coercion of pieces and parts but something radically different: The Hebraic Creation out of nothing. While said concept is absent from the great Greek thinkers Plato and Aristotle it has a decisive role in Judeo-Christian Philosophy. For example, the reinterpretation of Aristotle in Saint Thomas Aquinas involved the postulation of being within the horizon of non-being. So the Western conception of the world is defined by contingency. Later philosophy simply redefines this relationship under different categories. To show a few examples: fallibility in Descartes, probability in Leibniz, and dialectic in Hegel. Modern Philosophy continually marches towards the abyss left by creation out of nothing and tends toward nihilism. Some examples are radical skepticism, which denies all knowledge as well as artistic movements that deny meaning to the world as such. Naïve materialism and idealism are just the two extremes of this tendency. Yet a philosophy truly worthy of the name should aspire to much more.”

His words formed an impenetrable mist in the minds of those present. While most students didn’t know what he was talking about they pretended to understand nonetheless. Yet Ignacio was gracious to everyone and was well liked by both Faculty and students. He had such personal warmth and love of his subject that one could not help but get caught up in it.

But during the early 30’s the political climate went through a radical shift with the creation of the 2nd Republic and the exile of the King. Tired of the military and the royalty being always in co hoots Ignacio was in support of the change as was much of the Faculty. It troubled him that the Spanish Church had become too nationalistic and showed signs of losing its Catholic character. There was a general feeling that with this new government positive change was possible.

Teresa Cepeda, a young woman, began attending his lectures around the same time. Interestingly, she came to study under Covarrubias whose style was the exact opposite of Ignacio. You see, Javier Covarrubias though and wrote with meridian clarity: “Philosophy is thought brought to life.” He offered to the world a surface of simplicity behind which lingered complex thoughts. Whereas Ignacio cast a net of complexity that drew everything together into a synthesis.

Our Teresa hailed from Andalusia in Southern Spain a land full of olive groves and roving bulls. She grew up in Córdoba the hometown of the philosophers Seneca and Maimonides. Naturally inquisitive, she was encouraged by her father, a bookseller and amateur scholar. Ignacio noticed her immediately. How could he not? She shared his love for the subject matter coupled with a fondness for the smell of books.
On a typical day Ignacio would pose a question to his class, “And so what according to Aristotle and St. Thomas Aquinas is the object of the will?” Then he would search the lecture hall only to fall upon Teresa’s outstretched hand, “Teresa.”
At which she would respond, “The object of the will is the good. Or as St. Augustine says: Love and do what you will.”

“Very good Teresa,” Ignacio would comment, smiling tenderly.

Her thesis dealt with a philosophy of confianza whereby she attempted to explain “the trust” we have in reason. “In that what we search for we must necessarily desire and trust in our method to find it. Confianza is a faith or a trusting whereby one opens up and gives oneself to the other, be it a subject of study, a person, or even God. Therefore self-love in the Divine Hypostases is the ultimate archetype of the concept of confianza, each giving to the other in perfect love. For if we do not trust then we will not act and if we do not love our subject in the end we will not know it. All of this is implied in the intellectual act in which there exists a fiat of intelligibility between the knower and what is known. However, this connection has crumbled with the expanse of the autonomy of reason. Yet this is a false autonomy as well as a false reason. Now the task at hand is to bridge this gaping void via confianza as well as to rediscover human understanding in its fullness.”
As it turned out, Ignacio became fond of his pupil overtime and she of him. To the point where he had serious reservations regarding his priestly vocation, the former fondness having distilled into love. They would often stroll together in the Retiro Park discussing life and its mysteries under the trees. Yet this was at the same period when the Republic showed signs of veering toward anarchy as liberals and conservatives grappled for power. As one side gained a majority it would chastise its opponents until it was time for the other to do the same. Presently the liberals were in power, which meant a rise in anti-clericalism. The president of the Republic was one of the bien pensants of the period. And while he displayed an air of magnanimousness he did little to halt the violence. Meanwhile churches burned, nuns were raped, and priests murdered. It came to the point where Ignacio had to hide his collar just to keep from being harassed.

This went on until one day Javier cornered him in the Faculty office, “You know Nacho, I think you should take a sabbatical until this whole thing cools down. I’ve written to the linguist Beneviste in Paris and it appears you can expand on your Oriental Languages while teaching the odd class in philosophy. Well how about it?”
He agreed and went to the Sorbonne the following April of ’36. Teresa would finish her philosophical studies while he lectured at the Sorbonne and received tutoring in Sumerian and Akkadian. He even went to Rome to request an indult so they could be married upon his return.

When I met with him he was knee-deep in Ancient Oriental Lore and seemed distracted. I had been sent to Paris by my father to interview Ignacio for a news story.

“How are things in Madrid?” he inquired nervously sipping his coffee and biting on a brioche.

“Ummm, well, there’s been a bit of a problem. Remember those generals from the wars in Africa”

“Ahuh.”

“Well they’ve risen up against the Republic.”

“It’s serious then?”

“Very.”

“And the Government?”

“They don’t seem to have a clue I’m afraid.”

A sudden realization dawned on Ignacio, shaking him out of an intellectual fog,
“That means, Teresa, is she-“

“Fine for now as far as I know. But I’d check on her. You know my father?”

He smiled for a second, “A yes the American bullfighter . . .”

“It turns out he’s been receiving death threats.”

“What? Why?”

“No one knows for sure. Maybe they don’t like his articles. I think he’s criticized the government a couple of times.”

“Oh. Well certain lines of thought would say morality is expendable until a just social order can be created. Yet this view ignores our own humanity for man by his nature is a moral being. We cannot help but be moral because what we will we take to be a good even if we are mistaken. The problem with these lines of thought then is they take expediency as the ultimate good thereby permitting injustices to be tolerated as a means to an end. But at what cost?”

“Uhh, yeah,” I mumbled, this being my first exposure to Ignacio’s philosophical haze.
Villarrutia had kept in contact with his colleagues in Spain via phone calls and the occasional letter. Though we asked an operator to connect him he was unable to reach Madrid at the time. There was something wrong with the line she said. Concerned he sent a telegram. We waited for days with no response. Then a letter from Teresa came.

+J. M. J.+
Dearest Nacho,
I am almost finished with my studies and plan to meet with you in Paris soon. Things are hectic here, as the instability of the Government continues. We can only pray to Our Lady that she intercede for our nation before the Lord and save it from strife. I often fear that both sides in these discussions are of a piece. Each one claims to be Abel but is in fact a murderous Cain. Yet in these turbulous times there is no exit, no way for us to go forward save Divine Grace. So that one day the Church may rise again, following in the footsteps of Her Shepherd as in the Song of Songs: Surge amica mea et veni “Arise My Beloved and come with me.”
Love,
Teresa

Sadly those were Teresa’s last words to Ignacio. Things remained sketchy for a while as reports from Spain trickled in. Hitler, Mussolini send troops to Nationalists. Stalin behind Communists. America Legions join Republican cause. This state of misty uncertainty continued throughout the war. The atmosphere became worse as the Republican Army faltered. And as it turned out Spain was just a playground for Hitler and Stalin’s power games. As evidenced by the bombing of Guernica, which horrified Ignacio when we went to see Picasso’s painting at the pavilion in Paris.
What little I can tell students around campus began calling Teresa the priest’s girlfriend and snickered “barragana” as she passed by. This term alluded to the concubines some priests kept in the late middle ages and was a by-word for anticlericalism. These harassments continued until one day she simply didn’t come home. It was generally assumed she had been executed by radicals.

“Well they’re not really sure,” Ignacio commented one day, his eyes heavy and sad.
At the beginning of the 40’s I followed my parents to the cold plains of North Dakota where my dad grew up. Ignacio returned to Spain to find his homeland utterly changed. Most of his friends and colleagues, if not already dead, had left the country. And try as he might to find work in it was hopeless given that the Nationalists frowned upon his past associations. On the other end, ex-patriots wouldn’t lift a finger to help him since he was anathema being a priest and a Catholic.

Javier was left in limbo, having given up his collar for a wife he never had. So he decided to devote himself to the priesthood of philosophy. At which time he wrote to me and I returned to Spain in the early 50’s. Madrid was sad after the post-war years of starvation. A row of ugly gray now buildings lined the streets. And while a lively sign from the 30’s for Tío Pepe brand sherry still graced the Puerta del Sol it was a memory of a dream.

I met with Ignacio in his apartment. The place was crammed with books, some volumes continuing onto the floor with notes strewn everywhere. I noticed that the only source of light in the room was a picture of Teresa on a dresser. It showed her in the vigor of youth, full hope for the future. Ignacio greeted me, taking me by the hand, and said that he had begun giving private seminars to those willing to learn. I soon became a regular attendee.

In his internal exile Ignacio had few friends. Just a small group of regulars to his lectures. One of these souls, Enrique Milá, a Catalan, was a musicologist who specialized in 16th century polyphony. A pianist, Milá composed “little diddies” on the instrument which were masterful for their compactness. Like panels on a tapestry, each chord produced a tone that played off another, cascading before the ears. “Well Ignacio there you have it,” he would often remark during our tertulias.
Then there was Francisco Pacheco the painter who lived in the apartment block across the way. An artist with curious work habits Francisco would spend decades on a single canvas. These painting included seemingly mundane views of buildings, doors, and pavement behind which hid a great mystery. At one meeting Pacheco expressed the idea that: “most men who endorse materialistic philosophies have merely spent their lives walking on cobblestone and pavement. Which brings to mind Campanella, the 16th century Italian thinker, who posited that expansion and contraction are the only properties of matter. Interestingly, on a cold day you notice the same phenomenon when trudging over brick or stone.”

Together we formed something of a city within a city. A city of friendship amid the bitter politics of the times. Yet through it all Ignacio retained his good humor, ever faithful to his profession and his creed. I must confess I do not understand it. All the pomp and ritual of religion. Yet neither do I comprehend the great hatred it arouses.

Meanwhile, an unbearable silence descended on the name Ignacio Villarrutia as if forbidden on the lips of men. In the meantime I would travel periodically between Europe and America. And there he sat in his apartment full of books utterly alone. No doubt he had confidants, yet he remained under a cloud of solitude. I often mused that beneath it all he still pined for Teresa.

The truth is Ignacio was an enigma whose very existence challenged the reigning political climate. So he was passed over. Never able to enter onto the public stage. He became like everyman and no man, buried under mounds of silence. And it was under this silence that our city of philosophers lived, moved and had its being. Only there could we find peace.

I had returned to Spain that last time following the death of Franco. And after seeing my mother to her final rest and chatting up the mayor I headed in a bus for Madrid. Upon arriving I took the metro to the familiar stop. Yet I couldn’t find Ignacio’s address. Thinking I’d forgotten the number I checked again. But the name Villarrutia and the apartment were nowhere to be found. All I saw were a bunch of teenagers loitering on the steps. Then in a moment of idiocy I asked one of them if they knew a Villarrutia.

“Villa-whose-it? Look like we give a damn, man?” They proceeded to pass around a two-liter Coke bottle filled with an assortment of alcohol in a bizarre ritual known as botellón.

Though I checked the phonebook and called information all were dead ends. Had I really been gone that long? It was as if I had left a secret kingdom and couldn’t get back in again. Frustrated I went to a café and read the newspaper while eating chocolate with churros. Nothing.

“Where have you been?” A rough voice called out behind me.

“Huh?”

“He’s gone my friend. He’s gone.” It was an old and weathered Enrique Milá. He took out his wallet and handed me a piece of paper, “Well there you have it.”
It was Ignacio’s obit: Villarrutia, Ignacio Philosopher 189- 198- . I looked up at Milá’s cataract-filled eyes “When did it happen?”

“A few months ago.”

“And there was no more news?”

“Not now with all the hubbub over the Transition. They’re writing a new constitution, you know?”

“Really?”

Enrique took me to a civilian cemetery in the outskirts of the city. “He wanted to be buried next to his beloved Teresa,” he explained, placing some flowers on the ground.
I thought of that picture of her I had seen and that look of hope only to peer at the graves like two placards rising out of the ground. Then I spied a familiar phrase etched into the surface of one of the headstones.
“Come with me,” said a voice from the wind. It was Enrique. He motioned for me to follow and we went up to his apartment. He had a modest flat with a nice grand piano. Enrique placed his fingers gently on the keys. “I call this little diddie, Surge amica mea et veni.”

With that Milá began to play. He started off in an ascending movement tickled by lightness. This gave way to a graceful rhythm as chords filled the apartment. There followed a shift to a minor key as he descended to the grave notes. This set off a low humming in the ivories. After a heavy silence a slight ringing came. Then a graceful rhythm danced across the keys. Surging forward, the melody transported me beyond the apartment, and the city. Out into the country, beyond the sea, until I thought I saw Heaven and heard a voice resounding: “Arise My Beloved and Come with Me.”

Christmas in India

(Note: This video was made by an Indian comic who specializes in making parodies of Christmas songs.)

In search of time long passed- A meditation on the days of the week

Translated and adapted from http://www.jesusbeades.blogspot.com/

Monday is Sisyphus and Tuesday is the boulder that begins to fall. Wednesday is Thomas Didymus who still doubts Sunday exists. Thursday, who was a man in a novel, is a warm, discreet eve. While Friday is a receiver, a foyer, a “who cares, tomorrow’s a party” kind of day. We should always live with the spirit of Friday, immersed in the cares of the world but with the happiness of what is to come, about to fall into our hands but not just yet. Saturday passes by without keeping of time, as if by fate. Sunday has a bad reputation, the poor thing. We feel all that internal hierarchy compiling itself once more and our insides resent it. I would always write in an attractive event, a splendid date for Sunday night in the day timer. So that all through the day when we get sad we can say “but there’s still something good coming up.” And we’d already have that go-ahead flavor in our mouth to keep us going, making the present palatable.

Spanish Original:
En busca del tiempo partido
Lunes es Sísifo. Martes es la roca que empieza a descender. Miércoles es Tomás Dídimo, que no se cree todavía que exista el Domingo. Jueves fue un hombre en una novela, y es una cálida, discreta víspera. Viernes es un recibidor, una antesala, un "qué más da, mañana fiesta". Con el espíritu del Viernes deberíamos vivir todo: metidos en los afanes del mundo, pero con la alegría de lo venidero viniendo, viniendo, casi en las manos, pero aún no. El sábado pasa sin relojes, como la dicha. El domingo tiene mala fama, el pobre; en él sentimos compilarse de nuevo toda esta jerarquía interior, y nuestras entrañas se resienten. Yo pondría siempre en la agenda un evento atractivo, una cita espléndida para el domingo por la noche. Así, a lo largo del día, cuando nos entristezcamos, podemos sentir: "pero luego viene, todavía, algo bueno". Y ya tenemos este sabor anticipado en la boca, para ir tirando, para condimentar lo presente.

San Juan de la Cruz (1542-1591)

On this day December 14 the year of 1591 Juan Yepes, known as with his Carmelite name Fray Juan de la Cruz entered his eternal reward. This man we now call San Juan de la Cruz- Saint John of the Cross is not only a doctor of the Church but one of the great mystical writers of all time, along with his mentor Santa Teresa de Jesús- Saint Theresa of Avila as she is called in English. The following is an outline of his life and trials as written by the Franciscan Friar Benedict Groeschel who has had his fair share of life's troubles.


The Saint Who Wanted Nothing

The life of St. John of the Cross, the Carmelite mystic, is a case in point. This good man was always in trouble. He was a very bright, extremely spiritual and devout man. At the direction of St. Teresa of Avila, he once built a novitiate for the Carmelite friars of her reform. When she went to see it, there were crosses all over the place. She said, "Too many crosses. Take some of them down." She was very direct and much older than St. John of the Cross. Already he had suffered very much for her reform. John of the Cross, when he was in the regular old observance of the Carmelites, was arrested, imprisoned in the monastery, and beaten so severely in the refectory that he carried the scars with him to his grave. He started the new community at the behest of St. Teresa, and after her death his own friars tried to throw him out of the community. St. Teresa could not come to his rescue. Can you imagine?

St. John of the Cross gives this advice to religious: live in the world as if you lived there all by yourself with God. Don't look for anything. Don't get involved in all the comings and goings. Don't have great expectations. Just do what you are supposed to do and say your prayers. [2] That does sound a bit severe, doesn't it? Yet there is more than a grain of truth in it. We always get hurt by the people we love.

The people we don't love can't hurt us very much. St. John of the Cross did not die a bitter man, although his confrères were trying at that point to throw him out of the order on the charge of being stupid-this great Doctor of the Church. I don't know when they ever decided to throw anybody out for being stupid. No one defended John of the Cross. There were all these young friars whom, as novice master, he had trained. He had taught them about the spiritual life, and yet not one of them defended him. I guess you can say that the Church-or the part of the Church that was most important to him--let him down. But he remained calm and at peace. He busied himself in his final assignment by working on his great books and doing pastoral counseling with the lay people, since none of the friars would even listen to him.
(Excerpt from Arise from Darkness, Benedict J. Groeschel C.F.R)



Among his great books were his poems. Given the situation you can now understand why San Juan wrote his Dark Night of the Soul.


The Dark Night of the Soul

A Song of the Soul that enjoys having reached the high state of perfection, which is the union with God, by way of spiritual negation.

During a dark night,

Inflamed by love’s anxieties

Oh lucky fate!

I went outside without being noticed,

My house already in array.

Dark and secure,

Along the secret staircase I went, disguised,

Secretly and in the dark

Oh lucky fate!

My house already in array.

During that fateful night,

in secret, without anyone seeing me,

I didn’t look at anything nor any light or guide

But that which burned inside my heart.



This light guided me more certainly

than the light of midday

Where He waited for me I well knew,

In a place where no one but He appeared.



Oh night which lead me!

Oh night more lovable than the dawn!

Oh night that joined the Beloved with His Lover

The Beloved transformed into the Lover.



In my flowery breast which I kept entirely for Him

There He fell asleep and I caressed Him

And a breeze swept through the cypress trees



As I brushed His hair

the air from the pathway

and his serene hand

touched my neck

and I lost all my senses . . .

I remained there and forgot myself,

I rested my head on my Lover.

It all came to an end and I was no more,

Leaving my cares forgotten among the lilies.



Canciones de el alma que se goza de aver llegado al alto estado de la perfectión, que es la unión con Dios, por el camino de la negación espiritual


En una noche escura
con ansias en amores inflamada
¡o dichosa ventura!
salí sin ser notada
estando ya mi casa sosegada.


ascuras y segura
por la secreta escala, disfraçada,
¡o dichosa ventura!
a escuras y en celada
estando ya mi casa sosegada.


En la noche dichosa
en secreto que naide me veýa,
ni yo mirava cosa
sin otra luz y guía
sino la que en el coraçón ardía.


Aquésta me guiava
más cierto que la luz de mediodía
adonde me esperava
quien yo bien me savía
en parte donde naide parecía.


¡O noche, que guiaste!
¡O noche amable más que la alborada!
¡oh noche que juntaste
amado con amada,
amada en el amado transformada!


En mi pecho florido,
que entero para él solo se guardaba
allí quedó dormido
y yo le regalaba
y el ventalle de cedros ayre daba.


El ayre de la almena
quando yo sus cavellos esparcía
con su mano serena
en mi cuello hería
y todos mis sentidos suspendía.


Quedéme y olbidéme
el rostro recliné sobre el amado;
cessó todo, y dexéme
dexando mi cuydado
entre las açucenas olbidado.

A new story

When one door closes, another opens

Rabbi Tuchmann checked his email. And except for the requisite pleas from Nigeria and enhancements for male genitalia there was no new message of interest. Wait a moment. Maybe there was something else, the Rabbi mused, scrolling through his mailbox. Here was something:

Subject: Hey Rabbi
Hey there Rabbi. Still working it old school? Remember Hebrew School when I used to give you titty twisters and you’d swear at me in Hebrew. Man, you were such a dork.
Later,
J.B.
P.S. Now if you’re checking this on Shabbat you’re a really naughty boy.


Rabbi Tuchmann remembered how they used to the whisk the Jewish kids off in the middle of the day to Temple. There they sweated over Hebrew pronunciation. All this to recite a few lousy lines during their Bar Mitzvahs. It may have been a way of tuning out a broken world, but David took to Hebrew with gusto. And he dreamt from right to left every since.

Just then he remembered something else. He’d nearly blocked it out. There was this kid. What was his name? Joshua something with red hair and green eyes. Yeah, that was him. He’d pinch him to no end and would never let poor little Tuchmann finish a line. And Rabbi Geldman would scold David for disrupting class when it was that verkakte schmuck who was guilty. It got so bad he had to take private lessons.

That was how he came face to face with injustice as he saw it. And where was G-d in all this? Where was the Ancient of Days, the Holy One of Israel while his nipples bled? He recalled that part of the Mishnah where it says G-d had created seven worlds previous to this. And Rabbi Tuchmann wondered whether this one was just another mistake. He flinched at the screen. No. He’d forgotten. It couldn’t be.


------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Yusuf sipped some Turkish coffee at the nearby University Coffee Shop , waiting for someone. When a burly bearded man came hurrying past.
“Salem aleikum Rabbi.”

“Sorry I’m late,” Tuchmann gasped leaning over to catch his breath. Luckily his skullcap was firmly attached with a brouche, showing obedience to a god he had ceased to believe moments before.

“No problem. You Jews are always late just like your messiah.”

David felt a hollowness in his head as he regained his breath. The clinking of the china pounded in his brain as a busboy retrieved a couple of plates from a nearby table. “What, what were you saying, Yusuf I . . .”

“Where is Pastor Roger?”

“He’s on sabbatical. Didn’t you know?”

“Ah, what a pity. I was just going ask him about the Pope’s views on our glorious Islam.”

“But he’s a Methodist.” David signaled to the waiter to get him a double latte.

“Oh, Rabbi, you’re one to lecture me on Christianity and the prophet Jesus, peace be upon him.”

“Who was Jewish by the way . . .”

“As was Abraham, you’d say, whose son Isaac . . .”

“Don’t tell me you’re going after the whole Ishmael, Isaac business.”

“Inshillah, God willing.”

After getting his latte Rabbi Tuchman tried to change the subject,“So Ramadan’s coming up, eh?”

“Yes,” Yusuf peered around and sipped his coffee before continuing, “Care for a bagel, Rabbi?”

“No thanks.”

“The West Bank, you want some of that instead?”

“Nope,” the Rabbi nursed his latte.

“How about some Sinai Peninsula, it’s mighty tasty.”

“Will you stop it?”

“Just kidding Rabbi. Laugher is the incense of the soul you know.’
Ignoring this latest insult Tuchmann continued, “Uhuh, well, how about it? Are we going ahead with the student group activities for Yom Kippur and Ramadan?”

“Yom Kippur, you must be joking. You Jews, always in a hurry trying to cram a year of sin into one day.”

“But that’s when we atone for it.”

“Not what I heard. I mean isn’t that when you celebrated?”

“Huh?”

“You know, after September 11.”

“What?” the rabbi spit out some of the latte he had been drinking.

“Come now. To destroy the Umma you had to frame Al-Qaeda.”

“Yeah, well who planned an invasion of Israel on the same day in 1973?”

“Kill the infidel wherever you find him. Even on holiday.”

“O.K., please tell me that last comment was that a joke.”

“Well yes but Yom Kippur is still a poor man’s Ramadan in my opinion.”

The Rabbi thought about looking up what Rambam (i.e. Maimonides) had to say about the High Holy Day in his Mishneh Torah but soon gave it up just as he had given up on G-d.

“That remains to be seen, brother Yusuf,” he replied appearing confident despite his collapsing insides.

“In answer to your question Rabbi. We’ll do this joint activity with Ramadan and Yom Kippur. Ishmael and Isaac will fast together, Inshallah. For He is kind and merciful.”

The glasses made an annoying ringing sound inside his head as the busboy began gathering them up. The hollowness returned. All of a sudden, the poor guy let one drop. The glasses shattered. Ice and glass mingling to form a layer of crunchy dew on the floor. In response the busboy released a string of Spanish curses. David smiled. This brought to mind his Nona (“grandmother”) from Turkey who’d swear in Ladino while handling hot towels at the laundry.

Despite the mess around him, something told David all would be well Maybe it was kismet. Though he never really bought into that garbage.

Somewhere a door flung open. A door hidden, out of sight. He felt at his skullcap to make sure his pounding head hadn’t rolled off his neck. Then he stood up from his chair unannounced, “Umm, yes, well, Yusuf, I’ve got to go,” Gotta go find that door. Where is it? He panicked inside his skull.

Yusuf sipped at his Venti unperturbed, “We’ll talk later Rabbi, Salem.”
David walked the streets but he couldn’t get that door out of his mind, a door reopened after years of being bolted shut. What was it Nona used to say? “When one door closes another opens.”
* * *
“Yes, so this door is open you say? Hmmm, interesting. But you don’t know where it is. Do you feel a draft?”

“No.”

“Sorry, just a little psych humor.”

“So doctor, what do you think?”

“I think you have touched the darkness, David.”

“The darkness?”

“Yes. That which is not.”

“So?”

“Umm, I think you should follow Pascal’s advice and splash yourself with Holy Water.”

“But I’m a Jew.”

“Right, so do whatever Jews do.”

“But aren’t you Jewish?”

“Yeah but I’m secular and a psychiatrist to boot. But let’s get serious for a moment. You’re the one who knows the tradition, the Talmud, the Torah. I mean you’re a rabbi.”

David grew increasingly impatient, “So what about the door?”

“The door is key. But first concentrate on the darkness and make it light. Then everything else should follow.”

“O.K., David muttered unconvinced. He was not used to his psychiatrist talking in such cryptic terms. It was like he was in the presence of a Talmudic sage: an Akiba or Hillel. Maybe I should study Torah he thought to himself. If not for its study the world would tear like an old raincoat.

Darkness and the door. That was all there was on Rabbi Tuchmann’s mind as he left the psychiatrist’s office. The sun had fallen and burned like a cypress tree dangling at the edge of the world. Perhaps that’s where the door was hidden. Or there was no door at all but just- crap! He had stepped in a batch of dog verkakte and struggled to wipe it off against the pavement. Almost there, almost home to his apartment then he would consult the Wisdom of the Fathers to calm his head. And even as he thought this he reached up to see if it was still there.

Once settled in his meagre apartment Rabbi Tuchmann pulled out a volume from a bookshelf and scanned some Hebrew characters. His forefinger landed upon a saying by Hillel: “If I am not for myself whom am I for and if not now when?” which he read aloud to the silence.

“If not now when?” he repeated looking around his apartment at the piles of other books the Tanakh, the Mishnah, Rambam’s Mishneh Torah, the New Schottenstein English edition of the Talmud, along with Rashi’s commentaries. In a flash, David saw that mistake or not the world strove to remain in existence no matter the cost. And this charged everything with fire and anxiety.

Charged by this feeling he picked up the phone and called up his mentor Rabbi Moses Bedelmeier.
“Oy, who’s there? What? Oh, David Tuchmann. It’s Mr. Magillacuddy himself. I’ll have Myrtle whip up some Kasha. Come on over.”

As he approached his mentor’s doorway David kissed the mezuzah. It was then he realized he had neglected to perform this same gesture at his own apartment. All the words on the scroll were empty now.

“How are you David?” his mentor greeted him. Moses Bedelmeier wore a bathrobe falling apart at the seams but he didn’t seem to mind. He was living off a pension after being let go as the head Rabbi of Temple Beth Shalom for a personal matter.

“Just fine Rabbi.”

“What’s troubling you, my son?”

“Remember how Rambam says one can only define Ha-shem in negative terms?”

“Yes, in his Guide for the Perplexed, go on.”

“Well, could it be that G-d is the darkness. I mean that which does not exist?”

“Huh? Are you doubting?”

David explained to him about the mysterious door.

“Oh well, you’re just depressed David. You need to get some counseling.”

“Yeah, umm,“ David scratched at the clasp keeping the yarmulke on his head in hopes that it would reorganize the contents of his brain. “Thanks, Rabbi. I’ll do that.”
Why was it his psychiatrist friend sounded like a rabbinic sage and the Rabbi like a psychiatrist? It just didn’t add up. Which gave Rabbi Tuchmann even more reason to think the world was a mistake.

Then Myrtle came with the kasha. He stared at the plate of dry oats, its existence as inexplicable as anything.

“Rabbi, do you remember a kid named Joshua in Rabbi Geldman’s Hebrew class?” When he was younger Bedelmeier had been Geldman’s assistant and had given David private lessons.

“Hmmm, maybe.”

“Have you heard anything about him lately. Because I’ve gotten this e-mail.”

“Oy, you kids with the e-mail. Time was we had to write letters out longhand with pen and paper. I mean, in the old country . . .”

Myrtle butted into the conversation, “What is this old country? You were born in Shaker Heights.”

“Says who woman?”

“Says me. Your grandfather, he came from the old country. Not you.”

“Oh, I forgot. My mistake,” he replied without a beat and glared into space.
Dave stared at his mentor with concern.

Myrtle then took him aside into the parlor, “It’s been going on for sometime. Remember last year when Moses misplaced his grandfather’s phylacteries and had the whole city on the look out when they were on his own head all along? It’s the Alzheimer’s.
“I think the Reformed did it to get back at him for what he’d said earlier. You know that off-color remark he made when a couple told him they wanted to get married in a Reformed synagogue: “You’re going Reformed? Why don’t you just marry a monkey?”
“We were going to retire when that happened" she continued, "but now we barely get on with his pension as it is. So I’ve started working again, but he doesn’t seem to notice.”

“Excuse me for prying but I seem to remember you had a son. Can’t he help out?”

“My bubelah, Joshua, disowned us.”

“What was that? Joshua, “ the image of the redheaded terror came instantly to mind, “I see . . .”

“He’s some kind of writer in New York. Thinks we’re an embarrassment.”

“Actually, he was in Hebrew School with me.”

“You don’t say.”

It was then David remembered something else. “And wasn’t it at his Bar Mitzvah that . . .”

“Oh please, don’t bring that up.”

It had easily gone down as the most obnoxious Bar Mitzvah in recorded history. Young Joshua had shown up at the gala with what appeared to be a couple of hookers. MC J.B., as he called himself, then came decked-out in old school rap finery complete with a massive dreidel hanging from his neck on a chain. All of this was accompanied by cries of “Ah yeah, boy,” and “Yo, yo, yo.” Not to mention the actual synagogue recitation, which featured a rapped version of the Torah, all in time to a turntable.
Things were a bit strained between Josh and his parents after this little fiasco to say the least.

Then rabbi Tuchmann confided to Myrtle, “He e-mailed me I think.”
Eventually Tuchmann got Josh’s number from Myrtle and after much pleading he promised to reconcile her son to his family and his Jewish faith even though he no longer believed.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Rabbi Tuchmann arrived at Kennedy from Cleveland Hopkins at 9:30 a.m. Just outside the airport a street hustler tried to sell him a decrepit piece of green string for St. Patrick’s Day. He didn’t even notice Tuchmann was Jewish. Maybe that’s because I don’t believe in anything anymore, he thought to himself.

The door was still wide open. Yet the darkness remained.

The snow had just fallen and hung on the eaves of the tenement buildings. David glanced at the address Myrtle had given him when a passing bus sprayed him with dirt and exhaust mixed with snow. Ugh, he was dripping in sludge. And the address lay smeared on the pavement.

No matter, he had a contact in Krone Heights, a certain Shlomo Katz from his Yeshiva days.“Who is it you’re looking for? Joshua Bedelmeier? Oh sure, lives on 34th and Van Aken. Works for some magazine or other. Come on in, take a load off Tuchus.”

That’s what they called Tuchmann back then. Although it annoyed him to no end his Torah and Talmud studies kept him grounded. But now that there was no ground to speak of all his footsteps landed in the dark.

After exchanging some pleasantries with Shlomo David took a taxi to Joshua’s apartment building, cursing a silent G-d as he was forced to pay out all his available cash for the fare. “Salem aleikum, Rabbi,” the Moroccan taxi driver purred as he sped off into the night.

Rabbi Tuchmann stood outside Joshua’s window, the falling snow depositing a layer of icing on his skullcap.

Inside an array of lights was blinking on and off.
“Yeah, so what’s with the lights? I don’t care how the power grid is set up. Just fix it,” Josh adjusted his blue tooth, which grasped at his earlobe like a bizarre Hollywood alien, “Sorry, Johnnie. The super’s an idiot. Can’t fix jack.” He peered out the window at the street, the mix of salt and ice criss-crossing the asphalt like scattered lines of cocaine. Then he noticed a meter maid that was about to write his car a ticket. “Hold on a second there Johnnie boy, you know you my boy.” He rushed down the stairs to confront the injustice.
“What are you doing? This is complete bullshit!”

“Sorry sir, gotta get a new permit. You don’t have the right one for this area.” She tore the paper and handed it to Josh with a wicked smile.

“Yeah, well screw you too,” he yelled after her accompanied by the middle finger. “And happy freakin’ Hanukkah!”

Just then his earphone rang, “Hey there John-John. It’s the car. The damn city’s got me by the balls here. Yeah, I know what ya mean. Might as well put a clamp on ‘em. Gotta call ya back. Ciao.”

Then Josh noticed a figure standing on the sidewalk next to him. Some freak with a halo of snow on his head. “Hey, get lost! Didn’t you hear me, bitch?”
Rabbi Tuchmann just stood there as the snow fell. Never in all his years had David been called a bitch so it took his brain a moment to take it in.

“Bitch?” the Rabbi repeated, producing clouds of warm air.

“Yeah, are you deaf, bitch?”

David just starred at Joshua’s red hair, revisiting his grade school torments in his mind.

Josh recognized this fear from somewhere, “David Tuchmann, holy shit, is that you? How’s it hanging rabbi?” He reached forward and twisted Tuchmann’s nipple. At which David released a string of obscure Hebrew curses.

“Wow, you’re an even bigger dork than I remember,” Josh commented, releasing his twisting hand. “So what the hell you doing here? You big Jew you” he patted him on the back. “I’m freezing my tuchus off ought here. Let’s go up.”
Tuchmann followed his old enemy up the flight of stairs, and stared at him in the elevator where an awkward silence took the place of the cold.
As they reach the apartment the Rabbi steadied himself, prepared to meet his tormentor in his own lair.

“Come home, Joshua, come home.”

“Come home? Look around you. I wouldn’t be caught dead anywhere else,” he indicated his surroundings a patent leather couch in front of a 20’ flat-screen TV and an odd metal pole near the back of the apartment.

“You like that, huh Rabbi? After I hit the clubs they’re so wasted I have ‘em do a little dance for daddy.”

David noticed a magazine on the coffee table and flipped threw a few pages.

“Yeah, I write for that rag. Excuse me I’ve got to crank one out,” and headed for the bathroom.

Meanwhile Tuchmann stood there alone in the eerie black-toned room. The lights blinking on and off. To keep the growing holiness in his skull at bay he picked up the Daily Journal.

Joshua Bedelmeier- Pop Culture p.34.

Josh wrote a pop culture opinion pieces for the Daily Journal. His byline featured a photo op with him looking whimsically into the camera wearing a felt fedora at an angle for extra effect.

This issue was discussing the trendy female insults in an attempt to define the various shades of meaning between skank, ho-bag, and slut.

“ A slut is a total nympho that will sleep with your roommate when you’re not looking but is easy rebound material. While a skank is more like that chick with crabs you keep on call waiting, having convinced her you are on an extended business trip to London. A ho-bag, on the other hand, is in between the two extremes. While she kind of freaks you out you would definitely hit that if you were drunk enough.”

Tuchmann squinted at the glossy magazine pages and threw the issue back onto the table in despair the hollowness having returned.

Then there came a groan followed a flushing sound, “Sorry about that. Whatever I had for lunch, my shit sure ain’t kosher, if you know what I mean. Whew!”

“So whadya think?” Josh motioned toward the awkwardly replaced issue of the Daily Journal.

“Ummm it was . . .”

“Oh come on, Rabbi.”

“It was interesting,” David mumbled, escaping his host’s gaze his eyes came to rest on a wall poster of a blond in a thong bikini.

“Fair ‘nuff. So, Rabbi, you wonna hit that? ‘Cause I can hook you up.”

“Listen, I’ve come a long way.”

“You sure have, Rabbi Nipplebleeder,” his host shot back with a poisonous dose of nostalgia.

Just then Josh’s blue tooth rang, “Johnnie-boy, how’s my brah? That’s what I like to hear. Those bitches at transportation and parking’ll never know what hit ‘em. What’s that? Ricci’s? Hell’s yeah I’m game. Hey, Rabbi, you in? Wanna hit the clubs?” he quickly acknowledged David who stood wobbling near the obnoxious sofa. Without waiting for a reply, Josh continued bantering with his invisible friend, “Yeah, he’s totally for it. Hasn’t schtupped in an age, I’m sure. His balls are turquoise by now; they’re so blue. Ha! Ha! Later.”

“Listen!” Rabbi yelled, his voice still hoarse from the cold.

“Yeah, what is it?”

“I’ve come a long way,” David repeated softly.

“You already said that, bitch.”

“No, I mean I’ve come for you.”

Josh shot him a strained look and left the apartment, closing the door behind him. Then standing there under the blinking lights David had a vision.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Rabbi Tuchmann sipped at his latte in the University Coffee House, clearly waiting for someone.
A figure came bumbling in, sat next to David and ordered a black coffee,
“Salem aleikum Rabbi.”

“Salem Yusuf.”

“So, Rabbi, what did you think?”

“Well I wouldn’t say it was without a hitch. But it went.”

“What? Is this about what Fizel said? Because that’s not my fault.”

“But he said kill all the Jews.”

“Please, these things happen.”

“Yeah but I think some people from Hillel took offense.”

“Huh. Well, I’ll talk to him.”

“Thanks, Yusuf."

“What is it you Jews call this? A mitzvah?

“Yeah, we’ll consider it a mitzvah.”
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

In fact, Josh his tormentor did not come with Tuchmann that night. As he later told Schlomo Katz: “He just left me there with the lights blinking on and off. I glanced outside the window, the sun balancing on a cypress tree at the edge of the world, as Josh Bedelmeier sped away in his Saab. And moments after the door slammed closed, the lights clicked back on.”

This pricked Shlomo’s curiosity, “The super must have just fixed ‘em, huh?”

“Perhaps. Or maybe it was G-d.”

“Oy, you got me there, Tuchus.”

The darkness had gone and in its place the hollowness was filled with light. It was as if the universe were on a rotating table that only now emerged from the shadows.

As he made his way home from the café Tuchmann smiled, thinking back on the episode. Maybe this world was just a trial run. And the realm of the real was yet to come. Yet a mitzvah is never forgot, even in dreams.

The Chronicle of Birdhouse- Chapter the First

In the beginning,I mean in the mid 90's. My bad, dog. So in the mid 90's in the fair city of Cincinnati. Yeah, verily 'twas a goodly city with many a proveyer of Cincinnati chili, the Skyline and the Gold Star. As thou knowest, Theophilus, these tales are told elsewhere in the Chili Wars. Lo, there was goetta and many and sundry things like the Montgomery Inn. There was the East side and the West. But mostly the West, with its epicenter of Elder, much akin to the site of Incan Cuzco, which signaleth the center of the world and the universe.
There was Over-the-Rhine were crack was dealt with impunity, and Clifton, LA Compton's poor cousin, to the Mount o' Yuppies they calleth Mount Adams and Indian Hill were men didst make waters atop gilded toilets.
Yea there were the Reds and the Bungles, squadrons of hooligans who didst make battle on fields of grass. And didst suck it verily for many a year. Yet the people came.
There were the Drinking Academies UC and Xavier were youngsters didst learn to drink the Natty and the Beast.
Amongst the Seven Hills of the 'Natty as yon fair city wast called in popular parlance, played a group of traveling troubadours, Birdhouse by name. And these minstrels didst compose a song whose lyric was so dire as to cause a wailing and gnashing of teeth. Said song wast entitled "I wanna live in the sunshine" and didst feature a lively, bouncy melody. And went thusly:

I couldn't relax

Couldn't taste the apples in my jacks

....................................

Couldn't feel the heart in my heart attacks.


For centuries now we have labored but all in vain, to decipher the meaning. For such words are unimaginable. How couldst human mind or eye conceive a lyric of such perversity? Yet oftentimes that which is bad is goodness in disguise.

Baroque graffiti from Golden Age Spain on the Immaculate Conception

The dogma of the Immaculate Conception is definitely a case of bottom up sentiment, stemming from the sensus fidelium of the faithful. So although it was defined by Blessed Dons Scotus in the 14th century the dogma was only formally defined in 19th century. In Golden Age Seville, a certain Dominican priory called Regina, after the Virgin no less, was popularly known to withhold its assent to this belief, especially a theologian named Marina or Molina (being a folk poem there are various versions). So the people wrote this graffiti in response:

Aunque no quiera Molina,
ni los frailes del Regina,
ni su padre provincial,
digan que fue concebida
sin pecado original.

Si quiso y no pudo, no es Dios.
Si pudo y no quiso, no es hijo.
Digan pues que pudo y quiso.


Though Molina denies it,

and the friars of Regina

the prior and the provincial

say: 'tain't so

The Virgen was conceived

sans sin original.


For if he tried and failed, He's not God the Father

and if he was able to do it and refused, He's not the Son

So let's just say He tried and succeeded

and leave it at that.

(Inspired by a blog of a modern day Andalusian Catholic poet: http://egmaiquez.blogspot.com/, I actually have translated the version posted by http://blogs.periodistadigital.com/laciguena.php a 60-something curmudgeon who blogs on affairs in the Spanish Church)

The Ballad of White Horse

Chesterton recites part of his Ballad of White Horse

THE WOMAN IN THE FOREST

Thick thunder of the snorting swine,
Enormous in the gloam,
Rending among all roots that cling,
And the wild horses whinnying,
Were the night's noises when the King,
Shouldering his harp, went home.

With eyes of owl and feet of fox,
Full of all thoughts he went;
He marked the tilt of the pagan camp,
The paling of pine, the sentries' tramp,
And the one great stolen altar-lamp
Over Guthrum in his tent.

Christmas Bird

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If only Richard Dawkins had to debate Chesterton

Oh, if only G.K. Chesterton could debate Richard Dawkins and the like. Here's what he'd say:

(from Orthodoxy)
. . . it is perhaps desirable,
though dull, to run rapidly through the chief modern fashions of thought
which have this effect of stopping thought itself.  Materialism
and the view of everything as a personal illusion have some such effect;
for if the mind is mechanical, thought cannot be very exciting,
and if the cosmos is unreal, there is nothing to think about.
But in these cases the effect is indirect and doubtful.  In some cases
it is direct and clear; notably in the case of what is generally
called evolution.

 Evolution is a good example of that modern intelligence which,
if it destroys anything, destroys itself.  Evolution is either
an innocent scientific description of how certain earthly things
came about; or, if it is anything more than this, it is an attack
upon thought itself.  If evolution destroys anything, it does
not destroy religion but rationalism.  If evolution simply
means that a positive thing called an ape turned very slowly
into a positive thing called a man, then it is stingless for the
most orthodox; for a personal God might just as well do things
slowly as quickly, especially if, like the Christian God, he were
outside time.  But if it means anything more, it means that
there is no such thing as an ape to change, and no such thing as
a man for him to change into.  It means that there is no such
thing as a thing.  At best, there is only one thing, and that
is a flux of everything and anything.  This is an attack not
upon the faith, but upon the mind; you cannot think if there are
no things to think about.  You cannot think if you are not
separate from the subject of thought.  Descartes said, "I think;
therefore I am."  The philosophic evolutionist reverses and
negatives the epigram.  He says, "I am not; therefore I
cannot think."

In the few sentences in bold, Chesterton shows us why evolutionism as a philosophy is flawed at its base. Because evolution as such can only describe the development of biological life on earth, nothing more. It cannot serve as the base for an entire thorough going materialistic-atheistic metaphysic as the pop atheists Richard Dawkins and others desperately want it too. They are stirring up controversy needlessly, and doing a great disservice to science itself in the process.
Interestingly, Newman on his discourse On The University had argued for the importance of Theology as an object of study in higher education. For if this discipline is absent then other subjects would attempt to take Theology's place.
A case in point is the creeping scientism we have just described in pop atheism of the Richard Dawkins, and Sam Harris mold. Yet these errors are signs of a larger problem in Western thought as explained by Benedict XVI at Regensburg when no one was listening. Reason as pure utilitarianism and detached from Faith can be dangerous. Just as Faith divorced from Reason may engender the use of violence in the name of religious compulsion or conversion.
It is a harsh truth but the Biblical Literalist is more prescient at what is at stake in human affairs than the holder of a University degree who is guilty of scientism. For while a Young Earth cosmology is not plausible, this position is in fact a response to a more legitimate concern, that of Western scientific materialism and reductionsim rendering life empty and meaningless.

From El Camino- "The way"

268

San José María Escrivá de Balaguer (1902-1975) Inevitably when the subject of Opus Dei comes up people start frothing at the mouths spouting conspiracy theories. It is no wonder that I embark on quoting José María Escrivá, the founder of Opus with trepidation. But I don't care. Let the firebombs via airmail come as they may. For whatever reason, popular culture in Spain despises him and Opus. That's where Dan Brown got it from I gather when he studied Art there. But with all the problems in the world I doubt Opus Dei has a hand in them. It's a lay apostolate, man. People make way too much of it being a personal prelature of the Papacy like that means it controls the world. It's the main reason that Vatican II could muster the energy for the universal call to holiness. It single handedly revived the idea that the laity as well as clerics were called to be holy. And that a believer could be an agent of sanctification in the secular world. In Escrivá’s case this is all based on the long tradition of Spanish mysticism of Santa Teresa de Jesús, and San Juan de la Cruz, which sees the glory of God in all things. Even the mundane. It is a very down to earth philosophy and way of looking at things that is very Catholic and thereby sacramental. Grace is not contrary to nature but builds on it. Though members of Opus may be strict in their leanings one cannot deny that the message of this apostolate is universal. Here is an excerpt from Escrivá’s main spiritual work El Camino- the Way. Many people get annoyed by the style and say that it’s annoying and simplistic. Then again many people hated it when Escrivá was declared a saint in record time alleging Opus bribed the curia to pull off a record canonization. Whatever, whenever there’s Opus controversy abounds. I actually saw a video of him done in a visit to South America and he seemed to be a charming, old Spanish priest. Harmless really. Yet maybe once you see the simplicity of the message of The Way you will see that if we have a problem with it maybe it is not the text that is at fault be we ourselves. Like when St. Augustine scoffed at the Bible as too unsophisticated in style for a scholar of his caliber before his conversion. Get used to raising your heart to God in thanksgiving many times a day. Because he gives you that and this other thing. Because they despise you. Because you do or don't have what you want. Because he made His Mother so beautiful, that She is Your Mother too. Because He created the sun and the moon and that animal over there, as well as that plant. Because he made that man eloquent and you he made tongue-tied Give Him thanks because all things are good. Spanish Original: Acostúmbrate a elevar tu corazón a Dios, en acción de gracias, muchas veces al día. —Porque te da esto y lo otro. —Porque te han despreciado. —Porque no tienes lo que necesitas o porque lo tienes. Porque hizo tan hermosa a su Madre, que es también Madre tuya. —Porque creó el Sol y la Luna y aquel animal y aquella otra planta. —Porque hizo a aquel hombre elocuente y a ti te hizo premioso... Dale gracias por todo, porque todo es bueno.

St. Francis of Assisi's Poetry

San Francesco d'Assisi (1181-1226)

CANTICLE OF THE SUN

Canticum fratris solis vel Laudes creaturarum-

THE CANTICLE OF BROTHER SUN OR THE PRAISE OF CREATURES

(written circa 1224)

Most high and all powerful Lord

Yours be the praise, the glory, the honor and all good-tidings.

To you alone are they reserved

and no man is worthy of them.

Praised be my Lord for all your creatures

especially Brother Sun,

who illuminates us by day,

for he is beautiful and radiant in great splendor

and carries You, oh most High, as a sign.


Praised be for Sister Moon and the stars

you formed with them in the sky, so bright, precious, and beautifully.


Praised be for Brother Wind,

for air, clouds, and all kind of weather,

by which you give sustenance to all Your creatures.


Praised be for Sister Water

who is most useful, humble and pure.


Praised be for Brother Fire

by which You light up the night,

for he is beautiful, cheerful, robust, and strong.


Praised be for Sister Mother Earth

which both governs and sustains us,

producing many fruits, colorful flowers and grasses.


Praised be those who pardon

because of Your Love,

forbearing weakness and tribulation.

Blessed be they who bear such trials in peace,

for by You, oh most High, they will be crowned.


Praised be, My Lord, for Our Sister Bodily Death

which no living man can escape.

Beware those who die in mortal sin,

and blessed be those will be found in Your most Holy Will,

for the second death will do them no harm.


All ye praise and bless the Lord

thank and serve Him with great humility.


Cantico di Frate Sole

Altissimu onnipotente bon signore,
tue so le laude, la gloria e l’honore et onne benedictione.

Ad te solo, altissimo, se konfano,
et nullu homo ene dignu te mentovare.

Laudato sie, mi signore, cun tucte le tue creature,
spetialmente messor lo frate sole,
lo qual’è iorno, et allumini noi per loi.
Et ellu è bellu e radiante cun grande splendore,
de te, altissimo, porta significatione.

Laudato si, mi signore, per sora luna e le stelle,
in celu l’ài formate clarite et pretiose et belle.

Laudato si, mi signore, per frate vento,
et per aere et nubilo et sereno et onne tempo,
per lo quale a le tue creature dai sustentamento.

Laudato si, mi signore, per sor aqua,
la quale è multo utile et humile et pretiosa et casta.

Laudato si, mi signore, per frate focu,
per lo quale enn’allumini la nocte,
ed ello è bello et iocundo et robustoso et forte.

Laudato si, mi signore, per sora nostra matre terra,
la quale ne sustenta et governa,
et produce diversi fructi con coloriti flori et herba.

Laudato si, mi signore, per quelli ke perdonano
per lo tuo amore,
et sostengo infirmitate et tribulatione.

Beati quelli ke ’l sosterrano in pace,
ka da te, altissimo, sirano incoronati.

Laudato si, mi signore, per sora nostra morte corporale,
da la quale nullu homo vivente pò skappare.
Guai a quelli, ke morrano ne le peccata mortali:
beati quelli ke trovarà ne le tue sanctissime voluntati,
ka la morte secunda nol farrà male.

Laudate et benedicete mi signore,
et rengratiate et serviateli cun grande humilitate.