Defiant Procrastination

Who has far too much to do to be writing a post? Me, that's who. This is a result of (1) extremely poor time management and (2) not saying "no" to enough people.

Nevertheless, I'm sitting here listening to a fabulous mix CD created by a mind of brilliance and discriminating taste and I'm just not sufficiently motived to give a damn. Even the title is fantastic, "A Sociopath's Guide to Obsessive-Compulsive Love." So, here's a list of things that I have pulled out of the ether (read: here's a list of things I am going to complain about):

(1) I hate the fact that I never practice enough before actually having to perform. Why, for once in my life, can't I practice consistently enough to say to myself, Well, I feel really prepared for this performance/rehearsal/public thing? Because I always think that I can pull it out of the bag at the last minute, that's why. And I usually do, but it is really irritating to get up at 8:00 am to go practice when I could have been practicing all week. Way to go, me.

(2) I haven't watered the plant that sits on my windowsill for almost a month. But it seems fine. What's that about?

(3) It has been raining in New Orleans for the past twenty-seven years. Uncalled-for hyperbole there? Probably. But it feels like twenty-seven years, at any rate.

Editor's Note: Reviewing this post several hours later and with the goodness that is a milkshake from McDonald's (it certainly brought me to the, um, yard) in hand, it seemed apropos to insert a brief comment about the Saint to whom one should address petitions for a cessation of rain. Her name - St. Scholastica. Sister of St. Benedict (creator of the Benedictine Rule), St. Scholastica was a nun who visited her oh-so-regular brother at his monastery once a year. During one visit, she and Benedict were yakking away about how great it was to be in holy orders, and Scholastica said, "Gee, I wish we could talk about this all night." Benedict said that was tough cookies for her, and that he had to return to his cell. So Scholastica prayed, and all of a sudden a great thunderstorm broke over their heads. "What the heck is going on?" Benedict asked. Scholastica told him, "You were going to be a jerk about this, so I talked to God. So there." This was all in Latin. And it happened exactly like this. So, left with little choice (I guess they were out in another building or something?), Benedict stayed talking with Scholastica all night while it rained, rained, rained. Three days later she died. Which goes to show you something entirely different, only I'm not quite sure what. So, St. Scholastica, give us a hand with this rain, please!!

(4) I am burning out. No, not so much that I need one of these, but just in a sort of generally smoldering way. I want to work on my thesis and blow off everything else. Yeah, right. Like that's going to happen.

(5) I haven't gone to the grocery store in a month. Surprisingly, I still have food in the refridgerator - to be sure, I'm not too excited about it, but it's there.

(6) People who sit around and whine, oh, my life is so hard, feel sorry for meeeee should be kicked in the face. Oh, wait...is there a word for auto-kicked-in-the-face....ouch, damm!

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Stage Directions: Incipient self-awareness causes angst, confusion, and in a strange twist on the expected, a bloom of algae. There is a sudden shift in tone, etc.

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So, I really like the word "nostrum." Bet you don't know what it means...

nostrum: n., (a) a medicine of secret composition, recommended by its preparer but usually wihout scientific proof of its effectiveness; (b) a usually questionable remedy or scheme; panacea

Yes. Right, well, that's it. Hooray for being disjointed and largely sans aucun point.

WWPHND?

What would Prince Henry the Navigator (1394-1460) do?

A question we ought to ask ourselves whenever we are in a tight spot or are just out of ideas about where to go next. After all, if you're going to ask an historical figure for advice, you could not possibly find a better source. For example...

**dream sequence music...you know how it sounds, supply your own!**

Me: Hello, I'd like a large dark roast to go, please.
Barista: Sorry, we're out of dark roast.
Me: Really? All out?
Barista: Yep.
Me: (increasingly frantic) But, but, but...you can't be out! It's what I drink! I can't drink a medium roast or - horror or horrors - your flavored crap "I don't want to taste anything but disgusting hazelnut and/or raspberry syrup" in a cup!
Barista: So...
Me: Just a minute, woman! Let me think!

At this point, I have several options. I could break down and weep like a little girl, but this - while appealing in that I might in fact have enough caffeine in my system to produce a credible French Roast from my tear ducts - is not immediately practicable. Alternately, I could travel to Colombia, harvest and roast my own beans while avoiding insurgents with machine guns, grind them (oooh - unclear antecedent alert! That's the coffee beans I'm grinding, not the insurgents) using stones borrowed off the locals, and brew an infusion over a campfire, but this is the opposite of immediate gratification. So I ask myself...

What Would Prince Henry The Navigator Do?

And then I know, all of a sudden.

Barista: Well? Are you going to take all day??
Me: No! I am not going to take all day - in fact, I know what to do now! I'm going to establish a school for sailors and seafarers in Portugal to enable them to learn the science of navigation and geography and to plumb the secrets of the Dark Continent. Then I'll finance expeditions down the coast of Africa to discover things no-one has ever discovered before! It will work!
Barista: Fine. Next!

Thanks, Prince Henry the Navigator!

Does all the instability make you want to see a therapist?

Well, once again, it won't be a Dante Alighieri Wednesday because my Dante class is cancelled for tomorrow. I know you're devastated. So, to make it up to you, here are some awfully (keyword: awful) sophisticated pirate jokes.

Q: If a pirate were to recite one of the Olympian odes by the poet Pindar, which one would it be?
A: The XIth Nemean Ode, "To ARRRistagoras, the Prytanis of Tenedos, son of ARRRchesilaus."

Q: If that same pirate were then to recite a 20th-century poem about the nature of poetry, what would it be?
A: "ARRRs Poetica" by ARRRchibald MacLeish.

Q: What if he went on to recite a poem by Sir Walter Scott?
A: "LochinvARRR."

Q: Why does that pirate keep reciting poetry, anyway? Is he some sort of Nancy-boy?
A: Aye, 'tis a Nancy-boy he be. Arrr.

Q: Whom did the pirate vote for in the Haitian election?
A: ARRRistide.

Q: Wait. Why did they let a pirate vote in the Haitian election?
A: Remember, the nation was taking its first halting steps toward democracy, and balloting procedures were rather chaotic. The pirate just slipped in somehow. Arrr.

Q: I don't buy it. Pirates care nothing for participating in the electoral process.
A: Look, can we finish this up soon? I'm having those phantom pains in my wooden leg.

Q: A phenomenon first described in the 17th century by which important contributor to the field of amputation surgery?
A: Oh, this is getting ridiculous.

Q: Just say it.
A: Ambroise PARRRé.

Q: You can go now.
A: Arrr. Nancy-boy.

Arrrrrr. Eh? Don't say I never did anything for you. Now - in other news of general interest...

- there was an interesting editorial today in the New York Times regarding abstinence-only sex education, which has got to be the dumbest thing since...oh, wait, I can't think of a dumber thing. And I really tried, too, this isn't just a rhetorical cop-out. "Three's Company" came close, but I think abstinence-only education is, in fact, stupider.

- my library book is overdue to Loyola. This is only interesting in light of the fact that I might actually consider paying the fine now, because our Most Holy and Apostolic Roman Catholic Neighbor is making a stand against the local archbishop on the subject of the Vagina Monologues. Check it out, heretics.

Valentinus [really cool] est

You know what? I could say "Valentine is really cool" all in Latin if I wanted to. So don't think I can't. Because I can.

Well, it's that time of year - sad, pathetic people whine because they have no significant other or even a flesh-puppet to share their sad, pathetic lives. And we could do that here. We could whine. There's practically unlimited room and bandwidth, so we could all sit around moping. But we won't. Do you know why?

Because:

(1) whining is incredibly annoying

(2) we'd be like her
(3) nothing. There is no third thing. One, incredibly annoying; two, be like her; three, almost fanatical devotion to the Pope...oh, come in again....

And speaking of the Pope (as you knew we inevitably would), why not investigate today's Pope of the Day who happens to be named - right, you guessed it - Innocent! No, damn, it's Valentine. I mess that up every time. Pope Valentine.

Pope Valentine was pope for forty days in 827. He did absolutely nothing and we have no record of him at all.

Right, well, that's done. But of course Valentine's Day wasn't named for Pope Valentine, that forty day flash in the papal pan, it was named for St. Valentine. Unfortunately, there were three Saint Valentines, and none of them had anything to do with love, lust, or any other l-word. All three were early Christian martyrs whose feast days are listed as February 14th, that's all. And we don't really know anything about them, either. Except, obviously, that they died.

Gosh, you're thinking, why the heck do we call it Valentine's Day, then? It doesn't make sense!

Well, yes, you're right. We ought to call it "Be like a bird day." Apparently, Valentine's Day takes its name from the fact that round about the Feast of St. Valentine (that's February 14th - are you keeping up?) birds started to pair up. Two turtledoves and all that. Chaucer, in his Parliament of Foules, wrote

For this was sent on Seynt Valentyne's day
Whan every foul cometh ther to choose his mate.

Okay, fine. But here's an interesting fact. Not only were the birds pairing up, but it was not uncommon for birds to serve as a medieval symbol of uncontrollable lust.

Aha, you say, this is more like it. Uncontrollable lust! Tell me more!

Why, of course I will! In Canto V of Inferno, which deals with the damned lovers Paolo and Francesca, Dante compares the condemned souls to birds:

I reached a place mute of all light,
which bellows as the sea in tempes
tossed by conflicting winds.

The hellish squall, which never rests,
sweeps spirits in its headlong rush,
tormenting, whirls and strikes them...

I understood that to such torment
the carnal sinners are condemned
they who make reason subject to desire.*

As, in cold weather, flocks of starlings
bear them up in wide, dense flocks.
so does that blast propel the wicked spirits...

Just as cranes chant their mournful songs,
making a long line in the air,
thus I saw approach, heaving plaintive sighs,
shades lifted on that turbulence...

*Editor's note - this means you.

Dante Alighieri, Inferno, V.34-49

Right, so now you know all about Valentine's Day. Or maybe you don't. It doesn't matter, though, because it's V-Week and you should go see The Vagina Monologues! I've taken the liberty of putting up a poster here on the blog for you to look at (ostensibly so you have all the information, but really in a fit of vanity...because I made the poster. Do you like it?).

A Meta-Post

Purchase well, because it is just so involved being you, isn't it?

Yes, I know it's Wednesday, but this week won't be Dante Alighieri Wednesday, because I don't feel like it. And it's my blog, and I can do as I damn well please.

Instead, it's Completely Random Wednesday. So, read on...

(1) Here's a teaser for my recent favorite-est blog, penned by some half-literate yahoo in the tenth grade:

My Dream GF at my school is Courtney Matthews. She is so god damn hot. She has big coconuts and she also is really nice. Once your friends with her you want to date her. right now all we are is friends. But the other day she said she didn't hate me and that she would like to date me and dance wit me. She is so awesome. I bet if we had sex together, I wouldn't be able to get up for a week. Maybe two.

I bet that's exactly what would happen, Brandon. So read Brandon's Blog, because if you don't you totally suk!

(2) Know where the term "yellow journalism" comes from? Yes, yes, we all know that it refers to the sensationalist journalism practices pioneered by Pulitzer and Hearst, but why is it called yellow journalism? Well, I'll tell you (or rather, the OED will...)

(orig. U.S.) Applied to newspapers (or writers of newspaper articles) of a recklessly or unscrupulously sensational character. A use derived from the appearance in 1895 of a number of the New York World in which a child in a yellow dress (‘The Yellow Kid’) was the central figure of the cartoon, this being an experiment in colour-printing designed to attract purchasers. [e.g., 1898 Daily News 2 Mar. 7/2 The yellow Press is for a war with Spain, at all costs.]

And the Yellow Kid who started it all? Pretty stupid looking, really. See for yourself. And I can't help thinking there is something horribly off-color (pardon the dreadful pun) or politically incorrect about him...

(3) I lied (what a big, big surprise). In a nod to Dante Alighieri Wednesdays, here's a fun Dante fact for all you Commedia-philes. And I know there are a lot of you. Right, whatever. Turns out that after the poet's death, Dante's son, Pietro, purchased some land in Valpolicella (about 15 km north of Verona...don't know where Verona is either? Well, you might find Two Gentlemen here). The land had some sentimental value because on it was a villa wherein Dante composed during the autumn years of his life. Anyway, Pietro bought it and planted some grapes. In 1549, the Alighieri family had no male scions remaining (what a fantastic word, scion) and so the eldest daughter, Ginevra, married local notable Count Marc'Antonio Serego. Today, the Serego Alighieri vineyard still produces fine Valpolicella wines, and the vineyard is still owned by a direct descendant, Count Pieralvise di Serego Alighieri. So next time you find yourself with a couple extra lira (read: a couple extra thousand lira), pick up a bottle of Serego Alighieri Armaron.

Help, St. Isidore!

You may be interested to know that St. Isidore of Seville is the patron saint of computers. It's true! And Isidore is beloved by all...why? Anyone? Because he is the great etymologist of Western civilization, a great man who invented a quality etymology for nearly every word. For example:

Bees [apes] are so called either because they bind themselves together with their feet [pes] or because they are born without feet [a-pes].

Or other insects, like ants (in Latin, formica):

It is strong [fortis], and carries a particle [mica], that is the meaning of the name; there is no creature of so small a shape, which carries by its own force so great a burden.

But I especially need St. Isidore's help, because my computer is on the brink of a natural disaster. There is significant seismic activity, and soon...



However, in the meanwhile, until St. Isidore can get a meeting with The Big Guy concerning my computer, I will faithfully keep putting up the Pope of the Day. And so, today's pope comes to us from Sabinia, pope #121....Pope Lando!

Is that a comment from the peanut gallery? Because he's a real pope. See for yourself.

So, Pope Lando. Well, he was pope for a scant nine months, from June 913 until his untimely death in February 914. His elevation to the papal throne was due the intrigues of one of the many factions of the time. He died mysteriously (remember our last pope? this happens to popes a lot), having restored peace among the many internal factions.*

Obviously he was a lousy diplomat, though, because the next pope, Pope John X, died in prison after refusing to participate in any more intrigues. Rumor has it that he was smothered in his bed - probably a Tempur-Pedic bed, developed by NASA etc...they are a little frightening. My parents nearly bought one, and I'm glad they didn't, because it feels a little bit like the bed is swallowing you. Anway, back to John X - another chronicler records that he died of anxiety.

Yes, well, you would be anxious, too, if your bed was continually trying to eat you.

*Note: it may appear to the unobservant eye that I have unwittingly used the word "faction" twice in two sentences. Under normal circumstances, this would qualify as extremely poor writing. However, in this particular instance, you will see that it has, in fact, allowed me to make several subtle comments about factionality and the democratic process WITHIN the content of a seemingly-irrelevant-to-social-commentary posting. We're not just ornamental around here.

Introducing....Dante Alighieri Wednesdays!

It's a lot like Casual Friday, except that Casual Friday doesn't usually involve a trip to hell.

On second thought...bermuda shorts and Hawaiian tshirts have a contrapasso all their own.

Here's the deal, amici, I have a Dante seminar that meets on Thursdays. So, on Wednesday nights, I'll be reading Dante. Duh. Anybody who cries with surprise, "What? You only prepare the night before class? Why don't you get it done earlier?" is going to (a) get kicked in the face, (b) metaphorically get kicked in the face (c) run the risk that I might say something nasty about you (d) go on with his or her life because I make empty threats all the time, or (e) suffer eternal punishment in the appropriate circle of Inferno.

(e), of course! It's a DAW (Dante Alighieri Wednesday - remember?)

So - today's Canto o' Choice is.... Canto III of Inferno! Here's the plot thus far: Dante has been wandering around in the dark wood, lost in sin. He runs into Virgil (that's Virgil who wrote the Aeneid, not this guy, although I'm sure he's nice). Dante says he's afraid, and Virgil calls him a pansy, saying he has to get out of the muddle he's in and straighten up and fly right. In the grand tradition of "you want something to cry about? I'll give you something to cry about," Virgil then leads Dante down into Hell, which is where Canto III picks up.

The sinners in Canto III are the faithless, the neutral angels who didn't pick a side when God and Lucifer had their falling out. Here's what Dante says about them:

Now sighs, loud wailing, lamentation
resounded through the starless air,
so that I too began to weep.

Unfamiliar tongues, horrendous accents,
words of suffering, cries of rage, voices
loud and faint, the sound of slapping hands,

all these made a tumult, always whirling
in that black and timeless air,
as sand is swirled in a whirlwind.

This is some pretty good stuff. This is the Vestibule of Hell, the waiting-room, the Foyer of Air and Darkness. You do not leave your keys here while you stand and idly poke through the day's mail. Dante describes the sinners who are in this region:

And I, all eyes, saw a whirling banner
that ran so fast it seemed as though
it could never find rest.

Behind it came so long a file of people
that I could not believe
death had undone so many...

At once with certainty I understood
that this worthless crew
hateful alike to God and to His foes.

These wretches, who were never alive
were naked and beset
by stinging flies and wasps.

Why the lack of pest control? This is the contrapasso, or counterstep, the mirror-image punishment to the sins that were committed by the offenders. These are fence-sitters, never loyal in life, and now doomed to race after a ceaselessly moving banner. But their banner is not specific, or held by any hand: Robert Hollander's commentary observes, "it is a parody of the standard raised before a body of men who follow a leader." The stinging insects, rendered in Italian as stimolati are the external pricks to those who never felt the internal urgings of loyalty. Dante is especially angry with people like this, because it was his allegiance to the White Guelf faction in Florence that led to his exile.

Yeah, I took these rockin' pictures when I was in Florence.


Florence


Duomo