One sonnet is never enough. Some months ago my friend Christina Graziano, an SGA executive and the recipient of "Sonnet XC", politely requested another poem. I protested- What if all the ladies demanded additional poetry? There'd be no end to it!- but since she'd become an exec in the meantime, it did fit with my tradition of writing sonnets for all the female execs. But for months and months not one inspiration came to me, until last night when I went to the lounge to do my homework. Christina and I are in the same Dante's Comedy class, and I realized that, reading at the rate of one canto a day, Friday the 6th is the day Dante enters Paradise: the perfect occasion for a sonnet. It describes a sweethearted habit of staring-unto-smiling we've developed:

Sonnet CXXXII - Leslie's Comedy

I leave my Hell and Purgatory in
The Comedy; my heaven walks with me
To Charlie's. As she starts typing, we
Discuss our classes. Often, I begin
To stare. Christina answers me. Although
Her eyes of cocoa liquor, bright but flat
Will hardly shift, I start to notice that
She's trying to manipulate me so
That I will smile. Dante cannot hold
His breath for long when wise Matilda dips
Him in the Lethé; neither can our lips
Refrain from looking quite the same. I fold
My arms around her smaller body, say
Some things to make my gentile lady's day.

Our professor explained that by comedy, Dante meant his protagonist went from a bad situation to a good one, and hence the piece's title.

All I can say, folks, is YES!1!1! 53/47 again, baby! Had you asked me the day before, I never would've guessed Maine had it in herb to stand up to the gay "marriage" mob. A friend with whom I was sharing the good news this morning was wearing a black-and-white striped shirt; as I told him, it would've been more appropriate attire had we lost. Unlike Bay Staters, Mainers needn't worry about getting fired for their belief in marriage according to nature. This is as close as traditional marriage can get to a positive victory; as the northernmost state of New England, I expected, and have a feeling most others did too, that once Maine went to the heathens we weren't getting it back. But Fortress New England has been stormed, and Question 1 has earned its place alongside Proposition 8. I suppose something of the Christian knight remains in the New England minuteman yet.

And if that isn't good enough, the Republicans swept the governorships in Virginia and New Jersey. The governor-elect of Virginia, Robert F. McConnell, is a good Catholic who really excites me. Apparently, in his younger years, he resembled yours truly. As you may read in the linked article (keep in mind it's in AP idiom),

At age 34, he wrote a 93-page thesis for his graduate degree that called working women a detriment to society and argued that government was justified in discriminating against gays and unmarried "cohabitators" to shield traditional families.

Naturally, he went on to say his views have changed. My hope-against-hope is that they haven't. Either way, good for him. Meanwhile Christopher J. Christie, a less socially conservative Catholic, won in New Jersey, which really surprised me. While I wish he were more pro-life, I consider him the political equivalent of a Christmas and Easter Catholic, since he's promised to at least veto any gay marriage bills, and is a huge supporter of parochial schooling. However much traditionalists may rightly criticize Christie, and however watered down Catholic schooling has become, keeping more kids out of public schooling could save hundreds, even thousands of souls over the years when you think about it.

On the subject of oversized politicians, things didn't turn out so well in Northampton. How, how did Mary Clare Higgins win a sixth term!! She's been mayor since I was in elementary school, and as I said a few posts ago, she came in second in the primary, but no such luck in the general election. And yes, the Conservative lost in New York's 23rd district, but you can't win 'em all.

Giddy as I am, I am celebrating by sporting my Republican National Committee pin for the day. When I stopped by the Campus Ministry office, a friend and I jacked up some Frank Sinatra- I'm talking "New York, New York". Quite a nice contrast to last year, when Mozart's "Requiem" was more appropriate fare.

[Ah, gotta love it when stars SMOKE!!]

A Happy Halloween to all! I have often thought on what a unique holiday Halloween is: in modern times, it is the only day of the year a person may arrive at a stranger's door and expect hospitality- what would the ancient Greeks think? Consider it fortunate that confectioners took charge of Halloween festivities instead of Mattel. Our Pundit, in case you should wonder, dressed up for the occasion on Thursday (Taylor Dining Hall had their festivities early). Donning a scary skull mask, I bore a tray I found in a lounge (it's mine!) and taped a paper reading: "Bring trays back... from the DEAD" on the front. A hit, as expected.

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Though I've been a bit down since the hate crimes bill, the news from New York's 23rd congressional district has me excited. Conservative party candidate Doug Hoffman is in a dead heat with the Democratic candidate, Bill Owens. A third party candidate actually has a chance of winning against a liberal Democrat and a liberal Republican! Even should he lose, it will teach the New York Republican party to avoid liberals if they don't want to end up in 3rd place. And Republicans are in place to pick up the governorship of Virginia, and there's another tie in New Jersey. Dare I hope that, for the first time since 2004, it will actually be a Republican year? Naturally, I don't have any Republicans to vote for in Northampton. Sigh.

Too much Ralph Waldo Emerson can be a good thing. Last night I was trying to finish his "Nature" (1836) essay, but wanted to turn in for the night instead. Emerson is not a difficult writer- his writing is colorful and imagerial, though at the cost of consistency, which he openly spurns and disregards- but he grew redundant fast. Bored, though not beyond my wits I hope, I wrote a poem as an intellectual compromise between monotony and sleep.

Sonnet CXXXI

The light, the shine, the residue of God
Peeks out at me as I'm returning to
The dorm. I have a lot of work to do,
But I look up, and almost see Him nod
Me on my way. I want to touch Him, like
The shiny dimes in public fountains that
Are tempting when my wallet's feeling flat,
But lo and, halfway on my homeward hike,
His hand is messing up my hair, like rain.
The sky is covered, but I follow whim
And linger, so to spend some time with Him.
Though coming out to walk must be a pain,
His seeing stars and moon are gonna try
Since God (I know Him) isn't very shy.

Beauty in Nature is elusive when we hunt it out, saith Emerson, but I'm usually able to experience it just as well on my planned excursions and outings. Hence the sonnet, with all of the inspiration and none of the pantheism.

Work, work, work. I would have blogged sooner had I the time- for once my deficit was of time only and not of ideas- but the last two weeks were piled ceiling high, since I now need to read augment the normal work for my six classes with research for my Honors Thesis, the preliminary to my Honors Capstone project. The first draft of the thesis proposal is due in less than three weeks. My subject is to be man under democracy according to de Tocqueville and Nietzsche. Many and interesting are the reflections I have had on the two, especially de Tocqueville, whose attempts to legitimize modern democracy for the faithful, and his belief that religion and piety can be relied upon to moderate modern egalitarianism in the long run, leave much to be desired (looks pretty suave though; Nietzsche not so much). Nietzsche, a half century later, got it right in Twilight of the Idols when, in a "whisper to conservatives", he explains that [within the dialectics of a modern democracy] man cannot be stopped where he is, but- one can almost hear his voice turn from snickering to gentle sympathy- is doomed to become weaker and weaker, to devolve unto the last man. Elsewhere, he contends that Darwin misunderstood evolution- it is the weaker and more numerous members of the species, not the superior few, who prevail. Though Nietzsche's vision is much more hostile to the Faith than de Tocqueville's, those of Catholic sensibilities are unlikely to find Nietzsche's condemnations of "pity" as he finds it in the Christian religion damning. De Tocqueville, however, offers what I see as a false remedy to the degradations democracy affects on the human spirit, a problem Nietzsche addresses with the utmost zeal. Though he was, as one of his works is entitled, an Antichrist, his wisdom is the refutation of the divers Antichrists of our own day (John Rawls, Fareed Zakaria, I could go on and on...)

Okay, maybe I've had some free time. But I tell you, if I couldn't keep up with Ryoma Echizen, The Prince of Tennis, and the rest of the Seigaku Tennis Club as they try to become prefectural champs, my life would simply be over. Yes, anime has managed to get me, that most un-sportive of men, into a tennis show! On a more typical note, I've also gotten into Rosario + Vampire. The series is, by way of understatement, risque, so there are few excuses to promote it on a Catholic blog. Excepting that one of the protagonists, Akashiya Moka, is a vampire whose powers are hidden unless the cross on the "rosario" on her chest is removed by her friend Aono Tsukune, the main character. Not much like an actual rosary, but I find these vacuous usages of popish things, especially when they involve a cute and innocent damsel like Moka, irresistible.

One final thing. Today I was reading through the Hobbes chapter of Pierre Manent's An Intellectual History of Liberalism. Hobbes being so evil, I desired to make light of his thoughts with some humor. Then I thought back to Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, which I read just before the semester began. Pondered I, wouldn't it be cool if instead of the Leviathan ruling,























The Cheshire Cat was LARGE and IN CHARGE!!!

Some things are to funny for words. Sadly, save the ever-helpful Google Image Search, words are all I have. Yesterday Assumption College held a colloquium to remember Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn on the first anniversary of his death. Ignat Solzhenitsyn, his son and a renowned musician in his own right, was a special guest (we've got connections. The other week I found an autographed copy of Allan Bloom's The Closing of the American Mind-great book- in the library). However, nearly everyone at the college has a cold, and I was very far from the exception. Tissueless, throat sore, nose running, I could barely pay attention to a lecture on The Red Wheel. And I didn't want to be rude by wiping my nose or sniffling. SO... fate had it that I had a dozen fortune cookies in my pockets from Taylor Dining Hall (to replace vending machine snacks for my late night studying). I figured, correctly, that eating would soothe my throat and alleviate the on symptoms, so I began discreetly chowing down. Or so I hoped. In the front row, I couldn't help but be heard, and in a while a professor gave me a genuine Poke of Death on the shoulder, so I stopped. The next day I brought up the incident while talking with a professor of mine who'd been on the colloquium panel. "Yeah," he replied, "Ignat told me, 'There was this one guy in front who just ate fortune cookie after fortune cookie the whole time.'" How embarrassing! I fear he would recall, "Oh, you're the guy who ate all the fortune cookies!" should our paths ever cross again, so it's a good thing I'm not a piano aficionado.

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Meanwhile Leisure, the Basis of Culture has inspired another delightful sonnet. A girl in my class has a name which reminds me of a bad old 1960s song, so I jokingly proposed she change it to Maybell, so she could say Maybelline was named for her and that, as Justin Timberlake says in "Damn Girl," she

Don't need no Maybelline,
Cause you a beauty queen.

I have always loathed makeup after all. Women: save the money and save the freckles. Back to the point. Inaugurating such a fine new name demands a festival. In part V of the lecture eponymous with the book, Josef Pieper notes that, without grounding in religious cult, which takes root in leisure and time spared from servile work, celebrations are always artificial rather than organic. Though Pieper bemoans the phony celebrations so rampant in our the modern world, I decided to organize an artificial event myself.

Sonnet CXXVIII

The maybells rang, songs singing from the lips
As breezes swashed the strands from every bough
To other, slumping inbetween, like how
The ribbons hang at auto dealerships.
A maypole, hoisted like a fasces, bound
Atop with ribbons on an iron hook,
Is slidden to the ground. The pagans look
For explanation, none is to be found.
They reveled still, and round the maypole ran,
So consecrating that October 1,
A day within the year that wasn't worst
For artificial feasting as began
To bring the maybells out of moths, as due,
And holiday for them— I mean, for you!























A little pre-Christian, but it sounds a lot more fun than Presidents' Day. I have, come to think of it, concocted a lot of cool ideas regarding the proper appropriation of less-than-popish culture. Recently I saw a well-cut, hilarious video of Lou Bega's "Mambo #5," the quintessential 90s song, set to the anime Love Hina. Back in 5th grade (ahh, the Elder Days!!), the school bused kids to the bowling alley to play two games each Friday. The second game was Disco Bowl, and aside from "YMCA" and Backstreet Boys hits, "Mambo #5" was a staple, assuring the melody personal legend status. Lately it occurred to me, "Hey! 'Mambo #5' is King Solomon Catholicism!" Should I become SGA President next year, I'll have to blast the Bega classic from my cubicle as often as possible.

Last week, we were arguing about the nature of experiences of the intellectus, or in layman's terms those timess when we feel a connection with the Beyond, such as we may receive when watching a sunrise or looking into the night sky (or my favorite, patrolling the parking lot of a mall!). The discussion soon darted to an important consideration: are these experiences the highest point of human life? One among us objected that man is a social animal, and hence it cannot be so since these are individual experiences. I posited that the best of these experiences is communion with God in the Eucharist, and mention was made of lovers gazing into each-other's eyes, an example from Leisure, the Basis of Culture, the book we were discussing. Still, we did not reach a satisfactory conclusion. Two days ago, though, the objection was set aside forevermore: I had one of those experiences as I listened to another's words.

Some individuals are saints. Some people are such saints that they walk the world like immutable suns. During the usual late night in the lounge (2 AM), I heard out one such soul. A self-described go-to person, she has saved lives by hearing stories and, like a priest bound by the seal of confession, securing them unconditionally. A consolation in dire moments, great-souled for her boundless compassion, she professes the helping of others- unto the saving of the world even, and I believe her- as her vocation. And almost one of necessity. As she said it, she lives with a severe insomnia and a tendency toward immoderate lengths of sleep- the only time she ever got to sleep as long as she wanted and wake up naturally, she slept 18 hours! For that reason, she invariably remains awake late into the night, awakening after only the briefest rest. Understandably the condition frustrates her, but as I pointed out, if she weren't up so late, she couldn't be the go-to girl. Ergo, the condition points to the authenticity of her vocation. Only in death will she be a beauty who has (having heard those in need out unto her last breath) fallen asleep, as we Christians say it.

Inspired, I wrote her a sonnet, which she simply adored. The title is a play on her name and a variation of a joke I made off of it: "You're pretty in lieu of... getting any sleep!"

Sonnet CXXVII- Bellelieu

Her soul is pretty in the lieu of sleep.
A two s'd Ulysses, she hears sweet songs,
Enticing stories of dramatic wrongs.
No hours close her eyes, no ropes can keep
Her from the sides of those who have a thing
To say, or still her lust to do the good.
The tempest sprays on every side, and would
Subsume her, and some others, were the swing
Of captainacy missing at the wheel.
Told everything, and trusted not to tell,
The secrets given this artesian well,
In time, are pacified by Jesus' heal.
His Blood absolves them, readying the balm,
That she may slumber, ocean dead, and calm.

She especially enjoyed the presence of Jesus, which I thought a stock reference, since she was working on a Bible paper! Moral of the story: if you are trustworthy to man, God will trust you with His goods as well.