Just last weekend I returned from a three week's vacation in the South, a rare thing for me, and so, much cherished. The pinnacle of the leave was finally being able to go to the Mass of the Ages at the SSPX's little chapel in Mount Holly, North Carolina (we also went, once, to a weekday Traditional Mass at St. Ann's church in Charlotte, a building of recent construction, yet stunning and beautiful; the Novus Ordo parish is very, very conservative, and communion is even at an altar rail, praise be to God). Expectedly, however, I spent much of my time reading, completing--how's this for an odd pair?--Yockey's Imperium and Kennedy's Profiles in Courage (to be sure, their esteem of the democratic press is uniformly low). Given the fine country then beneath my feet, a discussion of Naipaul's A Turn in the South, or Chronicles magazine's Chronicles of the South, would be appropriate. But I have read neither of these volumes, and am left with only a very untimely novel, or rather a trio of novels, to highlight for the inquiring reader.

But I can afford to keep you in suspense for one paragraph, that my geographico-literary wanderings may continue. I might have even added geologico: the day after I returned to Northampton, I proceeded to clean out my room, in order to make more room. While it took almost eight hours, and I practically caught I cold from the dust, I uncovered a near-forgotten childhood treasure: Junie B. Jones and her Big Fat Mouth. Unjustly squashed between toddler books in a box in the closet, Miss Jones now sees the light of day. Yes! While I discovered the series at school, I loved it so much that I think itthe books from that series were the first I ever requested my parents to buy for my personal enjoyment. I have yet to reread the paperback, but remember Junie as a likable, and certainly adorable, heroine. Looking at the cover, which sports one of her prettiest appearances, I immediately realized, with due surprise and plumb wonder, "Haruhi Suzumiya is a transfer student from America!" They look exactly alike! She now prefers to knot her ribbon twice, her fair skin shows off better in a sailor uniform, but she shows relatively little change for the years. Her popularity has also grown: my Google Image search gave 6 times the results for Suzumiya-san as herjuvenile, American alter ego. Unfortunately, given how much else there is to read, I will probably never be able to catch up with the once-loved children's series by Mrs. Park, as she has pumped out installments like tankōbon.

Back to the untimely trio of novels. It shall go down as some feat of irony that, as I heard the expected, yet vile news that gay "marriage" won out in New York--may the hand of the apostate who signed it into law rot, along with those of the liberal die-hards and frank opportunists who voted for it, as well as those who, without real convicton, voted against it--I was reading, nay holding in my hands, Strawberry Panic: The Complete Novel Collection. The veritable Russian light novel of yuri, the perfect bound omnibus contains volumes I, II, and III of the self-explanatory Strawberry Panic! Girls' School in Fullbloom. What can I say? After seeing the luscious anime (merely see the opening), and reading the manga, how could I not venture through the original novels as well? In moral defense of Miss Sakurako Kimino's novels, I attest that the protagonist, Nagisa Aoi is a model of traditional femininity, and possibly her precious friend Chiyo Tsukidate as well. When I was reading the supplementary materials to an edition of Northanger Abbey some months ago, I found a very cute example of the 18th Century feminine ideal of kindness toward small creatures, as seen in Helen Maria Williams's contemporary novel Julia:

"[Julia had] frequently been engaged in the very same business of rescuing flies from destruction; and, when she saw a worm lying in her path, had often conveyed it to a place of safety among the untrodden grass, to prevent its being crushed by some foot less careful than her own."

Aww! Now see this vignette from pp. 69-71 of Strawberry Panic, italics in original:

"A small white butterfly had fallen right in the middle of the the hallway. For a moment, Chiyo had thought, Oh, there's a beautiful white butterfly, but then she realized the butterfly wasn't moving at all and froze. Her legs stiffened and she couldn't move.

"But I have to go to the faculty room, so I need to pass it no matter what...

"But Chiyo loved flowers, so she was part of the gardening club, and one of her strong points was her knowledge of insects. She could touch beautiful butterflies and adorable tent caterpillars.

"But even Chiyo was too scared to get close to a dead bug. Just a few moments ago, it had been happily fluttering around in the sky, but now it was dead and nothing but a cast-off skin. When Chiyo thought about that, she got really depressed, and felt like she was being dragged down by something scary--it was frightening.

" 'Poor thing. And what a place for it to happen.'

"The voice belonged to someone Chiyo had never seen at the school before. When the girl saw the butterfly, she walked up to it, gently picked it up, and placed it in her palm. She did it so lovingly, with the smile of a gentle goddess.

"The girl gently blew a breath across her palm, and the butterfly's wings trembled along with the breath. To Chiyo, it looked like she gave the butterfly its last rites--one last moment of warmth.

"She's saying goodbye to it. How kind.

"This girl gave love to something Chiyo was too afraid of to even get close to. The girl released the butterfly out the hallway window, saying, 'Be a good girl--go on home, now!' Even though it was already dead. Though Chiyo thought the upperclassman seemed to be under the impression the butterfly was still alive.

"But it might be better for it to return to the ground, instead of staying in the cold hallway, she thought as she watched the older girl.

"And then...

"There was a miracle.

"Chiyo had thought the dead butterfly would naturally fall to the ground. But just as it was going to hit the ground, it stopped in mid-air. The next moment, it started moving again, flapping its wings.

"It's magic, Chiyo thought. Chiyo's goddess, who was kind even to an insect that was almost dead, said her name was Aoi Nagisa."

Enchanting! If but lesbians were contented by such worthy literature, they would not need to mime marriage! On top of that, Strawberry Panic is another franchise set at a prestigious all-girls Catholic high school, so you just know it's good.

Although I, Atobe, am not generally given to enlivening a crowd with an unsolicited joke, in these times of war for Europeans and you Americans, is an exception. True, my heedful audience, there is nothing funny about war--except in the redundancy of the lies and exaggerations appropriated in its justification. As I, Atobe, have learned through the helpful English-language site Antiwar.com, citing the UK Independent, the latest charges of Col. Gaddafi's misconduct in the Libyan Civil War, as Leslie has harped on in the past, are trumped up. Yes! In the Age of Democracy, the enemy in war must be a manifestation of pure evil (or at least a madman, an unsubstantiated charge which began buzzing about the blubbering lips of news anchors as soon as the "no-fly zone" became a possibility), at least to the plebs who elect their ideologist politicians! War can never be, simply, in the Nation's interests, but must be a moral affair.

Of course, the real moral authority in the region, Bishop Giovanni Martinelli of Tripoli, has been a consistent critic of this so-called "humanitarian intervention", to the point that Western media have accused him of sheltering Gaddafi in his offices! While not a Gaddafi enthusiast, the good churchman has no doubt become the target of international slander for the fairness with which he has treated the Colonel--as when, for instance, he confirmed the death of Gaddafi's son by an allied bomb, after the media vilely accused Gaddafi of lying about the death of his own son for propaganda purposes. Well, we saw who was lying as propaganda there! While the following point would not come in handy here, as I write from heathen Japan (which has thankfully ignored this foreign matter), these words from Bishop Martinelli should be heeded by any European or American Christians who actually support this foolhardy war from the last story above:

The Libyan strongman had up until now protected the Christians and Catholics of Libya, he added. 'He is a great friend and we must help him find a form of dialogue' with the international community, said the bishop.

Do you Americans think the terrorist-filled mob trying to overthrow its legitimate ruler will be as kind to us followers of Christ? And from the first article in that same paragraph:

“I remember,” he told Fides last week, “that an important Western politician, a month ago, said that Gaddafi's fall is a matter of hours. I do not know how long those hours are.”

On the other hand, just today I, Atobe, intercepted some rare good news. Rifts are forming in the NATO coalition. According to the article, Italy proposes a ceasefire; according to the fine print, non-interventionists of all leanings should note, Foreign Minister "Frattini's comments come three days after Premier Silvio Berlusconi's key political ally, Northern League leader Umberto Bossi, called for an end to Italy's participation in the Libyan war." In other words, the driving pressure to end this war originates in the Far Right, which need be heeded thanks to parliamentary coalition politics. The cost of the war has also told on the weak powers of Europe, so I, Atobe, am hopeful that a phalanx of factors might bring an end to your Western intervention, allowing the Colonel to crush the unruly Islamist mob uprising. My, my, that would possibly make for the first time the good guys win the war since General Franco bloodied the Spanish Reds!

*************

In personal news, the level of international charity that yours truly has given out have exceeded new bounds. A few weeks ago I, Atobe, sent my pal Leslie two fine artbooks of his favorite mangas, DearS and Rozen Maiden, featuring color illustrations by the creators Peach-Pit. As they were only published on these sacred islands, they should be a special treat in the profane West. Feast your eyes on some select pictures I, Atobe, took of the preciouses before mailing them away.











Be awed at the sight of my prowess!

Ah, yes, my readers. Yesterday, after much delay, and managing to avoid a system of deadly tornadoes, I finally took the GRE. Scoring well in the Verbal part, not half as well in the Quantitative part, and expecting a high score for my two essays, I am satisfied even if I did not do phenomenally. The GRE is a funny test. Its software has very large, blocky font like one would expect from an 80s computer, and for this inveterate multiple choice lover deprived by years of actually thinking during college, it would actually be fun, if it didn't cost $160. Given the secure, cheat-proof test environment, the cost is partially justifiable, but how I wish it were more like an old time arcade from the same era as its technology. If you failed, you could just plop in a quarter again and again, until you etched your three initials into the high score board! LHH! Even without said fine fantasy, I can now truly say as I have said before—GREs: They're not good, they're GREat!

Aside from this personal task done, I promised a few more fun clippings from Hilary Flanery's Campin' in Chicago to encourage you to buy the small edition book, or delight you a bit if you can't afford to. Do I hear Trad Catholic Status Symbol? A rare Electric eBook Publishing 1st edition of Flanery's Campin' in Chicago? Verily, I contacted the author/old Internet friend of mine some days ago, and she said the novel needeth revision (though I contend it readeth well already)—though she admitted her work's potential as a screen play. To this time, the family vacation genre has largely been straight comedy with nothing more than a superficial message. With Campin' in Chicago: Now a Major Motion Picture, that will change! Comedy though it is, in the archaic way, the characters truly reach a better place by the end of the book. To be sure, the book has few metaphysics and rarely moralizes, seriously. The work was inspired, like many many good things I am sure, by a dare between traditional Catholic moms, and true to its origins, a movie based on this epic battle of fecundity and barrenness, or even just a second (possibly revised) edition would surely benefit the Holy Remnant, SSPX on down.

In her most Socratic mode Mrs. Flanery, via Mrs. Flanigan in the novel, describes their three neighbors at the camp ground, and tritely dismisses them. The passages are gems, so I reproduce them to substantiate my good review.

As we strolled to the road I eyed the couple to the right of us and their two children, a boy and a girl. They were people of means in their LL Beans, sitting inside their tent of screens, eating cups of yogurt, granola bars, nuts, dried fruits, and lot's of fiber. I'd be callin' them the Fiber Family. That epitomized what G. K. O'Chesterton said, "There is more simplicity in the man who eats caviar on impulse than in the man who eats grape-nuts on principle."

In other words, don't smoke, eat right, die anyway.

Then there was the older man, retiree-type, across the road from our campsite waxing his honkin' Winnebago. I'd be callin' him Mad Wax. He had been waxing it when we came in, and he was still waxing it and probably would be waxing it when we came back from the beach.

So little time, so little to do.

Turning left, from our campsite and onto the road, we passed Daryl and Meryl Sterile, as I dubed them.

Daryl was sitting on one of the two matching wood framed leather sling back chairs with his lap-top, drinking espresso coffee out of a tiny cobalt blue espresso camping mug. They had an electric site and their espresso machine was whooshing away, out here in the wild. I saw the wife, Meryl, go inside their little two person dome tent, carrying a portable dust-buster vacuum cleaner machine of some kind. The children thought it was hilarious as the tent was wiggling and shaking like a plate full of jello while she vacuumed.

"Why is that lady vacuuming her tent?" Jack asked in all seriousness.

"What a freak of nature," exclaimed Bridget.

"She probably has what they call an Obsessive Compulsive Disorder or OCD for short," I explained. (Or maybe Bridget was onto something, FOND, Freak Of Nature Disorder. I think I'm rather fond of that.)

"What's excessive impulsive?" asked Nora.

"Nuts," I said. "Daddy helps a lot of people like that. They have issues."

""Tissues?" Nora asked. I've got to get that girl's hearing checked.

"Issues, Nora, problems. They are people who can't relax, even when on vacation. She probably cleans all the time. Everything just has to be perfect, in its place and a place for everything. Very sterile." Like her, I'm thinkin'.