Idiot Wind: Kicking Back on a Saturday Night at Marlinspike Hall

It's one of those soft, breezy in-between seasons kind of nights, when the heart is wide open, the pupils large, taking in everything, understanding flowing like God's own soft sainted waters.  Makes you want to listen to that same sort of evocative, loving, welcoming feeling in a tune. So, of course, La Bonne et Belle Bianca Castafiore being in charge of our turntable and the vinyl platters this evening, she went with the obvious, and chose the dulcet tones and subtleties of Dylan's greatest lullaby:  Idiot Wind.  She's dedicating it to anyone who needs a clue. Admittedly, she was aided in her musical choice by The Feline Triumvirate, who think that people who harm defenseless animals are not only idiots, but cowards, and probably, sociopaths.  They are feisty, our kitty crowd, and they never cease to speak truth to those-deluded-into-thinking-they-have-power.

If this introduction seems obscure to you, and even more odd than what you usually find here?  That's because I am really badmouthing a relative but using guile and subterfuge to get it done, see?  Now can we get back to pretending that this is just an average blog post and not more disappointment at the dysfunction of my genetic heritage?

No matter what, "Idiot Wind" is one of the Zimmer's best songs, a cutting edge turn of the blade that Sara never saw coming, I'm sure!  Blood on the Tracks, the album in which it first featured, was probably a total eye-opener for the lass. And if anyone knows where I can get a copy of the May 23, 1976 performance, at Hughes Stadium in Fort Collins, Colorado, I hear that's especially well-delivered.  Not with snark... snark is easy, common... no, we're talking smooth and well-delivered, yes, but with lip-curling, lip-smacking snarl. Snarl is... real.

Just a rhetorical... something that the cats want translated from Cyrillic Felis Cactus  into Modern English:
Is anyone really shocked that someone who would rob the woman who gave him life -- rob her of dignity as well as of tangible means of support -- would then, like a cornered man-boobed boor, take the life of someone's pet by poison?  (Don't worry, I'll leave my reprobate relatives behind, just let the bile flow, for the bile must flow, and better here than than up and down the highways of my esophagus.)

Where the cats come up with these strange rhetoricals, we don't know.  But Marmy is sporting her wrap-around shades, Dobby is sharpening his nails, and Buddy is getting a rubdown, keeping it all very loose.  I've switched over to my Bond issue Power Chair, equipped with mini-hydrogen bombs chemically designed to target low-testosterone wimpy sorts.  Fred is in total chill mode.  He keeps pointing at The Castafiore's stiletto heels, recognized as weaponry by any thinking soul, and reminding me that we are also protected by the power of our next door neighbors, the Cistercians, an enlivened group these days, really loving Pope Francis, their new El Papa Francisco .  The tone, explained Abbot Truffatore to a community gathered for the monthly Communion Wine Tasting last evening, is new: "It's like we have permission to swing away, to go for justice, so long as we remember to yodel out, 'Hey, who are we to judge, eh?' after we sink in the rear naked choke. It's a new Liberation Theology."

We understand Abbot Truffatore about as much as we do the Feline Triumvirate, or Bianca on a bender, but since we love and trust them all, we're gathering our Bear Repellent and sanctifying our loins with readings from the Good Books.  I'm reading The Autobiography of Miss Jane Pittman, Fred is enjoying the Canterbury Tales, Bianca and Sven are reading different versions of Faust, and a couple of the Perpetual Postulants and the more enervated Saturday night escapees from the Novitiate seem to have Marvel Comics tucked inside their breviaries.

I'm in the "Man's Way" section of Book II, and it's Madame Gautier who is speaking to Jane Pittman. My eyes just landed on her version of "Idiot Wind":

That's man's way. To prove something. Day in, day out he must prove he is a man. Poor Fool.

Being snarky (not snarly), I rapid-fired Fred to give me a version of "Idiot Wind" from Chaucer. He's feeling much better, by the way, and responded first with a very sexy eyebrow raise.  Then, without letting more than a second pass, he channeled the perfect 14th century zap of a verbal prat fall:

Then the Miller fell off his horse.

Ever equitable, I turned to Sven and my Dear Castafiore, noting that they were a bit more intertwined than separate authors might lead one to expect, and gave a polite cough.  "*Ack*-*Ack*," added Marmy Fluffy Butt, peering at this odd couple over her stern shades. "What," laughed Sven, "you want us to choose a passage from FAUST to encapsulate 'Idiot Wind'!  No offense, dear Prof, but don't you think that's rather... stupid?"

He had a point. He also had Goethe.  I gave Bianca the Hairy Eyeball, and she promptly stood, hoisted her bust with firmly crossed arms, and belted out you-know-what -- Gounod's precious Jewel Song.  At which point Marmy turned it over to Dylan and we all enjoyed a cold beverage.  And so it was that a soprano's "Ah ! je ris de me voir si belle en ce miroir..." seamlessly married with Dylan's adenoidal "Someone's got it in for me..."

I couldn't help but laugh.  Always, at moments of such intersection, I hear our gruff benefactor, Captain Haddock, crying out from the wild sea:  "She's in fine voice tonight."

The little monks, still treating their stinging baby tonsures with gentle baths of Witch Hazel, were spared quoting from their comic books, as they were saved by the bells marking the beginning of the Great Silence*.  Brother Fratulence grinned at me and waved a copy of The Hulk.

Don't let this domestic scene of Marlinspike Hall at play on a Saturday night reassure you that all anger at senseless murderous rage has been set aside.  Don't be an idiot, babe.

Someone's got it in for me, they're planting stories in the press
Whoever it is I wish they'd cut it out quick but when they will I can only guess
They say I shot a man named Gray and took his wife to Italy
She inherited a million bucks and when she died it came to me
I can't help it if I'm lucky.

People see me all the time and they just can't remember how to act
Their minds are filled with big ideas, images and distorted facts
Even you yesterday you had to ask me where it was at
I couldn't believe after all these years you didn't know even me better than that
Sweet lady.

Idiot wind blowing every time your move your mouth
Blowing down the backroads heading south
Idiot wind blowing every time you move your teeth
You're an idiot babe
It's a wonder that you still know how to breathe

I ran into the fortune-teller who said beware of lightning that might strike
I haven't known peace and quit for so long I can't remember what it's like
There's a lone soldier on the cross smoke pouring out of a boxcar door
You didn't know it you didn't think it could be done in the final end he won the wars
After losing every battle.

I woke up on the roadside daydreaming about the way things sometimes are
Visions of your chestnut mare shoot through my head and are making me see stars
You hurt the ones that I love best and cover up the truth with lies
One day you'll be in the ditch, flies buzzing around your eyes
Blood on your saddle.

Idiot wind blowing through the flowers on your tomb
Blowing through the curtains in your room
Idiot wind blowing every time you move your teeth
You're an idiot babe
It's a wonder that you still know how to breathe.

It was gravity which pulled us down and destiny which broke us apart
You tamed the lion in my cage but it just wasn't enough to change my heart
Now everything's a little upside down, as a matter of fact the wheels have stopped
What's good is bad what's bad is good you'll find out when you reach the top
You're on the bottom.I noticed at the ceremony, your corrupt ways had finally made you blind
I can't remember your face anymore, your mouth has changed your eyes don't look
Into mine
The priest wore black on the seventh day and sat stone faced while the
Building burned
I waited for you on the running boards, near the cypress trees while the
Springtime turned
Slowly into autumn.

Idiot wind blowing like a circle around my skull
From the Grand Coulee Dam to the Capitol
Idiot wind blowing every time you move you teeth
You're an idiot babe.
It's a wonder that you still know how to breathe.

I can't feel you anymore, I can't even touch the books you've read
Every time I crawl past your door, I been wishing I was somebody else instead
Down the highway down the tracks down the road to ecstasy
I followed you beneath the stars hounded by your memory
And all you raging glory.

I been double-crossed now for the very last time and now I'm finally free
I kissed goodbye the howling beast on the borderline which separated you from me
You'll never know the hurt I suffered not the pain I raise above
And I'll never know the same about you your holiness or your kind of love
And it makes me feel so sorry.

Idiot wind blowing through the buttons of our coats
Blowing through the letters that we wrote
Idiot wind blowing through the dust upon our shelves
We're idiots babe
It's a wonder we can even feed ourselves.

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

* When I used to step aside from life and go vacation in a nearby monastery (long before we moved to Tête de Hergé) twice a year, I had enough hubris to replicate the monks' hours, and kept the silences, etc. Wikipedia has an excellent tripartite explanation of the benefits of such silence -- which is far, far different from, say, the notion of "keeping quiet." Listed under the entry "Vow of Silence," are these saving graces:

• As an aid to the practice of good, for silence is kept with Man, in order to better to speak with God, because an unguarded tongue dissipates the soul, rendering the mind almost, if not quite, incapable of prayer. The mere abstaining from speech, without this purpose, would be the "idle silence" which St. Ambrose so strongly condemns.
• As a preventative of evil. Seneca, quoted by Thomas à Kempis, complains that "As often as I have been amongst men, I have returned less a man" (Imitation, Book I, c. 20).
• The practice of silence involves much self-denial and restraint, and is therefore a wholesome penance, and as such is needed by all

I bring this up, of course, because this is the type of post, the type of speech, that is so raucous that one needs to accept that old and dear invitation:  "Come aside by yourselves to a deserted place and rest a while."  [Read:  "and shut up that noisy mouth and mind..."]

the monks are deep in GOOG

Thank you, Larry Page.     

Thank you, GOOGLE.

It may just be a fleeting thing, this 12.49% after hours hike... But it will keep Marlinspike Manor's Feline Remnant in kibble for another month.

The monks are deep in GOOG, so we're getting ready to jump the orchard wall so as to get to the Cistercian's Celebratory Mass in time for the Second Quarter Earnings Processional -- the best incense wafting is right there at the beginning.    Abbot Truffatore left a garbled message, saying something about "good times" and breaking open the 2010 beaujolais nouveau... 

I'll probably hang out at the monastery after the party, for Compline. I love that haunting lullaby but hate having to make the return trek to The Manor afterward, all alone.  (I don't want to be caught in the back orchard after dark.  Who would?!) Thank God for air-conditioned tunnels and quiet-loving Postulants as escorts.

"May the almighty Lord grant us a quiet night and a perfect end...

and not let today's gain be sucked up by tomorrow's losses."  AMEN

Pima County Sheriff Clarence Dupnik -- A Voice of Reason -- But The Dolphins Of Taiji Still Drive This Blog's Traffic

After Rep. Gabrielle Giffords was shot in the head and number of others were wounded or killed in a shooting in Tucson, Ariz. on Saturday, Pima County Sheriff Clarence Dupnik said that the state has "become the mecca for prejudice and bigotry."


Addressing the tragedy at a news conference, the sheriff said that law enforcement had reason to believe that Giffords was specifically targeted in the attack. He added that evidence suggests one suspect -- 22-year-old Jared Loughner, who is already in custody -- likely did not act alone.


"When you look at unbalanced people, how they respond to the vitriol that comes out of certain mouths about tearing down the government. The anger, the hatred, the bigotry that goes on in this country is getting to be outrageous," said the sheriff. "And unfortunately, Arizona I think has become sort of the capital. We have become the mecca for prejudice and bigotry."


When asked by a reporter if Giffords being shot could have been motivated by "prejudice and bigotry," Dupnik responded, "All I can tell you is that there's reason to believe is that this individual may have a mental issue. And I think that people who are unbalanced are especially susceptible to vitriol."


While speaking, the sheriff said that himself it included, "it's not unusual for all public officials to get threats." However, he said the sentiment doesn't come without consequences.


"And that's the sad thing of what's going on in America," he explained. "Pretty soon, we're not going to be able to find reasonable, decent people who are willing to subject themselves to serve in public office."


(Click HERE for the latest developments unfolding following the incident.)

The dead and wounded from yesterday's shooting in Tucson have all been identified, as well as the gunman, Jared Loughner, who according to reports, is not cooperating with police and has invoked his constitutional right to silence.

Gabrielle Giffords was shot in the head and is in critical condition at Tucson's University Medical Center after undergoing surgery, after which it was reported that she was successfully following commands, leaving doctors to be "cautiously optimistic."

The following people lost their lives:

- U.S. District Judge John Roll, 63.

- Gabe Zimmerman, 30, Giffords' director of community outreach.

- Dorwin Stoddard, 76, a pastor at Mountain Ave. Church of Christ.

- Christina Greene, 9, a student at Mesa Verde Elementary.

- Dorthy Murray, 76.

- Phyllis Scheck, 79.

At least 18 people were shot, but I cannot find everyone's names, which I imagine is something they may appreciate.

I know you don't visit elle est belle la seine la seine elle est belle to bring yourself up-to-date on breaking news stories and it's probable that you don't share many of my opinions.  Right now, the number one search term bringing new readers to this site remains "Taiji," and that is often the result of an image search, not text. 

The waters roiling with the blood of massacred dolphins were captured in a powerful photo that I used to illustrate a post on that annual brutality.  I am glad that some of these searchers choose to remain dedicated readers -- I feel very humble and honored by such occurrences. 

If you are interested in a terrific presentation on the dolphin slaughter, consider renting The Cove, a superb documentary.

But in terms of the last 24 hours, there have been a good number of folks hanging out here in order to view the video of Congresswoman Giffords reading the First Amendment on the floor of the House last week.  I've no clue why anyone comes here to watch it, but who am I to decipher the intricacies of search? Anyway, we are thinking of trying to get people outside The Manor proper by showing the video on a continual loop out in the roomy boathouse, the only new facility we have as an outbuilding.  It is cold enough that most viewers will feel encouraged to head on home.  Abbot Truffatore has lent us a host of Cistercian monks from The-Monastery-Down-the-Road, these good brothers having been diverted from the protection detail over there that guards The Holy Foreskin, their best Holy Relic, and they are doing a masterful job of directing all the blog traffic.

So, while the Denizens of The Manor are bleary-eyed this morning from our night spent over at my brother TW's place -- sleeping in our magic tent -- or *not* sleeping, as is more likely -- ensconced in deep snow, overlooking the land around one of his beloved buttes -- we are gearing up to host visitors as proscribed by Haddock tradition.

Luckily, the flight from The Grand Canyon made excellent time getting us back to The Lone Alp Regional Airport, and our pilot even made the normally nauseating sudden-drop landing seem easy.


N.B.  Clearly, I am not a regular watcher of CNN or any predominantly news station, the constant iteration of the same information, and sometimes, like yesterday, the wrong information, causes my eyes to glaze over.  So can someone explain to me how (and when) Eliot Spitzer got his smarmy self rehabilitated?

Poverty of Compline: Wynken, Blynken, and Nod

Wynken, Blynken, and Nod by Mandy Moore

i hope you had a merry, warm day and a meaningful christmas, if you are a christian. 

in the course of this very busy day (for me!), something struck me hard in the chest as deeply true:

i would sleep unperturbed, and enough, were the monks to gather nightly round my bed -- say, sometime between their usual 9 pm and my normal 3 am -- and sing me off to SlumberLand with the lullaby of compline.

but let's face it, friend:  despite the cistercians just over the apple orchard wall, despite frequent visits from their runaway abbott (he jumps the wall and checks in, incognito, as a Manor Guest whenever the trials of monastery life press too close), i am in poverty of compline.

our neighboring brothers maintain a couple of websites, that we know of, mostly dedicated to the worldly business of raising money and providing for their keep.  to fit in, they also provide links to larger catholicdom, and in this way i sometimes work up a SeriousPretend, as i transport myself to dark churches in the night, the shadows pierced as much by sound as light.  the sound of a leather sandal on stone, those creaks, the sudden snap and electrical quick-sizzle click of a monk turning on the electric bulb in his choir stall. 

they enter the church from more entrances than i knew existed, though before reconvening for the next Hour, i sleuth out the newest portals, if -- that is -- i am not barred -- non-monk, woman, visitor, silent retreatant (slightly suspect, altogether forgettable).

they make loving reverence to mary, to the altar. they make a bee line right to her.

those were the only moments that risked a show of pride, if pride can exist unconsciously.

the reverence to mary.

i usually sat up in the balcony, in the back, the better to see it all, hear it, have the chance to match sandal to shadow, leather slap to sound.   there is this conceit -- that they all look alike, hooded brown, most slender, schooled even as to the angle of the head.

they might as well sport individual numbered jersies, their god names ironed-on in shiny block letters.  when they bow to the mother of god, they are ardent, yearning lovers, lost in adoration or need, and the form of their reverence is as individual as a brushstroke in burnt umber.  some of the oldest monks proffer jaunty youth, closer to their beloved than the young man just professed, young in the way they mean young: young in the life.

they bow not so much with a fluorish as with energy -- impatient energy, smooth, conserved energy, ragged i'm-gonna-burst ecstacy.  they shit on the old laws of thermodynamics and all that preservation, conservation, transfer but not creation!  when in SeriousPretend, i'm up there looking down, they're down there, looking at nothing but mary (even mary as piled up lectionaries psalms psalters liturgies...).

anyway. 
sigh.
were i there, and huddled up there, all ready for bed except the going, my bed turned down back in my humdrum retreat house room, tans on beiges over a nightmare of neutrals, were i there, up there in the balcony, the tired happy brothers would sing and say these things (among other things) for me, tonight, and now, according to the day, the 25th of december:

Compline (Night Prayer)

O God, come to my aid.

O Lord, make haste to help me.

Glory be to the Father and to the Son and to the Holy Spirit,

as it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be,

world without end.

Amen. Alleluia.

Hymn

Christ, thou who art the light and day,

Who chasest nightly shades away,

Thyself the Light of Light confessed,

And promiser of radiance blest:

O holy Lord, we pray to thee,

Throughout the night our guardian be;

In thee vouchsafe us to repose,

All peaceful till the night shall close.

O let our eyes due slumber take,

Our hearts to thee forever wake:

And let thy right hand from above

Shield us who turn to thee in love.

O strong defender, hear our prayers,

Repel our foes and break their snares,

And govern thou thy servants here,

Those ransomed with thy life-blood dear.

Almighty Father, this accord

Through Jesus Christ, thy Son our Lord,

Who with the Holy Ghost and thee

Doth reign through all eternity.

[....]

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Canticle Nunc Dimittis

Keep us safe, Lord, while we are awake,

and guard us as we sleep,

so that we can keep watch with Christ and rest in peace.

Now, Master, you let your servant go in peace.

You have fulfilled your promise.

My own eyes have seen your salvation,

which you have prepared in the sight of all peoples.

A light to bring the Gentiles from darkness;

the glory of your people Israel.

Glory be to the Father and to the Son and to the Holy Spirit,

as it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be,

world without end.

Amen.

Keep us safe, Lord, while we are awake, and guard us as we sleep, so that we can keep watch with Christ and rest in peace.

[....]

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

May the almighty Lord grant us a quiet night and a perfect end.

AMEN

[....]

we should all take such care before we close our eyes at the end of day!  unconscious sleep is nothing to be entered into lightly.

ah, but they aren't here, my monastery friends. there is no twinkly-eyed brother william, forever being punished for breaking silence, for laughing, then set the unenviable task of scrubbing the flagstone on his knees. no formidable old father anthony, old arsehole monk, guestmaster, rulemeister. (arsehole anthony was bone weary and when inclined toward the virgin, clearly beseeching, clearly begging to go home.)

i have tapes, i have memory, i have worship aids galore but i cannot reproduce the loving send-off, confident of my safety, of my lasting, of my waking -- intact.  dead, possibly, but awake, intact. 

the dearth of compline, my lack of monk, is making me feel hopeless and lost, and my obéissance an absolute insult.

so i had this desperate thought that made me smile. what do you think? wynken, blynken, and nod, as lay compline?  it might not fly in rome, or even over the apple orchard wall, but it has cadence, and memory, and just as many a promise.

Wynken, Blynken, and Nod (Dutch Lullaby)

Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night
Sailed off in a wooden shoe---
Sailed on a river of crystal light,
Into a sea of dew.
"Where are you going, and what do you wish?"
The old moon asked the three.
"We have come to fish for the herring fish
That live in this beautiful sea;
Nets of silver and gold have we!"
Said Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.


The old moon laughed and sang a song,
As they rocked in the wooden shoe,
And the wind that sped them all night long
Ruffled the waves of dew.
The little stars were the herring fish
That lived in that beautiful sea---
"Now cast your nets wherever you wish---
Never afeard are we";
So cried the stars to the fishermen three:
Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.


All night long their nets they threw
To the stars in the twinkling foam---
Then down from the skies came the wooden shoe,
Bringing the fishermen home;
'T was all so pretty a sail it seemed
As if it could not be,
And some folks thought 't was a dream they 'd dreamed
Of sailing that beautiful sea---
But I shall name you the fishermen three:
Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.


Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes,
And Nod is a little head,
And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies
Is a wee one's trundle-bed.
So shut your eyes while mother sings
Of wonderful sights that be,
And you shall see the beautiful things
As you rock in the misty sea,
Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three:
Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.

-- Eugene Field
1889

say good night, prof...

My Inner Bitch Hosts A Pity Party and The Abbot Runs Away From Home

I've had a really hard day.  To sleep around 2:30 AM, up shortly before 5 AM, I peaked around 5:03 AM.

Rimshot, please.  With a big nod to George Carlin's Hippy Dippy Weatherman:  "The high tomorrow will be whenever I get up."




The thing is, I cannot even enjoy the fruits of my suffering.  You know, complaining about it, putting in for my share of empathy, sympathy.  Revisiting it constantly, in case anyone might forget that I am ill and in awful pain.  Rating my pain on a scale of Mount Rushmoresque dimensions -- dimensions that my pain easily transcends, of course.

Normally, I'd be giving it a good go, working the program, modeling the meaning of real patience in a personal revisionist history of Job.  I might regale the Domestic Staff (indentured-unto-perpetuity!) with Tales of My Inner Strength in the Face of Adversity.  La Bonne et Belle Bianca Castafiore will likely stare dully at photographic evidence of how my toenails have fused with scaly grey foot flesh.  Poor Fred'll offer his
broad shoulders as I despair over every abject cushingoid feature that now defines my fascinating -- and yet, oh-so-alarming -- body habitus.

Are you feeling sorry for me yet?  No?  Harrumph.  What's a person with raging Sick-Role Behaviors gotta do to harness a sustaining Bolus of Sympathy around here? Have you even heard of Talcott Parsons?  I hate to see myself so... oh-what-*is*-the word, oh-what-*is*-the-expression?

So... vacuous?
So... obnoxiously needy? 
So very much a gaping, sucking hole?

A friend of Fred's, one of the Angry Lesbian Existentialist Feminists he hangs with on Wednesday evenings, told him "most of [Retired Educator's] charm is in her brilliant self-referentiality." I think she meant my succulent auto-referentialiciousness but I fear it might actually be the gaping, sucking hole referenced above that she misperceives as one of the shining orbs lighting the gloom of  her glorious dyke-ed-dness.

I'm just sayin'.

Unfortunately, we will have to find another time to fête my Poor Self, as the banging on our Mock Brunelleschi Baptistry Doors turns out to have heralded the unexpected arrival of Abbot Truffatore, the bald, bow-legged little man who lords it over his spiritual inferiors at the Cistercian Monastery-and-Office-Supply-Mail-Order-Depot down the road from Marlinspike Hall.  Yes, he has fled The Brethren again, seeking respite at The Manor.

He has the unfortunate habit of yelling "Strada Puttana" before folding me into his long, hairy -- really rather simian -- arms.  I tend to scream back, the embrace somewhat muffling my vocal puissance:  "Bless me, You Simian Espèce de Nain!" 

Fred thinks he is after The Castafiore, and -- furthermore -- that Bianca is doing her fair share of flirting.  She just happened to pick the exact moment of his arrival to pirouette by the Baptistry Entrance in a flimsy peignoir of virginal white chiffon, hemmed to a length that can only be called High-Thigh.

Thank God for the generous smocking and beading on the bodice, else I fear the Church would have one less lusty abbot to stand as moral example to the Laity of Tête de Hergé (très décédé, d'ailleurs).

Just in case you were thinking of doing the same sort of thing -- turn up uninvited on our drawbridge -- let me fill you in on something.  I may very well make nice and tell you to come by for a visit "any time," and promise you, too, that the best suites of The Manor stand pristine, fluffed, and aired, all in anticipation of your arrival.  I might mention that we are keeping a côterie of executive chefs, four sommeliers, and a smorgasbord of sous chefs, pastry chefs, and the best saucier northwest of The Alp -- and while all of that is true, I still expect at least the decency of a week's warning before the three matching suitcases you got for graduation are plopped down on the dazzling white Carrara marble of our doorstep, rumored to be a true scrap from Michelangelo's David.

We believe in the sanctity of Carrara marble, just as Abbot Truffatore believes that The Holy Foreskin,* preserved and displayed in a domed pastry tray (specially designed and electronically monitored by Brinks Home Security), imparts a miraculous fecundity of faith to any of his Monastic Postulants fallen prey to wavering belief.  Ever since the Novice Master, Father Guido,  made it mandatory for all postulants to experience the eternal rhythm of the Night Watch while closeted in the sacristy cupboard where The Holy Foreskin is kept safe from the ill effects of light and humidity, every novice has gone on to profess Final Vows. Coincidence?  You decide.  Ironically, it is that same robust statistic that sometimes drives The Abbot beyond the cloistered walls of the Cistercian Monastery-and-Office-Supply-Mail-Order-Depot -- and right into our arms.

Carrara Marble Quarry, details, photo by  Edward Burtynsky

The Abbot travels light, of course, bringing only his jammies and a toothbrush.  Captain Haddock, ever prescient, orders that several outfits of plain but high-quality clothing be kept ready for just such a guest.  It was a bit shocking the first time we saw our local spiritual leader decked out in lederhosen.  Fred has tried to make chinos and a casual broadcloth oxford available once the intense heat of summer is past.

I quartered The Abbot in a never before used collection of rooms, added as much luxe to the mix as I thought he could stand (a sensual blend of satin and flannel bedding -- in colors to make him blush; a series of flat, faceted Cézannes -- to make him, I confess, slightly uneasy).


Anyway -- it's the principle of the thing.  With a week's notice, we wouldn't have to worry about stuff like whether we've a supply of your favorite coffee bean or whether you risk being housed in the same wing as the 40 Chinese tumblers who prefer training in the corridors to working out in the barns.

Then, too, I might manage to be better behaved were I to have some warning about overnight visitors.  My Inner Bitch has been unleashed for several days now, fault of too much pain, too little sleep, full body slam-style spasms, medication side effects, and blood sugars that drop or rise according to Mystical Rules of Diabetic Devastation (from 320 to 41 in an hour and a half!).  She's quite vain, My Inner Bitch, and can be calmed, seduced, and lured back to quiescence when threatened with public exposure.



* This is the best scholarly reference for Christ's Foreskin that I found, and it does little, really, except heighten the mystery of how this holy penis tip came to Tête de Hergé's little known Cistercian monastery:

The Holy Umbilical Cord is a first class Catholic relic (that which is composed of a body part) of Christ. Christian teaching generally states that Christ was assumed into heaven corporeally.


Therefore the only parts of his body available for veneration are parts he had lost prior—hair, blood, fingernails, milk teeth, his prepuce and the umbilicus remaining from his birth.


It was written somewhere that the Virgin kept and coveted her son’s umbilical cord. She possessed it most of her life before handing it off to Saint John who, in turn, passed it along (as the story goes) to the Bishop of Ephesus.


But how versions of the Holy Navel ended up in the French towns of Lucques and Châlons-sur-Marne is a mystery, especially considering Rome had one, too.


The Eternal City’s blessed belly button was kept in the Sancta Sanctorum (the Holy of Holies) along with the heads of Sts. Peter and Paul, a chunk of wood from the Last Supper (which can still be seen tacked to the wall), and, until 1527, the Holy Foreskin.

Regula Benedicti: Ora et labora

We've requested a Special Mass to be held at the Monastery-Down-The-Road on behalf of my brother Grader Boob (his preferred form of address). We do this every year on the first day of classes at his university.

Of course, we haven't always had the luck to live next door to a Catholic Prayer Factory. Back in the States, we sometimes had to improvise. The things we had to do to get the Jehovah's Witnesses on board! Only for Grader Boob would I deny Plato and my firm belief that I will suffer the fires of Hell.

On the other hand, it was hard to get the Presbyterians to stop hosting Prayer Vigils for Beleaguered Educators every hour, on the hour -- once they get stuff out of committee, Presbyterians are a fearsome force.

One year we were kind of in a religious snit, and went with the Council for Secular Humanism. Okay, so they kicked us out when I began screaming "What do you mean there’s no such thing as spirit? And Grader Boob, he's undesigned, unintended, and responsible for [himself]? Since when? I don't think so! And, furthermore: Harrumph."

Since we've been in occupancy at The Manor, and since Marlinspike Hall borders the monastery, Fred and I have been treated to catechisms and concordances, hagiography and the Regula Benedicti, The Rule of Saint Benedict.

The Rule of Saint Benedict is my Bible -- and in so saying, I am not cracking wise. I mean, who needs a little structure, some guidance to monastic life in community, more than Fred, La Bonne et Belle Bianca, The Remnant Felines {waving to Celestial Sammy} -- and myself? Who needs help in the practice of hospitality more than Manor Mavens? And who has benefited from the commandment to welcome guests to the monastery more than I have -- a woman choosing monastery over easily accessible convents? Receiving the stranger as Christ -- now *that* is a huge break and boon for the visitor such as myself.

[Once-upon-a-time, I developed the habit of vacationing at monasteries, staying between 7 and 10 days, usually silent and observing the hours.  Very refreshing, envigorating.  I hope to have shown sensitivity as a lone woman visitor to the manly monks.]

Ora et labora, people, ora et labora!

The monks, for this year's celebration of Grader Boob and the return to school, have decided to go with the theme of Patron Saints: Whose Your Daddy? (The Brother-in-Charge of Event Planning just blinked when we pointed out the sexism of that title. He'll regret that when the Militant Existential Lesbian Feminists show up in their picket gear, with chains and styrofoam coolers full of Evian, Power Bars, the leftover canapés from Joan and Karen's Commitment Ceremony, and huge chunks of dark chocolate [made from fairly traded, organic cocoa].)

Turns out the traditional choice for Patron Saint of Teachers is St. John Cantius. No problems there. No, the problem came from my request to include, for parity's sake, the uppity Ste. Catherine of Alexandria. I've been pretty insistent that she be included in any rite performed for the benefit of educative souls. 

Okay, so The Church denies her existence, claiming she is but the Christianized version of the amazing Greek philosopher/scholar Hypatia who, as it happens, was killed by a mob of Christians.  Monks, to be specific.

Called "premodern," Saint Catherine of Alexandria, before being shuffled off to Buffalo, was the patron saint of "royal" women, professors, scholars, libraries, archives, Balliol College, and the University of Paris -- as well as patron to milliners, millers, potters, spinners, tanners, a whole host of important crafts.

She is supposed to have been a babe, too, which is probably why we are blessed with a rich iconography:

Her principal symbol is the spiked wheel, which has become known as the Catherine wheel. Saint Catherine is also represented in Christian Art with a wheel. The wheel is generally broken, because, after she was bound upon it, by the intervention of Heaven it was shattered, and the flying fragments dealt death to her executioners. Under her feet is seen the turbaned head of the tyrant Maximinus, symbolical of the triumph of Christianity over the Infidel. Instead of the sword, the actual instrument of her martyrdom, a book is placed in her hand, in token of her learning. The crown upon her head bespeaks her royal dignity. As a noble's daughter she is patroness of princesses and ladies of noble birth. She is patroness also of students, philosophers, and theologians, because she put to confusion all the rhetoricians and scholars who came to dispute with her from all parts of the empire.

You can read the texts for her feast celebration on November 25 here.

St Catherine of Alexandria: Scenes from Her Life
Donato D' and Gregorio D' Arezzo, about 1330

Those Cistercians! All you have to do is cross their palms with silver and presto! Special Mass!  Just kidding -- I think it is less that I have convinced the good brothers of Catherine's perfect fit, religiously, and more the living expression of the Rule of Saint Benedict.  Always looking for the easy way to be kind, these guys.

So we're going to walk over to the Abbey Church about 5 -- provided I charge my wheelchair battery -- and commune with some living saints, while raising for God's consideration the difficulties of teachers, everywhere, but especially the challenges faced by the one, the only, Grader Boob.

With incense wafting (our inhalers at the ready), royal purple and insouciant pink tapers lit and in full flicker, we place Brother-Unit Grader Boob under the protection of St. John Cantius, professor of Scripture and Physics at the Kraków Academy noted for his good cheer and humility -- traits that also leap to mind about GB.  We will further invoke the fiery, feisty St. Catherine of Alexandria, intellectual superstar, not afraid to speak truth to power, calling out emperor Maximinus Daja when he went against the faith.  We hope for Grader Boob a semester without the need to face off against an administration that would compromise academic standards and impede the free application of earned grades!  Rah!

Much thank to The Cistercians for the Annual Blessing of the Prof!  In return we usually participate in the Annual Hiding of the Abbot -- he gets fed up once or twice a year, so we stash him in some regal suites and pamper the hell out of him, until he is ready to square off against eager airhead postulants and ancient wrinkled scholar monks fallen prey to Alzheimer's.  Last year, after the warehouse fire (they run a lucrative internet business), after they discovered that mild-mannered Father Clem was a pyromaniac, Abbot Steve came and hid in Marlinspike Hall until the Papal Envoys returned to their palatial digs.

Have a great semester, Grader Boob -- We love you!