Still Alive

It's been such a while that I nearly forgot the password to sign in to my own blog. I've had thoughts, many thoughts, sometimes even cogent, clear, good thoughts. Ones that happen to me while I'm in Adoration, at Mass, taking a long shower, doing dishes, driving, brushing a shedding dog... Then they would just fade out, as the days worn on. Then new thoughts, broken, not very good ones surge in, piling over the previous, good ones. Then it would be just a mess, an indifferent, autistic mess.

There's at this moment only one jutting fact which I can report easily: I've finished reading Robert Penn Warren's All The King's Men, and I haven't been able to put it out of my mind. I have one word for it: Wow.

I've looked up movies made after the book, both the 1949 and 2006 versions. I've dismissed the 2006 version: it stars Sean Penn. I saw the trailer, can't stomach the Willie Stark under Sean Penn's skin. It won't cut it for me. The Willie Stark I envisioned in Penn Warren's dense prose didn't have a thin face like Sean Penn's. The thin face robs of Cousin Willie protein in both literal and metaphorical sense. I have a feeling that I would not keep from feeling sorry for Sean Penn through the watching. It just won't cut it for me. Jude Law as Jack Burden made me wince too. He looks alright messing around and steaming it all up with Kate Winslet in that trailer. I just don't see enough shades in that pretty face to mask a cynical soul dancing with the notion of the Great Twitch, as Jack Burden of the book surely was.

That leaves only the 1949 version. I don't remember the actor's name, but he has a round face, with both protein and shades made for Cousin Willie Stark.

I am very waywardly like that, when it comes to movies made of books I like.

That's all I got today.

Buzzing in

The Pioneer Woman posted on her Facebook page "Rain! Glorious rain!"

I wanted to say something similar, then realized "glorious" cannot be improved.

I have so much on my head that I don't know where to begin to sort them out. The heat has been oppressing me; my mind and mood were tangled and cranky. Besides, school will start in less than two weeks, and I'm about to begin doing something entirely different from what I've been doing the past five years (details later). This new something entails writing syllabi, supply ordering, classroom cleaning, networking with people who have been doing it long before I show up...well, let's just say it's all a little pressing on my nerves.

But, rain! Glorious rain!

I feel somewhat embarrassed of the early posting. I do not believe any ideology could change the world for the better. I much prefer personal sanctity (another topic altogether). I should have known better that although neither secular nor religious piety makes for personal sanctity, but telling someone, even if it's Thomas Friedman of New York Times, to go f*** himself, is definitely no way to holiness.

So here as a non sequitur to a non sequitur, let me share this delightful account by the one-and-only Max Lindenman at Diary of a Wimpy Catholic, of his encounter with St. Anthony:

Call it a Proustian moment. I remembered prosperity and nice accessories, an uncomplicated life of consumption. Then I remembered St. Joseph. Thinking again on my contacts, not wanting them to remain in situ as relics of an age, I recited:

“Dear St. Anthony,
I beg by the Rood:
Help find my contacts,
Or, baby, I’m screwed.”

China for a Day

Thomas Friedman, columnist of the New York Times, explaining his "China for a day" dream:

After your enlightenment session with Mr. Friedman, watch this next video. Visit Reggie Littlejohn's website if you are so inclined. Then think and decide for yourself the price of "efficiency" which Mr. Friedman so covets and wet-dreams about (by the way, nice chuckle, Brave Dave Gregory).

Update: I've taken the last part of the original post out because I couldn't stand the voice of a certain little bird chastising me, a voice that sounded a lot like...hmm, Conscience? Besides, tomorrow is Sunday, it was a bad way to move into a Sunday, to say the least. 

G.K. on Oscar

I have just (and FINALLY, sigh) finished reading The Picture of Dorian Gray, so I'm on an Oscar Wilde kick; and I've just picked up Orthodoxy by G. K. Chesterton (may I call him My Prince?) to read it for the second time, I am also on a GKC kick. It follows that it was irresistible for me to cut out and paste this quote by My Prince as I came across it:

"Oscar Wilde said that sunsets were not valued because we could not pay for sunsets. But Oscar Wilde was wrong; we can pay for sunsets. We can pay for them by not being Oscar Wilde."

A disclaimer: I don't dislike Oscar Wilde. In fact, if I run into him in an elevator today, I'd kiss his boyish cheek.