10 October: Whilst at Waka-Dog
Today I had a pleasant lunch at a restaurant over in Mishiwaka, "Waka Dog". It's no substitute for a real Viennese Hot-dog, but it was satisfying nonetheless. The only thing wrong with the experience was that, halfway through, a gaggle of high-school girls came in. When I was in high school I never understood high school girls. Now, five years later, I think I've hit upon the real problem: there's nothing there to understand. These twits were positively vapid. They were sorority girls, minus the alcoholism and more inclined to complain about their parents.

But oh well. The food was good. The weather today was pleasant; at least it didn't snow in South Bend, like it did back home. (Suckers.)
 

30 September: Church Community, cont'd
[Cross-posted with the new repository.]
Either Peters has been reading this-a-here web-log or there's something in the air. In the midst of a discourse on writers and place, he drops this gem:

It can hardly be a matter of bewilderment to anyone who has read O’Connor’s work, especially the letters and the lectures, that this woman of formidable intellectual abilities was fiercely loyal to the Church Universal and stubbornly committed to attending daily mass at the local parish, where gossip was sure to be high and intelligence low. O’Connor knew that although we participate in universals we don’t inhabit them.

26 September: Creed and Community (A Fragment)
[Cross-posted with the new repository.]
A little while ago I was pondering the Church Divided. There's certainly no shortage of choices for the discriminating prospective churchgoer; we Christians have proven ourselves better at division than charity. But before discussing these choices I'd like to back up and analyze, if briefly, what constitutes a "Christian".

What, or who, is a Christian? In the broadest sense — that of the census, for example — one's status as a Christian is decided merely by self-appellation. But this is problematic enough that I'd rather ignore it and move on to the next sense, that of creed. Let's agree, for argument's sake, that there is a set of beliefs expected of Christians. (In a better age than this one we could've agreed that said beliefs were articulated in the Creeds of the Church; such is not the case nowadays. I will not, however, go so far as to exclude those who would deny, for example, the Virgin Birth: perhaps it is a matter of integrity for them.) Etymologically speaking, our word "creed" comes, of course, from the Latin credo, "I believe", the first word of both the Nicene and the Apostles' Creeds. You will note that it is singular. (It is curious that the Roman Catholics altered this to "we believe" in their current English translation; however, the new translation coming out soon will correct this.) Belief, then, is a personal decision: though we express the creed communally, it is by its nature an act of an individual. The Protestants are generally more insistent about this. Kierkegaard, for example, emphasized that we relate to God as individuals, we attain truth as individuals, we are judged and saved as individuals. There's a good deal to be said for this.

But at the same time, no man is a church unto himself. The sacraments — let's also assume that Christians have those, shall we? — are by their nature administered communally. Paul, in his first letter to Corinth, insists that we are baptized into the mystical "body of Christ": we cannot exist as independent individuals and remain a part of this unity. Once we have established that to be a Christian is to belong to a community, we must then ask ourselves what constitutes a community.

The Sage of Kentucky calls a community a "membership", a term he borrows from Paul (whom, he adds, he doesn't always approve of!). This implies that an individual is not only accepted by the community, but also that he knows himself to be a part of it. Elsewhere we are reminded that community is necessarily local, even though it belongs to a larger order of things:

A healthy community is a form that includes all the local things that are connected by the larger, ultimately mysterious form of the Creation.

But how, you may ask, can we balance the imperative for a real community with our personal integrity: that is to say, should I attend the nearest church possible, regardless of its doctrinal errors? That's the question. It's late; let's continue this some other time.
 

21 September: Andrew Bird
[Cross-posted with the new repository.]
This past weekend I visited wonderful Madison, Wisconsin, for a concert by Mr Andrew Bird. He is an absurd scarecrow of a man; the cut of his jeans suggests they are supposed to be tight, but they are baggy on him. He frenetically juggles instruments — violin (bowed and pizzicato), guitar, glockenspiel — often singing, or whistling, at the same time. While performing, he gesticulates like a third-rate Hamlet: he'll turn his extended hand over and over upon itself, or tilt his head to the side. (Unlike the bevy of third-rate Hamlets out there, though, the gestures are not affected; they seem to flow out of him along with the music itself.) His lyrics are at times maddeningly obscure, perhaps irrational. "We'll fight," he sings, "we'll fight for your music halls and dying cities". He tells us of "malarial alleys where the kittens have pleurisy", and "fake conversations on a nonexistent telephone". For much of the music Bird effectively accompanies himself, recording a pattern, transmuting it, and then adding another: his is a contrapuntal mind, always considering the ins and outs of a harmonic landscape and the melody he will build upon it. The music swerves from classical etudes to Appalachian waltzes to electronica to bossa nova; at times it simply dissolves in a series of loops. It is a thinking man's music, ill-suited to those who prefer the stale and and the comforting. It can make you weep.

All in all, it was a good weekend.

Links:

• Andrew Bird Official Website
• MySpace Page (music samples)
• Daytrotter Session (streaming, downloads)

18 September: "Popular Scientism"
[Cross-posted with the new repository.]
There's been an awful lot of public debate lately about things that most people are grossly unqualified to discuss. This has not stopped them from doing so. C.S. Lewis elegantly touches on this — apparently it was a problem even in his day — in The Discarded Image, his masterwork on the Middle Ages.

In our age I think it would be fair to say that the ease with which a scientific theory assumes the dignity and rigidity of fact varies inversely with the individual's scientific education. In discussion with wholly uneducated audiences I have sometimes found matter which real scientists would regard as highly speculative more firmly believed than many things within our real knowledge; the popular imago of the Cave Man ranked as hard fact, and the life of Caesar or Napoleon as doubtful rumour. We must not, however, hastily assume that the situation was quite the same in the Middle Ages. The mass media which have in our time created a popular scientism, a caricature of the true sciences, did not then exist. The ignorant were more aware of their ignorance then than now.

(But then, where does this leave us? Are we to submit to the "experts", with their "professional opinions"? This is almost equally intolerable. Is there some sort of tertium quid to be found, here?)
 

14 September: Cultus as Commodity (A Fragment)
[Cross-posted with the new repository.]
I was at Mass the other day. (You see, I'm in the Liturgical Choir, and thus am required at Sunday morning masses, vespers, and the occasional feast day.) While the rest of the choir went down for Eucharist, I stayed up in the loft, as Canon Law prevents me from partaking. One of my fellow choir members asked me, "Are you Catholic?" After responding in the negative, I was asked, "What's your brand?" "Lutheran", I curtly responded; I had no desire to continue such a conversation. It is interesting, this identification of sect as brand. Has it come to this?— is one's denomination simply another choice we make as consumers? I will grant that the average American could care less about the nature of the Eucharist, or apostolic succession, or the Filioque clause. The great majority of professed Christians, if pressed, will claim to agree with the tenets of whichever church they happen to find themselves members of. Those who do not belong to the church of their parents (or of whichever parent was more insistent) are usually drawn to another sect by its form of worship and social message, more than anything else.

There is something amiss, here. I won't launch, again, into a diatribe against the materialism of modern culture; you've already heard that one, I suppose. What I'd like to examine is the basis of community: is it a shared doctrine, or culture, or worldview... or even, musical taste? (Certainly all of these have proved cause for union or disharmony. Churchgoers can be remarkably petty, as you may know.) Is any one of these worthy cause for joining or leaving a congregation? Yes, probably. But is any cause for leaving or joining a denomination? There, the matter becomes murkier.

Protestants are accustomed, rightly or wrongly, to some fluidity here. A Methodist can swap places with a Disciple of Christ without much cognitive dissonance. Rare is the Presbyterian who hesitates to marry an Episcopalian. And the various evangelicals are indistinguishable. It is different for Roman Catholics, whose church makes a claim to universality: those who've been paying attention have heard that there is no salvation outside the(ir) Church. We thus have a great many Roman Catholics who profess membership in a Church whose doctrines they routinely ignore (for various reasons, which I neither condone nor condemn).

This is more of an essay topick than a web-log post, innit? The hour being late, I shall continue it at another time. Suffice it to say that I miss, as I have never missed before, Lutheran worship. Even among the Anglicans (both in Vienna and Rock Island), there were enough similarities to sustain me, enough good Lutheran hymns slipped in. Here at Notre Dame I feel alienated among the teeming masses of Catholics, and I wonder whether I am truly justified in my longing for the church of my forefathers. There's a groan-inducing pun here: am I missing the Lutherans for the right reasons? Or for the rite reasons?
 

9 September: Potential Vernal Organal Recital
Here's what's looking like will be the program for my organ recital in the Spring. I have linked to performances of some selections, for your listening delight or polite disinterest.

• Jan Pieterszoon Sweelinck, Ballo del Granduca (variations on a catchy renaissance dance tune)
  
• Arvo Pärt, Trivium (a minimalist work in his tintinnabuli style)
  
• Dieterich Buxtehude, Te Deum, BuxWV 218 (how I do love the North German school...)
  
• Jehan Alain, Variations sur un thème de Clément Janequin (20th century variations on a 16th century theme)
  
• J.S. Bach, Prelude & Fugue in C Major, BWV 547 (nicknamed the "9/8"; wonderfully dense Baroque stuff)

The program, you'll note, is rather heavy on the early music, but that's due to the instrument, which is lovely but not extremely versatile. Actually, I'd like to find a short piece to insert between the Buxtehude and the Pärt; perhaps I can find a Romantic chorale prelude or something.
 

7 September: De Communio
I am convinced that the greatest pleasure in this life — greater, even, that music or cats — is a sense of communion. In human terms, communion is to understand and to be understood. I do not know why a poem, or a song, or an autumn day should link two people so closely, but it is well nigh miraculous, if not quite. As for divine communion, there is something in it of being understood, yet we cannot fully understand: we see through a glass, darkly. Someday perhaps we shall know even as we are known. In the meantime we can give ourselves over to the divine mystery.

The astute reader will have guessed that these musings were brought about by a particular instance of communion: it so happens that today I shared the pleasure of a very fine prayer (and poem). We discussed it little, in fact, but each of us recognized the prayer's spiritual insight — as well as the extent to which we both valued it. It is a good feeling, communion. I recommend it highly.
 

31 August: The Back Porch
I am sitting, with my laptop appropriately placed, on the back porch of the house in South Bend where I reside. The temperature is seventy degrees. It is sunny but not too sunny. I am listening to the Decemberists, drinking a raspberry Snapple. (That sentence would be something else entirely without its comma.) It is a good day.

There's always a part of me that resents this goodness, this generosity on the part of the universe. Pride keeps us from wholeheartedly accepting anything; gifts undermine our delusions of independence. We have to learn how to graciously receive gifts, no matter how unsolicited or undeserved.

Unrelated: Kindly refer yourself to my brand-new online repository once GeoCities ceases to be. (Passes on, becomes an ex-Web-hoster, &c.)
 

29 August: Dispatches from the Heart of American Papistry
The Masters in Sacred Music Program, in which I am a humble participant — well, a participant, anyway — is a tripartite program, consisting of equal portions applied music, sacred music in particular, and theology. The last of these is shaping up to be the sticky wicket, as it were, in my studies here. The theology class I'm currently taking is Eucharist, which probably does not help matters. Of a class of fifteen or so, I am the only non-Roman Catholic. (Huh; that hyphen could apply to either Roman or Catholic, I suppose. Certainly not all professed Catholics are Roman: just ask the Church of Utrecht or the Anglo-Catholics. Lutherans, generally, don't make much claim to catholicity; I wonder why?) I suspect I am viewed by the rest of the class in one of three ways: apathy, pity, or a certain sort of unease. Lutherans are as poorly represented in South Bend as they are on the campus of Notre Dame, it seems. A week's survey of the area churches reveals vast numbers of Roman Catholics (which is to be expected), as well as a surprising number of Methodists. There is a smattering of Episcopalians and UCCers, along with the ubiquitous miscellaneous evangelical churches. But I don't believe I've seen one Lutheran church in South Bend.

(I am beginning to wonder whether I was let into the school by means of some sort of affirmative action. That would not be good.)

This is not to say I have some sort of problem with Roman Catholics; indeed, given the choice between them and Pentecostals, there is no question of whom I prefer. But before I resigned myself to Roman Catholicism I'd have to get over the problem of the Papacy itself, especially with that whole Papal "infallibility" thing tacked on. There is then the issue of the nature of the Eucharist (the R.C. liturgy represents it as a sacrifice we make for God, whereas I am inclined towards the Lutheran understanding of it as a gift of Grace from God). Perhaps I will get in heated arguments over this latter issue in the theology class. One can only hope.
 

25 August: I'm Getting Too Old for This
Classes have started at Notre Dame. The campus is far too large and there are far too many students there, so I find myself taking refuge in places of comfort: the organ hall, the basilica, the music building. Everywhere else is too much for my nerves. It turns out Notre Dame undergraduates are much the same as the Augustana ones: most of them share the same sense of entitlement, the same narrow worldview, the same callowness. Perhaps this is true of undergraduates everywhere. If this is the case, then I need to start avoiding undergraduates.

For the meantime, I've taken to driving out of South Bend, to see the surrounding countryside. It's quite pleasant, but it's no substitute for home: I suspect that part of belonging to a particular place is the distaste that comes quite automatically for all other places, however pleasant. It is foolish to claim to love all places, just as it is foolish to claim to love mankind. We must love the particular, not the general, for it to mean anything. Perhaps I'll come to appreciate South Bend, but at the moment it's just another dying Midwestern city (albeit one with fiendishly difficult streets to figure out. One street becomes another without so much as a "how-do-you-do", and this would be frustrating if I weren't just joyriding). Once I discover some nice local restaurants I'll feel better about things.
 

22 August: South Bend, Ho!
Well, here I am, settled in South Bend, Indiana, awaiting the commencement of the school year at the University of Notre Dame. My residence is quite pleasant (there's even a cat), but it is three miles from campus, which necessitates either a 50-minute walk to the school, a 20-minute walk to the bus station and bus ride thence, or use of my automobile. Though the first option seems quite pleasant, I suspect it will not seem so in the winter. We shall see how this situation develops.

I walked to campus and back today, and it's not a bad constitutional, but South Bend is not a particularly pedestrian-friendly city. There's a wonderful sense of urban decay to it, I suppose: the place has seen better days. It lacks Rock Island's abundance of convenient local restaurants. Oh well.
 

16 August: Nobody Said This Was Going to Be Easy
I've lately been reading more Flannery O'Connor, who is fast moving to the top of my list of favorite writers. Not only is grace a violent thing, in her work, but it need not even be brought about by something profound. Something as absurd as a racist lawn ornament can bring a measure of redemption, as we read in "The Artificial Nigger", one of her best stories. The point is, we aren't all blinded on the road to Damascus: the reality of the thing may be far less poetic.

Would O'Connor have been as good a writer if she'd lived a long and healthy life? Was the pain she went through necessary for her work? I guess we can't know. But it seems to me very few worthwhile things are made by happy, fulfilled, well-adjusted folks.
 

7 August: I Also of Much Resting Have a Fear
Having not written in the better part of a month, I now have many things worth comment. I shall try my best to do them some justice. (Or, failing that, avoid grievous injustice.)

I played my first wedding. (One always hopes these things work out, of course. But the more weddings I witness, the less I see myself doing it: the couple's expectations always seem so impossibly high that disappointment appears inevitable for both parties.) I've been on a Charles Ives kick. (Great stuff. His work manages to be both revolutionary and imbued with a sense of place; usually the former entails a rejection of the latter, but a genius like Ives can pull it off. I especially recommend his settings of "The Housatonic at Stockbridge",in his Three Places in New England, or of "General William Booth Enters Into Heaven".) I've also discovered the music of Mr Andrew Bird, another one of those rare musicians who produces some very good material despite being quite popular.

Perhaps the real story is that this past week a friend of mine and I went on a road-trip of rural Illinois, to great success. There's a lot of distinctive country to see in my favorite state, and we saw quite a bit of it. We stuck to river valleys, much of the time, but it was still surprising to see how much of Illinois is heavily wooded: the Midwestern stereotype of endless farmland does the state no justice. Highlights included Starved Rock State Park, Henry (which is just about the perfect size and has a nice local grocery store outside of which we bought cokes from a machine), Mt. Sterling (which has a "Tastee Treet" restaurant that, though remarkably slow, is quite palatable), Quincy (a charming city, if one ignores the sprawl on its outskirts), Keithsburg (where we bought local sweetcorn for four dollars a dozen from two sullen girls at a roadside booth), and Morrison. We also passed through, among other places, Peoria and Nauvoo. Despite repeated visits, I have never managed to like Peoria, and this impression has not yet changed. Nauvoo I had never been to before, but I suppose everyone should see it once. As an important place in the history of that peculiarly American religion, Mormonism, it is a truly American pilgrimage site: one where, instead of shrines and relics, one finds tacky shops (selling figurines of Joseph Smith) and faux-quaint restaurants ("Tour groups welcome"). Wholesome, well-to-do, large Mormon families (is there any other kind?) roam the streets more like tourists and consumers than pilgrims. Suffice it to say, visiting Nauvoo has not improved my opinion of Mormonism.

Disappointments aside (such as the aforementioned, as well as the soul-crushing sameness and materialism and traffic of Chicago and its suburbs), there are far more interesting (and particular) places in Illinois than you probably knew.
 

13 July: Mr Lincoln, You're Trying to Seduce Me
This past weekend I visited central Illinois, including Jacksonville (which was either named after a slave or a president) and Springfield (which was once named for one of our crazier-looking vice-presidents, and subsequently renamed). Whilst in the latter, I visited both a farmer's market where I bought some pecans and the Lincoln Presidential Museum. It was an interesting experience: in fact, it's far more interesting than any museum really has a right to be. (That's not to say I don't find museums interesting; rather, it was just perplexing to see other people actually interested in the place.) I was disappointed, however, to see a special exhibit featuring the "progress" of American agriculture. It effectively triumphed the transformation of farming from the Jeffersonian yeoman farmer ideal to the monstrous agribusinesses of today. (Needless to say, the exhibit was sponsored primarily by the agribusinesses themselves, which apparently have made enough money destroying the American farmer to pay for this flagrant display of self-congratulation masquerading as a museum display.) The exhibit, unfortunately, was correct, however, in attributing this (d)evolution to the policies of Mr Lincoln: it was the Whiggish economic doctrines he championed that gave free rein to manufacture, to the ruin of independent farmers.

We are so inclined to admire Lincoln that it is difficult to recognize his faults. The museum does a good job of presenting the development of his political views towards slavery: he was, of course, a realist. His primary motive in the War was always the preservation of the Union, not the liberation of his fellow men. It is this insistence on union that is so problematic for anyone who values the same right our founding fathers cherished: the right of a people to self-determination, including dissolution of political bonds. It is easy enough to view Lincoln as a martyr for our Republic, a great orator and moral thinker whose perseverance saved the Nation. This is not entirely so: indeed, it can be argued that Lincoln laid foundations for this pandemic of placelessness and destroyed communities that defines modern America. But his museum is worth a visit, nonetheless.
 

6 July: Murder, Most, Foul
It seems this is shaping up to be my summer of British murder mysteries. For the past few weeks I've been making my way through G.K. Chesterton's Father Brown mysteries, which are not bad. In any case, the mystery of each short story is at least worth reading about. Chesterton was probably quite right in assuming a confessor would know much about the depravity of the world; there certainly are some gruesome crimes here. But it is rather unfortunate that such a light form of entertainment must also serve for Chesterton as a soapbox: even when I (sometimes) agree with him, it is tiresome that every story expounds his worldview so thoroughly. And another thing: not once (yet; I'm not yet finished) has the perpetrator been a Catholic. No, each plot features this clever — and apparently omniscient — Roman Catholic priest foiling the machinations of a host of misguided and evil atheists, heathens and Calvinists. (Not even the Anglicans are exempt!) I suspect this impression of mine is exacerbated by reading all the stories in a row, when Chesterton wrote them over many years in various magazines.

I've also just watched one of the new Marple adaptations on PBS. It's got a new Miss Marple, as the admirable Geraldine McEwan retired after the last season. This one (played by Julia McKenzie) is alright, though she's certainly a different character: she's rather younger and, it seems, more innocent. McEwan's Marple was, at heart, a skeptic — perhaps I just admire that in a character — while McKenzie's appears to be a kinder, more earnestly curious soul. Miss Marple and Father Brown are in many ways the same: both conceal a thorough understanding of the world beneath an unassuming exterior, relying on others to underestimate them. Both, ultimately, always figure out the mystery: but then, what fun would it be if we were left in the dark?

I might as well add here some news. My GeoCities site will, along with all the others, be taken down in October. (I plan to find an alternate means of internet hosting by then, but I thought I might as well let you know. In the meantime, consider it a mystery to ponder.)
 

24 June: Mittsommer
Have you ever seen one of those Georgia O'Keeffe paintings of clouds? There's one at the Art Institute of Chicago that made quite an impression on me as a child. Anyway, the clouds looked like that this evening. If I were a cloud-ologist I could tell you what sort of clouds those actually are, but as it is it's much more important that I associate them with a painting. The reality of the painting is far more important than the science of the thing. I think this is true in most instances: Holst's Planets suite is much more meaningful to us than the actual planets, no matter how strange and wonderful they be. In the same way, John Donne knew far more about fleas than any entomologist. I don't mean to denigrate science, mind you: it's a useful thing to have around. But it has never given, nor will it ever give, meaning to the world.

We cannot, of course, mistake art for salvation. There's been much talk in certain quarters of the "redeeming power of art", but I doubt it: Hell has more than its share of aesthetes. Art makes life immeasurably better, but it cannot save us from our vices, much less our sins.

But that's enough pontificating for today. I might as well direct your attention elsewhere: here's a withering portrait of the personalities of highly-selective liberal arts colleges across the nation. (It's accurate enough to border on the cruel, but then, very little good humor will offend nobody.)
 

17 June: Anglicans!
Today was a good day. There's nothing quite like the satisfaction of feeling like one has done something. (This is distinct, of course, from the actual act of doing something. Indeed, one does not always need the latter for the former to occur. It's a strange world.)

I've recently obtained another job, to occupy me for the few months before I leave for South Bend. (Oh, did I tell you? I'll be attending graduate school at Notre Dame. The degree is for Sacred Music: that's where the money is, of course!) The job's at an Anglican church in Rock Island. You'll note I wrote "Anglican", not "Episcopal": though all Episcopalians are Anglican, the reverse is not true. It is especially not true for these particular Anglicans, as they are part of the diocese that voted to leave the Episcopal Church and join the Province of the Southern Cone (which, as it turns out, is in Argentina and has nothing to do with ice cream in Alabama). This is because they consider the Episcopalians to be really terribly liberal; this is one of the dioceses that has never ordained a woman. But irredisregardless, they seem to be nice enough folks. The pay's not outstanding, but I have been meaning to better acquaint myself with the Anglican choral tradition, especially after such a good experience with the Anglicans in Vienna. It's interesting to observe how High-Church these particular Anglicans are: they have preserved many traditions that even Roman Catholics have discarded. (That's to say nothing of those few Catholics who adhere to pre-Vatican II rites. I've done a few services for them lately, and that was quite an experience. I should write about that sometime.) In any case, I should have something to do this summer.
 

10 June: Ross's Record Review corneR
I've been listening to a lot of music, lately. In fact, I recently purchased several albums which I consider it meet, right and salutary to review here.

I. Janet Baker Sings Mahler
You may have deduced that I'm rather a big fan of Gustav Mahler. While I suspect this is simply a natural side-effect of living in Vienna, another reason for it is doubtless this enjoyable collection of Mahler lieder, sung by the marvelous Dame Janet Baker. Except for the arrangements from Des Knaben Wunderhorn, all the major Mahler songs are here, done beautifully. And if the final track — "Ich bin der Welt abhanden gekommen" — doesn't make you sit back and admire the genius of Mahler, why, then, nothing will.

II. Actor, St. Vincent
There's a certain black humor in the songs of St. Vincent (the stage-name of Annie Clark, a former backup singer for the excellent Sufjan Stevens; you'll note it's also the name of the hospital where Dylan Thomas died). Indeed, the humor often comes from the juxtaposition of dark lyrics with such chipper orchestration. "With our dear daddy's Smith and Wesson / We've gotta teach them all a lesson", she croons. The arrangements are lush and overdone, with all sorts of instruments: this is pop music I can appreciate. I wonder whether Clark is a fan of Edward Gorey; there's certainly a Goreyesque element to Actor that I appreciate very much.

III. The Hazards of Love, The Decemberists
I daresay anyone who's been in love can admit that there is a certain desire in it to die: we wish to become martyrs for our love. This is, of course, an immature sentiment. ('Tis nobler to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, for ending them is just a cop-out.) But it has inspired, here, a delightful album by the Decemberists. It's the story of fair Margaret and her bewitchèd lover William, who are beset upon by villains and end badly. But along the way there's some good music to be had: the songs work well, even out of the context of the story they tell. As a lover of our mother tongue, I appreciate the wordplay of the lyrics, but the tunes are toe-tappable as well.

The astute reader will note that I have reviewed all of these albums favorably. Indeed, I would recommend them all. But that's more because I rarely buy records unless I've determined I should like them. (How much of this is the objective quality of the albums and how much of it is a certain innate stubbornness, I do not know. Oh well.)
 

3 June: Flannery, Again, then Gustav
I first must recommend heartily a little web-magazine (or is that "web-zine"? No; we need no more such words) called Front Porch Republic. It's the effort of a bunch of folks dedicated to living well, which is to say, living locally. (When's the last time you spent an evening on a front porch with friends? It's an admirable state, I tell you.)

Anyway, there's an article posted at FPR by a man I respect rather a lot, written about our friend Flannery O'Connor. There's an interesting point Peters (the author, mind you) raises about the importance of place on art:

Wouldst thou know liberty? Remember place and limits. I’m convinced O'Connor would agree. She even said that our "sorry productions" in literature are the result not of the restrictions of dogma but of our failure to impose restrictions on ourselves. Having spent her short life attempting to "render justly" the visible world, she understood well the limits of freedom — and the freedom that comes only by limits.

25 May: Gradutation
Well, we had the graduation ceremony for Augustana's class of 2009, yesterday. My opinion of graduation ceremonies remains unchanged: they are unnecessary occasions in which too many people congregate in one place to commemorate a more-or-less arbitrary "milestone". (That is, there is nothing about a college degree that makes anyone more or less qualified for any particular job. Nor should it guarantee its holder freedom from manual labor; there's an underlying gnosticism at work here that wiser minds have written better about than I.) Augustana celebrated its commitment to sustainability by inviting six hundred families' automobiles from various far-flung corners of the Midwest to the parking lot of the elegantly-named "iWireless Center". Novelty appliqués were applied to hats. Meaningless cords festooned the necks of those with fondnesses for such regalia. Surnames were mispronounced (including mine, thank you very much, Dean Abernathy). But it's over now, thank goodness. Now, Sumer is icumen in, again: let there be ice-cream socials and softball games and community musical theater productions. Summer gives us the opportunity to stop doing, if only for a little while, and simply be.
 

19 May: Back
Well! I'm home. One doesn't realize what one misses until one has it again, in my experience. (That is to say I didn't know how much I missed my friends until I've been reunited with them. That and practicing.) I'll refer you to my Vienna Journal for my reflections on that.

Well. Today we went morel hunting, but unfortunately found nothing. So ist das Leben...
 

2 March: Leaving
Do you remember when you were a child, when you drew pictures of things? In those days the most faithful representation of anything (your house, or your pet, or your teacher—anything that mattered in your small world) was the one you made yourself. Adults, on the other hand, seem to prefer photographs. When did we stop believing that the best view of the world was one we produced on our own? When did we become content to accept the world as it is presented to us? I suppose we become jaded and cynical because it is simply too painful, too exhausting to keep believing that things can and should be better. To love the world is to see it as it should be; like any real love, this makes us especially vulnerable. Only saints and other madmen, I suppose, can maintain such a worldview for long.

So, friends, every day do something
that won't compute. Love the Lord.
Love the world. Work for nothing.
Take all that you have and be poor.
Love someone who does not deserve it.

28 February: Flannery
Interesting articles in the Times Book Review today. (They're not so much reviews of books as musings on the topics of those books.) There's one on the Wittgensteins, who I hope are not representative of Austrian family life. The rather more interesting one is about Flannery O'Connor. (I suggest you read it.) Apparently she disliked Iris Murdoch; I agree entirely with her sentiment that Murdoch's works are "completely hollow". It is comforting—somehow vindicating—to learn that my favorite authors dislike the same authors I do. (I suppose it is only logical, but still. It was quite a shock to learn that Ralph Vaughan Williams, one of my sentimental favorites, didn't care for Mahler.) O'Connor, apparently, considered illness "more instructive than a long trip to Europe." That may be true, if we experience it properly; Wiesel reminds us to "suffer so that others may be". To suffer for the wrong reasons is to squander the experience. As for long trips to Europe, I'm about to take one, as you may recall. I probably won't write here again until I get back to the States. In the meantime, you may peruse my Vienna travel journal instead. Tchüß!
 

23 February: On Necessity
It is difficult to genuinely dislike something (or someone) to which (or whom) we have no connection. We all know of families whose members detest each other with a very personal sort of hostility. In the same way, hating one's high school requires having been a part of it. Likewise (or, pardon the expression, dislikewise), there are Facebook, cell phones, automobiles, and a host of other things we loathe because they're just so darn useful to us. I dislike Facebook not especially because it encourages facile, superficial relationships, reduces me to a list of objects I consume, and stands for all our worst materialistic urges. The reason I really dislike Facebook is because I find it so convenient to use; it has become somehow "necessary". (The same goes for cell phones and cars.) It reflects my own weakness and willingness to take the easy way out, instead of forging real relationships with my actual friends. Necessity is the mother of invention, but invention ultimately begets laziness.
 

11 February: On the Temporal
The defining characteristic of nearly everything is that it is impermanent. You and I certainly are; "all flesh is as grass", writes the prophet. (Or, as it appears in the great German Requiem—on the radio this very moment—"alles Fleisch, es ist wie Gras".) Even that which we take as more or less eternal will someday end: the sun and stars will burn themselves out, in time.

Now, we have in our minds the conception of this Other, this Being—or is that the wrong word?—that we call "God". From a scientific standpoint, there is no evidence for or against him. While we're at it, then, we may thus ascribe to God certain characteristics, such as omnibenevolence, or omnipotence, or even eternity. It is this last trait that is especially incomprehensible. I had a beginning, have a present, and will have an end: Time thus defines me and sets limits to the quality and quantity that is myself. (For example, I am presently being made aware that my days at Augustana are rapidly drawing to their end; I will next exist somewhere else, in another set amount of time.) What am I to make of something which lacks these limits?

What's more, what are we to make of the paradoxical notion that somehow this eternal God character somehow placed himself into Time, in the womb of a woman, to be born and then to die? It's beyond sense or nonsense. It is quite impossible to comprehend, to wrap one's mind around, the Incarnation. No matter how we try to understand this "God", we keep running into paradox. Perhaps that's the consequence of temporal beings attempting to understand infinity. Hopkins suggests that we see the eternal glory of God through the transience of creation; it makes good poetry, sure, but... Hmm. Perhaps good poetry is all we can hope for when grappling with such issues.
 

8 February: On Preëmptive Nostalgia
I am already beginning to miss Augustana, though I still have nearly two weeks left here. There are several probable reasons for this:
1. I am already detaching myself from the place and its people; this makes me less critical of its (and their) failings.
2. My teachers have, for the most part, given up on me. That is, they realize there's very little about me that they can fix in such a short time and thus are sitting back to enjoy the ride. This makes my life easier.
3. My mind may be preparing me to remember the place fondly. One generally prefers good and beneficial memories to bad and useless memories. (Ah, but are any bad memories truly useless? Well, I shall assume some are.)
4. The weather is, quite simply, not so miserable. It was a much pleasanter prospect to leave Augustana in the days of -20°F windchills.
5. The idea of spending ten weeks in a foreign metropolis is beginning to sink in. Good heavens, what shall I do, being surrounded by Austrians (and the odd Turk)? Their ugly currency, their foreign mores, their awful German language... These apprehensions shall pass, undoubtedly, but only with time and experience. I shall be a sadder but wiser tourist by the end of all this.
 

7 February 2009: Gemütlichkeit
What do you know: it's a little less than a month before I leave for Vienna. Hmm. I do believe I'm looking forward to it. From what I hear, the Viennese are exceedingly fond of their traditions, with a legacy of social immobility. They also love their Gemütlichkeit—best but imperfectly translated as "coziness"—a sense of living life well despite all the things that have gone wrong. I might do well there. If you want me to send you a cake, let me know.

We've been preparing for the trip by learning about Viennese etiquette and history. (They're very easily offended, apparently, those Viennese. It's far better than apathy, I suppose.) Rather than go into great detail about the history of Vienna (which I find quite interesting), I shall instead sum it up for you in a series of shouted words: Aurelius! Habsburgs! Turks! Enlightenment! Ringstraße! Mahler! Socialists! Anschluß! Spies! Neutrality!
 

30 January 2009: Holy Schist
(Pardon the pun. I have, it seems, an imp-of-the-perverse-like tendency towards puns, among other things.) One of the best things about this liberal education process is that we're forced to take classes outside of our particular majors. This inconvenience has led me down many dark alleys of academia (viz. "Women in Europe Since 1600"), where I'd otherwise not've ventured. This term I happen to be taking a geology class—a 100-level class, but an interesting one notwithstanding. I find that the study of natural processes leads, in most cases, to humility. (The exception to this seems to be biology; far too many biologists have equated knowledge of the human body with the moral imperative to use this knowledge for whatever reasons they see fit. See James D. Watson, Josef Mengele, et al.) Geology, in particular, reminds us how very recent we are in earth's history, how ephemeral, how powerless against volcanoes and earthquakes and glaciers and such. (Well, scratch glaciers; we seem to be cutting them down to size pretty easily.) Whether or not one believes in some sort of higher intelligence (that particular question is irrelevant to the science of the thing), the study of geology helps give us a new perspective on a world in which we are very small things indeed. When in the right mood, one cannot help but feel a sense of awe contemplating a rock: what seems permanent to us is merely a stage in an epic cycle taking place over millions of years. I'll leave it to someone else to create a "theology of geology", but it would be an interesting idea.
 

18 January 2009: Obviously I've Tapped Into Some Well of the Human Psyche
Went to a ballroom dance class this evening; it was great. Ah, to spend an evening tangoing, to glide around the room to La Cumparsita with the quasi-animal magnetism of an Argentine! That's the sort of thing people should do for entertainment: dancing (and card games, and chamber music). It is immeasurably preferable to the average college pastime, drunkenness. Perhaps the problem of modern man is not that he has an excess of free time, but rather that he misspends it. Were we all to go out dancing, and playing euchre, and performing Haydn string quintets (the "Lark" is currently my favorite, by the way) in our free time, I dare say we'd be happier people.

Normally I'd now launch into some sort of tirade about how we're not really meant to be happy, anyway. But the natural endorphin high discourages me from doing so. Dancing is quite good exercise, you know.
 

14 January 2009: Clouds Gather
I don't usually care to discuss politics, but there's a very interesting article in today's Times: the gist of it is that the Democrats did so well in the past election (and will continue to do so well) because their key constituencies—urbanites, minorities, the well-educated—have grown and will continue to do so. Solidly Republican voters—i.e., poor rural whites—just aren't numerous enough to sway elections like they used to. As a registered Democrat, I suppose this might be good news in several ways. But something seems wrong. There's a quotation in the article that strikes me as ominous:

"[I]f West Virginia wants to elect politicians who allow mining companies to lop off the tops of mountains and dump the waste into valleys and streams, thus causing floods that destroy the homes of the yokels who voted for those politicians, it no longer matters to us."

But as a country boy, and as a follower of Mr Wendell Berry, I believe we cannot have a Democratic Party that is apathetic or antagonistic to rural Americans. Obama's scorn for certain small-town Americans is no secret; far worse is his appointment of Tom Vilsack as Secretary of Agriculture, which shows just how little he knows about sustainable economies: Vilsack (an Iowan, unfortunately) is merely another tool of agribusiness. If the Democratic Party gives up on rural America, it will lose the connection to any sort of America worth saving. And that's not worth all the "change" in the world.
 

7 January 2009: A Lesson is Learned
Yesterday I was nearly done writing a web-log entry about the nature of death and dying. It was rather good, if I do say so myself; it was one of those entries that is not written directly, but goes through some revision in transcription from thought to written word. I then accidentally closed the "window" in which I was writing it, losing it entirely. I suspect this is somehow significant. "Vanity, vanity, all is vanity", says the guy who wrote Ecclesiastes. He may have been on to something.