Monday, April 28, 2014

you'll be the book/I'll be the binding




I was feeling such a mess I thought you'd leave me behind.

One of my greatest talents is self-pitying. A close second is (un)righteous anger. Closing up the triumvirate is definitely ill-temper.
Consistently, I have mourned the fact that most employers do not consider these marketable skills, and so they do not grace the bottom margin of my resumé.
If only. A girl can dream, tho.
Perhaps my ill-temper yesterday derived from my boots, which, though fetching, were beginning to pinch as Apollo drove his fiery steeds towards the West.
Perhaps it derived from my utter inability to deliver unto my white blank page highly original thoughts about Cassian and his theory of prayer. ["Therefore, it would appear an historical schism arose in the academy's efforts of synthesizing a cohesive argument toward defining a politic of The Other in Cassian's theory of prayer."]
Perhaps it was the weather.
It's always the weather.
The world is on the verge of the storm, which is exciting, but it creates a sense of anxiety which juxtaposes uncomfortably with the sweet, innocent little hyacinths blooming.
Also, I think the university has been relocated from the world of living men to the inside of a wind tunnel.
As I was walking across a desolate parking lot, the gentle spring gusts, which had mutated into giant blasts of chilly air, kicked up gravel and gravel dust into my face, and I was impressed by the similarity that this landscape bore to Mordor.
(whine whine whine. That's my other talent.)
Perhaps it derived from my frustration with human beings' (myself included, for lo, I am merely human) inability to love other people well, even mediocrely well.
Perhaps it is simply because I am grouchy character by nature.

Whatever the reason, I decided that before braving another test of patience, the world would benefit from encountering not the grouch-with-the-pinching-boots but rather the grouch-with-the-pinching-boots-with-Jesus. Not much of an improvement, I'm afraid, but sometimes, on windy, Mordor-like days, that is the best that we are capable of.

So I waddled into the Basilica, and I heard the sweet tones of the Regina Caeli wafting out of the sanctuary. So I took up residence in one of my favorite pews (It features a direct view to the Magdalene clutching the feet of Christ. It's a good one).
Then, two things happened all at once:
the choir started singing Sicut Cervus, which is perhaps the most beautiful piece of music a human voice ever wrote, and we have Palestrina to thank for it.
The sweet, longing tones of the polyphony strung together, and cast a spell over that quiet church.
The walls glistened with the sweetness of the notes, as the words called every living thing to the crucifix hanging above the altar.
The air held the sound so gently, tenderly, as the music cast its enchantment.
Then, just as gently, a bevy of Franciscan brothers wandered into my field of vision.
As docilely as cervi themselves, they wandered around the altar, examining the beauty that adorns every surface of the palatial basilica.
Slowly, quietly, they all settled themselves down into the pews around me, put to rest by the gentle song.
The tug of desire that surged through the music ran through our blood.
And together, we watched and listened.

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