Girl Disappointed in Love

by Karol Wojtyla

With mercury we measure pain
as we measure the heat of bodies and air;
but this is not how to discover our limits–
you think you are the center of things.
If you could only grasp that you are not:
the center is He,
and He, too, finds no love–
why don’t you see?
The human heart–what is it for?
Cosmic temperature.  Heart.  Mecury.

Guess who Karol Wojtyla is.

The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency

by Alexander McCall Smith

READ IT! 

If you know you won’t read it, read these pieces I pulled from this book to add to my commonplace book. 

In a very short time, he knew, there would be men wanting to marry her.
  He would never deny her that, of course.  But what if the man who wanted to marry her was a bully, or a drunkard, or a womaniser?  All of this was possible; there was any number of men like that, waiting for an attractive girl that they could latch on to and whose life they could slowly destroy.  These men were leeches; they sucked away at the goodness of a woman’s heart until it was dry and all her love had been used up.  That took a long time, he knew, because women seemed to have vast reservoirs of goodness in them. 
  If one of these men claimed Precious, then what could he, a father, do?  He could warn her of the risk, but whoever listened to warnings about somebody they loved?  He had seen it so often before; love was a form of blindness that closed the eyes to the most glaring faults.  you could love a murderer, and simply not believe that your lover would do so much as crush a tick, let alone kill somebody.  There would be no point trying to dissuade her.
 
 
…nothing, nothing, that was what her country was so rich in–emptiness.
 
She made it sound so simple that he found himself convinced that it would work.  That was the wonderful thing about confidence–it was contagious.
 
…they [lawyers] set themselves up as experts on everything.  What did they know of life?  All they knew was how to parrot the stock phrases of their profession and to continue to be obstinate until somebody, somewhere, paid up.
 
She did not like his voice.  It was sandpaper rough, and he slurred the ends of the words lazily, as if he could not be bothered to make himself clear.  This came from contempt, she felt;  if you were as powerful as he was, then why bother to communicate properly with your inferiors?
 
Women can’t be bothered with all this fighting.  We see war for what it is–a matter of broken bodies and crying mothers.
 
Mma Ramostwe smiled at her old friend.  You can go through life and make new friends every year–every month practically–but there was never any substitute for those friendships of childhood that survive into adult years.  Those are the ones in which we are bound to one another with hoops of steel.
 
There was so much suffering in Africa that it was tempting just to shrug your shoulders and walk away.  But you can’t do that, she thought.  You just can’t.

I VOTED

Did you wear your sticker?  Did you get free stuff?  I went to an election party Tuesday night, and people started talking about all the free stuff you could get by flashing your I VOTED sticker.  Krispy Kreme donuts, Starbucks coffee, a Chick-fil-A sandwich.  That’s all I caught, but there were more suggestions. 

Well, since I had to go home and grade 9-wk. Latin translations, I left the party early.  I went by Krispy Kreme on my way home, and beamed at the girl behind the counter, “I voted!” while pointing at my sticker.  The girl just looked at me.  So I added, “Are you all giving away free donuts to people who voted?”

“No, we ran out.”

“Wait. What?”

The girl informed me that they had run out of the free donuts. 

“But there are myriads of donuts behind you.  I mean, a donut is a donut, right?”

“No.  The free donuts had blue icing with patriotic sprinkles.”

Not wanting to be that customer who complains about not getting something free–when in reality I didn’t even want a donut before I heard they were free–I just said, “Oh.  That’s disappointing.  Have a good night.”

And left.  Then I convinced myself that I should get *something* free, since all these places were offering.  I mean, at least there are still celebrating the privilege and responsibility to vote and not succumbing to all this voting is against my conscience bs.  I rerouted my way home and stopped by CFA.  Not the 9-Mile store, the cash cow on Bayou. 

I walked in and tried again, beaming anew, “I voted!” 

And the girl just looked at me.  You have got to be kidding me.  So I let her know what I had heard:  about their giving away free sandwiches today.  She huffed, like she was practicing breathing out for the doctor holding a stethescope to her chest.  Finding some words for her, I asked, “Is that not true?” 

“I could give you a free drink.” 

“No, that’s ok.  I just had heard that you guys were giving sandwiches–”

She had turned the manager and in a quite accusatory tone informed her, “This lady wants a free sandwich because she voted.” 

Now, now.  Wait just a second.  I was not demanding anything.  I was just investigated these allegedly free sandwiches.  Which I assume they are not…

The manager filled me in, “Somehow it got out on the internet, but CFA did not approve that.  Some states are doing that.  But not us.”

“Oh.  ok.”

…And since Starbucks was right next door, I had to find out if that was a hoax too.  I didn’t go inside.  I just got to the drivethrough.  And since they have that camera in the DT, I showed my sticker.  “I voted.  Are you guys giving out free coffee?”

“Yes.”  oh good!

“Do you still have some free coffee left?”

“Yes.”  oh good!

“Awesome.  I’ll have a cup of free coffee.  with cream please.  oh wait.  I’ve been hearing about this salted carmel cocoa.  May I have that instead?”

“Sure, but that’s not free.”

“It’s ok.”

“ok.  $3.68″

I pulled up to the window, and found a kid with an I VOTED sticker as well.  Voter and I were making small talk about voting, and he informed me that they actually were giving coffee away to anyone who asked, since the legal department informed them that they were actually bribing people to vote by giving coffee.  And some people just don’t believe in voting.  Some people can’t vote.  So it’s not fair to give only voters free coffee. 

WHAT!?  This is ridiculous.  So I start getting on this soapbox about people not voting, and about patriotism, and relaying the story about KK and CFA, and some guy comes up behind Voter, and whispers in his ear.  Voter’s face fell.  “I am so sorry.  We just ran out of that cocoa.  I’ll give you a refund, and you could have anything else.” 

I figured it was a sign.  “eh.  No worries.  I’m glad you voted.  Have a good night!”

ps.  I was not the only one who heard of the free stuff.

I have not outgrown faerie tales.

     

I know I am so passed the prime of writing about the Twilight series, but I must opinionize. 

Stephanie Meyer sucked me in from the beginning; she pushed and twisted the plot so that I could not put down my book.  I had to keep reading.  And I have to say, it is quite an accomplishment to make vampires and werewolves not just palatable, but desirable.  I wanted to be a part of this crazy, supernatural world. 

However, when I put the books down and forced myself back to the real world, there was nothing for me here that compared.  There is no Edward.  I don’t get to change myself into a goddess on earth.  The Twilight world offers escape, but no substantive commentary on my world.

Stephanie Meyer’s immortal characters prove insipid and weak–though they are virtually unable to be harmed.  Particularly Edward.  He is strong and protects and provides for Bella.  He unceasingly and increasingly loves her.  She becomes his goddess, since he has no soul and answers to no other god.  The thing he loves most about Bella is her love for him.  She is his reason for being; and without her, he could not go on.   

Where is his flaw?  What does he have to overcome to get her?  Nothing!  She selfishly “gives up” her humanity in exchange for eternal existence as a vampire.  There is not conflict outside of her humanity. 

Ok.  I’m this normal girl who somehow the universe has ordered this amazing, unattainable guy to be attracted to me (or the smell of my blood, whatever).  All I have to do to get him is become a vampire?  …I’ve made a note.

So if I come to terms with the too-perfect man loving the selfish girl (If you think that’s harsh, review all the choices Bella makes.), I still was unsatisfied with the ending.  I need justice.  The Volturi deserve desolation.  They kill Irina for no good reason.  And they are obviously power mongers who manipulate and use vampires.  I’m proud of Carlisle trying to win with words, but the Volturi do not concede and turn from their ways.  At the end of 2 or 300 pages of build up to this terrible battle, and the reader is preparing for the dear vampires to be burned, for terror and desolation to ruin the century, for Nessie to be left without a mother and to be raised by wolves…

The Volturi walk away. 

And the Cullens know that they will have to deal with the Volturi some other day.  This is not over.  There is still danger.  The Cullens and all of those witnesses are left to die another day. 

I realize that I just went on about what these books lack, but they are entertaining.  They might verge on supersoap operatic, but I sure did read all four.  They were fun.

34 more days

 began this last week.  I hope you pray and fast to stop abortions in our country and around the world.  

“The poor expose their children, the rich kill the fruit of their own bodies in the womb, lest their property be divided up, and they destroy their own children in the womb with murderous poisons, and before life has been passed on, it is annihilated.” 

St. Ambrose exposes the selfishness of abortion.  Lest their property be divided up.  wow.  Lest my plans be thwarted.  Lest I be embarrass my family.  Lord, have mercy.  Christ, have mercy.  Lord, have mercy. 

Christ does have mercy.  He offers life to any who call on his name and repent.  Let’s remember and proclaim that as we pray for any girl considering an abortion, the doctors who abort babies, and those who violently condemn abortion.

e.e. cummings makes me happy

somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me,i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain, has such small hands

Prescription: laughter pills.

Take two and call me in the morning. 

One.

This is my fav: 

Evidently overly dramatic people can use the stairs whenever.

Two.

Do you believe in magic?

When I was in seventh grade, we had to keep a padlock on our PE locker.  We put all our clothes, any jewelry or books in the locker while at class–all safely under the combination lock.  That first year, there were several times that I was late to my next class because that lock was so tricky.  Don’t worry, by 9th grade, I was pretty much a pro. 

I forgot about how trickly combo locks can be until my 9 year old cousin was trying to get the lock off our pool gate yesterday.  He tried and got frustrated and tried again and told me it was the wrong numbers and tried again and then asked me to do it.  As I deftly opened the lock, his eyes got big and he said, “How’d you do that?!” 

“Magic.”

His eyes narrowed, and he informed me, “There’s no such thing as magic.  How did you open that lock?”

There is something fundamentally wrong here.  If a 9 year old doesn’t believe in magic, who does?  Why are families willing to put a dollar under a pillowcase in exchange for a tooth, but deny a fairy visited their house in the night? 

I reject any idea that a child will have some strong sense of injustice when he realizes his parents LIED to him all those years that Santa left presents under the tree.  If when you are nine, you cannot believe in fairy godmothers or dwarves on the march to reclaim old family money or a cousin with magic lock opening fingers—what will you be when you are grown? 

If you haven’t practiced believing the unbelievable, if you haven’t stretched and exercised your imagination, will you be able to believe in the stories and miracles of the saints?  Will you be able to fathom that God in flesh died for your stinking, sin-rotting soul?

Are you satisfied?

My father had worked with Catholics and told me they were no different from us.  If anything they were less solemn.  They liked to eat and drink and game and sing.  He said this almost as if he envied them.

Girl with a Pearl Earing by Johannes Vermeer

Going the Rounds: a sort of love poem

I took a compilation of poetry with me to read while I got my oil changed.  I like this one: 

Some people cannot endure
Looking down from the parapet atop the Empire State
Or the Statue of Liberty–they go limp, insecure,
The vertiginous height hums to their numbered bones
Some homily on Fate;
Neither virtue past nor vow to be good atones

To the queasy stomach, the quick,
Involuntary softening of the bowels.
“What goes up must come down,” it hums: the ultimate, sick
Joke of Fortuna. The spine, the world vibrates
With terse, ruthless avowals
From “The Life of More”, “A Mirror For Magistrates.”

And there are heights of spirit.
And one of these is love. From way up here,
I observe the puny view, without much merit,
Of all my days. High on the house are nailed
Banners of pride and fear.
And that small wood to the west, the girls I have failed.

It is, on the whole, rather glum:
The cyclone fence, the tar-stained railroad ties,
With, now and again, surprising the viewer, some
Garden of selflessness or effort. And, as I must,
I acknowledge on this high rise
The ancient metaphysical distrust.

But candor is not enough,
Nor is it enough to say that I don’t deserve
Your gentle, dazzling love, or to be in love.
That goddess is remorseless, watching us rise
In all our ignorant nerve,
And when we have reached the top, putting us wise.

My dear, in spite of this,
And the moralized landscape down there below,
Neither of which might seem the ground for bliss,
Know that I love you, know that you are most dear
To one who seeks to know
How, for your sake, to confront his pride and fear.

                                by Anthony Hecht