I don't know. I'm broke, I'm headed toward drunk, and I'm depressed. There's two holes in my ceiling, no women in my life, a festering wound in my arm, and a helluva deadline in my future. My head hurts, my feet stink, and I don't love Jesus. I need to be held, but there's no arms to hold me. My truck's broke, my larder's empty, and my clothes are all wet. I don't even have a dog, but I expect that if he were to exist, he'd've r-u-n-n-o-f-t by now. What the hell am I supposed to do?

Women delight, confuse, and mystify me, and one woman in particular, who will most likely be my undoing for a long while yet. Other than that, I have little to say.

So much to relate, and most of it took place on Friday. I'm going to Cambridge -- more or less -- and I'm taking three hours with Quinn in Summer I, when he'll be teaching me Old English! I applied for my passport on Friday, and sent off the application for the programme as well; this was followed by the Fulbright Award ceremony, which, as all ceremonies are, was tedious. But afterwards, I went to Julius Caesar, the Brando version, and... well, I'm not going to publish the rest of the evening online, but it was inexperssible in words and long-sought-after.

The paper got in, if you're wondering, but it's crap, and I was off my stride all day yesterday: Connolly and I spent three hours just hanging out and attempting to speak Latin, a venture of doubtful success, but nonetheless worth having. The evening was capped off with dinner at A Taste of Thai, with friends who seem to think the world of me, for whatever reason.

"Let me confront you with the arguments of Reason herself; then you will see that she is right."

Had to break into my own damn house today, and then spent the rest of the afternoon getting groceries. I'm tired, and I have a paper due tomorrow. Woo!

What a depressingly average week. I've been working on all this website stuff for Dave. I got the paper back from Sexton, and it was marked up in ways that mean I'll not have any free weekends from now until the semester's end. Coon didn't belive that I'd read all the stuff I told her I'd read, or done the things I'd told her I'd done, and berated me again; can't wait until the fall. I've also been trying to work on getting a "Latina Viveat" club together, where we could speak Latin aloud, for fun and prophet; I may have found a time, but that remains to be seen. I'm also entertaining thoughts of running for Prytanis for 2003/4.
I'm really worried about going on Study Abroad this summer; it means assuming a lot of debt, and possibly doing things that may not be very interesting. On the other hand it's England, in the summer.
I wish I could say it would take care of itself, but... shit. I can't, and it won't, and I've got to worry about keeping the flat in the summer, and paying the bills.
I hate stress. It may very well kill me.

Sic volvere parces.

Okay, so, much to relate. I gave a presentation on Thursday that was I assume warmly received. Then, on Friday, 10 of us left for the HSF convention, which was very interesting. Old friends were met (and sadly snubbed, I'm afraid, but that's convention for you) and new friends made. After our victory (see below), we ended up at "Toto's", a real Italian restauraunt run by a real Southern Italian, which was most unique; as it turns out, they only serve food on Friday nights, so we lucked out.
Two of the three papers were not so good, and the middle one was GREAT, but it didn't win; in fact, the worst was honored, which makes me wonder about the state of the minds of the executive board.
Half of us won the Certamin; Aaron Randolph was elected as Megas Grammateus. The shirts sold quite briskly, and in fact we are nearly out of them, despite the fact that I think these were possibly the worst I've done.
Other than that, life has returned to normal, inasmuch as one can call stress and madness normal.

Christ.

The folks came up, which was wonderful, because it broke the terrible pain that it is to birth a paper -- and this one, by all accounts, seems to have been quite the abortion. At any rate, we (my folks and I, not me and the paper) went out to Pea Ridge, a park I'd never even been to, so as to get a little sun. Boy, did I get it -- I think this is probably the first sunburn of the year. Oooh yeah.

Afterwards, we went over and saw The Pianist, a powerful film that defies any mention of me telling it to you. All I can say is that you should see it.

But yeah, so, I have a draught of this fucking S Petro paper, and man, it's an ugly mother. I'm going to have to spend some serious revision time on it -- but not tomorrow. Tomorrow, I figure out what I need to have done that I would have done last week if I hadn't been working on this paper.

Welche Farbe hat der Mind?

His ego nec metas rerum nec tempora pono;
imperium sine fine dedi.

Ave Buse! Nos qui fracturi rota sint te salutes.

In short, in honour of the war, I have *stopped* reading Dante's Paradiso, and have instead added the Koran to my nightly Sacred Works readings (Tanekh and Christian scripture, and, if I could find it, a decent Nag Hammadi), and have taken to reading the Æneid, in English, as well. Cultural understanding and empire-making. Makes you just want to be Celtae in the hills, no?

Erica came up. She's doing well, for Erica. I gave her my folks' email and phone, and told her that my mother was concerned about her and would love to hear from her. She made the house smell like grass (for pain) and cigarets, and with the outside smells, and coffee, and the normal house smell, it felt like The House in Damascus, and I got very serene. She was a breath of fresh air, really -- if she hadn't come up, I'd be a different person.

Life feels good.

Well, That Silent Planet is done, and I've taken to reading a little Old Testament, a little New, and some Dante; I'd really like to get through all three of those things, but that might take a while. I've been taking Nyquill in the evenings, too, and that gives me about fifteen to twenty minutes to read before I pass out.

Nights have been warm, and days too, in spite of the rain. I hope *knock oak* that Spring's really here. Certainly my sinuses are sure of it: with the conifers being horny, my nose is being overly phlegmatic, and life's becoming a bitch. However, I seem to be getting over it, and that's a plus.

Spring break is up: I'm not going anywhere for it, though. Erica might come up here, and the folks too, but in between, there's a lot of reading and writing to do. I did get paid -- and if the folks come up and are amenable to it, I'll have lots of books to sell, and more money from SR and the Tax folks. Money provided me the ability to eat pretty well while that's going down. CL even took me shopping, so I have alcohol as well. Anything to get all this work done, I tell you what.

I got copies of God's Phallus and The History of Sexuality; the latter is for the Sexton paper, and the former may come in handy... someday. That's the big thing this week, actually: I have to have it to a presentable point (1/3 of it done, with five images to be shown and a host of other requirements) by the 27th.

I didn't even talk to fucking Coon this week; she was being a bit of a pill, and since I had to wait twenty minutes with no meeting, only to discover later that she'd been in a meeting and we'd missed each other in the hall, which caused her chastise my "patience", well, I let her have it, and haven't heard from her since. We'll see if she even wants to talk to me Mittwoch after next. Still, though -- I'd actually DONE work for her this week, and to have to wait -- not even being told that she *had* a meeting -- and then get a sarcastic remark like that... well, if she didn't deserve it, I'd like to see proof.

On another note entirely, I really, really wish I had a significant other, or a least a glimmer of hope for one. Not that it's vital to my life, but dammit, human beings need something to love, and I don't even have a cat.

Bah! Enough whining. L'chaim, or at least to work. Wish me luck; I'll write to you soon.Wish me luck; I'll write to you soon.

God in heaven.

This was a rough week. Dave lectured on Lacanian psychoanalysis, which is a whole mess of fun and caused me to briefly give up my desire for the One. That was recovered the following Thursday in NeoPlatonism, though, so that's all right. Of course, Wednesday morning, I awoke to discover that my sinuses had been drinking without me, and have yet even now as this is being written to sobre up. I've tried a lot, from mulled wine to ginger tea to herbs, and now I'm going balls-out Roman and drinking a tea made by boiling halved Red Wine with Honey, Rose Hips, Willow Bark, Mint, Yarrow, and Sage, all of which are designed to over-sanguinate my system and thereby crush whatever's giving my sinuses hell. The worst part is the drainage, though -- it's giving me a helluva cough.

My plate is equally full this weekend. I've got to complete a paper, read an article and answer questions, and prepare a lot of Latin for Dave; write an argumentative paper for Spellman, and read *some* gender stuff a/o archetecture for Sexton/Coon, so they'll get off my case about being lazy. Coon was especially selfish this week, and Sexton wants half a paper in two weeks. Thank God there's spring break there soon, and I've got some money coming, or I'd be just starving and going mad slowly.

Slowly? Perhaps not. Nevertheless, I've got a killer sinus problem, and there's no telling just exactly how much hell I've got to go through before it's all over. Christ, I don't need this right now.

Still got That Silent Planet to read, and a lot of other books once the ol' Tax Refund returns.

Jambalaya, Crawfish Pie, File Gumbo...

Well, it's march now, and the weather's perking up. I've got a lot on my plate this weekend, like papers for Dave and Sexton and Spellman (due later on, yeah, but that's no excuse to not start early), and of course getting those tapes for SR burned onto CD's -- no easy task: the tapes are 90 minutes, and the CD's only hold 80, which is a shame. I've also got this Narrative history to read, which is a good little dry background to what I'm writing about.

Have finished Peralandra and now started That Hideous Strength. Something about the end of Peralandra brought back memories of youth, of Summers spent at Camp Mitchell before I turned calleous, of the kinds of fiction I should have been writing, and most importantly, of The One. I'm really just ascending into Neoplatonisim, and I don't care, because it's nice to have SOME philosophy, some moral ground by which I can move.

Well, there's still Latin and a lot of reading to do, and Aul Drew mumbled something about doing something this weekend, so there you are.

Bihold! Hit am I. It snowed on Sonntag, which *mirabile dictu* caused them to close School on Montag (when I didn't need it) and go for Inclimiate Weather (which is a fucking cop-out) on Dienstag and Mittwoch. Nevertheless, I seem to be getting Things done, even with the Madness and All. I don't even have a legal Excuse to skip Landscape Architecture this Morning, dammit, though I pray to God that he's snowed in down in Winslow and perhaps has frozen to Death in some Arctic-Tundra Jack-London sort of Way.

I finished Ex Mundis Tacetis and have started Peralandra. Lewis' writing is holding up well. I also stole Abbey Hoffman's Steal This Book and have found it all very familiar: it's either Tramp Lore or Common-Sense I Learned from Ana & Grizz. No German this week, and I'm starting to feel the pinch. No matter; soon I'll have been paid, and can get on with life.

I've lost the last two days to the SCWCA conference, which isn't that bad since I'll make 1 2/3 paychecks (about $250 or so after taxen). On the other hand, I'm way behind with everything: I have to finish a summary for Dave, and do it right this time; then there's Sexton's readings, Latin, German, and Philosophy, more or less in that order. I also need to finish up tapes for Die Richardsons, so that I might make another $250 or so in the space of a few days. Of course, it's also snowing like a madman, and I've got bread in the oven (that's bread, dammit, not "a bun").

I started reading CS Lewis' Ex Mundis Tacetis, and have found it much, much more of a book than I remembered from my days as an ignorant seven-year-old. I may actually make it through the series this time -- but then I did that with Tolkein, too, and found them also pleasing.

Anyway, back to attempted work.

Inter Arma Enim Silent Leges.
-- Cicero, Pro Milone 11

I skated through this day. 92 on the LARC exam, B+ on the Philosophy paper (I left out some supporting details, and got a little pendantic, but other than that...). Dave writes really concise, clear prose, which is rather a change from Judith Butler, whom I am rereading, notepad in hand, in the hopes that ideas can be extracted from the nightmare of prose that that this Apuleius of California ejaculated on the screen. The rest of the day went grindingly slow, except for Petrine Basilica, wherein I did some writing, and piped up with something witty and semi-informed at the right times, despite having not read the assignment.
Latin's done, I'm about to start some German, and then finish reading the Roman Gaze biblio. Wednesday's todo list is getting longer by the second, and I have to drop some bucks by the bank or it's no bread for this boy come Satruday.

Management Advice 52 from the Cheese, by Fang Yuan.

Man, I've been a space cadet all day, and I have no idea why. Fredrick said that it might just be stress, and he may be right -- I swear by IOM (and Adonai, yes yes) that I'm not taking this kind of class load again. Christ's wounds! This is madness. If I were the sort of person who might do it, I'd buy some grass and blow a hooter.

In the meantime, I've got this Plotinus to read -- and he's rather clear, or at least didactic, so that's all right. I've also got to plow through some articles, and make a nice "homework sheet" for Drew, but I'm going to read some Harper's and eat dinner. At least Dave moved the Cicero summary to next week, so I can rest easy on that.

The sparrow's secret name is £èðß. It is pronounced "¤".

So...
Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita
mi ritrovai per una selva oscura
ché la diritta via era smarrita.

It's cold, it's warm, it's cold, it's warm, I'm lonely but I have good friends, assholes do vex me with their clamoring for work, and if Cicero weren't dead, I would cut off his head and hands and nail them to the Rostrum (which I would have to rebuild for the sole purpose of doing so). But both projects that are due this week are for Dave, and one of them is almost done, while the other has yet to be done because he hasn't sent the assignment yet, so I'm reading this speech with no clue as to what I'm to seek.


Sexton wanted more Gender readings in my bibliography, but didn't elabourate; Coon says there's a nice Early Medieval biblio, but I haven't seen it yet. Dave lent me a copy of his fabulous new book The Roman Gaze, so the (late) Antique section is go.


Speaking of bookes, I sold a few today -- about £43 6/- worth for £16 12/-. I'm not knocking it, though: £3 6/- will go to copy card, and the rest will be ancillory groceries. Yaay!

I should do dishes. I should do work. I should go to church. I should write longer sentences.

Remember that thou art mortal. Remember that thou art mortal. Remember that girl from the bar?

Today's supersecretspy message is:
.won pots tsum I tub

Okay, dig this: I was reading in the back of the 1979 BCP the Cannons of Faith, and came across this:

X. Of Free Will.

The condition of Man after the fall of Adam is such, that he cannot turn
and prepare himself, by his own natural strength and good works, to
faith, and calling upon God. Wherefore we have no power to do good
works pleasant and acceptable to God, without the grace of God by Christ
preventing us, that we may have a good will, and working with us, when
we have that good will.

XI. Of the Justification of Man.

We are accounted righteous before God, only for the merit of our Lord
and Saviour Jesus Christ by Faith, and not for our own works or
deservings. Wherefore, that we are justified by Faith only, is a most
wholesome Doctrine, and very full of comfort, as more largely expressed
in the Homily of Justification.

XII. Of Good Works.

Albeit that Good Works, which are the fruits of Faith, and follow after
Justification, cannot put away our sins, and endure the severity of
God's judgment; yet are they pleasing and acceptable to God in Christ,
and do spring out necessarily of a true and lively Faith; insomuch that
by them a lively Faith may be as evidently known as a tree discerned by
the fruit.

Now, I read all that and thought, "Wait a second... if Faith is all that is needed to be saved, why do good works? It's not as though anything benefits you from doing them... or does it?" You see, it's more like this: that Faith instead engenders us to know the Mind of God, and in so doing, allows us to do those works which are pleasing to him (and therefore good, since I take it like most everyone else that God == Good in a very Platonic sense). However, each of us has a soul, and it is by Works, which is nothing more than being the Hand to the Mind of God, that your soul is made better.
And then, I thought, what if that is a definition of Jesus? What if Jesus very early on connected fully with the mind of God, and was then engendered to do the greatest of these works? And also perhaps this is the explanation of his apostles, and all other saints who perform miracles -- they are simply those who have come to know fully the Good, i.e. God. God therefore is no less open to us now than he was before (ditch that line about "well it was only in the past-times" and the tendency to read Hebrew scripture as the long departure from God), and we ought to be able, with enough patience and energy, to do good, even miraculous, works.
This is wonderful news, if it be true. God did not turn God's face from us; we turned our faces from God, and thus, being self-absorbed, we managed to reach the spheres and find them empty. Let us turn back to God, who waits for us with patience that would try any time-bound being, and put our trust in God.

I'm still having trouble with the salvific cross, though. That's going to take some time.

Man, it's been almost non-stop snow for the past few days. Just as it was starting to melt -- bvrrrt! -- there's some more. It's keeping me confined to quarters as it were, since I don't want to kick around in the snow to get places, and it's sure as shit that the truck won't start in this mess, even if it were to have forward gears.

That's all right, though, because I've got to finish a draught for Spellman today, and I've got some Latin to do, and a ton of reading for Dave; I can't do Sexton's reading because I need to copy it off, and it's on reserve at FAL. At least I went shopping yesterday -- and started a new, very carefully budgeted menu plan -- so there's food in the house, and the clothes are drying behind me as we speak. Don't worry, kids: there's plenty to do. Stop picking on your brother! Patrick! Patrick Christopher Lewis! Take that mitre off and quit exiling your sister. Mary, go convert the dog.

Now, Ross, I belive it was your move?

"Every time you call my name, I see St Peter wave!
Dig my grave!"

Possible socio-religious significance with respect to the cult of the saints?

Today's favourite line:

"I dobut whether anyone could adequately celebrate the nature of the number seven, since it is beyond all words."
-- Philo of Alexandria, De Opificio Mundi 89-90

Snow! Lots of glorious, non-school-stopping snow!