SCENE OF DOMESTIC LIFE IN THE HISTORICAL HOUSE
Seraphic (standing on toes): This is what I would look like if I were 5'4".
B.A.: You're fine at 5'2". Why do you want to be 5'4"?
Seraphic: I don't really. But I would like to decompress my spine. Apparently all you need is five minutes a day on an inversion table.
B.A.: What is an inversion table?
Seraphic: Oh, it's really neat. It's a sort of board and you strap yourself into it and then you flip it over and hang upside down by your ankles.
B.A. (seeing where this is going, i.e. wallet): We don't need an inversion table.
Seraphic: Wah! But I want to decompress my spine!
B.A.: Well, what else can you do to decompress your spine?
Seraphic: Well, I suppose you could hold me upside down by my ankles. Let's try!
B.A.: You're mental. I can't hold you upside down by your ankles.
Seraphic: Why not? I weigh only one-hundred-and-thirty-three pounds.
B.A. Because it is physically impossible.
Seraphic: But you're a MAN. A big, strong MAN.
B.A.: Yes, but I would have to hold my arms up HERE. I could only hold a sack of potatoes from up HERE. And I would hurt my back.
Seraphic (abashed) : Oh! I don't want you to hurt your back. Maybe I could do a headstand or a handstand?
B.A.: But that wouldn't decompress your spine. Gravity would just compress your spine into your neck.
Seraphic: So hanging from my ankles is the only way?
B.A.: Yes.
Seraphic (dubiously): I wonder if I can even do a handstand.
(Seraphic turns her back on B.A. and attempts to do a handstand. Without warning, B.A. grabs her flailing ankles and pulls upward.)
Seraphic: AIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!
(B.A. drops Seraphic. Seraphic giggles uncontrollably.)
B.A.: I really don't understand why you want to be taller.
Seraphic: I don't want to be taller. I want to decompress my SPIIIIIINE!
***
My column responding to the deacon who wrote a letter saying I put down the "new Mass" and suggesting I want it banned has appeared online for free. (I guess it's my week for the free-view column.) Here it is.
I suppose the only thing to add is that he was responding to my column (behind a firewall, alas) about how the most beautiful Mass in Toronto is Solemn High Mass at Holy Family Church on Sunday mornings. The point of that column was to alert people who long for beauty at Mass to this Mass, so they would know where to go. As in Toronto you can go to German Mass, Polish Mass, Italian Mass, Chinese Mass, Vietnamese Mass--all kinds of Masses catering to your preferred language or ethnic group--and even a Praise and Worship Music Mass, it seemed fair to me to publicize a Mass that is characterized by the highest possible beauty and solemnity.
I made no claims that it was anyone's dearest Mass, using the analogy of a mother. When you are five, you are convinced that your own mother is the best and most beautiful mother in the world, and so I suppose many, many Catholics feel the same about their own parish mass, and that is good. But naturally Zhang Ziyi and Aishwaryi Rai Bachchan beat old Mum hollow when it comes to objective feminine beauty, as you realize when you grow up. Not that you care. You love your mother because she is your mother while cheerfully acknowledging that she's not as stunning as the brightest stars of the silver screen, and feeling no guilt when you revel in their beauty.
To tell the truth about the Extraordinary Form is not to trash the Ordinary Form any more than to say that my Temporary Pretend Polish Daughter is the reigning beauty of the Historical House is to say I'm a wrinkled old hag. (And, indeed, I said the Holy Family EF is more beautiful than the Edinburgh EF, though naturally I am fonder of the Edinburgh EF.) I know that some liturgists have serious theological objections to the Ordinary Form, but I am not yet convinced this means the N.O. must go. (Can you imagine the confusion and dismay if it did?!) Cardinal Stickler wrote about the "Latin language [acting] like a reverent curtain against profanation" and I find that German, Italian and Polish work like that for me. And Cardinal Stickler points out that when the Novus Ordo is said by the book--he cites the Novus Ordo as said by popes--there is nothing amiss.
***
There are still many copies of Seraphic Singles available for sale, as my Canadian publisher informs me. If you have not read my first book, why not buy a copy and gladden hearts at Novalis? If you want to buy a copy for a Polish friend, the edition you want is the rather more celebrated Anielskie Single.
***
If you live in Canada (especially Toronto), why not get a copy of Catholic Insight magazine and read my latest interview about Ceremony of Innocence? Apparently there's a review, too, which I am dying to read.
Showing posts with label Traddery. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Traddery. Show all posts
Friday, 4 April 2014
Monday, 31 March 2014
Laetare Sterilis
It is Monday after the Laetare Sunday before, and oh but do I have a lot of dishes still to wash! But it was a lovely day, from the glorious rose vestments to the rose-coloured icing on the cakes. And right there in the readings was a command that childless women should rejoice:
Galatians 4:27 Scriptum est enim laetare sterilis quae non paris erumpe et exclama quae non parturis quia multi filii desertae magis quam eius quae habet virum. (For it is written: "Be glad, O barren woman, who bears no children; break forth and cry aloud, you who have no labor pains; because more are the children of the desolate woman than of her who has a husband.")
Well, I have a husband, and this all probably applies more to nuns, and St. Paul probably meant it figuratively anyway, but I'll take it!
At lunch a young Polish guest, in Edinburgh just for the weekend, surveyed the rest of the dozen people around the pink tablecloth and remarked that none of us had children. And, indeed, I can see that this would look strange to Polish eyes, for Poland is a country that really loves children, and most Polish adults prefer to have them. We were of all ages ranging from 25 to 69.
I explained that everyone except BA and I were unmarried and BA and I had married too late for children. And I went on at great length about my parish friend currently away in Asia, who is married and had two children while attending our EF Mass. This was in part to prove that some people in our EF community actually do have babies. (And there are others, of course.) But I had to admit that this friend never comes to Sunday Lunch, and indeed socially the community is roughly divided between those who have children and those who don't. However, this is partly because families with children don't really have the time or the inclination to come to Sunday Lunch.
Here is where I should write something clever and poignant about the message of the Gospel being partly about the inclusion of those left without children or husbands or family ties into society, but poppets I am wiped. Lunch for 14 means a lot of work, and BA always snores after parties.
Galatians 4:27 Scriptum est enim laetare sterilis quae non paris erumpe et exclama quae non parturis quia multi filii desertae magis quam eius quae habet virum. (For it is written: "Be glad, O barren woman, who bears no children; break forth and cry aloud, you who have no labor pains; because more are the children of the desolate woman than of her who has a husband.")
Well, I have a husband, and this all probably applies more to nuns, and St. Paul probably meant it figuratively anyway, but I'll take it!
At lunch a young Polish guest, in Edinburgh just for the weekend, surveyed the rest of the dozen people around the pink tablecloth and remarked that none of us had children. And, indeed, I can see that this would look strange to Polish eyes, for Poland is a country that really loves children, and most Polish adults prefer to have them. We were of all ages ranging from 25 to 69.
I explained that everyone except BA and I were unmarried and BA and I had married too late for children. And I went on at great length about my parish friend currently away in Asia, who is married and had two children while attending our EF Mass. This was in part to prove that some people in our EF community actually do have babies. (And there are others, of course.) But I had to admit that this friend never comes to Sunday Lunch, and indeed socially the community is roughly divided between those who have children and those who don't. However, this is partly because families with children don't really have the time or the inclination to come to Sunday Lunch.
Here is where I should write something clever and poignant about the message of the Gospel being partly about the inclusion of those left without children or husbands or family ties into society, but poppets I am wiped. Lunch for 14 means a lot of work, and BA always snores after parties.
Wednesday, 26 March 2014
The Prince, the Fogeys and the Sartorial Police
What was very funny about this scene was that the prince was surrounded by much plumper, much shorter young men all turned out like Evelyn Waugh: loud tweeds, red cords, shiny shoes. It was not a Young Fogey hour of glory. Compared to the prince, they looked like they were trying too hard. The word middle-class comes to mind, spoken like an insult (B.A. will cringe at reading this, head disappearing into shoulders) and I am middle-class---that is, I acknowledge that this is where I fit on the British class system chart, which vaguely reminds me of apartheid-era South Africa.
It is considered very rude and outré and possibly middle-class-as-a-bad-thing to ponder the British class system when one lives in Britain, and of course it has changed very much although I know elderly semi-aristos and public school men who still think they can get away with being simply disgustingly rude (they can't), and I encounter chip-on-the-shoulder working-class types from time to time. Once when B.A. went to the front of a loosely organized bus queue to peer at the bus schedule, a rheumy-eyed old man, slightly the worse for drink, angrily demanded that he get back: "those days are over." The implication was that tweed-coat wearing B.A. was the upper class oppressor, thrusting himself before the Honest Working Man.
Have I mentioned it is actually dangerous for me to wear any hat more ornate than a beret on the Rough Bus? I love hats, especially cute vintage ones with eye-veils, but I can't wear them on the bus or while alone on the public street. The one exception may be when I look as though I were going to a wedding. The sartorial police would probably then give me a pass.
"Oh I know," said a Scottish lady I know, who is always beautifully turned out at parties. "On the bus I wear a hoody and pull the hood over my head, willing myself to be invisible."
This may put the Young Fogeys' choice of clothing into perspective. It is actually brave to dress according to an older idiom in Edinburgh, especially if you leave the pretty Georgian parts for the grimier neighbourhoods, and the Historical House lies between two grimier neighbourhoods. If ever I am killed by a rock flying through the window of the Rough Bus, you may all consider me a Scottish Architectural Heritage martyr. The papers got all excited because boys from the right-hand grimy neighbourhood threw rocks at a Pole. Racist hate crime, shrieked the papers. But I snorted because those boys throw rocks at anything that moves.
I do hate the fact that actual fear of attack, whether verbal or physical, governs my sartorial choices. Of course, it is not as bad as it is in Egypt or Afghanistan. But, honestly, given where I live, I think I could be forgiven if I left the house only in long T-shirts, leggings and trainers (running shoes). I have never in my life--even as a middle-aged lady--managed to be invisible, but the T-shirt, legging and trainer combo would offend no-one as I tramped around the down-at-heels town to the left.
Edinburgh University, which is in a nice part of Edinburgh, is a different story, and my Polish Temporary Pretend Daughter mentioned yesterday that she gets more male attention when she wears a skirt than when she wears jeans. PTPD is a cute wee thing in her early 20s, but wearing a shortish skirt and a Nordic pullover makes her super-cute, and thus all the masculine attention and "Oh, you look very pretty today".
What I draw from this is that "pretty" is okay and indeed good in the area around Edinburgh University, at least for women under thirty. However, I suspect eccentricity is not okay there either, especially when eccentricity looks like a "middle-class" person trying to look "upper class". (In the narrow minds of the "socially excluded" people on the Rough Bus--no-one on Council having thought to do anything about the stultifying mental poverty the "socially excluded" are forced into--anyone on a bus cannot be authentically posh.) The poor of Edinburgh grudgingly respect poshness in the obviously rich, but loathe it in the possibly poor, in the "Who does she think she is?" spirit their more adventurous great-uncles and great-aunts took with them to Canada.
It strikes me as absolutely pathetic that I have to worry about looking like I am "putting on airs", and I suspect this is a problem that plagues young black women in American ghettos. "Acting posh" is the British equivalent of "acting white", and it is really very sad. Indeed, I am factoring it in as I decided whether or not to buy that absolutely beautiful tweed jacket for sale at Walker Slater.
So although they occasionally look silly, I must say that I admire the Young Fogeys of Britain for their counter-cultural stand. Compared to a Young Fogey, punk rockers are boringly conventional and cowardly sheep. And, now that I think about it, I admire even more the non-Fogeys who go to Mass with us Fogeys and Fogettes, and treat us like normal human beings instead of real-life versions of the most hated fictional character in Britain, Hyacinth Bucket. That is real Christian charity.
Update: As a Canadian of British descent, I am trying to understand how a real British person would read this. Am I like a Central European trundling up to a white American and saying, "Is it true that you are frightened of black people?" or to a black American and saying, "Are white people really that awful to you?" On the other hand, I live in this uniquely British class mess, so I think I have the right to complain and work to change it, insofar as that is humanly possible.
Update 2: At a party last weekend, I met someone who teaches Social... er. Actually, it was such an Orwellian phrase, I can't remember it. Basically she works in a "socially excluded", welfare-dependency neighbourhood in Glasgow, and has to teach teenagers social skills. "Like filling out tax forms?" I asked brightly. "Nothing so complicated," she said. She seemed a bit gloomy. "Like how to eat in a restaurant?" I suggested. (In Germany, applicants for Top Jobs are still taken to restaurants so that the interviewers can assess the interviewee's table manners.) But no. It seems it is mostly about staying off drugs.
Update Three: Actually, though, when I was an undergrad it was de rigeur at the University of Toronto for students to despise "the petits bourgeois", which quite often meant their own middle-class parents. Actually, now that I have finally looked up the term, I see that the petits bourgeois includs hard-working shopkeepers. So how dared they?
Wednesday, 5 March 2014
In Fairness to the Bishop of Forth Worth
An excerpt from an email I got today, which I post with a goodly number of personal details about the writer removed for anonymity's sake. Be content that I am content that s/he knows what s/he is talking about:
You probably don't remember me, and I hate to email about Fisher-More as a reintroduction, but this situation is driving me crazy and I can at least try to help somewhere (i.e. your little corner of the blogosphere) in a world gone mad. I was X from Y-Z. I do not want to drudge up all the unpleasant memories, but I would like to stress that the suppression of the EF makes perfect sense in the context of Fisher-More. The liturgy had become a weapon to attack the hierarchy, and a real danger to people's souls. (I write this as a cradle trad who [...]) The Mass as worship of God was eclipsed by the Mass as ideology. Y-Z was a very, very ugly year, and I am happy to have escaped with my Faith intact. For the good of Michael [King's] soul and those of [the] students, they needed the wake-up call that the Church is more than a particular form of the Mass or even a particular rite. In an environment as insular as FM, this was the only way - even if it has led to the bishop being crucified.
***
Thankfully, the bishop has not actually been crucified, which I mention because sometimes cruel people do have the bright idea of crucifying Christians, including at least one Ukrainian protester I read about last month. However, I imagine the Bishop has received nasty mail. In fact, I know he has, for I read one man's boast that he had sent some. I think that is a real shame, and I wish it hadn't happened even though I personally can't understand how suppressing the EF (while not the NO, which can be seriously messed with and too often is) can ever be a good thing. I will just have to take the cradle trad's word that in this unusual situation, it is.
You probably don't remember me, and I hate to email about Fisher-More as a reintroduction, but this situation is driving me crazy and I can at least try to help somewhere (i.e. your little corner of the blogosphere) in a world gone mad. I was X from Y-Z. I do not want to drudge up all the unpleasant memories, but I would like to stress that the suppression of the EF makes perfect sense in the context of Fisher-More. The liturgy had become a weapon to attack the hierarchy, and a real danger to people's souls. (I write this as a cradle trad who [...]) The Mass as worship of God was eclipsed by the Mass as ideology. Y-Z was a very, very ugly year, and I am happy to have escaped with my Faith intact. For the good of Michael [King's] soul and those of [the] students, they needed the wake-up call that the Church is more than a particular form of the Mass or even a particular rite. In an environment as insular as FM, this was the only way - even if it has led to the bishop being crucified.
***
Thankfully, the bishop has not actually been crucified, which I mention because sometimes cruel people do have the bright idea of crucifying Christians, including at least one Ukrainian protester I read about last month. However, I imagine the Bishop has received nasty mail. In fact, I know he has, for I read one man's boast that he had sent some. I think that is a real shame, and I wish it hadn't happened even though I personally can't understand how suppressing the EF (while not the NO, which can be seriously messed with and too often is) can ever be a good thing. I will just have to take the cradle trad's word that in this unusual situation, it is.
Tuesday, 4 March 2014
Seven Quick Pancakes
1.
It is Pancake Day, or Shrove Tuesday, or Mardi Gras in Western Christendom. I wonder how much of Christendom actually makes the pancakes, however. In Poland and Polonia the fun day is Tłusty Czwartek, Fat Thursday, which was last Thursday, when Poles have a good excuse to stuff themselves with pączki, i.e. jam-filled Polish doughnuts. This year I was determined to remember to celebrate Tłusty Czwartek, but then Hilary White converted me to Anti-Sugarism. That said, I shall be making blueberry pancakes for B.A. and me tonight and not stinting on the 100% Canadian maple syrup. As Carnival hijinks go, that strikes me as mild.
2.
I was going to make pancakes for breakfast but unfortunately I was in the grip of a terrible dream. In this dream, I had been hired to give Seraphic Singles lectures at a Catholic or Evangelical conference in Cuba or Bahamas or somewhere like that, but instead of giving the lectures, I had an affair. It had absolutely no glamour of evil, either. There was no deep conversation or shared jokes or high-minded speeches or sunsets. It was basically just being in bed with some skinny stranger while cranky conference organizers burst in the room from time to time to find out where I was and go through the trash for evidence of wrongdoing. They found a lot, for when I got home, my mother revealed that they had written to her, and she was not amused.
At this point the dream got even more confused because it seemed to me very unlikely that I would do such a wicked thing, or have the time to go to Cuba or the Bahamas during my Canadian trip. Although I vaguely remembered something like that, I was sure it must have been a dream. How to explain the letter, though? In great agitation of spirits, I checked my passport to see if it had any corroborative stamps. Hélas! My passport was a patchwork of wrong names and advertising!
From time to time I would half-wake up and notice B.A. snoring away beside me and feel sure that the dream was just a dream, but then I would fall back into it. Really, it never seemed to end. I kept rushing hither and thither trying to prove I had not gone to Cuba or the Bahamas. It was a great relief to wake up entirely and find B.A. buttoning up his shirt. However, when I told him of my ghastly dream, he said, "So that's why I got that letter from the Cuban Health Authority."
Hours later I realized that the skinny stranger was the British "Food TV" presenter who wasted an hour of our lives last night wandering around Los Angeles eating street food. Ugh.
Three.
My mother watches a lot of television, but as my parents have a big house, it is quite easy to escape the idiot box. The same is not true of the flat in the Historical House. My mother thinks the flat has the same square footage as her house, but it really does not have all the comfortable nooks and crannies. It also lacks the neighbourliness of several people all looking vaguely like me. The only other person around is B.A., so if I want the comfort of another human presence, I have to go back into the living room where he is watching brainless British telly. "It's not brainless," he is wont to say. "It's a documentary about the coast of Ireland."
4.
Although I can get sucked into "The Great British Bakeoff", I would be perfectly happy if the only channel we got was ITV Three, so I could watch "Poirot", "Endeavour" and "Lewis." Although "UK Border Police" was diverting, watching illegal migrants climb out windows and run like the wind struck me as cruel.
5.
The trad part of the Catholic blogosphere is going nuts because the young, plump bishop of Fort Worth, Texas has tried to solve the problems of a local Catholic college by banning its use of the Extraordinary Form. It is striking that the man was made bishop at age 47, and now he is internationally infamous, too. Nobody gave him the memo that bishops can't ban the Extraordinary Form. Nor did it occur to him (or whoever actually wrote his letter) that suggesting that the Mass of the Ages, which dates long before the Council of Trent, and nourished generations of Christians, including almost all the known saints, is bad for your soul is best left to anti-Catholic tracts.
I have no stake in Fisher-More College, except for any readers there (hello!), but I understand that the bishop's real concern was not about the Extraordinary Form but about the college president's increasingly strident critique of the Second Vatican Council. How happy I will be when we have Trent II, so we have another Council to fight about. All my life people older than me have been banging on about Vatican II like it was Catholic Woodstock. Vatican II was actually quite dull compared to other Councils: the bihops, periti and guests never had to suspend talks and flee because war had broken out, and nobody punched anyone else. My friend Aelianus loves the Council of Florence best; currently I have a soft spot for dear old Trent. At least people obeyed the liturgical reforms of Trent. Very few people seem to have read the liturgical reforms of Vatican II. "Look, giant puppets!" "No, it says Gregorian Chant." "Puppets!" "No, look. Sound it out. G-r-e-g-o-r-i-a-n ch-a-n-t." "Puppets!"
6.
Only once have I walked out of Mass thanks to the musical stylings of the soi-distant ministers of music. That really amazes me when I think back to what I have sat through in my time. Long electric guitar solos in the middle of the Gloria. Outrageously loud amplification in a German seminary chapel. A parish choir singing the atheist "We Rise Again in the Faces of Our Children" during Communion. No, what did it for me was a Filipino folk band in Toronto. The place was packed with stolid-faced white folk, and the only one smiling was the elderly priest, who did a little dance behind the altar as the happy band banged and strummed, tootled and wailed through microphones. I forget if I lasted to the Gloria, or if it was the Kyrie that inspired my retreat. As my heels hurriedly clicked-clicked to the blessed quiet of the street, all eyes to the left and right followed me enviously down the aisle.
7.
I once told a flame that what I liked best in music was the silence between the notes. He was most impressed and said I was ready for jazz, which is the sort of thing flames say. Men love to instruct women on just about anything: shooting pool, shooting baskets, Wittgenstein. Use this knowledge for good.
What I like very much in the Extraordinary Form of the Mass is the extraordinary hush it fosters in a congregation. At the 11 o'clock at Holy Family Church in Toronto, you can hear the flutter of the Mass booklets and the gentle thumps of the kneelers going down. Sure, sometimes a baby has to wail a bit. but he is usually taken out if Mass has actually begun.
I am strongly of the opinion that we hear God in the silence between the notes. A world that hates silence is a world afraid to hear God.
***
Update: Mark J. Miller of Catholic World Report differs on the subject of bishops being able to squelch celebration of the EF. Still unanswered, however, is the question of how squelching it would in any way help the college president's or his students' souls.
Update 2: When I say "young, plump" bishop, please don't think I have it in for obese priests. As a matter of fact, I feel terrible for them, as I do for any priest who has an obvious health problem. We have developed an understanding and supports for priests who abuse alcohol, poor souls, but so far I haven't heard anyone address the problem of clerical obesity. My only uncle died at my age, and I am absolutely sure this was related to his weight, his eating habits and his Single state, poor man.
It is Pancake Day, or Shrove Tuesday, or Mardi Gras in Western Christendom. I wonder how much of Christendom actually makes the pancakes, however. In Poland and Polonia the fun day is Tłusty Czwartek, Fat Thursday, which was last Thursday, when Poles have a good excuse to stuff themselves with pączki, i.e. jam-filled Polish doughnuts. This year I was determined to remember to celebrate Tłusty Czwartek, but then Hilary White converted me to Anti-Sugarism. That said, I shall be making blueberry pancakes for B.A. and me tonight and not stinting on the 100% Canadian maple syrup. As Carnival hijinks go, that strikes me as mild.
2.
I was going to make pancakes for breakfast but unfortunately I was in the grip of a terrible dream. In this dream, I had been hired to give Seraphic Singles lectures at a Catholic or Evangelical conference in Cuba or Bahamas or somewhere like that, but instead of giving the lectures, I had an affair. It had absolutely no glamour of evil, either. There was no deep conversation or shared jokes or high-minded speeches or sunsets. It was basically just being in bed with some skinny stranger while cranky conference organizers burst in the room from time to time to find out where I was and go through the trash for evidence of wrongdoing. They found a lot, for when I got home, my mother revealed that they had written to her, and she was not amused.
At this point the dream got even more confused because it seemed to me very unlikely that I would do such a wicked thing, or have the time to go to Cuba or the Bahamas during my Canadian trip. Although I vaguely remembered something like that, I was sure it must have been a dream. How to explain the letter, though? In great agitation of spirits, I checked my passport to see if it had any corroborative stamps. Hélas! My passport was a patchwork of wrong names and advertising!
From time to time I would half-wake up and notice B.A. snoring away beside me and feel sure that the dream was just a dream, but then I would fall back into it. Really, it never seemed to end. I kept rushing hither and thither trying to prove I had not gone to Cuba or the Bahamas. It was a great relief to wake up entirely and find B.A. buttoning up his shirt. However, when I told him of my ghastly dream, he said, "So that's why I got that letter from the Cuban Health Authority."
Hours later I realized that the skinny stranger was the British "Food TV" presenter who wasted an hour of our lives last night wandering around Los Angeles eating street food. Ugh.
Three.
My mother watches a lot of television, but as my parents have a big house, it is quite easy to escape the idiot box. The same is not true of the flat in the Historical House. My mother thinks the flat has the same square footage as her house, but it really does not have all the comfortable nooks and crannies. It also lacks the neighbourliness of several people all looking vaguely like me. The only other person around is B.A., so if I want the comfort of another human presence, I have to go back into the living room where he is watching brainless British telly. "It's not brainless," he is wont to say. "It's a documentary about the coast of Ireland."
4.
Although I can get sucked into "The Great British Bakeoff", I would be perfectly happy if the only channel we got was ITV Three, so I could watch "Poirot", "Endeavour" and "Lewis." Although "UK Border Police" was diverting, watching illegal migrants climb out windows and run like the wind struck me as cruel.
5.
The trad part of the Catholic blogosphere is going nuts because the young, plump bishop of Fort Worth, Texas has tried to solve the problems of a local Catholic college by banning its use of the Extraordinary Form. It is striking that the man was made bishop at age 47, and now he is internationally infamous, too. Nobody gave him the memo that bishops can't ban the Extraordinary Form. Nor did it occur to him (or whoever actually wrote his letter) that suggesting that the Mass of the Ages, which dates long before the Council of Trent, and nourished generations of Christians, including almost all the known saints, is bad for your soul is best left to anti-Catholic tracts.
I have no stake in Fisher-More College, except for any readers there (hello!), but I understand that the bishop's real concern was not about the Extraordinary Form but about the college president's increasingly strident critique of the Second Vatican Council. How happy I will be when we have Trent II, so we have another Council to fight about. All my life people older than me have been banging on about Vatican II like it was Catholic Woodstock. Vatican II was actually quite dull compared to other Councils: the bihops, periti and guests never had to suspend talks and flee because war had broken out, and nobody punched anyone else. My friend Aelianus loves the Council of Florence best; currently I have a soft spot for dear old Trent. At least people obeyed the liturgical reforms of Trent. Very few people seem to have read the liturgical reforms of Vatican II. "Look, giant puppets!" "No, it says Gregorian Chant." "Puppets!" "No, look. Sound it out. G-r-e-g-o-r-i-a-n ch-a-n-t." "Puppets!"
6.
Only once have I walked out of Mass thanks to the musical stylings of the soi-distant ministers of music. That really amazes me when I think back to what I have sat through in my time. Long electric guitar solos in the middle of the Gloria. Outrageously loud amplification in a German seminary chapel. A parish choir singing the atheist "We Rise Again in the Faces of Our Children" during Communion. No, what did it for me was a Filipino folk band in Toronto. The place was packed with stolid-faced white folk, and the only one smiling was the elderly priest, who did a little dance behind the altar as the happy band banged and strummed, tootled and wailed through microphones. I forget if I lasted to the Gloria, or if it was the Kyrie that inspired my retreat. As my heels hurriedly clicked-clicked to the blessed quiet of the street, all eyes to the left and right followed me enviously down the aisle.
7.
I once told a flame that what I liked best in music was the silence between the notes. He was most impressed and said I was ready for jazz, which is the sort of thing flames say. Men love to instruct women on just about anything: shooting pool, shooting baskets, Wittgenstein. Use this knowledge for good.
What I like very much in the Extraordinary Form of the Mass is the extraordinary hush it fosters in a congregation. At the 11 o'clock at Holy Family Church in Toronto, you can hear the flutter of the Mass booklets and the gentle thumps of the kneelers going down. Sure, sometimes a baby has to wail a bit. but he is usually taken out if Mass has actually begun.
I am strongly of the opinion that we hear God in the silence between the notes. A world that hates silence is a world afraid to hear God.
***
Update: Mark J. Miller of Catholic World Report differs on the subject of bishops being able to squelch celebration of the EF. Still unanswered, however, is the question of how squelching it would in any way help the college president's or his students' souls.
Update 2: When I say "young, plump" bishop, please don't think I have it in for obese priests. As a matter of fact, I feel terrible for them, as I do for any priest who has an obvious health problem. We have developed an understanding and supports for priests who abuse alcohol, poor souls, but so far I haven't heard anyone address the problem of clerical obesity. My only uncle died at my age, and I am absolutely sure this was related to his weight, his eating habits and his Single state, poor man.
Friday, 1 March 2013
Where Were You?
I wasn't going to say anything about the Papal Abdication, as it is rather OT for this blog and it is more specifically a Catholic thing, but where were you on Thursday night at 8 PM Rome time (7 PM GMT)?
B.A. and I were in a house chapel, hearing Mass. We and our friends all seem to have different opinions of what was going on with the hall clock chimed seven o'clock. I think we were singing the Agnes Dei, but I could be wrong. My thoughts were all over the place.
Afterwards we went to a dinner party to celebrate the pontificate. It was splendid, and it certainly cheered me up.
B.A. and I were in a house chapel, hearing Mass. We and our friends all seem to have different opinions of what was going on with the hall clock chimed seven o'clock. I think we were singing the Agnes Dei, but I could be wrong. My thoughts were all over the place.
Afterwards we went to a dinner party to celebrate the pontificate. It was splendid, and it certainly cheered me up.
Monday, 11 February 2013
Pray for the Holy Father
Girls, I'm very sorry if you hear it first from me. I woke up early and found out from European friends on Facebook, and then woke up poor B.A.
The Holy Father, Benedict XVI, who is very old and, I suspect, growing very ill, is abdicating.
If you are a Catholic, you may be shocked and saddened by this news, and thinking about how John Paul II was a model to us of dying. I certainly did. John Paul II died very publicly, perhaps to show us how illness, old age and death should not be shunned with fear and shame. However, if there is anyone who knows what affect an ill, old and dying pontiff has on the health of the Church, it must be Benedict XVI.
Damian Thompson has sensible commentary.
But, oh dear, what a time to be away from our Extraordinary Form community! Our priest is on holiday , too, so we all have to face this crisis without him. Oh dear!
Update: Feel free to use the combox to emote, although don't scare anybody with St. Malarky or whatever his name is purported to be. Such a shock when I checked Facebook this morning; I woke up early (jetlag continues) so I got the news only about fifty minutes later than friends in Rome.
What a lot has happened in eight years! Personally, I am very grateful for Summorum Pontificum and also for the new Anglican Ordinariate, although don't tell the Eavesdroppers I said that. I am also grateful that Keith Cardinal O'Brien, unlike some other bishops I can think of, took Summorum Pontificum seriously.
Today is a sad day for a lot of Trids because we saw Benedict XVI as our great protector from powerful people who simply cannot understand or appreciate the rich liturgical and theological traditions of the Church and want to sweep of them away to give more oxygen to some new but over-flogged and dying liturgical and theological horses. Many of us might also be a little scared because abdicating is not very trad. Dying in office is trad. Abdicating is not. However, there is nothing we can do but pray and trust that Papa Ratzi knows what he is doing and that he knows best.
The Holy Father, Benedict XVI, who is very old and, I suspect, growing very ill, is abdicating.
If you are a Catholic, you may be shocked and saddened by this news, and thinking about how John Paul II was a model to us of dying. I certainly did. John Paul II died very publicly, perhaps to show us how illness, old age and death should not be shunned with fear and shame. However, if there is anyone who knows what affect an ill, old and dying pontiff has on the health of the Church, it must be Benedict XVI.
Damian Thompson has sensible commentary.
But, oh dear, what a time to be away from our Extraordinary Form community! Our priest is on holiday , too, so we all have to face this crisis without him. Oh dear!
Update: Feel free to use the combox to emote, although don't scare anybody with St. Malarky or whatever his name is purported to be. Such a shock when I checked Facebook this morning; I woke up early (jetlag continues) so I got the news only about fifty minutes later than friends in Rome.
What a lot has happened in eight years! Personally, I am very grateful for Summorum Pontificum and also for the new Anglican Ordinariate, although don't tell the Eavesdroppers I said that. I am also grateful that Keith Cardinal O'Brien, unlike some other bishops I can think of, took Summorum Pontificum seriously.
Today is a sad day for a lot of Trids because we saw Benedict XVI as our great protector from powerful people who simply cannot understand or appreciate the rich liturgical and theological traditions of the Church and want to sweep of them away to give more oxygen to some new but over-flogged and dying liturgical and theological horses. Many of us might also be a little scared because abdicating is not very trad. Dying in office is trad. Abdicating is not. However, there is nothing we can do but pray and trust that Papa Ratzi knows what he is doing and that he knows best.
Monday, 4 February 2013
Monday after the Sunday before
You know, I do not think the New Evangelization envisioned a Continental Young Fogey pulling a knife on an English Young Fogey for insinuating that his wallet was machine-made. Although I am sure we all agree that they are uniformly charming, Agatha Christie novels should not be our guides to Catholic social deportment.
I would say a lot more on the subject had I not a deadline today.
***
Very well, I have written my article, so I can discourse further on the murderous and envious passions seething under the suit-jacketed bosoms of the Young Fogeys of Britain.
Actually, I don't think they were that murderous. The knife wasn't that big, and its owner waved it about only vaguely, as if in jest. Only rarely does anyone get knifed in the handsome drawing-rooms of Morningside. That's why Morningside property values are so high. Personally, I could not tell if the Continental Young Fogey's handsome wallet was machine-made, nor could I determine if his tormentor's wallet was indeed made of crocodile.
Earlier there had been some discussion of the bad reputation Young Fogeys have among American readers of my blog. As 90% of local Young Fogeys strive to get along with women, it was suggested that American Young Fogeys don't have the hang of Young Fogeydom. The essence of Young Fogeydom is not complaining that women won the vote, but demanding to know if another fellow's tweed jacket should be that long. Young Fogeys do not usually joust intellectually at parties; they prefer to show off their vintage accessories and mock the vintage accessories of others. Some will oblige the ladies by showing us their sock garters; other Young Fogeys think this is in terrible taste.
Young Fogey parties should feature either a piano or a gramophone. For example, when I arrived at this Morningside flat, a Youngish Fogey was already at the piano playing "There's a Danger in the Waltz" in great style.
Young Fogey parties should also feature, not to say "star", the correct alcoholic beverages. For example, I was offered a choice between a gin-and-tonic or a sherry within two minutes of my arrival.
There should be sofas, cats and, in winter, a roaring fire. As there is likely to be much consumption of tobacco, there ought to be a room to which ladies may retreat, if they prefer to breathe invisible, non-blue air. The food should be kept here, and yesterday it was. The 10% of local Young Fogeys who do not strive to get along with women remarked aloud when I had my third helping of chicken curry rice. (It was very delicious chicken curry rice.)
Young Fogey conversation can range from antique vestments found on Ebay to the psychological truth of the films of Roman Polański and yesterday did. In hindsight I would caution a married woman against explaining to a student the psychology of the adultery of a fictional married woman with a fictional student. Such philosophical discourses can sound bad, especially after a half a bottle of red wine when suddenly it is no longer clear if you are still talking about the film but about Life. Misunderstanding and shrieking may ensue.
Young Fogey 1: ...And it was a beautiful velvet....
Married Woman: ...Meanwhile she said he was just like her husband, so in a sense she was not being unfaithful to her husband but paying tribute to...
Young Fogey 2: Ho! Outrageous! How can you defend such behaviour?
Married Woman: I'm not saying it was good behaviour--!
Young Fogey 1: ...Really fine quality. Beautiful.
Hostess: Would anyone like another drink?
I seem to recall leaving this Young Fogey party at eleven, after being bitten by a bicycle pedal and personally I don't see why bicycle pedals need teeth. I left with a man in a kilt and an overly long tweed jacket, principally because I was married to him and he looked rather jolly. It was a cold windy night, but the clouds were thin and sailed across the sky at such speed that, once in the countryside, one could admire the stars.
***
Very well, I have written my article, so I can discourse further on the murderous and envious passions seething under the suit-jacketed bosoms of the Young Fogeys of Britain.
Actually, I don't think they were that murderous. The knife wasn't that big, and its owner waved it about only vaguely, as if in jest. Only rarely does anyone get knifed in the handsome drawing-rooms of Morningside. That's why Morningside property values are so high. Personally, I could not tell if the Continental Young Fogey's handsome wallet was machine-made, nor could I determine if his tormentor's wallet was indeed made of crocodile.
Earlier there had been some discussion of the bad reputation Young Fogeys have among American readers of my blog. As 90% of local Young Fogeys strive to get along with women, it was suggested that American Young Fogeys don't have the hang of Young Fogeydom. The essence of Young Fogeydom is not complaining that women won the vote, but demanding to know if another fellow's tweed jacket should be that long. Young Fogeys do not usually joust intellectually at parties; they prefer to show off their vintage accessories and mock the vintage accessories of others. Some will oblige the ladies by showing us their sock garters; other Young Fogeys think this is in terrible taste.
Young Fogey parties should feature either a piano or a gramophone. For example, when I arrived at this Morningside flat, a Youngish Fogey was already at the piano playing "There's a Danger in the Waltz" in great style.
Young Fogey parties should also feature, not to say "star", the correct alcoholic beverages. For example, I was offered a choice between a gin-and-tonic or a sherry within two minutes of my arrival.
There should be sofas, cats and, in winter, a roaring fire. As there is likely to be much consumption of tobacco, there ought to be a room to which ladies may retreat, if they prefer to breathe invisible, non-blue air. The food should be kept here, and yesterday it was. The 10% of local Young Fogeys who do not strive to get along with women remarked aloud when I had my third helping of chicken curry rice. (It was very delicious chicken curry rice.)
Young Fogey conversation can range from antique vestments found on Ebay to the psychological truth of the films of Roman Polański and yesterday did. In hindsight I would caution a married woman against explaining to a student the psychology of the adultery of a fictional married woman with a fictional student. Such philosophical discourses can sound bad, especially after a half a bottle of red wine when suddenly it is no longer clear if you are still talking about the film but about Life. Misunderstanding and shrieking may ensue.
Young Fogey 1: ...And it was a beautiful velvet....
Married Woman: ...Meanwhile she said he was just like her husband, so in a sense she was not being unfaithful to her husband but paying tribute to...
Young Fogey 2: Ho! Outrageous! How can you defend such behaviour?
Married Woman: I'm not saying it was good behaviour--!
Young Fogey 1: ...Really fine quality. Beautiful.
Hostess: Would anyone like another drink?
I seem to recall leaving this Young Fogey party at eleven, after being bitten by a bicycle pedal and personally I don't see why bicycle pedals need teeth. I left with a man in a kilt and an overly long tweed jacket, principally because I was married to him and he looked rather jolly. It was a cold windy night, but the clouds were thin and sailed across the sky at such speed that, once in the countryside, one could admire the stars.
Tuesday, 22 January 2013
Women are Who We Are
Women are who we are and not who men want us to be.
I write this as someone who always finds herself on the Droit of most questions. Over and over again, I find myself going with the more traditional, the more human, and the more rational approach, which puts me on the wrong side, not of history, but of the leading taste-makers of our societies. Some of the most divisive issues of our times, like ab*rtion and women's *rdination, involve women in a particular way, and so we conservative or traditional women find ourselves arguing the issues in a different way from men--or, if not in a different way, from a different and more privileged perspective.
There is a particular heartache in arguing against women when you are a woman because women love consensus and thrive on consensus. And women know how awful it is to be shut out of the women's collective, to have to go the well by ourselves because the other women don't want to be seen with us, unless to be seen mocking us. This is what we risk whenever we take a position unpopular with the majority of women in the room, no matter which side we're on.
This is why it comes as such a hideous disappointment to find ourselves in conflict with those men who agree, in the main, with our ideas, but deep down wish women would shut up and go away or at least conform to their idea of what women should be like. Such men are found all over the political spectrum, of course. No doubt there are men of the Gauche who think all women should be injected with contraceptives from age 13 and be allowed to skip our shots only if we have taken a state-approved parenting course and have not yet had two children. There are most definitely men of the Gauche who bully the women in their lives, even if that is in a sneaky, passive-aggressive way they may have learned from women.
I expect opposition from the opposite side of the river, so I don't really care what its men throw at me. In fact, I don't mind their arguments because they do not affect me on an emotional level. I don't care if they like me or not. I can argue back with verve and gusto. I once amused myself greatly by overwhelming a smug atheist I met outside a cafe with Lonergan's cognitional theory. (He was one of those unusually naive cafe habitues who think Catholic students of theology must necessarily be stupid.) He was as meek as a mouse when I was done.
However, to this day I do not know how to cope with the knife in the back--the insults and insinuations of male ideological allies, from the weirdos who complain about women's trousers to the hotheads who think femininity is incompatible with intellectual discourse.
Simcha Fischer's solution to the "pants" (always trousers in the UK, girls) problem, was to whip out a card ("pants pass") with one's husband's (or presumably father's) signature, saying the wearer had his permission to wear them. Today I think a better solution is to look angrily at the speaker and demand "Who are you? How DARE you make such personal remarks to me?"
I hope I would remember to do that. Like most women, I don't like confrontation. It just does not come that easily. This is one reason why men should not simply march up to women and start a fight. We're at a terrible psychological disadvantage; it's simply unfair.
As a matter of fact, I understand the "pants (TROUSERS) problem" because I used to sit in the back choir stalls at Mass, and when all the other women at Mass are wearing coats or skirts, the one female rump lovingly outlined by tightly-clinging denim, lycra or cotton shines out like a red lamp on a dark street. It at least momentarily distracts everybody, me, the choir, the tea ladies--everyone, not just angry old men. So, in such situations, wear something over it. Elsewhere, however, where trousers are rather more the rule than the exception, anyone who is angered by your rump in particular has a personality problem, and if he says something, get in his face. "Who are YOU? How DARE you?" Channel your best mother/teacher voice.
But as for the hotheads who think femininity is incompatible with intellectual discourse, I simply do not know what to do.
Dear Auntie Seraphic,
There are these guys at Cath Soc who are pretty great. I get along with them most of the time, and we all go to the TLM, and I admire the way they take their (our) ideological/theological opponents' arguments to pieces. But I don't like it when they take my ideas to pieces in a way that seems to be more ad hominem than anything else, particularly when their response is "Oh, how just like a woman."
When I point that out, they say if I'm going to argue like a man, I should take my lumps like a man. However, I am not conscious of arguing like a man, per se, but like a rational being.
Then there are other guys who hold the same ideological/theological positions I hold who talk about educated/pretentious women, as if education and pretension were the same thing. However, if I were to stop talking altogether, or consciously dumb down everything I say or write, wouldn't that make me really pretentious? Sometimes I am tempted to do that, though, because these guys are so nice to the girls who are constantly running down their own intellectual gifts, e.g. "I'm not an intellectual; really, I just want to get married and have babies. Isn't that AW-ful? Hee hee hee!" However, it's too late. They know I'm smart--or that I think I'm smart, anyway. Sorry.
What am I supposed to do? And please don't tell me just to ignore these guys or have nothing to do with them. These are my theological/ideological allies, and I like them 75% of the time, and if they would just adjust their thinking about women and intellect they would be perfectly perfect.
Sincerely,
Tearing My Hair Out
Dear Tearing My Hair Out,
Hmm...... Hmm.....
I don't know. In the end, I've always just given up--long after many other women would--and walked away.
The only thing I can suggest is that, since they expect women to be emotional anyway, is to cut either one off the next time he says "Just like a woman" and tell him you don't think he knows as much about women as he thinks he does.
If he suggests that you are not a "real woman" because you reason "like a man," tell him that powers of reasoning are neither masculine or feminine. What is feminine is a susceptibility to being more badly wounded than men are (if men are) in ad hominem attacks by men one likes.
I'm sorry not to be more helpful.
Grace and peace,
Seraphic
I write this as someone who always finds herself on the Droit of most questions. Over and over again, I find myself going with the more traditional, the more human, and the more rational approach, which puts me on the wrong side, not of history, but of the leading taste-makers of our societies. Some of the most divisive issues of our times, like ab*rtion and women's *rdination, involve women in a particular way, and so we conservative or traditional women find ourselves arguing the issues in a different way from men--or, if not in a different way, from a different and more privileged perspective.
There is a particular heartache in arguing against women when you are a woman because women love consensus and thrive on consensus. And women know how awful it is to be shut out of the women's collective, to have to go the well by ourselves because the other women don't want to be seen with us, unless to be seen mocking us. This is what we risk whenever we take a position unpopular with the majority of women in the room, no matter which side we're on.
This is why it comes as such a hideous disappointment to find ourselves in conflict with those men who agree, in the main, with our ideas, but deep down wish women would shut up and go away or at least conform to their idea of what women should be like. Such men are found all over the political spectrum, of course. No doubt there are men of the Gauche who think all women should be injected with contraceptives from age 13 and be allowed to skip our shots only if we have taken a state-approved parenting course and have not yet had two children. There are most definitely men of the Gauche who bully the women in their lives, even if that is in a sneaky, passive-aggressive way they may have learned from women.
I expect opposition from the opposite side of the river, so I don't really care what its men throw at me. In fact, I don't mind their arguments because they do not affect me on an emotional level. I don't care if they like me or not. I can argue back with verve and gusto. I once amused myself greatly by overwhelming a smug atheist I met outside a cafe with Lonergan's cognitional theory. (He was one of those unusually naive cafe habitues who think Catholic students of theology must necessarily be stupid.) He was as meek as a mouse when I was done.
However, to this day I do not know how to cope with the knife in the back--the insults and insinuations of male ideological allies, from the weirdos who complain about women's trousers to the hotheads who think femininity is incompatible with intellectual discourse.
Simcha Fischer's solution to the "pants" (always trousers in the UK, girls) problem, was to whip out a card ("pants pass") with one's husband's (or presumably father's) signature, saying the wearer had his permission to wear them. Today I think a better solution is to look angrily at the speaker and demand "Who are you? How DARE you make such personal remarks to me?"
I hope I would remember to do that. Like most women, I don't like confrontation. It just does not come that easily. This is one reason why men should not simply march up to women and start a fight. We're at a terrible psychological disadvantage; it's simply unfair.
As a matter of fact, I understand the "pants (TROUSERS) problem" because I used to sit in the back choir stalls at Mass, and when all the other women at Mass are wearing coats or skirts, the one female rump lovingly outlined by tightly-clinging denim, lycra or cotton shines out like a red lamp on a dark street. It at least momentarily distracts everybody, me, the choir, the tea ladies--everyone, not just angry old men. So, in such situations, wear something over it. Elsewhere, however, where trousers are rather more the rule than the exception, anyone who is angered by your rump in particular has a personality problem, and if he says something, get in his face. "Who are YOU? How DARE you?" Channel your best mother/teacher voice.
But as for the hotheads who think femininity is incompatible with intellectual discourse, I simply do not know what to do.
Dear Auntie Seraphic,
There are these guys at Cath Soc who are pretty great. I get along with them most of the time, and we all go to the TLM, and I admire the way they take their (our) ideological/theological opponents' arguments to pieces. But I don't like it when they take my ideas to pieces in a way that seems to be more ad hominem than anything else, particularly when their response is "Oh, how just like a woman."
When I point that out, they say if I'm going to argue like a man, I should take my lumps like a man. However, I am not conscious of arguing like a man, per se, but like a rational being.
Then there are other guys who hold the same ideological/theological positions I hold who talk about educated/pretentious women, as if education and pretension were the same thing. However, if I were to stop talking altogether, or consciously dumb down everything I say or write, wouldn't that make me really pretentious? Sometimes I am tempted to do that, though, because these guys are so nice to the girls who are constantly running down their own intellectual gifts, e.g. "I'm not an intellectual; really, I just want to get married and have babies. Isn't that AW-ful? Hee hee hee!" However, it's too late. They know I'm smart--or that I think I'm smart, anyway. Sorry.
What am I supposed to do? And please don't tell me just to ignore these guys or have nothing to do with them. These are my theological/ideological allies, and I like them 75% of the time, and if they would just adjust their thinking about women and intellect they would be perfectly perfect.
Sincerely,
Tearing My Hair Out
Dear Tearing My Hair Out,
Hmm...... Hmm.....
I don't know. In the end, I've always just given up--long after many other women would--and walked away.
The only thing I can suggest is that, since they expect women to be emotional anyway, is to cut either one off the next time he says "Just like a woman" and tell him you don't think he knows as much about women as he thinks he does.
If he suggests that you are not a "real woman" because you reason "like a man," tell him that powers of reasoning are neither masculine or feminine. What is feminine is a susceptibility to being more badly wounded than men are (if men are) in ad hominem attacks by men one likes.
I'm sorry not to be more helpful.
Grace and peace,
Seraphic
Monday, 21 January 2013
Triddery in Boston
I received an email today from a member of the newly formed Boston branch of Juventutem. They organize the Extraordinary Form of the Mass twice a month, and have socials and lectures. Although apparently a lot of fine young men (see photos--gracious!) turn out for these wonderful events, what Juventutem Boston doesn't have yet is a lot of women.
Well, this must change. If you find yourself orthodox, lonely and apparently the only Catholic in Chestnut Hill who loves the Holy Father, off you go to Juventutem. Latin-loving Brighton, Jamaica Plain, Southie, Braintree, Somerville, Cambridge and other Boston-and-environs types should go, too. Tell them I sent you.
Well, this must change. If you find yourself orthodox, lonely and apparently the only Catholic in Chestnut Hill who loves the Holy Father, off you go to Juventutem. Latin-loving Brighton, Jamaica Plain, Southie, Braintree, Somerville, Cambridge and other Boston-and-environs types should go, too. Tell them I sent you.
Monday, 14 January 2013
Dating is Not Dead
Two readers have brought my attention to this New York Times article about Single people in New York, always a fiendishly difficult city to find a spouse in, or so I have been told for years.
My first thought is "sub-culture."
When your sub-culture is all about sex-without-strings, men-and-women-are-the-same, sexy-gives-me-the-edge-at-work, letting-it-all-hang-out, internet pornography and doing whatever you can to claw your way into fashionable jobs, then--no--courtship is not going to happen. Not until the men hit thirty or start going bald or start panicking about having healthy children. Because only then will they be willing to give up the smorgasbord of sex and serial monogamy for the comfort and stability of marriage (or ""equivalent) to one woman.
Incidentally, in what universe is David Mamet's 22 year old actor daughter the poster girl for American "Millennial" life? Of course her dumb-ass boyfriend tried to get her daddy to pay for dinner. Cads have been trying to get the rich fathers of the women they bamboozle to pay for their treats ever since they couldn't be legally whacked for it.
By the way, it's a bit of a hoot that the girl at the beginning of this article put on her "favourite skinny black jeans" in anticipation of her Friday night date. Boy, that's Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers right there.
It is a bit mad to expect cutting-edge-of-latest-fashion people or simply conventional-to-Manhattan people to follow in the sensible footsteps of bygone generations. No, if you are really interested in romantic courtship, men acting out traditional courtship roles with an eye to wife and family, then you have to look beyond the chattering class to other sub-cultures, sub-cultures that care about family, not just family names.
I'm thinking guys who go to church, although of course they will be enough affected by the expectations and fads of the people who created the TV shows of their generation. I'm thinking guys from cultures that have super-strong family bonds. I'm thinking guys in male-dominated careers of the kind women aren't yet much interested in (unfortunately), like plumbing and construction: guys who don't take women for granted because they aren't around us all day long.
Not so long ago, I was asked why English girls are converting to Islam. Hmm. Let me see... Because Muslim men like to get married and have kids? Because Muslims have strong expectations for what men act like and for what women act like? Because Islam provides strong family ties, a compelling philosophy and some great food? Because Muslim men like to get married and have kids?
Anyway, I don't want to suggest you limit yourselves only to church groups and wider Catholic networks, although really I think they are the best hope for Catholic girls serious about getting married and having kids before the age of thirty. As I've said before, I think you should also get to know the "cousins of the devout"--the Italian, Hispanic and Polish guys who slack off from church except at Christmas and Easter.
In a pinch, you might consider joining film clubs that concentrate on the pre-1963 period. There are an awful lot of male romantics in such clubs, sighing silently over the courtship dynamics, the clever, wise-cracking women, the marvelous complexions that you too can buy from Max Factor.
Because dating is not really dead, save among the sort of people who get the uncritical attention of the New York Times. But, yes, there does seem to be an awful lot of "hanging out" and technically I never went on a date with B.A. I just sort of showed up, and everyone at church looked at us with googly eyes and manufactured dinner parties until we got unofficially engaged.
Listen, we're a tad weird, and we're no more poster children for ordinary life than David Mamet's daughter.
Okay, your turn. Read the article and tell me what you think of it. I personally know boys of your generation who got tired of just "hanging out" and actually asked girls on dates. The thing is, though, is that these were serious, Catholic guys thinking about potential marriage to serious, Catholic women, having reached the age at which they thought they should get a move on.
My first thought is "sub-culture."
When your sub-culture is all about sex-without-strings, men-and-women-are-the-same, sexy-gives-me-the-edge-at-work, letting-it-all-hang-out, internet pornography and doing whatever you can to claw your way into fashionable jobs, then--no--courtship is not going to happen. Not until the men hit thirty or start going bald or start panicking about having healthy children. Because only then will they be willing to give up the smorgasbord of sex and serial monogamy for the comfort and stability of marriage (or ""equivalent) to one woman.
Incidentally, in what universe is David Mamet's 22 year old actor daughter the poster girl for American "Millennial" life? Of course her dumb-ass boyfriend tried to get her daddy to pay for dinner. Cads have been trying to get the rich fathers of the women they bamboozle to pay for their treats ever since they couldn't be legally whacked for it.
By the way, it's a bit of a hoot that the girl at the beginning of this article put on her "favourite skinny black jeans" in anticipation of her Friday night date. Boy, that's Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers right there.
It is a bit mad to expect cutting-edge-of-latest-fashion people or simply conventional-to-Manhattan people to follow in the sensible footsteps of bygone generations. No, if you are really interested in romantic courtship, men acting out traditional courtship roles with an eye to wife and family, then you have to look beyond the chattering class to other sub-cultures, sub-cultures that care about family, not just family names.
I'm thinking guys who go to church, although of course they will be enough affected by the expectations and fads of the people who created the TV shows of their generation. I'm thinking guys from cultures that have super-strong family bonds. I'm thinking guys in male-dominated careers of the kind women aren't yet much interested in (unfortunately), like plumbing and construction: guys who don't take women for granted because they aren't around us all day long.
Not so long ago, I was asked why English girls are converting to Islam. Hmm. Let me see... Because Muslim men like to get married and have kids? Because Muslims have strong expectations for what men act like and for what women act like? Because Islam provides strong family ties, a compelling philosophy and some great food? Because Muslim men like to get married and have kids?
Anyway, I don't want to suggest you limit yourselves only to church groups and wider Catholic networks, although really I think they are the best hope for Catholic girls serious about getting married and having kids before the age of thirty. As I've said before, I think you should also get to know the "cousins of the devout"--the Italian, Hispanic and Polish guys who slack off from church except at Christmas and Easter.
In a pinch, you might consider joining film clubs that concentrate on the pre-1963 period. There are an awful lot of male romantics in such clubs, sighing silently over the courtship dynamics, the clever, wise-cracking women, the marvelous complexions that you too can buy from Max Factor.
Because dating is not really dead, save among the sort of people who get the uncritical attention of the New York Times. But, yes, there does seem to be an awful lot of "hanging out" and technically I never went on a date with B.A. I just sort of showed up, and everyone at church looked at us with googly eyes and manufactured dinner parties until we got unofficially engaged.
Listen, we're a tad weird, and we're no more poster children for ordinary life than David Mamet's daughter.
Okay, your turn. Read the article and tell me what you think of it. I personally know boys of your generation who got tired of just "hanging out" and actually asked girls on dates. The thing is, though, is that these were serious, Catholic guys thinking about potential marriage to serious, Catholic women, having reached the age at which they thought they should get a move on.
Friday, 11 January 2013
Latest CR Column
Here's my latest column in the Catholic Register, inspired by a setting of "Christe Redemptor Omnium."
I could have gone on forever about how neither "fun" nor sentimental indulgence in "feelings" is a decent substitute for beauty, but I had an 800 word maximum.
By the way, whoever likes to sentimentalize the "house churches" of the first and second century has not been to Mass in a big old Scottish house chapel on a cold and damp day!
I could have gone on forever about how neither "fun" nor sentimental indulgence in "feelings" is a decent substitute for beauty, but I had an 800 word maximum.
By the way, whoever likes to sentimentalize the "house churches" of the first and second century has not been to Mass in a big old Scottish house chapel on a cold and damp day!
Wednesday, 26 December 2012
Super-Trad (if Childless) Christmas
My electronic spy tells me that someone in the South of England who ought to be in the Central Belt of Scotland keeps checking my blog, so I suspect at least one person wants to know how Christmas is going for the Trids of Edinburgh, particularly the ones who drink gin and think about socks. So I shall write an account of a Super-Trad Young Fogey Trid Edinburgh Christmas.
Super-Trid Young Fogey Edinburgh Christmas at the Historical House began shortly after five on Christmas Eve when the first guest arrived for Wigilia supper. Wiglia is the Polish word for Vigil, and the Poles eat their big Christmas supper during this Vigil, before going to Midnight Mass. But as Advent used to be a fasting time, this is traditionally a meatless meal, featuring a lot of fish and pierogi.
The reason for this Historical House Wigilia supper was two-fold. First, most of our Single friends had somewhere else to eat on Christmas Day, so we tried to tempt them over for Christmas Eve instead. Second, I had a version of my usual conversation with the Lord of History, which went metaphorically like this:
Seraphic: Dear me, Christmas just around the corner. How nice it would be if You sent me a baby, Lord, hint hint.
Lord of History: Now that you mention it, I have a Polish student in his mid-twenties who needs somewhere to eat Christmas Eve Dinner, as his family is abroad and he won't be able to get a visa in time to join them.
Seraphic: That's sort of so not what I meant.
Lord of History: How sad to be Polish and alone in a foreign land on Christmas Eve. It's going to rain, too.
Seraphic: Okay, okay. What do Poles eat for Christmas?
Lord of History: A twelve course meatless meal.
Seraphic: What!?
Lord of History: Involving a lot of herring.
Seraphic: What!?
Lord of History: Plan ahead.
So I made a twelve course meatless mostly-Polish meal* for Christmas Eve, and great fun it was, too. As our table wasn't big enough to accommodate the diners, the traditional place setting for the potential stranger who arrives out of the night, and twelve dishes, I put the dishes out on a side table, and it all looked very impressive, and I was quite pleased with my uber-feminine cooking self.
(B.A., I should mention, made the salmon and rolled some of the pierogi dough. I discovered, at 4:45 PM, that I no longer had enough energy to roll pierogi dough. Thanks to the reader who suggested that at such times men ought to be allowed in the kitchen. Good call!)
So let me see. We had the reading from the Gospel of Luke instead of grace, and we ate an astonishing variety of things, including (of course) herring in two guises, and at ten an invited guest who had had too bad a cold to come to supper came with a hired van to whisk us away to Midnight Mass. First, however, I made her eat a little salmon and some barszcz, which is the correct spelling of borscht from a Polish point of view.
So off we went to Midnight Mass, where 44 Trids gathered to celebrate Baby Jesus and, amusingly, indulge for once in the Three Hymn Sandwich: a`British hymn I didn't know for the Procession to the Crib, "Adestes Fideles" during the Offertory, and "Hark the Herald" after the Recession. The servers were the Grizzled MC and the Marooned Polish Student as Thurifer (and Cross-bearer), as a reader in the South of England will be keenly interested to know. The candles were many and the vestments were gold.
By then the rain had stopped, and it was a clear, fine, mild moonlit night, such as Edinburgh had not known the last three Christmas Eves, believe me. The Trids therefore stood about cheerfully in the car park afterwards, exchanging Christmas greetings and mostly turning down pulls from the Marooned Polish Student's whisky flask. And then the Men's Schola and its Ladies' Auxiliary climbed into the van and were whisked away.
The McAmbroses arrived back at the Historical House at 2 AM, which gave me enough time to take the dough rising in the fridge out of the fridge and transform it into embryonic Traditional Christmas Chelsea Bun, leaving it in its baking tin to rise overnight. For such is the way of the Women of My Family. I went to bed at 3:30 AM, and got up at 9 AM to bake the precious thing. It turned out perfectly, i.e. exactly like my mother's. I had passed my own standard of Women of My Family Femininity, and therefore my superego acknowledged that I had the right to a happy Christmas.
The van returned on Christmas Morning for B.A., but I had no time for such pleasures as Christmas III Mass (Christmas II having been said at 9:30 to a congregation of one). No, no. For now it was time to wash the remaining dishes from Christmas I Supper and Christmas II Breakfast (the Bun), and to make Christmas III Supper. Perhaps if women understood that making three traditional Christmas meals in a row is in itself a kind of priesthood, we would not have so many unhappy Catholic women with bad haircuts rushing off to the Anglicans or excommunicated weirdos for a curious ritual they call ordination.
B.A. skipped the after Mass festivities to come home and labour over the turkey, the gravy and the potatoes. B.A. is a master roaster. No matter what else I do, I leave the cooking of meat and the roasting potatoes to him, for lo, he always gets them right. Instead I made the Traditional Christmas Trifle, the Traditional Christmas Vegetable Soup, the Traditional Christmas Curried Carrots and the Traditional Christmas Green Beans with Red Pepper and Toasted Almonds. Then I got dressed for dinner while B.A. entertained the Guests (Clerical and Polish) in the sitting-room with champagne and the sacred Bun.
Then there was great feasting and drinking and offering of the seven different kinds of desserts I seem to have made for my family of two (literally seven**) and a great deal of after-dinner conversation, into which I popped in and out, on account of having many dishes to wash.
Seraphic: St. Monica used to have trouble with that. As a child, she would steal sips of wine.
Cleric: Really?
Seraphic: Oh yes. St. Augustine wrote about her childhood sins as well as his own. You know, though, St. Monica was not just the weeping mother of the Confessions. In a lesser known work St. Augustine presented her as a great Christian Intellectual.
Assembled Trid Men: Oh? Ah. Mm.
Benedict Ambrose: Apparently it was her prayers that led to St. Augustine's conversion.
Seraphic: Yes, but that's the weeping mother in the Confessions, so that's not my point. My point is. My point. My point is that St. Monica was also a GREAT CHRISTIAN INTELLECTUAL!
Marooned Pole: Have more wine.
Seraphic: No, I'm going to wash more dishes.
And more dishes were washed, and more wine was drunk, and the clerical guest went home at a very prudent hour--about 9:30, gracious--and then the vodka came out. So there was vodka, and Belgian chocolates, and--oddly--the watching of a Polish film called Rejs (1970), and so ended the First Day of Christmas.
*Kutia, kompot, barszcz cierwony, uszka, śledzie w oleju, śledzie w śmietanie, pierogi ruskie, pierogi z grzybami i kapusta, łosoś, carrot-orange salad, kompot owece, makowiec. Wesołych Świąt!
**Christmas fruitcake, florentines, makowiec (poppy seed roll), kutia (wheat berry pudding), kompot (cooked dried fruit with honey), trifle, and Chelsea bun. There were also mince pies, brought by a guest.
Super-Trid Young Fogey Edinburgh Christmas at the Historical House began shortly after five on Christmas Eve when the first guest arrived for Wigilia supper. Wiglia is the Polish word for Vigil, and the Poles eat their big Christmas supper during this Vigil, before going to Midnight Mass. But as Advent used to be a fasting time, this is traditionally a meatless meal, featuring a lot of fish and pierogi.
The reason for this Historical House Wigilia supper was two-fold. First, most of our Single friends had somewhere else to eat on Christmas Day, so we tried to tempt them over for Christmas Eve instead. Second, I had a version of my usual conversation with the Lord of History, which went metaphorically like this:
Seraphic: Dear me, Christmas just around the corner. How nice it would be if You sent me a baby, Lord, hint hint.
Lord of History: Now that you mention it, I have a Polish student in his mid-twenties who needs somewhere to eat Christmas Eve Dinner, as his family is abroad and he won't be able to get a visa in time to join them.
Seraphic: That's sort of so not what I meant.
Lord of History: How sad to be Polish and alone in a foreign land on Christmas Eve. It's going to rain, too.
Seraphic: Okay, okay. What do Poles eat for Christmas?
Lord of History: A twelve course meatless meal.
Seraphic: What!?
Lord of History: Involving a lot of herring.
Seraphic: What!?
Lord of History: Plan ahead.
So I made a twelve course meatless mostly-Polish meal* for Christmas Eve, and great fun it was, too. As our table wasn't big enough to accommodate the diners, the traditional place setting for the potential stranger who arrives out of the night, and twelve dishes, I put the dishes out on a side table, and it all looked very impressive, and I was quite pleased with my uber-feminine cooking self.
(B.A., I should mention, made the salmon and rolled some of the pierogi dough. I discovered, at 4:45 PM, that I no longer had enough energy to roll pierogi dough. Thanks to the reader who suggested that at such times men ought to be allowed in the kitchen. Good call!)
So let me see. We had the reading from the Gospel of Luke instead of grace, and we ate an astonishing variety of things, including (of course) herring in two guises, and at ten an invited guest who had had too bad a cold to come to supper came with a hired van to whisk us away to Midnight Mass. First, however, I made her eat a little salmon and some barszcz, which is the correct spelling of borscht from a Polish point of view.
So off we went to Midnight Mass, where 44 Trids gathered to celebrate Baby Jesus and, amusingly, indulge for once in the Three Hymn Sandwich: a`British hymn I didn't know for the Procession to the Crib, "Adestes Fideles" during the Offertory, and "Hark the Herald" after the Recession. The servers were the Grizzled MC and the Marooned Polish Student as Thurifer (and Cross-bearer), as a reader in the South of England will be keenly interested to know. The candles were many and the vestments were gold.
By then the rain had stopped, and it was a clear, fine, mild moonlit night, such as Edinburgh had not known the last three Christmas Eves, believe me. The Trids therefore stood about cheerfully in the car park afterwards, exchanging Christmas greetings and mostly turning down pulls from the Marooned Polish Student's whisky flask. And then the Men's Schola and its Ladies' Auxiliary climbed into the van and were whisked away.
The McAmbroses arrived back at the Historical House at 2 AM, which gave me enough time to take the dough rising in the fridge out of the fridge and transform it into embryonic Traditional Christmas Chelsea Bun, leaving it in its baking tin to rise overnight. For such is the way of the Women of My Family. I went to bed at 3:30 AM, and got up at 9 AM to bake the precious thing. It turned out perfectly, i.e. exactly like my mother's. I had passed my own standard of Women of My Family Femininity, and therefore my superego acknowledged that I had the right to a happy Christmas.
The van returned on Christmas Morning for B.A., but I had no time for such pleasures as Christmas III Mass (Christmas II having been said at 9:30 to a congregation of one). No, no. For now it was time to wash the remaining dishes from Christmas I Supper and Christmas II Breakfast (the Bun), and to make Christmas III Supper. Perhaps if women understood that making three traditional Christmas meals in a row is in itself a kind of priesthood, we would not have so many unhappy Catholic women with bad haircuts rushing off to the Anglicans or excommunicated weirdos for a curious ritual they call ordination.
B.A. skipped the after Mass festivities to come home and labour over the turkey, the gravy and the potatoes. B.A. is a master roaster. No matter what else I do, I leave the cooking of meat and the roasting potatoes to him, for lo, he always gets them right. Instead I made the Traditional Christmas Trifle, the Traditional Christmas Vegetable Soup, the Traditional Christmas Curried Carrots and the Traditional Christmas Green Beans with Red Pepper and Toasted Almonds. Then I got dressed for dinner while B.A. entertained the Guests (Clerical and Polish) in the sitting-room with champagne and the sacred Bun.
Then there was great feasting and drinking and offering of the seven different kinds of desserts I seem to have made for my family of two (literally seven**) and a great deal of after-dinner conversation, into which I popped in and out, on account of having many dishes to wash.
Seraphic: St. Monica used to have trouble with that. As a child, she would steal sips of wine.
Cleric: Really?
Seraphic: Oh yes. St. Augustine wrote about her childhood sins as well as his own. You know, though, St. Monica was not just the weeping mother of the Confessions. In a lesser known work St. Augustine presented her as a great Christian Intellectual.
Assembled Trid Men: Oh? Ah. Mm.
Benedict Ambrose: Apparently it was her prayers that led to St. Augustine's conversion.
Seraphic: Yes, but that's the weeping mother in the Confessions, so that's not my point. My point is. My point. My point is that St. Monica was also a GREAT CHRISTIAN INTELLECTUAL!
Marooned Pole: Have more wine.
Seraphic: No, I'm going to wash more dishes.
And more dishes were washed, and more wine was drunk, and the clerical guest went home at a very prudent hour--about 9:30, gracious--and then the vodka came out. So there was vodka, and Belgian chocolates, and--oddly--the watching of a Polish film called Rejs (1970), and so ended the First Day of Christmas.
*Kutia, kompot, barszcz cierwony, uszka, śledzie w oleju, śledzie w śmietanie, pierogi ruskie, pierogi z grzybami i kapusta, łosoś, carrot-orange salad, kompot owece, makowiec. Wesołych Świąt!
**Christmas fruitcake, florentines, makowiec (poppy seed roll), kutia (wheat berry pudding), kompot (cooked dried fruit with honey), trifle, and Chelsea bun. There were also mince pies, brought by a guest.
Friday, 21 December 2012
Tweed & Merry Christmas
I was just reading a bit of snobby nonsense in the Telegraph by what looks like a twelve year old who goes to Cambridge University and clearly thinks Young Fogeys who don't go to Oxford or Cambridge--even the ones who go to St Andrews--are clearly envious of him. As a matter of fact, I am envious of him because he has got a blog in the online Telegraph. Why don't I have a blog in the online Telegraph? Does one have to throw oneself on the pavement before Damian Thompson, or is there a more dignified way to do it?
I am not envious of what appears to be Cambridge night life, which is apparently limited to going to some dive and drinking alcopop. Frankly, night life at the University of Toronto was better than that: on a Friday night the young Seraphic would put on her goth togs to go to candlelit cellars to drink terribly cheap wine, dance to Ministry and write horrible poetry by candlelight. Possibly some sneering junior hack will now accuse me of seething resentment for not having gone to the Sorbonne, but that is a risk I am willing to take.
It is odd that the nice young Englishman today cannot don a tweed jacket without someone shrieking about Brideshead Revisited, Charles, Sebastian and Oxford University. Tweed is a lovely fabric; we think quite highly of it in Scotland. Wool pullovers are also quite nice; we think quite highly of them in Scotland, too. Corduroy trousers in startling colours are a matter of taste, but one must admit that they are a nice change from the drear of grey or black denim one sees everywhere.
And it must be great fun to find socks and ties to go with them. There is a bit of a Sock War between the Young Fogeys of my parish, and I amuse myself on Sundays by comparing the day's contenders for the Sock Title. (In olden days a glimpse of sock was looked upon as quite a shock, but today--heaven knows--anything goes.) As a woman, I find it refreshing when men ponder their appearance with even a sliver of the attention women pay to our own. It shows appropriate humility and recognition that it takes something more than a shell suit to get the attention of today's young woman around town, unless she is one's lawyer.
It is also sad that anyone should find it laughable or evidence of Oxbridge envy if young people in the UK have dinner parties, especially if such parties end with port and cigars, and an example of pretentious excess if the women leave the table when these break out. But in my own house I leave the table when the port comes out, so that I can have a cozy chat with my women guests, undeterred by the presence of men from indulging in such subjects naturally of no interest to them, e.g. Lonergan's cognitional theory in the light of contemporary neuroscience.
Dinner parties are quite an enjoyable way of spending time, as are partner dancing, the opera, the concert hall, singing around the piano and, in fact, anything that people with any money at all enjoyed before the Second World War. I do not think Young Fogeys should be faulted for finding value in those things that are beautiful or tasty and take effort. Nor should they be mocked for choosing them over such contemporary horrors as alcopop--grain alcohol with sugar and artificial fruit flavouring--and grinding, if grinding occurs in UK clubs. The one and only reason for drinking alcopop is to get drunk as soon as possible, perhaps so as not to notice how very boring the club scene can be. As for grinding, it may happen in Edinburgh's notorious Espionage, but nobody will escort me there, so I can't tell you for sure.
The traitor in the latest film version of John Le Carre's Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy justifies his treason by saying that Britain had become "so ugly." The sad fact of modern life in the West is that much of convention has become ugly. The conventional clothes have become ugly. The conventional language is ugly. The conventional manners are often ugly. The conventional music is often ugly. The conventional courtship is ugly. The Telegraph column I read was ugly, perhaps deliberately so as to provoke an angry, and therefore voluminous, response. If ugliness is now conventional, then it is better to be unconventional. If that is to be a traitor to the modern world, then a happy traitor I shall be and assist the Young Fogeys in their treason by applauding their pursuits and admiring their socks.
And with that thought, I will wish you a merry Christmas and say good-bye for now. I have many things to do to ensure a merry Christmas for B.A. and our guests and me. I very much hope that your Christmas is a celebration of all that you have and not at all a reminder of what you lack. No matter who is not with us, God is with us.
I am not envious of what appears to be Cambridge night life, which is apparently limited to going to some dive and drinking alcopop. Frankly, night life at the University of Toronto was better than that: on a Friday night the young Seraphic would put on her goth togs to go to candlelit cellars to drink terribly cheap wine, dance to Ministry and write horrible poetry by candlelight. Possibly some sneering junior hack will now accuse me of seething resentment for not having gone to the Sorbonne, but that is a risk I am willing to take.
It is odd that the nice young Englishman today cannot don a tweed jacket without someone shrieking about Brideshead Revisited, Charles, Sebastian and Oxford University. Tweed is a lovely fabric; we think quite highly of it in Scotland. Wool pullovers are also quite nice; we think quite highly of them in Scotland, too. Corduroy trousers in startling colours are a matter of taste, but one must admit that they are a nice change from the drear of grey or black denim one sees everywhere.
And it must be great fun to find socks and ties to go with them. There is a bit of a Sock War between the Young Fogeys of my parish, and I amuse myself on Sundays by comparing the day's contenders for the Sock Title. (In olden days a glimpse of sock was looked upon as quite a shock, but today--heaven knows--anything goes.) As a woman, I find it refreshing when men ponder their appearance with even a sliver of the attention women pay to our own. It shows appropriate humility and recognition that it takes something more than a shell suit to get the attention of today's young woman around town, unless she is one's lawyer.
It is also sad that anyone should find it laughable or evidence of Oxbridge envy if young people in the UK have dinner parties, especially if such parties end with port and cigars, and an example of pretentious excess if the women leave the table when these break out. But in my own house I leave the table when the port comes out, so that I can have a cozy chat with my women guests, undeterred by the presence of men from indulging in such subjects naturally of no interest to them, e.g. Lonergan's cognitional theory in the light of contemporary neuroscience.
Dinner parties are quite an enjoyable way of spending time, as are partner dancing, the opera, the concert hall, singing around the piano and, in fact, anything that people with any money at all enjoyed before the Second World War. I do not think Young Fogeys should be faulted for finding value in those things that are beautiful or tasty and take effort. Nor should they be mocked for choosing them over such contemporary horrors as alcopop--grain alcohol with sugar and artificial fruit flavouring--and grinding, if grinding occurs in UK clubs. The one and only reason for drinking alcopop is to get drunk as soon as possible, perhaps so as not to notice how very boring the club scene can be. As for grinding, it may happen in Edinburgh's notorious Espionage, but nobody will escort me there, so I can't tell you for sure.
The traitor in the latest film version of John Le Carre's Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy justifies his treason by saying that Britain had become "so ugly." The sad fact of modern life in the West is that much of convention has become ugly. The conventional clothes have become ugly. The conventional language is ugly. The conventional manners are often ugly. The conventional music is often ugly. The conventional courtship is ugly. The Telegraph column I read was ugly, perhaps deliberately so as to provoke an angry, and therefore voluminous, response. If ugliness is now conventional, then it is better to be unconventional. If that is to be a traitor to the modern world, then a happy traitor I shall be and assist the Young Fogeys in their treason by applauding their pursuits and admiring their socks.
And with that thought, I will wish you a merry Christmas and say good-bye for now. I have many things to do to ensure a merry Christmas for B.A. and our guests and me. I very much hope that your Christmas is a celebration of all that you have and not at all a reminder of what you lack. No matter who is not with us, God is with us.
Thursday, 20 December 2012
Tuesday, 7 August 2012
Is Outrage!
So yesterday I was walking through the New Town to get to Mass for the Feast of the Transfiguration... What's that you say? Old calendar, my dears. Old calendar.
Anyway, I was walking through the New Town with two charming Young Fogeys, co-religionists, of course, and we were rather snappily dressed although I say so myself. But nothing special, you understand.
The Englishman was wearing a perfectly normal tweed jacket, a Fair Isle jumper, tie, dark blue corduroy trousers, argyle socks and brown shoes.
The Continental was perhaps slightly more daring with his bright cherry red corduroy trousers, waistcoat, dark jacket, tie, brown shoes, dark hat, and, of course, his beautiful nineteenth century moustache.
And I was wearing some old thing: a dark green frock with a rather 1930s air although with a modified Empire waist--sort of between Empire and real waist--because I simply cannot wear a sack, my dears. So aptly named a garment, the sack dress, and so rrrruinous to curvy ladies like myself. I will have none of it. Anyway, let me see, I was wearing this dark green frock, large dark green button earrings, a green crystal necklace, lime green tights, green paisley shawl and little brown boots. Standard day wear, darlings.
The Englishman was holding a missal. I, of course, had mine wrapped in my mantilla in my green velvet handbag.
Well! We had turned the corner on Belford Road when who should approach us but two tall denim-clad people with guitars. And we would not have taken any notice of them had one not suddenly said, in Australian, with a hit of irony:
"Nice costumes, guys."
Well. You can imagine what we said.
"Thank you," said the Englishman with kneejerk polite hypocrisy.
"Thank you," said Canadian me with kneejerk polite hypocrisy.
The Continental uttered no word and made no gesture to acknowledge that such creatures as the speaker might exist although I suspect his upper lip curled ever so slightly under his beautiful moustache.
The musicians passed us, continuing in the direction opposite to our own, and I puzzled over the greeting. The Edinburgh Festival is in full swing, so the Australian may have made an honest error. But on the other hand, there was that hint of irony. Had the cherry corduroy trousers awakened dormant class hatreds?
"Unfair," I said suddenly. "I'm not even wearing a hat. Oh, wait. Yes I am."
But the chap was Australian, and surely not party to the seething hostilities and envies lurking underneath what we locals laughingly call democracy.
So what was with the Aussie's personal tone? Why had hats + tweed + frock + ties + jumper + pipes (for of course my companions were smoking pipes) elicited such disapproval?
Would he have made such a remark to punkers? No. To goths? Unlikely. So why us? Why us?
"OOOOOOOO!" I gasped, as a hypothesis dawned. "They could be a folk music group on their way to the Cathedral!"
We pondered this.
"Let's get 'em!" I cried.
Update: Dear folk Mass loving readers, I was kidding! :-D
Anyway, I was walking through the New Town with two charming Young Fogeys, co-religionists, of course, and we were rather snappily dressed although I say so myself. But nothing special, you understand.
The Englishman was wearing a perfectly normal tweed jacket, a Fair Isle jumper, tie, dark blue corduroy trousers, argyle socks and brown shoes.
The Continental was perhaps slightly more daring with his bright cherry red corduroy trousers, waistcoat, dark jacket, tie, brown shoes, dark hat, and, of course, his beautiful nineteenth century moustache.
And I was wearing some old thing: a dark green frock with a rather 1930s air although with a modified Empire waist--sort of between Empire and real waist--because I simply cannot wear a sack, my dears. So aptly named a garment, the sack dress, and so rrrruinous to curvy ladies like myself. I will have none of it. Anyway, let me see, I was wearing this dark green frock, large dark green button earrings, a green crystal necklace, lime green tights, green paisley shawl and little brown boots. Standard day wear, darlings.
The Englishman was holding a missal. I, of course, had mine wrapped in my mantilla in my green velvet handbag.
Well! We had turned the corner on Belford Road when who should approach us but two tall denim-clad people with guitars. And we would not have taken any notice of them had one not suddenly said, in Australian, with a hit of irony:
"Nice costumes, guys."
Well. You can imagine what we said.
"Thank you," said the Englishman with kneejerk polite hypocrisy.
"Thank you," said Canadian me with kneejerk polite hypocrisy.
The Continental uttered no word and made no gesture to acknowledge that such creatures as the speaker might exist although I suspect his upper lip curled ever so slightly under his beautiful moustache.
The musicians passed us, continuing in the direction opposite to our own, and I puzzled over the greeting. The Edinburgh Festival is in full swing, so the Australian may have made an honest error. But on the other hand, there was that hint of irony. Had the cherry corduroy trousers awakened dormant class hatreds?
"Unfair," I said suddenly. "I'm not even wearing a hat. Oh, wait. Yes I am."
But the chap was Australian, and surely not party to the seething hostilities and envies lurking underneath what we locals laughingly call democracy.
So what was with the Aussie's personal tone? Why had hats + tweed + frock + ties + jumper + pipes (for of course my companions were smoking pipes) elicited such disapproval?
Would he have made such a remark to punkers? No. To goths? Unlikely. So why us? Why us?
"OOOOOOOO!" I gasped, as a hypothesis dawned. "They could be a folk music group on their way to the Cathedral!"
We pondered this.
"Let's get 'em!" I cried.
Update: Dear folk Mass loving readers, I was kidding! :-D
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