Petite Syrah

extra virgin olive oil

2005-11-08T13:04:00.000-08:00

Petite Syrah will be no longer, sorry folks. I'm sticking with myspace and making my blog viewable only to friends, which can only be people I actually know. While there may be many kind and friendly strangers out there in the world, I've been nearly overwhelmed in the past couple days with ones that are too friendly and I need to be more careful from now on. Yeah that means no more blogging as if I were a ten year old kid writing a diary of whatever passing thought. So if you want to know what's happening at the dollhouse, you'll have to email me. I think I'll go curl up in a corner and disappear into spa magazine for the rest of the afternoon.

a Moo Cow, a Kitty, and a Candy Basket

2005-11-01T15:24:00.000-08:00

Happy November 1st!! It rained all night and into the morning, and now it's nearly winter here. I'm posting pictures from Halloween. Since I spent the holiday with my family, I settled on being a moo cow. I thought that perhaps the Gretl costume would be inappropriate for family time, and I didn't want to go out unacommpanied. ;o)
The first photo is me and my niece, Ella, playing around before we put on our costumes. The pictures that follow are our little kitty cat that I took trick-or-treating. She's really the happiest baby ever, but we cannot often get her to smile at the camera. I think she's around 15 months. I'm not posting any photos of me in the cow costume. It's really for the best. I had never accompanied a small child trick-or-treating before, but let me tell you, the adult in such a situation gets gipped. People asked me, "Oh, are you trick-or-treating, too?" What? Why else would I be dressed up in this damned cow costume? Really. Next year miss coffey is going to a grown up party as gretl, or little bo peep. But I'm glad that baby had a good time. :o)

Mask-burning Party

2005-10-31T19:26:00.000-08:00

Best friends are as much a matter of determined self-revelation as they are favor and destiny. How can people know you unless you show yourself to them? Though there are some things we will instinctively know about each other, how sweet is it when one offers you freely what is on his heart and mind- to raise another up, not merely for the purpose of pushing her forward but in order to hold her face to face. Yes, how much more frightening than monsters or ghosts of the past, how intimate and terrifying in the deepest sense, and yet how rewarding. This is what it means to truly be alive. How often we simply eat in the presence of others, high towers prevailing to keep us apart, rather than to truly dine with our friends. Such barriers secure us only from the prospect of truly living. It costs a little pride to call out, "Wait for me, please, I'm just behind you!" But then we can all go together. To steadily lose a sense of self-preservation in the presence of friends, to care no longer for trying to appear a certain way in the eyes of others, is to be free to give and receive love for who you really are, no longer stooping to hold up a puppet in your place. The patience and persistance of one of my oldest and dearest friends is what enabled me to finally burn many of my masks, but even with the sincerest graces of others to fall back on, it is still a difficult choice. Self-revelation is not something one can force on anyone, nor would it be nearly as valuable if one could. There is perhaps far too much emphasis placed on the chemistry of friends and lovers than on the necessity for a continued mutual revelation between them.

Fraidy Meow!

2005-10-30T21:14:00.000-08:00

We had a pumpkin carving party tonight, and I made a meow face. I can't take complete credit for it, because my mom did help me with it. The problem is that I ate some raw pumpkin, not knowing that you're only supposed to eat it cooked, and consequently felt nauseated by the smell of pumpkin innards all evening. :o(
Below are photos take by the camera on my phone, so they're not very high quality. First is the pumpkin I carved and second is the next door neighbors' six-toed kitty cat. It's the meanest little thing. I tried to pet her, and she fratched at me with her giant paw. I've circulated pictures of this meow among my friends, and one remarked that she appears to be "an ill-tempered creature." This is true.

Rx: October

2005-10-29T15:09:00.000-07:00

Any pizza with chicken on it demands to be eaten with ale. This public service announcement comes to you courtesy of miss coffey's kitchen. I've had the loveliest October that a girl can have and am ending the month with autumnal cleaning, fresh pillow cases, and a Jane Austen novel. I've danced in piles of yellow leaves, walked through the organic market, played some poker, visited my favorite winery, had lunch with my sister and her babyloo, and thoroughly enjoyed my work. And I am happy to report that at all times I have been safe without harm and healthy as a ten year old kid. Not believing that I could live without a certain hat-wearing gentleman of yesteryear, I spent most of August crying myself to sleep every night, distilling a more potent version of myself in the bitterly wept tears of a silly-headed maiden. The fleeting heartaches of youth quickly reacquaint a person with the value of surrender. Twas the witch's message to Dorothy in the sky, was it not? :o)

My October wine recommendation is the The Rocca delle Macie Rubizzo Sangiovese with pasta, cheese, steak, just about anything. It's extremely versatile. I had it with the seafood portofino at the Olive Garden when I went with my sister, at the recommendation of a sympathetic waitress who shared my strong preference for reds, even with seafood. My sister, the pop culture lovin' mother of a dolly-faced pincess, ordered Chateau Ste. Michelle's riesling and found that it was more sweet than any she'd ever tasted. I found it to be slightly unpalatable, definitely not something to be had with a large lunch. But to each her own. I was shocked out of my mind to discover that the baby loves Eggplant Parmigiana. It is a little known fact that fondue is the way to my heart, and my niece acted as though she was doing me a favor by eating the little bites of it that I fed her from our appetizer. But then again how could she know how I feel about fondue? She's going to get spoiled rotten. :o)

So afterwards we paid a visit to the Hauer of the Dauen, which I learned means "the first light of day." I like that. Officially they were closed for tasting, but I hunted someone down and purchased the wines I wanted for our Thanksgiving feast, and then we headed back to McMinnville. I feel like a kid in a candy store being so near to all of these vineyards. What am I going to do when I no longer live in the Northwest?

proxime accessit

2005-10-22T19:45:00.000-07:00

Sky is calling to the steeple
As it echoes out my name
I can hear You in the air I breathe

Spanning the years that have come and gone
You roll like the ocean underneath the sun
Weaving my soul to the Holy One
Weaving on and on with love...

-Michelle Tumes "deep love"-

evidence of fratching!

2005-10-18T18:55:00.000-07:00

Okay, so today Dixie (my mom's cat) fratched my arm and it bled! :o( I had to use two bandaids.

And secondly, it's autumn now, and we can wear striped stockings. :o)

Reading Lolita in Tehran

2005-10-16T10:59:00.000-07:00

Book Reveiw Time. Yay! I recently completed Reading Lolita in Tehran by Azar Nafisi, upon Marion's recommendation, and I absolutely loved it. It's basically a short memoir in books of an Iranian literature professor. She taught in Iran during the revolution and was forced to leave one of her posts for refusing to wear the veil. After that she began a little book class in her home for some of her female students to study the forbidden western litarature. This book is the coziest autumn read I've had in a long time, and at the same time is highly educational about Iranian culture and history. Nafisi has an intuitive grasp of what it takes to write good fiction, though her story is real. When he first told me about this book, I didn't think it sounded very interesting, but he compelled me to go get it. I couldn't have been more pleased. I think you'll enjoy it, too. Plus we're in the middle of the month of Ramadan, and you need to know more about Persians. :o)

the winemaker

2005-10-11T19:38:00.000-07:00

From time to time Safeway has incredible deals on the mainline brands of wine and a few local makers as well. Ours sells the Duck Pond's Pinot, Chardonnay, and their Columbia Valley 2002 Syrah- which was of special interest to me and also on sale. I couldn't resist throwing it in the cart with the cat litter and ice cream for which my mom had sent me, suddenly plunging back into memories of last winter. The first time I had this particular wine was December 2004 when visiting the Duck Pond Cellars on my birthday. At that time I declared that this was the wine that I wanted at my wedding, or at least a pony bottle by my bedside. Inky, bold, metamorphic, I found it completely tantalizing and still do, to Marion's amusement. "Here we are in territory famous for pinot and you still manage to fall in love with another syrah..."

Last December, my boyscout and I set out to educate ourselves about the finest pinot noir in the world, venturing off to most of the main vineyards in Dundee and several obscure, off-the-road wineries. One such small place was called the Hauer of the Dauen. We were both attracted to and curious about the name, laughing about how ominously it rolled off the tongue. As we pulled into the gravel parkway, there was no ostentatious display, no fancy tasting room, just the naked operations of wine-making. The cellar master was there in the room with all the oak barrels, though you would never have guessed by his coveralls and soil-covered hands that he was the man in charge. I loved him immediately. He was sensitive about the soil in a way that only a winemaker can be, and he spoke to us about how he was one of the only ones in Oregon who attempted to make Gewurztraminer. There was nothing pretentious about him, nothing that would distract from the beauty of what he was creating. We saw only the painting, and the hand of the painter never intruded to ruin the magic. His pinot was some of the finest I've ever tasted. It was raw and edgy and bore the unique personality of the cellar master. Not everyone was guaranteed to like his brand of viticulture, but then again he wasn't mass-marketing his wine. He made it, because it pleased him and grinned happily as we tasted. I nearly cried. We left with several bottles and an experience that would forever change the landscape of my palette.

February was our baptism into bordeaux, when I flew to Paris to see him on his break from touring Europe. The first time I was in Paris was a brief excursion with the co-leaders from the DTS that I staffed, Yasuko, the sweetest Japanese woman I've ever met, and Maida, an Egyptian woman who taught me that living in the joy can be even more difficult than learning to trust. We wandered Parisian street markets with our cups of hot wine in one blissful evening before catching the train back to Geneva. But this time I had two weeks, and I was with my boyscout, the man whom Maida's wisdom had prepared me for, and though my whole world was in his eyes, I found renewed energy exploring the sites of Paris. Every day we tried a different bordeaux, gradually learning which vintages were good and which were better left to other buyers. It didn't matter that it was mind-numbingly cold that time of year, because the adventure was more than experiencing all the bordeaux anyone could wish for. I was getting to know my long-time American friend on foreign soil, coincidentally the same soil that produced bordeaux renowned the world over. I still harbored a secret allegiance to my hometown pinot and bought a French pinot just to compare, but it didn't hold a candle to Oregon winemakers. "We already knew that," he said. I just needed confirmation, and though I felt triumphant, it was my pleasure to discover again what was always evident. My tongue fell in love with the fruit of the soil that was dealt to my corner of the world.

you should know better

2005-10-09T15:44:00.000-07:00

Some mornings begin with the sound of the alarm clock, insistantly beckoning you back to consciousness, like someone carelessly flipping on the lights after a movie. Much preferred is waking into the safety of your salutation. You woke before me. You were already driving through the day, while I slept to the rhythmic clicking of the turn signal. Answering the phone out of a deep slumber, I hear a voice far away saying, "Hello, sleepy," and I smile, though not quite awake. It's you, and I want to be awake now. For the past few days, every night in the shower and every morning upon waking, this song has been in my head...goes like this... I am fed up to be your twin brother- you're not my sister. And every time I think of that I want to, I want to say to you, I want to talk to you, When I look into your eyes, I see a yellow butterfly...

animus

2005-10-08T20:34:00.000-07:00

I went for a run in the rain today in order to satisfy my body's demand for a fight. Perhaps you know that point where you feel as though you're going to puke and then shortly thereafter follows a nearly impossible sense of well-being, the colors of grass and sky suddenly spilling more vibrantly over the landscape than you noticed before your moment of exhiliaration. I find that focused thought is often the byproduct of such activity. Some people hate to hear that, would love to believe that any positive effects of exercise are all myths. My goodness, you'd be surprised. And all the while America is dying of heart disease. I'm baffled by how frequently newspapers and other periodicals will hail mentally retarded people as "our local heros" or the wheel-chair bound artist as a role-model. Nobody aspires to that. It's a freakin tragedy that anyone has to live with impairment. America doesn't seem to be able to recognize true heroism anymore. When she does mention fallen heroes on the nightly news, it is accompanied by the not so subtle hint that "We at the network think this is such a senseless waste of life, but you should know the names of America's fallen." This is an erosion of honor and completely undermines what the sacrifice was for. Don't even mention it, if you're going to do it half-assed. This is the worst form of gluttony- to view liberty as something merely to be ingested, enjoyed, and taken for granted. Guess what, lady, the man who beats you isn't your hero.

See me jump through hoops for you
You stand there watching me performing
What exactly do you do?
Have you ever thought it's you that's boring?
Who the hell are you?

I am extraordinary, if you'd ever get to know me...

-liz phair "extraordinary"-

Scarecrow ESB

2005-10-03T11:46:00.000-07:00

Saturday I worked at the McMinnville pregnancy center, because their director was out of town for a conference. Though it was relatively quiet, I still found my mind tossing and turning and kicking at the covers, so afterwards I headed to McMenamins. First I walked a few blocks down to scout out the location where they have Texas Hold'em tournaments around here. Unfortunately, it's not in a cozy pub atmosphere, but I'll still go check it out anyway. Sitting alone in a booth next to the window, I ordered a pint of their Scarecrow ESB, an amber ale with a bit of a bite to it, and a cup of African Chicken Peanut Soup. After about 20 minutes of watching colored leaves float down from the trees nearby, my lips started to tingle, and I wanted to be outside. While there I noticed two things: One is that Oregon people are fond of pea green attire, and the other is that McMenamins has mustard made with Terminator Stout. Both of these things made me smile.

Eyes still salty and sore from unfavorable relations at home, I drove back to what is not to be referred to as "my place" anymore, and I couldn't get that old Natalie Imbruglia song out of my head, the one that goes: Illusion never changed into something real. I'm wide awake and I can see the perfect sky is torn. I don't even like that song. As I was driving, there appeared around the corner a rainbow against the backdrop of dark and white clouds, hanging fantastically low to the ground. The whole scene looked as though it might burst into tears at any moment. So I put on running shoes on and ran around the track for a mile, took a shower, and cooked up some chili before it started to rain again. Slept far too late into Sunday... Dreamed about being stuck in some alternate dimension of time, my only chance to return being in the creation of a portal from the other end, if only they knew... Ah yes, here is your chance to ruthlessly mock my childhood affinity for Star Trek. :o)

honeybrush

2005-09-30T17:43:00.000-07:00

I drove to work Wednesday morning in cloud- couldn't see more than 50 feet ahead of me. Today it's raining, and I wish I were vineyard-hopping or at home drinking honeybrush tea, enjoying the sweet, unhurried exchanges of a grey autumn afternoon.

I woke up at 7 this morning and sat queitly for an hour before beginning the daily rituals- coffee, bagel, make-up, email, toothbrushing. When I arrived at work I spent about an hour with a girl who used to be a meth addict but is now pregnant, and she is just a darling. She comes in every week to talk and go through parenting workbooks or bible studies, and we always have a good time. The work that we do here is a ministry done by women for women and their children. So I guess that Women's Ministry class I had was actually useful ;o) I remember sitting in a classroom full of girls (and one guy named Levi who was kind of a smartass) reciting aloud in unison, "I cry out to God Most High, to God who performs all things for me." (one version says, "who fulfills His purpose for me" ..ps.57:2) A bit archaic and sing-songy in away, but entirely unforgettable. Dr. Watney's wife came in specially just to teach that class, and she is a real lady, if I've ever known one. She had it going on... and in her own way, she knew how to instill the essence of what it means to be a lady- to trust, to be patient, gentle, to be led, to know that the best thing you possess is your ability to cry out to God Most High, who performs all things for His little girls. Intercession is the lifeblood of any ministry, and the best way you can help women is to teach them to call out to their greatest Advocate. So yeah, thanks Karen Watney. You're the finest. :o)

republican boys are hot

2005-09-28T20:21:00.000-07:00

stolen from laura's boyfriend's blog:

"War is an ugly thing, but not the ugliest of things. The decayed and degraded state of moral and patriotic feeling which thinks that nothing is worth war is much worse. The person who has nothing for which he is willing to fight, nothing which is more important than his own personal safety, is a miserable creature and has no chance of being free unless made and kept so by the exertions of better men than himself."

- John Stuart Mill

baby girl

2005-09-25T16:10:00.000-07:00

I'm supposed to make dinner tonight with boneless/skinless chicken breasts. I'm supposed to find a recipe on the internet that sounds good to me and make it. I live with my mom, kind of. In her other house. But I come over for dinner. :o) I'm thinking of trying an experiment, involving bacon, cheese, chicken, olive oil (i love, i love you), and minced garlic.

So lately I've been concerned about female infanticide in China. This is a crime committed by women against women and is dizzying in its scope. Do you know about it? We need to read up. In the last census in 2000, there were nearly 19 million boys more than girls in the 0-15 age group. The ramifications of gender-selective abortions are now becoming evident, and as a by-product we're getting an increase in international crime, particularly kidnapping, prostitution, and human trafficking. The most dangerous, violence-vulnerable position to be in today is to be Chinese, female, and in the womb of your mother. India has similar things going on...But what complicates matters is that it has become very politically incorrect to be an advocate for the voiceless these days. You're labeled intolerant, uneducated, uninformed, and fanatical. A commitment to truth is going to be offensive, and you will experience a lot of rejection and derision. My culture tells me that I'm backward and unenlightened. My heart tells me that to possess a voice and the knowledge of such global atrocities is to be responsible for action. C.S. Lewis writes, "Nations, cultures, arts, civilizations -- these are all mortal, and their life is to ours as the life of a gnat. But it is immortals whom we joke with, work with, marry, snub, and exploit -- immortal horrors or everlasting splendours."

It's not necessary to cover your ears and shout, "I can't hear you!" in issues like these, because you're not going to hear anything from the victims anyways. The little girls dying do not yet have voices to call for your help, and the women perpetrating these crimes are oftentimes silent, ashamed, and grieving. Both are in need of our prayers and our action. This kind of problem doesn't just go away. Blame doesn't accomplish anything. It goes far deeper than social action, programs, and legislation. There is a spiritual war going on for the elimination of the destiny of the next generation of warriors. These are symptoms of the end, and to fill the sound of your atmosphere with the TV or music all day is to bury your head in the sand. We need to fill the air with the sound of our voices calling out for those who cannot. None of this bowing your head and silently well-wishing. Allow yourself to be moved, to literally cry out, to roar, to fight, to be victorious in your requests. You will be answered. You may even be part of the answer.

Do you like apples?

2005-09-19T19:43:00.000-07:00

I'm over at my mom's house, and she just gave Ella a bath. Ella is my one year old niece and she has completely mastered the words, "Bye-bye!" This will come in handy someday when she starts going out on dates. I'm trying to get her to say things like, "Bye bye, baby" and "Bye bye, bonita!" but it's not working. She does, however, know how to wave while saying it, opening and closing her hand like a little birdie face.

I came over here in search of an apple. All I want is an apple. Okay, that's not true. I want some plain yogurt mixed with cinnamon in which to dip the apple, but it's not absolutely necessary. There are no apples here. I guess I'll have to settle for watermelon and a piece of chicken. Incidentally, I do not recommend KFC's chicken wings. The sauces are all wrong. I do recommend Safeway's olive bagels. Popped one of them in the oven this morning. (I dont have a toaster) This should be a food blog.

Summer is over. (This sounds like a 4th grader's diary, doesnt it? I'm too tired to try harder. You're gonna wish I were still unemployed.) Bust out the warm socks.

baby baby

2005-09-16T22:13:00.000-07:00

My first day at work in the Pregnancy Center was delightful, though I would like to do a bit of redecorating. :o) All in good time. Basically my job is to give free pregnancy tests, counsel with the girls about the results and their situations, give away baby clothes/maternity clothes/baby supplies, and refer the women to agencies for food, healthcare, support, adoption, etc. Given the availability of pregnancy tests in stores, even dollar stores, many of the women who come in for a free test are poor or need someone to talk to. I work with a team of huge-hearted, experienced volunteers and am very blessed to be with them.

After working at the center, I had a two hour break before some additional training in the evening. In need of an espresso recharge, I sat down at a little cafe called the French Bear where they make German chocolate mochas. I ordered one and a bagel lightly toasted and sat at one of the high tables that looks out the window. Next to me was a wall of Northwestern goods for sale: coffee, herbs, tea, etc, and a couple snuggled into a corner table. They emptied their tall wine glasses and kissed as if the whole world beyond their table has disappeared. So sweet. I bless that wherever I see it and smiled out the window, as the rain started to pour down. I forgot my umbrella and had to make my way back to my car in the rain, but I couldn't have been more content. Tomorrow morning/afternoon is more training, then begins my weekend. Who wants to have beers and hotwings? :o)

decidedly delicious

2005-09-12T20:44:00.000-07:00

Some of you may know that I am a huge fan of Icelandic music. Sigur Ros has a new album out, and it is so lovely. You can listen here: http://www.myspace.com/sigurros
Last night I dreamed that Bjork was in my freshman spanish class in high school before she was famous. Truly Bizarre.
Tonight: Ancient Christmas Carols, candles, and Mr. Bubble Bubble-Bath

precipitating patience

2005-09-10T22:35:00.000-07:00

"Disappointments are to the soul what the thunder-storm is to the air." This is a quote from Friedrich von Schiller. I appreciate axiomatic imagery, because it opens our understanding in the way that we knew first- pictures. Before any of us could read we looked at the pictures. This quote says to me that diappointment releases the storm and everything that's been held at odds in the electricity of the air. Experientially, I know this to be true, though I'm trying my hardest not to be so stormy when the disappointments come. And they will come.

Robert Burns said that "Suspense is worse than disappointment." If you are determined to be given to hope, then this cannot be true, for in the hoping there is always a spark of possible fulfillment. In disappointment there is only the task of rebuilding or walking away. Maybe Robert Burns was wired differently.

Richard Nixon, one of my personal heros, said, "The greatness comes not when things go always good for you. But the greatness comes when you're really tested, when you take some knocks, some disappointments, when sadness comes." Man, don't you wish the path to greatness was paved by people saying nice things about you and easy successes all around? But what is greatness, if it is not tested? Untested potential. Just a seed waiting to winter hardship until it's proven. I'm so sleepy now. It's been a quiet, rainy day here in Oregon, and I've spent it very much like a cat. Minus the sleeping part. Goodnight, comrades.

oregonista

2005-09-09T13:21:00.000-07:00

Hey kiddos, guess what, I got a job! I accepted a position today as the director of the Pregnancy Counseling and Information Center in Newberg, Oregon. It's a part-time thing, so I'm looking for something else on the side. I think I'm going to buy a dresser and stop living out of my suitcase now. :o) I'll be in McMinnville for awhile, so y'all will have to come visit me. I have this huge house mostly to myself and it has two fireplaces. hehe. If you come visit, I will take you out wine-tasting at the vineyards one afternoon. And I'll take you to the ocean. And mexican food with margaritas. Oh, and especially you ladies who will be down in Eugene... if you have no place to go for Thanksgiving, you should come up here and stay with me. ;o)

if you wanna subscribe...

2005-09-06T21:24:00.000-07:00

weaving victory on His war-loom

2005-09-06T12:23:00.000-07:00

"Then down the brave men lay with his bolster
under his head and his whole company
of sea-rovers at rest beside him.
None of them expected he would ever see
his homeland again or get back
to his native place and the people who reared him.
They knew too well the way it was before,
how often the Danes had fallen prey
to death in the mead-hall. But the Lord was weaving
a victory on His war-loom for the Weather-Geats.
Through the strength of one they all prevailed;
they would crush their enemy and come through
in triumph and gladness. The truth is clear:
Almighty God rules over mankind
and always has."

-from Beowulf

vindex beef-steakicus

2005-09-04T12:10:00.000-07:00

If you want to see my pulse go wild, just hook me up to a polygraph machine and read me Twas the Night Before Christmas. I tell you, there's something magical about the cadence of that story.

That or a heavily marbled New York Strip steak. Oh yes. Yesterday I was at Safeway, and they had their rib eyes on sale. One of my favorite things in the world is to see red, bloody, uncooked beef. There's nothing better than cooking up some steaks with a side of asparagus cooked in olive oil, a baked potato, a new world syrah, a movie from the blockbuster, and a biting autumn wind outside. Welcome, September.

For my birthday I want either a six-toed meow meow or a miniature meow, preferably white or grey or a mixture. :o)

Ornamental

2005-08-31T17:53:00.000-07:00

This morning my mom dropped by with a coffee grinder and some organic sumatra whole beans which aptly go by the name of Veritas. They've temporarily moved out of their house while some people drill holes in the ceiling. At least, that's how I understand the situation, perhaps because it was explained to me in such a way that I should already know what it all means. Yesterday my mom loaded me up with some tuna, leftover fried rice and steak, a 2/3 full bottle of merlot, and some grape juice. "Here, now you take these and be on your way."

My exploration of the history of the English language winds its way into the Renaissance period, during which we see the language overcoming a great deal of opposition in order to become that of the learned men in their own country. With a great deal of struggle for its place against Latin, the age-old tongue of the learned, and no small amount of providence, English emerges triumphant and is established as a world voice for liberty and learning.
In a heart-quickening burst of foresight, Richard Mulcaster writes:

"I take this present period of our English tung to be the verie height therof, bycause I find it so excellentlie well fined, both for the bodie of the tung it self, and for the customarie writing thereof, as either foren workmanship can give it glosse, or as homewrought hanling can give it grace. When the age of our peple, which now use the tung so well, is dead and departed there will another succede, and with the peple the tung will alter and change. Which change in the full harvest thereof maie prove comparable to this, but sure for this which we now use, it semeth even now to be at the best for substance, and the bravest for circumstance, and whatsoever shall becom of the English state, the English tung cannot prove fairer, then it is at this daie, if it maie please our learned sort to esteme so of it, and to bestow their travell upon such a subject, so capable of ornament, so proper to themselves, and the more to be honored, bycause it is their own."

Because it is their own...If you could see me, I swoon. ;o) How scarce are men these days who feel no shame in loving that which is their own. Modern, tolerant thought lines these men up against the wall and shoots them in the back. Any spark of patriotism seems to have become suspect. To love your own kind, to fight for your nation's security, to be blessed with that which has been given to you and to protect it- this is what it means to be a man. I respect those who love their own kind, not to the exclusion of all others, but to take joy in what is their own and to possess the courage to fight for it. For who has breath or being except that it has been given to him by God? And if it has been given to him by God, then why should he not be filled with passion and fight for that which is rightfully his? We possess no liberty except that which we claim and fight for as children of the God who gave it. Liberty is not an arbitrary value of prosperous men. Liberty is divine. Where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is liberty. Where it is not, there is bondage. In all this reading of history, I am wooed, not by the words of the men themselves, but by the Invisible Hand that turned the world for their favor, inspiring the brave words the left their lips in moments of great courage, that Spirit that fought through their swords and brought victory to their hands. I am dizzy in love with the Master of this dangerous, untamable power. For who can claim that he is here on this earth of his own power? And though the lips of mortal man may be so kissably carved and bring forth the most eloquent thoughts and impressions, I see always behind them the indelible image of the Lover Himself, who has destined man for liberty. If my God gave me a crown of liberty, with ornaments all around, and if this tyrannical, death-minded world has stolen the ornaments and sought to destroy me, you had better believe that He will forcefully and systematically cause my enemies to hand over the ornaments or be annihilated, that I may live adorned as He so pleases. It is a fearful thing to stand between the God of the Universe and that which He desires. Why? Because He loves me. I will never be ashamed to surrender to the embrace of one who fights for me.

"For is it not in dede a marvellous bondage, to becom servants to one tung for learning sake, the most of our time, with losse of most time, whereas we maie have the verie same treasur in our own tung, with the gain of most time? Our own bearing the joyfull title of our libertie and fredom, the Latin tung remembring us of our thraldom and bondage? I love Rome, but London better, I favor Italie, but England more, I honor the Latin, but I worship the English." -Mulcaster

which end is up?

2005-08-30T19:58:00.000-07:00

"I can't see why anybody- unless he was a child, or an angel, or a lucky simpleton like the pilgrim- would even want to say the prayer to a Jesus who was the least bit different from the way he looks in the New Testament. My God! He's only the most intelligent man in the Bible, that's all! Who isn't he head and shoulders over? Who? Both Testaments are full of pundits, prophets, disciples, favorite sons, Solomons, Isaiahs, Davids, Pauls- but, my God, who besides Jesus really knew which end was up? Nobody. Not Moses. Don't tell me Moses. he was a nice man, and he kept in beautiful touch with his God, and all that- but that's exactly the point. He had to keep in touch. Jesus realized there is no separation from God." Zooey here clapped his hands together- only once, and not loud, and very probably in spite of himself. His hands were refolded across his chest almost, as it were, before, the clap was out. "Oh, my God, what a mind!" he said. "Who else, for example, would have kept his mouth shut when Pilate asked for an explanation? Not Solomon. Don't say Solomon. Solomon would have had a few pithy words for the occasion. I'm not sure Socrates wouldn't have, for that matter. Crito, or somebody, would have managed to pull him aside just long enough to get a couple of well-chosen words for the record. But most of all, above everything else, who in the Bible besides Jesus knew - knew- that we're carrying the Kingdom of Heaven around with us, inside, where we're all too goddam stupid and sentimental and unimaginitive to look? You have to be a son of God to know that kind of stuff."

-from Franny and Zooey by J.D. Salinger