I hated it. "You're going to have to learn to live with the fact that we live in a different world today.
You have every right to speak your mind of course, but you have to be prepared for the consequences of doing so. You have to face the fact that there are people who are hurting, who aren't going to want to argue the finer points of Constitutional law when their lives are at stake.
We're in a lifeboat now, and once you're in the lifeboat, no one wants to hear about how mean the captain is being."
I barely restrained myself from rolling my eyes.
"I've been assigned two weeks of independent study, writing one paper for each of my subjects, using the city for my background — a history paper, a social studies paper, an English paper, a physics paper.
to them, You know nothing at all; you do not unsrndtaed that it is expedient for you that one man should die for the people, and that the whole nation should not perish. He did not say this of his own accord, but being high priest that year he prophesied that Jesus should die for the nation, and not for the nation only, but to gather into one the children of God who are scattered abroad. (John 11:49ff)Not having the intention to prophesy about Jesus didn't stop the high priest from doing so.It is thy will that works of thy wisdom should not be without effect; therefore men trust their lives even to the smallest piece of wood, and passing through the billows on a raft they come safely to land. For even in the beginning, when arrogant giants were perishing, the hope of the world took refuge on a raft, and guided by thy hand left to the world the seed of a new generation. For blessed is the wood by which righteousness comes. (Wisdom 14:5ff)The author of the above had wood from the past (Noah's ark) in mind, but he ended up prophesying about wood in the future (Christ's cross).Have you heard of the sensus plenior, the fuller sense of Scripture that God intended, although the human author was unaware of it? I dare say a good number of the O.T. texts which point to Christ were written without complete human unsrndtaeding of their significance.The author of Exodus 12-13 may not have had Christ in mind when writing, but so many of the Passover prescriptions point to Him: the (male) lamb without blemish, the saving effects of its blood, that not a bone shall of it shall be broken, that its flesh is to be consumed (but not by outsiders), etc.
It beats sitting around at home watching television."
Dad looked hard at me, like he suspected I was up to something, then nodded. I said goodnight to them and went up to my room.
I fired up my Xbox and opened a word-processor and started to brainstorm ideas for my papers. Why not? It really was better than sitting around at home.
I ended up IMing with Ange for quite a while that night. She was sympathetic about everything and told me she'd help me with my papers if I wanted to meet her after school the next night.
Bueno, Andreas. Es hora de que usted lea mis comentarios en mi idmioa natal: el espaf1ol. Lf3gicamente, traducido .Le comento algo: Hace un par de meses, pero especedficamente desde el 1 de septiembre de este af1o, estaba pensando en decirle que me ofreceda voluntariamente para traducir el sitio completamente al espaf1ol. Hay que tener en cuenta, que el espaf1ol es la segunda lengua natal me1s hablada en el mundo (luego del chino, que es la primera; y el ingle9s este1 en tercer lugar), por supuesto, sin la utilizacif3n del traductor para que la lectura sea 100% fluedda y coherente. Pero como todaveda estoy cursando la universidad, no quereda contarle, ya que no dispongo de tiempo.Usted debe considerar que las visitas a su sitio se incrementareda considerablemente, como asimismo las descargas y la utilizacif3n de sus plantillas.Me1s alle1 de todo, todaveda tengo esto en mente y espero su respuesta.Si todo sale bien, a inicios de diciembre podreda estar con bastante tiempo libre.Si lo desea, puede contactarme por los medios que usted ya sabe.Saludos y e9xitos. Facundo Gonze1lez, de Argentina.
I knew where her school was — she went to the same school as Van — and it was all the way over in the East Bay, where I hadn't visited since the bombs went.
I was really excited at the prospect of seeing her again.
Every night since the party, I'd gone to bed thinking of two things: the sight of the crowd charging the police lines and the feeling of the side of her breast under her shirt as we leaned against the pillar.
She was amazing. I'd never been with a girl as...aggressive as her before.
It had always been me putting the moves on and them pushing me away. I got the feeling that Ange was as much of a horn-dog as I was.
It was a tantalizing notion.
I slept soundly that night, with exciting dreams of me and Ange and what we might do if we found ourselves in a secluded spot somewhere.
The next day, I set out to work on my papers. San Francisco is a good place to write about.
History? Sure, it's there, from the Gold Rush to the WWII shipyards, the Japanese internment camps, the invention of the PC. Physics? The Exploratorium has the coolest exhibits of any museum I've ever been to.
LnRuma <a href="http://otortcfkhaen.com/">otortcfkhaen</a>
I took a perverse satisfaction in the exhibits on soil liquefaction during big quakes. English? Jack London, Beat Poets, science fiction writers like Pat Murphy and Rudy Rucker.
Social studies? The Free Speech Movement, Cesar Chavez, gay rights, feminism, anti-war movement...
I've always loved just learning stuff for its own sake. Just to be smarter about the world around me.
I could do that just by walking around the city. I decided I'd do an English paper about the Beats first.
City Lights books had a great library in an upstairs room where Alan Ginsberg and his buddies had created their radical druggy poetry. The one we'd read in English class was Howl and I would never forget the opening lines, they gave me shivers down my back:
I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix,
angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night...
I liked the way he ran those words all together, "starving hysterical naked." I knew how that felt.
And "best minds of my generation" made me think hard too. It made me remember the park and the police and the gas falling.
Maybe I'm just in an optimistic mood today, but loniokg over the Order of Mass I am hoping for the following scenario: the people's parts, which are not, in my opinion, all that bad, are likely to remain unchanged for another 40 years at least; but the priests's parts (including the Eucharistic Prayers), which for the most part range from poor to dreadful, could be revised much sooner (say, within a decade).This is at least something I can hope for without retreating entirely into a fantasy world. And I really need something to hope for in the short term.
They busted Ginsberg for obscenity over Howl — all about a line about gay sex that would hardly have caused us to blink an eye today. It made me happy somehow, knowing that we'd made some progress.
That things had been even more restrictive than this before.
I lost myself in the library, reading these beautiful old editions of the books.
I got lost in Jack Kerouac's On the Road, a novel I'd been meaning to read for a long time, and a clerk who came up to check on me nodded approvingly and found me a cheap edition that he sold me for six bucks.
I walked into Chinatown and had dim sum buns and noodles with hot-sauce that I had previously considered to be pretty hot, but which would never seem anything like hot ever again, not now that I'd had an Ange special.
As a fellow blgegor, I know that horrible sinking feeling of doubt 2 seconds after you hit publish. My thanks go to Fr. Anthony for everything he has helped make this little spot in the liturgical blogosphere become: a place to speak candidly and intelligently about what concerns us and exhilirates us about liturgy.Sadly I have to say that I didn't go to grad school and dedicate my life to helping others do the liturgy well so that I can spend my time trying to make sense of leaks, rumors, and consipiracy theories. When I began work at the diocesan level, I learned quickly that a certain amount of political savvy is necessary. But this is just too much.In 2004, when ICEL presented its first draft, my Bishop gladly shared it with me and others and asked for our feedback. I gave him back a 24-page document filled with comments, notes, and suggestions. Although what was presented to me was even more awkward than what would eventually be given in 2008, I was excited to see that consultation was taking place at various levels and that I had a part to play in it.Now I am just tired of it all. I want to do what is right. I want to support my Church at all its levels. I want to give the ministers in my diocese the best tools to prepare liturgy well. I want to believe that the liturgy, the people, and how we pray together still matter. I want the people of my diocese to believe that too. But days like these make this vocation almost too much to bear.Peace to all.
As the day wore on toward the afternoon, I got on the BART and switched to a San Mateo bridge shuttle bus to bring me around to the East Bay. I read my copy of On the Road and dug the scenery whizzing past.
On the Road is a semi-autobiographical novel about Jack Kerouac, a druggy, hard-drinking writer who goes hitchhiking around America, working crummy jobs, howling through the streets at night, meeting people and parting ways.
Hipsters, sad-faced hobos, con-men, muggers, scumbags and angels. There's not really a plot — Kerouac supposedly wrote it in three weeks on a long roll of paper, stoned out of his mind — only a bunch of amazing things, one thing happening after another.
He makes friends with self-destructing people like Dean Moriarty, who get him involved in weird schemes that never really work out, but still it works out, if you know what I mean.
There was a rhythm to the words, it was luscious, I could hear it being read aloud in my head. It made me want to lie down in the bed of a pickup truck and wake up in a dusty little town somewhere in the central valley on the way to LA, one of those places with a gas station and a diner, and just walk out into the fields and meet people and see stuff and do stuff.
It was a long bus ride and I must have dozed off a little — staying up late IMing with Ange was hard on my sleep-schedule, since Mom still expected me down for breakfast.