A Poem for a Rainy Day

I have always had a fondness for the written word, and I don't know if this was some part of my nature instilled in me by some Creator, or impressed upon me by watching my father and sister with their noses in books, deep in thought, or laughing, or crying, as the words touched some part of them.

My father took Latin in high school and college, and my sister studied it in high school. My father used it professionally, my sister won awards in the subject. My ability to retain it and use it daily never rivalled my father's, and my technical expertise never approached that of my sister, but I loved every frustrating moment of it. I cut my teeth as millions before me had on Caesar's Gallic Wars. In an attempt to be erudite I read Cicero, whose wit and am wisdom I desired to possess. In college, my senior thesis was based on arguing a point from Tacitus' Agricola.

My ability to translate a text hasn't survived the passing of time. I can still read a little without assistance, but not much. Some things that have survived are scraps of poetry we memorized in college. Before each lesson, my Oxford-trained professor would write a few lines on the chalk board and read them aloud, with the proper meter, rhyme and scholastic pronunciation (I still cringe at times when I hear ecclesiastical Latin - it sounds odd).

One of those poems was from Catullus. Being a hopeless romantic with innumerable failed and unrequited loves, the poem appealled to me.

Miser Catulle, dēsinās ineptīre,
et quod vidēs perīsse perditum dūcās.

Fulsēre quondam candidī tibī sōlēs,
cum ventitābās quō puella ducēbat
amāta nōbīs quantum amābitur nūlla.
Ibi illa multa cum iocosa fiebant,
quae tū volebas nec puella nolebat,
fulsēre vērē candidī tibī sōlēs.
Nunc iam illa nōn vult: tu quoque impotēns nōlī,
nec quae fugit sectare, nec miser vīve,
sed obstinātā mente perfer, obdūrā.
Valē puella. Iam Catullus obdūrat,
nec tē requīret nec rogābit invītam.

At tū dolebis, cum rogāberis nūlla.
Scelesta, vae tē! quae tibī manet vīta?
Quis nunc tē adībit? Cui vidēberis bella?
Quem nunc amābis? Cuius esse dīcēris?
Quem bāsiābis? Cui labella mordēbis?
At tū, Catulle, dēstinātus obdūrā.

Translated, it reads -

Wretched Catullus, cease being foolish,
And what you see to have been destroyed, think it to have
been wasted.
Bright suns once shined for you,
when you were often going where the girl was leading
having been loved by us as much as no girl will be loved;
at that time when many playful moments were being made,
which you were wanting nor the girl was rejecting,
truly the bright suns shined for you.
Now no longer that girl wants: you also, don’t be powerless,
nor chase she who flees, nor wretchedly live,
but persist by a resolute mind, hold out.
Goodbye, lady. Now Catullus endures
neither will he seek you again nor will he ask you against your will.
But you will sorry, when you will be asked by no one.
Oh wicked girl, woe to you, what life remains for you?
Who now will come to you? To who will you seem beautiful?
Who now will you love? Whose will you be said to be?
Who will you kiss? Whose lips will you bite?
But you, Catullus, having thus resolved, endure.

What a Pain in the ...

So, Little One hurt her knee playing lacrosse. Initially I thought it was a very minor injury and pubescent whinging, but after a week of it staying puffy and with no reprieve from the complaints, we made a trip to the pediatrician. The pediatrician sent us to an orthopedist, who prescribed physical therapy for patellar tendonitis and patella femoral pain.

A sample image of the lovely brace she wears when exercising.

Last night she began physical therapy. Now, the Little One is not unfamiliar with PT clinics. The X had lots of knee issues over the years and a lot of PT. My back problems have caused me to spend my fair share of time in PT, too, and over the years the Little One has joined us as we stretched/lifted/sweat/cried at the hands of the descendants of the Marquis de Sade. Little One was instructed on how to complete about a dozen different exercises to help strengthen her right hip and quad, whose weakness was the cause of the problem.

I don't envy her. Although her legs are quite strong and muscular for her age from years of ice skating, the particular muscles in her right leg are noticeably weaker than her left. After the first few exercises she broke a sweat, but to her credit, she struggled through and listened intently to the directions of the therapists who rotated between patients in the room.

With some luck, Advil, ice and hard work, she hopes to be back on the field by the end of the week and better than ever in about a month.

Keep fighting, Little One. You make your old man proud.

Come Sail Away

One of my dreams for my future life is to retire to a sail boat, living aboard on the Eastern seaboard, Caribbean and the Gulf Coast. I have never sailed much (only a few times years ago), so it seemed like a good first step to take some lessons.

I met my instructor and a couple who also were taking the course at a small, private marina on the Gulf Coast. It was smallish and cozy, not grand or fancy. We spent about an hour or so on the dock covering terminology as we waited for the sun to evaporate the dew from the deck surfaces of the our training vessel, a Newport 33', similar to the one shown below. Our vessel didn't have a bimini top aft, but did have a dodger forward in the cockpit.

Soon, we were on the water. There wasn't a lot of wind to start, which was probably for the best as we learned about sail configurations and the daunting series of lines that operated them. We had been assigned a book to read, knots to learn and various concepts and terms to memorize. While the theoretical was nice, the practical brought it all together.

We returned to the marina for lunch, and then headed back out. The winds picked up, and soon we really moving the boat around, tacking and jibing with some semblance of skill.

The next day another couple joined us, having been delayed by work. They were friends of the first couple and they are traveling to the BVI and are chartering a 41' catamaran for a week in May. Like myself, they had experience with power boats but not with sailboats.

There was no wind as we puttered about the bay, propelled by the diesel motor. We practiced course plotting and navigation, radio protocol and anchoring. There were a few other pleasure craft about, but most of the traffic in the bay were commercial fishing vessels and large ocean going freighters.

As we stopped for lunch, a pod of dolphins swam by and checked us out, but were soon on their way.

Clouds began to form in the distance, and soon a few ripples of wind appeared on the water's surface. Before long we were able to raise the sails and may way without the aid of the engine. We tacked and jibed our way back, and by the end of the day we were able to make almost 6 knots under sail.

It was time well spent, and did not dissuade me from my dream of one day retiring to a sail boat and living aboard.

Art

I really don't know much about art. I took a class or two in art history in college, and learned a little. I know what I like, and know that I have no skill in any sort of painting, drawing, sculpting, music, etc.

A friend of mine recently gave me two pieces of original art. It is the second piece I have ever received, and both came from friends I have met through the blog. The first was a photographic print, and a poem. I received these from a photographer in Chicago.

The most recent gifts were a painting and a pen and ink drawing. I am grateful for these pieces, truly. I own a book that this gifted man wrote and illustrated. I have read two of his other works online. They are raw. I don't mean unrefined. Perhaps gritty is a more apt description, but then, no. They are raw. Visceral. Evocative. Powerful.

The painting I was given is radically different. It is full of color; softer. Another side of the artist entirely. A side that was hinted at in some of his writing, some of his prints, but it bursts forth in this expression. It is remarkable.

I wanted a piece of his work to own, but never dreamed this is the piece he would chose to share with me. One of my fears is that his light might be lost one day, and with it his work, and then my memories will fade.

I have had a few telephone conversations with him, but many more email and online interactions. Some have been friendly, a few argumentative and even contentious. But that is the nature of human interaction.

To all of the artists out there - thank you.

Southern Literature

At times I have extolled the virtues of living in the South, but one piece of the South that all can sample even from great distances is the literature. Faulkner is a giant, but I also like the imagery that Thomas Wolfe was able to create. So, in an effort to combat the fluffy stuffed animals of Valentine's Day, I offer this passage from Look Homeward, Angel (1929).

"And left alone to sleep within a shuttered room, with the thick
sunlight printed in bars upon the floor, unfathomable loneliness
and sadness crept through him: he saw his life down the solemn
vista of a forest aisle, and he knew he would always be the sad
one: caged in that little round of skull, imprisoned in that
beating and most secret heart, his life must always walk down
lonely passages.  Lost.  He understood that men were forever
strangers to one another, that no one ever comes really to know any
one, that imprisoned in the dark womb of our mother, we come to
life without having seen her face, that we are given to her arms a
stranger, and that, caught in that insoluble prison of being, we
escape it never, no matter what arms may clasp us, what mouth may
kiss us, what heart may warm us.  Never, never, never, never,
never."

I wish Hallmark might print this one a card.

- Jud

I wish I was in the Land of Cotton...

Those are some of the lyrics to the song 'Dixie'. An instrumental version of the tune was the only music played at my father's memorial service. My dad passed away 10 years ago today.

I spoke with him the evening before he died. It was just one of thousands of brief conversations we had, catching up, chatting. He explained he wasn't feeling fell and would be going to the doctor in the morning if he didn't feel better.

I think of my dad often. In my home, their are constant reminders of him: in the living room, book ends he had for years. In the kitchen, some knives and cookbooks. In my bedroom, a gun case, a steamer trunk, and countless books. Pictures on the mantle.

Tonight Little One and I will head to some Mexican restaurant and celebrate his memory. Here's to you, Dad.

Gearing up for the Season of Christmas Parties

So, one of the invites for a holiday reads "Semi-Formal or Christmas Attire". I need some help from the interwebs in determining what this might mean.

Here are some options:

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