An Epithalamion

We married off Calvus and Beka last weekend, and I thought the ceremony was beautiful. I, of course, couldn't possibly tell you much of why the ceremony was beautiful, just as I probably couldn't tell you any meaningful details about the bride's dress. (Ask, for example, J about the bride's dress; she'll tell you it was imperially-wasted with a silk faberge edging and a curville running down the back, a slight off-pearl smitching, and a high princess cut; I will tell you it was white.) I would, however, have enough sense to say that the ceremony and reception were wonderful and/or beautiful. I would never commit the sacrilege of saying that they were ordinary. (Here meaning, the sort of the ceremony and reception that most people have at weddings.) Now, in one sense, the ceremony and reception that we had last weekend were very much like thousands of other ceremonies and receptions; in some senses they were markedly different, which I'll get to in a moment; but even if last weekend's festivities were identically cloned from one hundred other couples, there would be no justifiable way for anyone to call them "ordinary." There are no ordinary weddings. There are no more ordinary weddings than there are ordinary symphonies. In fact, the most memorable and evocative symphonies (terms used here instead of the misleading word "unique") follow inflexibly strict guidelines. Beethoven wrote nine (or at least eight) pieces of orchestral music that follow a long patterned and imitated scheme; and I would argue to dueling with any man who would be so irreverent as to call them ordinary. Calvus and Bekah also followed a long patterned and imitated scheme. There were bridesmaids, ministers (despite the danger of having more than one), solemn music, dances, and cake (pie) cutting. And it was no more ordinary than the whole idea of marriage is ordinary.
If someone was unable to accept the trappings of the ceremony were somehow special, there will be no denying that those involved are quite something. To start, looking at the bride and groom from the back of the church, you would notice how many of those in attendance were there to support them both. I can't ever recall attending a wedding in which so many of the bride's family remembered the groom's first name. (Their DJ struggled with his last name, but I believe this was unrelated.) Nor had I ever seen a reception in which so many of the groom's family not only knew of the bride, but knew here deeply and personally; indeed, if they weren't Calvus' relatives, they would have come as Beka's guests! This is, I believe, a small taste of what ye olde community life used to be like. In a book I intend to review shortly (this means, according to my intentions, within two blog entries; according to my recent history, this may mean up to two weeks) called I Kissed Dating Good-Bye, the author discusses the importance of community involvement in a dating relationship. This, along with every other question raised in that book, Calvus and Beka answered resoundingly.
I've recently been reading N.T. Wright's volume on the historical Jesus, and have realized how foolish it is for me (or anyone else) to say of someone "he is like Jesus" without bothering about the necessary historical work to find out what Jesus might have actually been like. When used thus irresponsibly, all it means is "I like this person" or "I think he is good." But Calvus, if I understand even a fraction of who Jesus is, makes a striking resemblance. I do, of course, think he is exceptionally good, and for reasons of brotherhood among others, I love him very much. But the similarities run deeper. In addition to being a moral example and a fiercely loyal friend, Calvus has an enormous sense of vocation. His ministry, (or mission, or whatever you'd like to call it) especially since the important moment when he switched his college major from music (a discipline in which he possesses untold talents) to religion and philosophy has been commenced with vigor. He didn't simply stop attending music theory classes and start going to New Testament; he drove to the city to hand out apples to the poor, went on mission trips, plumbed the depths of great theological problems and considered seriously the problems of poverty, befriended those on the outer social perimeter, learned Greek, and (hopefully with his older brother), is planning on learning Hebrew. He is a fundamentally contented person, never affected by ennui, and always poring himself into some definite end, whether that be baking bread, gardening, or reading. He is always content because he's never suffered from that terrible selfish anxiety of "what will come and entertain me next?" He's delighted to pick up whatever God has offered him that day and that hour. Perhaps it it borders blasphemy to make anyone a comparison to Jesus; but I think that at this hour, the hour when Calvus is the bridegroom, I see, though veiled, some shocking truth to it.

Smatterings Today

unde, quia similitudo causa est dilectionis, sapientiae studium praecipue Deo per amicitiam coniungit;

thence, since likeness is the cause of love, the pursuit of wisdom especially joins man to God through friendship.

Audition Prep

Just refrigerated my mouthpiece for a half-hour to practice coming in "cold" on Schumann II.

I'll be glad when auditions are over...

Laying Down One's Life

There was no more parley. A shower of stones and other missiles compelled the keeper of the jail to retire; and the mob, pressing on, and swarming round the walls, forced Gabriel Varden close up to the door. In vain the basket of tools was laid upon the ground before him, and he was urged in turn by promises, by blows, by offers of reward, and threats of instant death, to do the office for which they had brought him there. "No," cried the sturdy locksmith, "I will not!"
He had never loved his life so well as then, but nothing could move him. The savage faces that glared upon him, look where he would; the cries of those who thirsted, like wild animals, for his blood; the sight of men pressing forward, and trampling down their fellows, as they strove to reach him, and struck at him above the heads of other men, with axes and with iron bars; all failed to daunt him. He looked from man to man, and face to face, and still, with quickened breath and lessening colour, cried firmly, "I will not!"

Dickens, Barnaby Rudge, Ch. 64 "The Staunch Locksmith"

I put these things not in their mature logical sequence, but as they came: and this view was cleared and sharpened by an accident of the time. Under the lengthening shadow of Ibsen, an argument arose whether it was not a very nice thing to murder one's self. Grave moderns told us that we must not even say "poor fellow," of a man who had blown his brains out, since he was an enviable person, and had only blown them out because of their exceptional excellence. Mr. William Archer even suggested that in the golden age there would be penny-in-the-slot machines, by which a man could kill himself for a penny. In all this I found myself utterly hostile to many who called themselves liberal and humane. Not only is suicide a sin, it is the sin. It is the ultimate and absolute evil, the refusal to take an interest in existence; the refusal to take the oath of loyalty to life. The man who kills a man, kills a man. The man who kills himself, kills all men; as far as he is concerned he wipes out the world. His act is worse (symbolically considered) than any rape or dynamite outrage. For it destroys all buildings: it insults all women. The thief is satisfied with diamonds; but the suicide is not: that is his crime. He cannot be bribed, even by the blazing stones of the Celestial City. The thief compliments the things he steals, if not the owner of them. But the suicide insults everything on earth by not stealing it. He defiles every flower by refusing to live for its sake. There is not a tiny creature in the cosmos at whom his death is not a sneer. When a man hangs himself on a tree, the leaves might fall off in anger and the birds fly away in fury: for each has received a personal affront. Of course there may be pathetic emotional excuses for the act. There often are for rape, and there almost always are for dynamite. But if it comes to clear ideas and the intelligent meaning of things, then there is much more rational and philosophic truth in the burial at the cross-roads and the stake driven through the body, than in Mr. Archer's suicidal automatic machines. There is a meaning in burying the suicide apart. The man's crime is different from other crimes—for it makes even crimes impossible.

About the same time I read a solemn flippancy by some free thinker: he said that a suicide was only the same as a martyr. The open fallacy of this helped to clear the question. Obviously a suicide is the opposite of a martyr. A martyr is a man who cares so much for something outside him, that he forgets his own personal life. A suicide is a man who cares so little for anything outside him, that he wants to see the last of everything. One wants something to begin: the other wants everything to end. In other words, the martyr is noble, exactly because (however he renounces the world or execrates all humanity) he confesses this ultimate link with life; he sets his heart outside himself: he dies that something may live. The suicide is ignoble because he has not this link with being: he is a mere destroyer; spiritually, he destroys the universe. And then I remembered the stake and the cross-roads, and the queer fact that Christianity had shown this weird harshness to the suicide. For Christianity had shown a wild encouragement of the martyr. Historic Christianity was accused, not entirely without reason, of carrying martyrdom and asceticism to a point, desolate and pessimistic. The early Christian martyrs talked of death with a horrible happiness. They blasphemed the beautiful duties of the body: they smelt the grave afar off like a field of flowers. All this has seemed to many the very poetry of pessimism. Yet there is the stake at the crossroads to show what Christianity thought of the pessimist.

This was the first of the long train of enigmas with which Christianity entered the discussion. And there went with it a peculiarity of which I shall have to speak more markedly, as a note of all Christian notions, but which distinctly began in this one. The Christian attitude to the martyr and the suicide was not what is so often affirmed in modern morals. It was not a matter of degree. It was not that a line must be drawn somewhere, and that the self-slayer in exaltation fell within the line, the self-slayer in sadness just beyond it. The Christian feeling evidently was not merely that the suicide was carrying martyrdom too far. The Christian feeling was furiously for one and furiously against the other: these two things that looked so much alike were at opposite ends of heaven and hell. One man flung away his life; he was so good that his dry bones could heal cities in pestilence. Another man flung away life; he was so bad that his bones would pollute his brethren's. I am not saying this fierceness was right; but why was it so fierce?

Here it was that I first found that my wandering feet were in some beaten track. Christianity had also felt this opposition of the martyr to the suicide: had it perhaps felt it for the same reason? Had Christianity felt what I felt, but could not (and cannot) express—this need for a first loyalty to things, and then for a ruinous reform of things? Then I remembered that it was actually the charge against Christianity that it combined these two things which I was wildly trying to combine. Christianity was accused, at one and the same time, of being too optimistic about the universe and of being too pessimistic about the world. The coincidence made me suddenly stand still.

Chesterton, Orthodoxy, Ch. 5 "The Flag of the World"

We finished our visit with J's parents this Monday, wonderful but too short. We had my family and Magister's over for dessert on Sunday evening, and J and I both enjoyed watching the unlikely social combinations that followed. (Unfortunately, my Father came down with a bad fever before the evening was over and had to leave early.) Baby H was there, trundling, bumbling, falling, and laughing at herself. J&I returned to her OBGYN today and heard our baby's heartbeat for the second time; slightly slower, and with an added twist: The Dr. told us that the interruption we heard were the baby's movements in the womb. I paid a visit (and some fines) to the RWC library this afternoon, and now am home to read Iliad 5, Livy, Matt 26, Marmion, and the Summa Contra Gentiles. I've also been reading Milton aloud in the evenings and gobbled up Great Divorce in a single sitting yesterday.

Sunday Morning

Heading off to worship at CPC shortly, and relieved to be having my coffee to a drizzle this morning instead of the recent heat wave. I had intentions of posting earlier this week when I returned from my first ever dental filling, but the blogging platform, like my mouth, was swollen and unrecognizable. The whole experience started with me entering a small room and being hailed by a frightening looking nurse with a thick Russian accent. I probably should have made a run for it then.

Other highlights of the past week include a visit (still underway) from J's parents, seeing and teaching alongside an old master teacher on Friday, Monopoly with O&K, and an end-of-year staff meeting at CPC. I translated the parable of the sheep and the goats yesterday, one of the most chilling passages in the New Testament. As I finish Matthew, and especially as I read it while attending CPC, I'm sure of a few things:
1) The case that Gehenna was only a dump can't be taken from the New Testament. I've read (unconfirmed) recent literature that suggests this whole idea is an unfounded fantasy of 19th century, but I'm certain anyone reading beyond chapter 7 can't see it in Matthew.
2) Whatever Gehenna or pur aionion might be, damnation (which I dwell on in this blog far more often than I do in regular life) is a real danger which is really addressed, not some incidental literary device or superstition that creeps into the language of the teacher.

I'm also reading Il 4, Livy, Paradise Lost, and the Summa Contra Gentiles.

Iliad IV

οἳ δ᾽ ὅτε δή ῥ᾽ ἐς χῶρον ἕνα ξυνιόντες ἵκοντο, σύν ῥ᾽ ἔβαλον ῥινούς, σὺν δ᾽ ἔγχεα καὶ μένε᾽ ἀνδρῶν
χαλκεοθωρήκων: ἀτὰρ ἀσπίδες ὀμφαλόεσσαι
ἔπληντ᾽ ἀλλήλῃσι, πολὺς δ᾽ ὀρυμαγδὸς ὀρώρει.
ἔνθα δ᾽ ἅμ᾽ οἰμωγή τε καὶ εὐχωλὴ πέλεν ἀνδρῶν
ὀλλύντων τε καὶ ὀλλυμένων, ῥέε δ᾽ αἵματι γαῖα. ὡς δ᾽ ὅτε χείμαρροι ποταμοὶ κατ᾽ ὄρεσφι ῥέοντες
ἐς μισγάγκειαν συμβάλλετον ὄβριμον ὕδωρ
κρουνῶν ἐκ μεγάλων κοίλης ἔντοσθε χαράδρης,
τῶν δέ τε τηλόσε δοῦπον ἐν οὔρεσιν ἔκλυε ποιμήν: ὣς τῶν μισγομένων γένετο ἰαχή τε πόνος τε.

 
And when then indeed they arrived coming together to the place, then they cast with hide-shields, and with lances and fury of the brass-cuirassed men. Yet the studded shields filled one another, and aroused much din. And thither at the same time lamentation and prayer moved the men destroying and being destroyed, and blood flowed upon the earth. And as when winter-swollen rivers flowing down the mountains to the glen basin where the heavy waters unite from their great sources within the torrent of a gorge, and their thunder in the heaven instructs the shepherd afar, thus came both the cry and toil of their meeting.

I subbed a half-day today for high school choir, a class M&Lux both take. Lux came down during the empty first block and we took turns reading aloud sections of Paradise Lost IX, coming through the part where Satan "like a black mist low creeping" inhabits the serpent. Currently reading more Iliad IV, Matt 25, Joshua 15, Livy, and Rabelais. J&I , who have done well in our resolutions to cleanliness and order, rewarded ourselves with Monopoly Streets, which we stayed up playing far too late into the night. J is officially in her second trimester, and I've begun to experience some paternal anxiety. Not on behalf of myself, of course, (though I am frightened I'll become the sort of single-minded person whose social interactions consist entirely of talking about his children...my parents did an exemplary job of protecting themselves and their children from this embarrassment) but for the tumbles and scrapes of the baby. Two nights ago Baby H fell in the bathtub, and chipped a tooth badly; her smile is awfully crooked now. It's a hard enough thing to hear about secondhand to your niece; how could I watch something like that happen to a son or daughter?

Juries and Psalms

I sat in on RWC trumpet juries today, and found myself in a familiar room on the unfamiliar side of the table. I wore a tie, carried no instrument, and gave written comments. I've never felt overly drawn to college teaching; it isn't quite so different from grade-school teaching for me, inasmuch as it involves some good students, some bad students, a lot of paperwork, and not very much playing. But this was actually quite enjoyable, at least selfishly and entirely from my own perspective. (I don't remember juries being enjoyable as a student) The stakes were high, which is always the exciting thing about performing as a trumpeter. There is no hiding on my instrument; every day at work is like a day at work atop a skyscraper. There's a wonderful rush from doing such a dangerous job, and inexpressible satisfaction from doing it well. Of course, no one really lives or dies because a trumpet player misses a note. (Some teachers would do well to remember this.) But a ten note passage with nine beautiful tones and one splat is a very different thing than a memo with nine words spelled correctly and one different typo; the whole effect of the thing falls apart with even a hair of a mistake.

I visited Samuel Magus, Kaitlyn, and Baby H in Batavia today, a cozy family which now owns the sleekest automobile in their entire extended family. I'm reading Matt 23, Ios 13, Il IV, and Livy. I finished Reflections on the Psalms last night, and am mulling one of my favorite passages today: (in answer to the question of how praise should be regarded in the psalms, or at least the demand for it: "I had never noticed that all enjoyment spontaneously overflows into praise unless (sometimes even if) shyness or the fear of boring others is deliberately brought in to check it. The world rings with praise--lovers praising their mistresses, readers their favorite poet, walkers praising the countryside, players praising their favorite game--praise of weather, wines, dishes, actors, motors, horses, colleges, countries, historical personages, children, flowers, mountains, rare stamps, rare beetles, even sometimes politicians or scholars. I had not noticed how the humblest, and at the same time the most balanced and capacious minds, praised most, while the cranks, misfits, and malcontents praised least. The good critics found something to praise in many imperfect works; the bad ones continually narrowed the list of books we might be allowed to read. The healthy and unaffected man, even if luxuriously brought up and widely experienced in good cookery, could praise a very modest meal: the dyspeptic and the snob found fault with all. Except where intolerably adverse circumstances interfere, praise almost seems to be inner health made audible."

I think Lewis is right. And I suspect that the RWC trumpet students are thankful I read this passage the night before their juries.

Easter to the Present

It's only been a week and change since my last entry, but mind and body feel that months have passed. We now live in a new house in S-port, and have departed St. Vivian's. One of our most pressing responsibilities with the move completed is to find a name for this new house. (J is, as always, opposed to this idea. I here note her objection.) Pax lives at Hilltop. Calvus is moving into a parsonage which will also need a name. I was thinking Washington Square, but I'm now leaning towards Washington Willows. (There is a nice old willow out back.) Any ideas? J, I should note, wants the place to be simply "home." I, of course, am not opposed to this, but I think, just as we would be able to distinguish fairly well what we mean by "the baby," naming will be both formative and honoring.

I've finished Barnaby Rudge, in which I marked a passage I underlined for future bloggery. Unfortunately, as is the case with most of my worldly goods, I have packed it somewhere in an unmarked brown box and haven't the slightest idea where to start looking for it. Hopefully it will reappear in the next few days. I've always had a suspicion that moving-gremlins steal boxes from pick-up trucks and switch them with other households, leaving us to wonder what happened to our measuring cups and where on earth these patriotic candles came from. The Dickens passage, at any rate, is one of the most perfect pictures of Christian courage I've ever read. I've continued to plod along (with frequent interruptions from that fickle woman Responsibility) in Joshua, the Psalms, Iliad IV, Matthew, and Livy. I read The Maid's Tragedy in one sitting the other night, which turned out, to my great surprise, to be a tragedy. I rarely start a book knowing nothing about it, and the Maid's Tragedy recalled to me what it was like to read the classics as a child for the first time. It was gripping and horrifying, a wonderful read. I'm currently re-reading more Paradise Lost and Reflections on the Psalms, but hope to unearth another novel tonight. (Providing, of course, that the gremlins have left one.)

I played RPO last week, the second cornet (there ought to be an "s" in cornet, so I could spell it with the U.S. $ sign) on France$ca Di Rimini. It wa$ a $plendid week, and I received a double $alary. The orchestra cornets don't play particularly well in tune, but the section put up with me, and as usual, I had a glorious time. It's not quite possible to write how satisfying an orchestra week is.


I also played a concert with some ESM students of German Brass arrangements. The program included a Scheidt antiphonal number, the famous Bach Air, Corelli's Christmas Concerto, and this great Bach-Vivaldi concerto, which I enjoy almost as much as my favorite German brass number. It was an excellent chance to play some piccolo and "network," though I'd forgotten how late the rehearsal hours ran on conservatory events.

The week was full of tedious negotii, a necessary but easily neglected swarm of chores that accompany a move; I changed our address, forwarded our mail, updated my resume, called the power company, etc. I've probably forgotten some of them. If you, personally, are waiting for me to send in a form or make a necessary phone call, please post in the blog or write to
R. Dudlius
Washington Willows
S-Port, New York

On a less pleasant note, I visited the dentist for the first time in over ten years today, and only for the third time in my life. I know nothing of modern dentistry, so I can't say for sure whether this particular practice has changed at all from the 17th century. They had, of course, plenty of modern equipment, but the hygienist who came to clean (read: remove) my teeth appeared to be using a flint axe and stone hammer. She was a perfectly friendly and professional woman, and I believe she received her training from the Guantanamo Bay School of Interrogation and Dentistry. After seeing her I was visited by a serious-looking woman with a lab coat and perfect teeth who informed me I'd need to undergo at least three more visits for either "fillings" or "filings" (I can't decide which is worse) and that she would require, in the meantime, all of my money.

All of this is, perhaps, just punishment for our recent thievery. After casting mistrustful glances at Opifera during the entire course of her move, we have ourselves been found guilty of stealing several laundry baskets and vital electronics parts from St. Vivian's. Furthermore, we left (unwittingly) clocks, foil, candles, jars, checks, boxes, and brooms behind, thus further littering the property in addition to the enormous mound of garbage we generated. The rubbish at St. Vivian's is nothing, however, compared to the pile currently standing watch in our driveway, which, as we found out last night, does not receive garbage pick-up from the town. In all of these things, again, I blame the gremlins.

We really do owe significant credit to Pax, Kylie, Calvus, J's friend Michelle, Blessed Mother, and Truck-Bringing Bill, all of whom helped us move on Saturday. With such an array of vehicles we were able to move all of our worldly goods in just two trips. More impressively, the women were able to scour St. Vivian's to near perfection. We bought pizza for all of our helpers, but our gratitude runs much deeper. Remembering our lonely North Carolina days, we are blessed beyond measure to live among our people again. Perhaps the best part of the whole.

Running through the Thursday concert, a Friday night party (with a great growler of Scotch ale from Pax) and the Saturday move was the 2011 NFL draft, the great cornerstone of hope to the Buffalo Bills fan. Pax, Bill, and I made nonsensical analysis of the whole thing, and are come to the same consensus we find every year: This will be the year we return to the playoffs and glory.

Since we've moved in to Washington Willows we've made a rare indulgence in the furniture budget. Moving to a new home is a significant blank slate, and we've tried to make the most of this chance. We are re-enacting our budget, rolling out a cleaning/dishwashing policy, and once and for all getting organized. We bought end-tables, folders, lamps, a bookshelf, cleaning supplies, and organizers. We acquired (through odd circumstances) a couch, and got rid of (through even odder circumstances) a piano. The couch happened like this: On Friday morning I walked over to the local church garage sale in search of a serviceable piece of used furniture. (I can never use the word "furniture" now without thinking of CSL's Studies In Words analysis; apologies, Jack.) I joined outside the sale a long and eager looking line of elderly folk, all awaiting the 9 AM church bell. The bell rang, and I got to see, for the first time in my life, what the looting of a village might look like. There was throughout the gymnasium a swarming throng of angry geriatric people, shoving and colliding walkers, wheelchairs, and canes. Each person appeared to be contented with no less than buying every item in the sale. At one point I did find a couch, but as soon as I'd put my hand on it to examine the fabric a woman ran over and threw herself on it, as if to claim it first. As I made my way (hoping only for safe passage) towards the exit I saw an old man among the books sweeping armfuls into a box without even looking at the titles. Eventually we found that Pax and Kylie have a spare couch in their basement, which we'll use for the time being. It wasn't easy to move, but I shudder to think what might have happened if I'd tried to escape the plundering of N. Chili with anything other than my own head. The case of our piano was simply miraculous. To put it simply, I forgot it existed until we'd already packed away the rest of our house. Knowing that we had no room or desire for it in our new apartment, my brothers made the helpful suggestions of 1) pretending it had been in the garage before we moved or 2) painting it camouflage colors and hoping no one would notice it. We loaded it into Bill's truck and decided to take a chance on putting it at the end of the road. Within in an hour it was picked up by persons who, even knowing the truth about its soundboard and receiving repeated warnings from J, carted it away and out of our lives forever. We will probably need to offer libations to the gremlins to keep it from re-appearing in the future.

Though it seems long, long ago, Easter was only a week ago. I had in a brass quintet (not RBQ) for the Sunday service and Cranford Pres, including a trumpet student at RWC, a former member of the church (horn, Ithaca college) and her fiancee (trombone), and my ever-faithful tuba playing choir member. The group played quite well, and I got to show off on the Handel Suite in D Major. It's been an active few weeks at church, trumpet-wise. Ryan and I last week reprised our Endearing Young Charms, and of course I played with the hymns as well. I always feel a certain kinship with even the most liberal of Creedal Christians around Easter, what with our holding together the doctrine of the Resurrection. This year was, however, particularly chafing. The Easter sermon (which I won't detail here) was a concise example of every illiberal liberalism that the Cranfordians wander in; and the past week proved that Thomas was, after all, quite right to doubt.

Finally, I've immensely enjoyed a look through my old notebooks and mail. I found in one of them a note from M (at age 8) attached to a necklace and Catholic coin which read:

Dear R--, I hope you like it in Chicago. I'll miss you. Try not to lose your present. If you do, I'll understand. Love more than one could write, MLS

I've said goodbye to a house, sat in a symphony orchestra, and been gouged by a sadistic dentist over the last week. But it was this that brought tears to my eyes.