MONDAY, TUESDAY, THURSDAY, WEDNESDAY . . .

(very random “apparentlies”  from the Spruce Tunnel)

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Yes:   –  in the immortal words of Apollonia Corleone,   the short-lived wife of Michael Corleone:        “Monday, Tuesday, Thursday, Wednesday . . .”

This is Tuesday.  Apparently.    When the normal activities of the weekdays are suspended,  every day seems like a weekend day.  Hence, my abortive trip to Sunday morning Mass – last Friday.

empty church 2

Our young lady friend is off her ventilator, finally, and out of the ICU.   She is better, but still has a long way to go.     I’m spending less time at the hospital,  more time on my new (and rather demanding) classes for the summer.    I need to do so well with that topic . . . .

Yet, I haven’t really caught up with Time.  That takes some effort.    How I would like to slide into that state of Perpetual Retirement,  where the only activities are occasional voluntary activities.

But I have promises to keep,    And miles to go before I sleep.”  *

Speaking of which,  I could use a little snow.    I’ve resurfaced into a heat wave, with a long string of near 90-degree temperatures and almost daily thunderstorms, which menace my electronics.

sad tv.jpg 70x90   I’ve also checked into what the entertainment-news media is going on about.    Same thing.   Same words. Same people.  Same accusations.    Same minor terrorist strikes here and there.  Same perplexities about what to do . . . .  Missing a week and a half has not resulted in any developments.    The world does not need my attention!

This discovery needs my attention:

Slant Tree.jpg 380

 

That’s my front yard.

S My house.jpg 380

Apparently we had a wind storm this weekend.

Son will know what to do.

It’s apparently going to take some time to return to normal.   Me, that is.  I’m coming out of these past almost two weeks a little shaken.    It was a life-and-death matter, after all, to watch a young lady have to fight for her life – with no definite diagnosis that started it all.   And then to worry anew about the state of her soul and of  my childrens’  souls . . . .  And my own efforts seem weak next to the consequences of getting it wrong.

And, yes, I still studied in my spare moments.  I studied  Gramschi, again;     Herbert Marcuse,  Wilhelm Reich – you probably know where I’m going with this:   the stunning victory of cultural marxism,over our society.     In the Catholic Church this is called:  The Errors of Russia.   Although it didn’t begin with the Russian Revolution,  it nevertheless points to Error,  the kind that will separate you from God – forever.

Frankfort School

“Critical Theory”:   Criticize everything;  demonize the cultural norms;  break down society so that it can be replaced with the Slavery of Marxist-Liberalism – because the State is  more important than the individual.  The atheistic State is more important than your immortal soul.

I’m a bit shaken with that realization.     The realization of the complete and utter victory of cultural marxism over the society my children and grandchildren have to live in.   What chance to they have?

What chance do they have to even learn about it, after years of schooling in an apparent  marxist – liberal environment of anti-intellectualism,  anti-analytical thinking,   anti-objective reality,  anti-logic, anti-truth — and the Any Glass theory:  Any glass will do it for you when you’re thirsty.  (No right and wrong, no moral norms, no “judgmental” thinking.)

Apparently, I have a lot of catching up to do.     (Why was I made with this impulse to teach?   I don’t know.    It’s my duty;  it’s what I am.)    I have a lot of catching up in my studies to do.     It’s the only way I can be of use to my classes,  to my family and  friends     . . .   to God.

Crash course for me this summer.    Cramming again.    Not for final exams,  but so I can be a better parent,  a better teacher,   a better blog writer.

 

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.  *  I have struggled and struggled with this poem all my life

Stopping by The Woods One Snowy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know.   
His house is in the village though;   
He will not see me stopping here   
To watch his woods fill up with snow.   
My little horse must think it queer   
To stop without a farmhouse near   
Between the woods and frozen lake   
The darkest evening of the year.   
He gives his harness bells a shake   
To ask if there is some mistake.   
The only other sound’s the sweep   
Of easy wind and downy flake.   
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,   
But I have promises to keep,   
And miles to go before I sleep,   
And miles to go before I sleep.
by Robert Frost

 

 

 

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