Brains

If there is one thing in the world which fascinates me to no end, it is the human brain, specifically, how it works. Right brains vs. left brains, ADD, mental illnesses, the processes which people go through when they do something, or think about doing something, how much of an effect did upbringing have on a habit vs. how much it is due to personal wiring, experiences, and impressions...

An example is more concrete. One brain I can't understand for the life of me is my brother's. He shall remain unnamed; suffice it to say that he is brilliant, musical, sweet, and one of the most annoying people I have come across. But more and more he fascinates me; especially as I prepare to head off to college, I feel so detatched already from the household dynamic, relieved (somewhat) from the responsibility of being a role model to him 24/7, and I can now appreciate him as is (almost).

Last night, Mom and I were having a most interesting series of discussions, but we were both tired, and so when I finally attempted to stop asking questions and went into the bathroom to brush my teeth, a most interesting sight greeted me. Now, this brother had been in the bathroom, apparently doing nothing, for about ten minutes, before retiring to bed. He had already brushed his teeth, and I had wondered what he had been doing, leaning over the counter, singing softly to himself. He had wandered out after a while, still singing, and made his way to his bed, and was now sleeping in peaceful oblivion as I beheld his handiwork.

One activity he has always enjoyed is drawing. He draws a variety of sights, people, and things, but his favorite thing, (or his default setting?) is cars. Well, cars, buses, trains, trucks, etc... Anyway. There on the otherwise bare bathroom counter, as random as anything, lay this, neatly slanted, as though on a desk:



In a bathroom, of all arbitrary places!

My question is then, does he get a picture of a special car in his head and draw it? Or, does he think to himself, "I need to draw a car so I can get to sleep"? Or "Ho, hum, I think I'll draw a car now..." or does he just wander, singing, in to the bathroom with a paper and pen and start drawing before he even knows what he's doing?

We always find drawings of various vehicles lying around the house.





I am just dying to know what goes through his head...

Pentecost

Veni Sancte Spiritus
et emitte caelitus
lucis tuae radium.

Veni pater pauperum,
veni dator munerum,
veni lumen cordium.

Consolator optime,
dulcis hospes animae,
dulce refrigerium.

In labore requies,
in aestu temperies,
in fletu solacium.

O lux beatissima,
reple cordis intima
tuorum fidelium.

Sine tuo numine
nihil est in homine,
nihil est innoxium.

Lava quod est sordidum,
riga quod est aridum,
sana quod est saucium.

Flecte quod est rigidum,
fove quod est frigidum,
rege quod est devium.

Da tuis fidelibus
in te confidentibus
sacrum septenarium.

Da virtutis meritum,
da salutis exitum,
da perenne gaudium.

Amen. Alleluia.

I'm so sorry that I haven't posted in so long!

It feels like my life has been on hold this entire year. But no more, for I have finally decided on a college! So now I'll try to post a bit more often.

Have some fun...

... and giggle over all these synonyms! On the second page be sure to scroll down and see the synonyms for others like 'pilfer' and 'appropriate'.

And no, I don't just do this to waste time. I actually looked those up for work on an essay, but they were ever so much fun to read through.

Delicatessen

by Joyce Kilmer

Why is that wanton gossip Fame
So dumb about this man's affairs?
Why do we titter at his name
Who come to buy his curious wares?

Here is a shop of wonderment.
From every land has come a prize;
Rich spices from the Orient,
And fruit that knew Italian skies,

And figs that ripened by the sea
In Smyrna, nuts from hot Brazil,
Strange pungent meats from Germany,
And currants from a Grecian hill.

He is the lord of goodly things
That make the poor man's table gay,
Yet of his worth no minstrel sings
And on his tomb there is no bay.

Perhaps he lives and dies unpraised,
This trafficker in humble sweets,
Because his little shops are raised
By thousands in the city streets.

Yet stars in greater numbers shine,
And violets in millions grow,
And they in many a golden line
Are sung, as every child must know.

Perhaps Fame thinks his worried eyes,
His wrinkled, shrewd, pathetic face,
His shop, and all he sells and buys
Are desperately commonplace.

Well, it is true he has no sword
To dangle at his booted knees.
He leans across a slab of board,
And draws his knife and slices cheese.

He never heard of chivalry,
He longs for no heroic times;
He thinks of pickles, olives, tea,
And dollars, nickles, cents and dimes.

His world has narrow walls, it seems;
By counters is his soul confined;
His wares are all his hopes and dreams,
They are the fabric of his mind.

Yet -- in a room above the store
There is a woman -- and a child
Pattered just now across the floor;
The shopman looked at him and smiled.

For, once he thrilled with high romance
And tuned to love his eager voice.
Like any cavalier of France
He wooed the maiden of his choice.

And now deep in his weary heart
Are sacred flames that whitely burn.
He has of Heaven's grace a part
Who loves, who is beloved in turn.

And when the long day's work is done,
(How slow the leaden minutes ran!)
Home, with his wife and little son,
He is no huckster, but a man!

And there are those who grasp his hand,
Who drink with him and wish him well.
O in no drear and lonely land
Shall he who honors friendship dwell.

And in his little shop, who knows
What bitter games of war are played?
Why, daily on each corner grows
A foe to rob him of his trade.

He fights, and for his fireside's sake;
He fights for clothing and for bread:
The lances of his foemen make
A steely halo round his head.

He decks his window artfully,
He haggles over paltry sums.
In this strange field his war must be
And by such blows his triumph comes.

What if no trumpet sounds to call
His armed legions to his side?
What if, to no ancestral hall
He comes in all a victor's pride?

The scene shall never fit the deed.
Grotesquely wonders come to pass.
The fool shall mount an Arab steed
And Jesus ride upon an ass.

This man has home and child and wife
And battle set for every day.
This man has God and love and life;
These stand, all else shall pass away.

O Carpenter of Nazareth,
Whose mother was a village maid,
Shall we, Thy children, blow our breath
In scorn on any humble trade?

Have pity on our foolishness
And give us eyes, that we may see
Beneath the shopman's clumsy dress
The splendor of humanity!

******

I was browsing a chapter book on Kilmer the other day and came across the story behind this poem:

Joyce did not believe that poems could only be written about solemn and lofty subjects. One day, when editor Charles Willis Thompson remarked that there were many subjects which were not suitable for poetry, Joyce looked at him in surprise. "What subjects?" he demanded. Mr. Thompson thought a moment. "Well, a delicatessen," he said. "No one could possibly write a poem about that!"

Kilmer smiled. "I'll write a poem about a delicatessen shop," he said promptly. "It will be a long poem. I'll sell it to a highbrow magazine. It will be much admired. And it will be a good poem."

- from Pen and Bayonet: The Story of Joyce Kilmer, by Norah Smaridge

Prayer of a Soldier in France

by Joyce Kilmer

My shoulders ache beneath my pack
(Lie easier, Cross, upon His back).

I march with feet that burn and smart
(Tread, Holy Feet, upon my heart).

Men shout at me who may not speak
(They scourged Thy back and smote Thy cheek).

I may not lift a hand to clear
My eyes of salty drops that sear.

(Then shall my fickle soul forget
Thy Agony of Bloody Sweat?)

My rifle hand is stiff and numb
(From Thy pierced palm red rivers come).

Lord, Thou didst suffer more for me
Than all the hosts of land and sea.

So let me render back again
This millionth of Thy gift. Amen.

Ahh...

I finally got to switch to the new blogger. What fun!