Some Stuff

Life is funny. Just when I start getting interesting in pipe smoking, it possibly turns to dirt. The last couple of mornings after smoking, I've woken up with a monster migraine. I'm not certain the two are causally related, but it's likely. For me, it simply doesn't take much of a change in environment to trigger a headache. And that reaction from my body just makes me sad. I like the ritual of the pipe - the quiet of it, its spirituality. I'm going to give it a few more shots, but if the headaches, such severe headaches, continue on subsequent mornings, then this sordid affair, though passionate, will be short-lived.

On Fresh Air today (NPR), Terry Gross interviewed Ron Hansen, author of The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford and who has just released a new historical fiction book on the life of Gerard Manley Hopkins (one of my most favorite of poets). Mr. Hansen is a deacon in the Catholic Church and Hopkins was a convert to the Catholic Church, who became a Jesuit priest and whose poetry was all published posthumously. This is my kind of book. It's titled Exiles and I think it's going to my Father's Day gift to myself. (Happy Father's Day to me! Happy Father's Day to me!)

Speaking of books, today the UPS man brought a gargantuan box of the complete works of Shakespeare, hardcovers all, 38 books total. The offer was through Amazon and published by the Penguin Group. All for $60 (that's $1.58 per play). A splurge on my part, but I couldn't resist. ("Happy Father's Day to you!" sings my wife. "Happy Father's Day to you!")

I lost my Rosary and am quite frustrated about it (truth be told, I'm cussing mad). I had it sitting on the night stand next to my bed and two days ago it came up missing. I checked with the local pack rat (yellow-haired), but she doesn't seem to have it. No one has seen it. I've checked under and in the bed and in all the pockets of shorts and jeans I've worn and I can't find it. It really bothers me. My dad gave me this Rosary, one that he had from ages past and I've enjoyed praying with it. Say a quick prayer for me that I'll find it, if you would, since I obviously can't pray without it.

It Is the East, and Juliet Is the Sun

My favorite writer is William Shakespeare. Yesterday was the 391st anniversary of his death. And some would say the 443th anniversary of his birth. You see, his baptism was on April 26. So some believe, since the baptism usually took place two or three days after the birth that perhaps he was born and died on the same day. All of which is conjecture and doesn't amount to a hill of beans.

I love the man's work. My first son is named after him. And when I hear a line from one of his plays, such as the famous one above pulled from the balcony soliloquy, my soul responds. Poetry is visceral. It grabs the attention of the heart, the soul.

Now not all poets are created equal. Some are quite bad. But Shakespeare, he did it well.