PAST

I slept, and wept, and slept again, the black bracelet on my ankle tethering me to my PAST – Personal Assayed Sentence Tracker. I had such high hopes, back when I’d managed to deactivate it and sneak aboard the longship. I watched the parasol unfurl, catching the sun like a breaking wave, and the superconducting magnetic loop spool out, kilometer after kilometer, stealing momentum from every passing charged particle.

But it was the ion drive I felt, from the floor of the forward storage area where I’d stowed away. Four massive nuclear reactors inside the asteroid, which the L2 shipyard had worked into a three-kilometer long iron/nickle cigar, reducing chunks of that cigar into superheated plasma. Ion drives fired that plasma fuel out at near-light speed. Unlike the sails, those babies could produce enough delta V to feel. I felt their silent rumble in my belly pressed against the composite hull.

I avoided discovery for months. During those months, as the ship spiraled away from earth, slowly gaining speed as it deployed first the parasol, then the magsail, then the ion drives, the 576 legitimate passengers and crew were too busy or distracted to notice. There were crates of food, back up in case anything went wrong with the hydroponics. There was, thankfully, a toilet and shower. There were even spare clothes. So I was pretty comfortable and could mitigate my boredom by looking outside, at least at first. After we’d reached system escape velocity and straightened our course, the view didn’t change much.

They eventually did find me. They knew I was a stowaway at a glance. They knew I was a fugitive by my PAST. After threatening that they’d just let me age out and die on the trip, the crew decided to slow-grow me, just like the legit passengers. Spent 243 years, relative time, out like a light, in a box I shared with bots that trimmed my hair and nails every year or two. Slow-grow isn’t no-grow.

That’s how I came to wake up as we dropped into orbit. They’d checked my criminal record, and were thinking it it might not be safe just dropping me with the other colonists. That’s when I started to get a hint that maybe my escape wasn’t an escape at all. Maybe the feds had let me walk, hoping I’d stow away and get permanently out of their hair. Things had gone a little too smooth.

Anyway, the bots were programmed to wake us up, and give us a light trim and a manicure and pedicure whenever the ship dropped into orbit. To make sure everybody is ready to go and all. The crew never thought to override it for me. So, before they could even miss me, I, clean-scrubbed and with lovely nails, stole a landing craft.

I just take things, see. It’s me being me. I also sometimes use a little too much force. I don’t think I killed the landing bay guard, but sometimes things happen. I dragged my PAST onto a craft, set the auto landing, jimmed the craft release, and proceeded to land.

The bastards. This planet is a paradise, at least to look at. Water is very good, almost sweet. Lots of edible plants. But there are no animals here, just plant after plant. Green as hell.

I thought, hey, I’ll drop down early, hide away somewhere, and wait for the colonists to set up shop. Then I could live like I always have, and still pick up a few things from the colony when the urge arose.

But the colonists never came. Crew must have determined that this rock wasn’t good enough.

Landers are just that, landers. They aren’t shuttles. The last I heard from the longship was a message that I’d been convicted of stealing a lander and putting a guard in the hospital, and sentenced to being banished to this rock. Then radio silence.

It was just after sunset when they left me here. I cursed the specks of light glinting off the longship, visible in the darkening sky. I watched until distance and the horizon swallowed her up.

Thus I sleep and weep. That’s two escapes that weren’t escapes. I’d fallen for it like a rookie.

Then, this morning, the ankle bracelet fell away. Signal from the longship, is my guess. Did the bastards always know how to do that? Good thing, too, as the chow on this planet is not only bland, but you need to eat a lot of it. Something about a mismatch of my enzymes and the chemical bonds in the alien plants. I’m effectively grazing all day long.

Eat that much green, and the spore starts piling up. It’s not pretty. Same thing works in reverse: whatever biological activity is at work here decomposing dead plants, it doesn’t work too fast on human waste. I’d probably go nuts, if I weren’t already a bit of a sociopath.

Like the longship leaving Sol, I’m spiraling out away from my original camp. Funny thing – once in a while, I go back to visit my PAST. It’s all I’ve got.

The Seneschal of the Holy Accoutrements

“Summon the Marquis de Vela.”

“It is spoken!”

The First Chamberlain Inferior, Acting Subdeacon of Light and Word, leaned upon his crooked staff of office and nodded his mitred, jeweled head solemnly to Lady Vortex of the Interstitial Whispers. She stood slowly, her pale mask animated by a wash of color like a peacock’s tail, her eyes hooded. Her skirt, waves of shimmering material that defied all attempts to focus directly on it, spread like an incoming tide until it enclosed the space around her in a dome of color and light.

The skirt became alive with the scurry of myriad creatures.

Onto the translucent marble floor tucked and rolled a tiny putto, complete with cherubic smile and tiny feathered wings. He cleared the still-writhing skirt and gracefully came to his feet. Lady Vortex’s skirt quieted and rolled itself back into its merely voluminous original size.

Lady Vortex raised one hooded eye, and the putto, eyes fixed on her face, rose improbably on its tiny wings and flew. An ornate window, paned in sheets of gems and crystal and standing 50 meters high, opened behind and above the Imperial Majesty as the putto approached, enough for him to exit with alarming alacrity.

“Alphonso, even now, wings his way to the Imperium Lux,” Lady Vortex spoke in a voice of honey and ice, “and shall cause to be issued a summons to the Marquis de Vela.”

“My dear lady,” came a voice from the Throne of Imperial Majesty, “most chaste and powerful mistress of the Interstitial Gates, Lioness of the Between, Sender of the Messages both mortal and eternal, pray, when should we expect the Lord Marquis?” A slight pause. “You may dispense with all but the first 50 honorifics of imperial address to my person, and answer plainly.”

Behind her mask, Lady Vortex and her extended brain, present in her creatures and, indeed, in much of the throne room’s furniture and all of one of the many massive sub basements, brooded. A thousand suns even now were being consumed to open the Gates; space would be delaminated for a hundred million light years; the interstices would disrupt countless systems and worlds; billions might die.

The first 50 imperial honorifics, including references to lordship of supernovae, the making of galactic collisions and the righteous conquest of thousands of clusters and structures, took only 15 minutes despite Lady Vortex’s unhurried drawl. She, including her extended mind, had finished the calculations after 12 minutes. “Oh Light of the Imperium, Cause Supreme of Harmony and Death Merciful yet Fell of the Unenlightened: the Marquis de Vela can be expected in 11,432.51 standard years!”

“Then we shall have need of entertainment. Summon the Seneschal of the Holy Accoutrements.”

Far below the throne room, with its towering windows, sky-like vaulted ceiling held up by pillars of living water, filled with a light both subtle and powerful, in a sub basement dark and cramped, machines moved. A tiny figure, illuminated only by the light of a heads-up display, moved one hand.

Lady Vortex, who stood stock still, somehow froze. Could the Imperial Command have been inadvertently directed toward her? The Seneschal was stored well within this current effective frame of reference. Invoking interstitial delamination would be extraordinarily wasteful, even for this court. And the effort would kill her…

“It is spoken!” The First Chamberlain Inferior, Acting Subdeacon of Light and Word, leaned again upon his crooked staff of office and again nodded his mitred, jeweled head solemnly, this time to a Knight Pre Imminent of the Sidereal Garter, who bowed impossibly so that his cheek, freed from his Helm Imperial for the purpose, was on the floor. His armor, a swirl of light and metal, clanked musically – for thus it was designed – as he stood and marched out down the miles long throne room nave.

The Lady Vortex nearly allowed herself a sigh. Reinspiritualizetion was such a pain.

By the light of the display, the lone man’s face twitched. He dare not even think – parts of his mind, untrustworthy parts, were integrated into small nooks and crannies of the throne room and thus accessible to the Court. For reasons his conscious mind was not and could not be allowed to think, he pushed a particular spot on his left wrist with his right index finger. The command to do this action was encoded in certain proteins and enzymes, keyed by stereoisomers that mirrored natural chemicals but behaved differently when faced with their biological targets: the keys no longer fit the locks.

They fit other locks. These they turned. His left hand, a blur in the dark, cramped sub basement, shot forward and began manipulating data and instructions. The man’s mind was blocked from noticing. The man’s mind was dying as his right hand ran through a series of commands to the machines and minds throughout the imperial palace, which were systematically being fractured and disabled. He continued to summon the Seneschal, his right hand unaware of what his left hand was doing.

The man’s instructions could only propagate at the speed of light, to late for the thousand suns dying now at the Emperor’s whim. It would be many millennia before the outer systems discovered they were free; many millions of years before the entire Imperium knew. The remnants of his people, whose sun had been consumed in the sending of a message announcing the winner of an imperial card game, would most likely be extinct before they knew. It did not matter; his mind was prevented from even thinking it. Gates were being closed, and welded shut.

The man’s mind stuttered to a halt.

File:Black hole - Messier 87.jpg

11,432.509 standard years later, the Seneschal of the Holy Accoutrements entered the throne room, carrying such fripperies and baubles as might amuse the court. Four meters tall and dressed in a tall hat, a gray coat that hung to the floor and writhed with patterns, and black boots, his eyes spunn like pinwheels in his long, gaunt face. His entire body was constructed of independent creatures, each built to both add to the Seneschal and perform possibly amusing tricks. Some would scurry off now and again, then climb back into place as he strode the pavement.

The Seneschal came before the throne, his mind clouded. On the floor to the right stood the First Chamberlain Inferior, Acting Subdeacon of Light and Word, leaning motionless upon his crooked staff of office. To his right stood Lady Vortex, her mask frozen into the faintest hint of surprise. Several Knights Pre Imminent of the Sidereal Garter stood guard without moving. Invisible on his throne, shadowed by the Imperial Splendor, sat the Emperor.

Deep within the dark sub basements, on a machine poised and suspended for over 10,000 years, a final tumbler fell.

Suddenly, a shimmer filled the air between the Seneschal and the the throne. With a loud, undignified *pop* the Marquis de Vela reached the end of the delaminated intersticial, and fell unceremoniously to the marble floors. He raised himself up on one arm, and felt his head.

Lady Vortex gasped. She could not feel her extended mind. Her human mind, what was left of it, took in the scene and knew. He mask went dark and fell clanging to the floor, revealing the face of a startled girl.

“I can’t move,” mumbled the First Chamberlain Inferior, Acting Subdeacon of Light and Word, still leaning upon his crooked staff of office. Forgetting protocol, the Marquis de Vela spoke in the Imperial Presence, going so far as to omit even the first 25 honorifics.  “What, what has happened? Why am I here?”

Several animate pieces of the Seneschal of the Holy Accutroments chose this moment to fall from his coat and clatter and chatter upon the floor before scurrying back to disappear in the swirling patterns. From the Throne, hidden within the Imperial Splendor, a small confused voice answered, “I don’t know. I can’t seem to remember.”

Rereading Canticle for Leibowitz as a First Contact Story

Yesterday, took a crazy 5.5 hour drive there, 5.5 hour drive back trip with the Caboose to see Middle Son’s thesis defence at Thomas Aquinas College. Elder Daughter drove up from L.A., so the fam was well-represented. About 20 – 25 of Middle Son’s classmates also showed up, so it was good turn-out, especially considering TAC only has about 400 students total.

He did very well. I am a happy dad. Our kids are a wonderful and undeserved blessing. Also, the 11 hours in the car with our 15 year old son provided an opportunity to throw on the A Canticle for Leibowitz audiobook.

There has been quite a bit of recent discussion among the authors I follow on Twitter (mostly I’m on that silly platform just to follow SciFi authors and Catholics) about worldbuilding. Several writers deplored the evidently common current practice of going overboard with worldbuilding at the expense of plot and especially character. The consensus seemed to be that some writers had taken the wrong lesson from Tolkien. Many, many pages at the beginning of Lord of the Rings are spent describing the preparation and execution of a birthday party, as a way to introduce us to Middle Earth and the Shire. The wrong takeaway is that this long exposition is primarily meant to create a vivid setting. The writers seem to think it is meant to introduce us rather to the main characters, and the Shire and its inhabitants are described as an essential key to understanding those characters.

William Gibson was used as an example of strong worldbuilding at the expense of strong character development. I can sort of see that, except I think Johnny Mnemonic, Trinity Molly Millions and even the Fynn are quite memorable. But, yes, Gibson’s world is vivid in a way that his characters are not, while Gandalf, Samwise, Frodo and Gimli transcend even the glories of Middle Earth.

A Canticle for Leibowitz is one of my absolute favorite books, I’ve read it many times, and have given copies to a number of friends and acquaintances over the years. So it was natural for me to consider its structure and worldbuilding in light of the more expert opinions of real writers, especially since the Novel That Shall Not Be Named that has been percolating in my head for a decade or two now could hardly help being strongly influenced by it. In fact, the story I’m (very intermittently) trying to tell is about a culture, a civilization, over centuries of time and lightyears of space. No human character can last that long, so it can’t be at its heart about any particular character.

Miller’s masterpiece is the exception that proves the rule. (1) While populated with any number of engaging and sympathetic characters, it cannot be said to be about any of them neatly as much as it can be said to be about the world itself.

In a number of places, Chesterton talks about the world and the Church as being too close, too familiar, to be honestly seen. He suggests that to truly see, a man must approach his own home as a stranger seeing a foreign land for the first time. In ACFL, Miller takes up this challenge. Our own world must be approached as a thing totally alien. He must first destroy the world in order that we might see it. He burns it to ashes to try to save it. He must purge the Church down to the bare visible essentials, a few rag-tag would-be saints stumbling , half-blind, into an uncertain and terrifying future, in order that she may be seen at all. The story is not about Brother Francis Gerard or Lazarus. The story is about a world that needs saving and a Church whose martyrs are the instruments of its salvation.

A Canticle for Leibowitz presents to us the unfamiliar ashes of our familiar world, populated by people that are often only barely recognizable as our shadows or ghosts. The monks of Leibowitz Abbey, with their rituals, discipline and logic, present a humanity far more difficult for a modern reader to see than that in a Ferengi or Klingon. Just as the look of Star Trek aliens is created through the artful application of latex to mundane human bodies, their personalities and motivations are merely emphases of existing human traits. It’s easier for a person today to see the humanity in Gul Ducat or Quark than in Brother Francis Gerard or Abbot Arkos, and to recognize his reflection in the Romulan homeworld than in an abbey full of monks.

In this way, the worldbuilding of ACFL is more nearly that of a first encounter story than any other kind of science fiction or fantasy story. Hidden behind the startling originality of the story, Miller follows a classic formula. He spends the first third of the book describing an alien species and their home world, and the rest of the book showing how these aliens are not so different from us.

Thus ends today’s Sci Fi musings.

  1. Two other exceptions would be: the Foundation and Dune series, where the world is the consistent character in a way none of the human characters can ever be. I’m guessing this is more broadly true in this era of fantasy and sci fi series, but I’m more an old-school guy, so I don’t have much experience in more modern works.

Bricks, Fruits & Flowers: Update

Some seriously serious stuff coming down at Casa de Moore, I will write about it once the situation resolves itself. For now, let’s rejoice!

Finally finished the little brick tower and handrail thingie, except for finding and installing a mailbox on the larger tower:

The mailbox will go atop the tower on the left. Would an old ammo box send the wrong message? Tempting…
Need to spray all this with mortar stain removers.

Next, spring has righteously sprung:

They don’t show up well, but there are lots of little apricots on this tree and its neighbor, and lots of little peaches on the trees behind. This is Year 3, the first year one is supposed to let the trees bear fruit, after two years of setting roots, if they are up to it. Looking good so far.

The pear is in bloom….
…as is the cherry.
Lots of tiny figs on the dwarf fig tree.

The pomegranate doesn’t bloom for a while; the citrus tree shows nothing yet – it has only born a few fruits, like single digits, over its existence. Our late son asked once what would happen if he planted a seed he found in a piece of fruit. We said, of course, plant it and see. So he did, and the little tree sat in a window box until it got too big, then in a pot on the patio, then a half wine barrel. I had to trim it rather ruthlessly, as it was clearly not happy being small in a barrel. Finally, we stuck it in the ground out front and it took off. I have to trim it even more ruthlessly now. But no fruit.

The avocados are a disaster, stunted and bare. I think it just got too cold for them and I didn’t do enough to keep them warm. Avocados are fragile when small, and very tough when mature, but really are subtropical. We are definitely not. I only try because there are plenty of avocado trees growing in Concord, so it can work. Getting them past the first few years seems to be the trick.

Further reports as events warrant.

The State of Education

Yea, yea, beating a dead horse. Here I collect, organize and expand upon a number of themes that converge to get us to the sorry state we now find ourselves in. Expanding on a Twitter thread I wrote this morning:

When William Torrey Harris said “substantial education” (greatly facilitated by the graded classroom model being imposed everywhere back in the 1890s, and universal now) turned people into “automata, careful to follow prescribed paths” he meant that as a GOOD thing. He wanted everyone to absorb a culture, in his case, an Hegelian culture, whatever that might mean.

But there is a next step: after you’ve trained people to just follow orders, get in line, regurgitate on command & collect the participation trophy, THEN – (translating from Hegelian jargon to Modern English) – you need to get them Woke. For Harris, this meant a culture where everyone is open to being enlightened, allowing Progress to happen by approaching all problems via Hegelian dialectic. This the substantially educated would just do, no questions asked. There is no option, as Harris sees the the world, to working for Progress through the unfolding of the Spirit through History, etc. All is Becoming, nothing really IS. The usual Hegelian bullsh*t.

Reminder: Harris was not just some loopy poser (although he was that) – he was the US Commissioner of Education from 1889 to 1906.

By the 1890s. Hegel had been set upright by Marx. I am oddly sympathetic to this traditional claim, as the God of Hegel is no god at all, but rather a mutable force finding its ultimate expression in History. Seems more tidy, even if equally dazzlingly incoherent, to just assign to History whatever god-like traits Hegel had hung on Spirit. Cut out the middleman, as it were, and lose whatever tenuous relationship Hegel’s Spirit had to any traditional understanding of the Supreme Being.

Marxists have no use for God, but the schooling Harris helped establish suited them just fine. School of Darkness describes, peripherally, how this change from the barmy and superficially benevolent totalitarianism of Harris to the much more bloodthirsty totalitarianism of Marx came about.

Jump ahead 50 years. Ambitious people had long recognized college as a meal ticket. (They failed to see that it’s only a meal ticket when it’s selective and hard – it doesn’t create jobs, just filters out the riff-raff, so to speak). So college became a universal goal, an unmitigated good. As such, the government got heavily into subsidizing it. For totally benevolent reasons, I’m sure.

Remember: follow the money. We pretend we’re subsidizing students but we’re not – students get debt, colleges get the real money. More and more flush with cash as the 60s rolled into the 70s and 80s, with more on the table for the taking from students loans, our fine colleges and universities practically wet themselves in the search for more students, any students! But faced with the dumbed-down products of Harris’s schooling, colleges were and are highly motivated to create classes & degrees for the unprepared and stupid. Today, even freshmen at elite colleges need to take remedial classes to attempt even the radically dumbed down curricula, so that, for example, 50% of incoming freshmen at Cal must take remedial math & English. These are kids who got into Cal based on all those AP credits and high SAT scores.

Today, anyone drawing breath can get into college and get ridiculous loans to pay highly inflated tuition prices so that they can get a college degree on the patently false theory that a better job will magically come with it.

The colleges get the money.

Luckily for the colleges, they already had a field-tested model of content-free education that could be passed by relative morons: Education schools, which have handed out degrees to the bottom 10% of students for over a century now. All they had to do was apply the rigor-free regurgitation approach perfected in education, where Harris’s philosophy, as modified and refined by such luminaries as the Communist apologist Dewey, is taught to the idealistic, if less intelligent and more gullible, fraction of students.

RAD(1) (Right Answers Disciplines) classes, like math, or even accounting, are deemphasized and removed from requirements while those demanding simple regurgitation of the prof’s pet theories multiply like rabbits. Old subjects that used to at least pretend toward some rigor, such as history and philosophy, are castrated to become as manageable as education.

Colleges became participation trophy diploma mills. Businesses can no longer use a degree as an indicator of minimal intellectual competence. Employers want to know you studied something, you know, hard-ish, before they give you that coveted slot in the cube farm. (2) Grads who never should have attended college in the first place weep that they have a lovely Studies degree but no one will hire them!

EXCEPT for the lucky few who get hired BY THE COLLEGES to teach yet more Studies classes to yet more heavily-indebted, unprepared students. Even the remaining RAD classes are under intense pressure to be made easier.

At some point, I’m guessing around 15 or 20 years ago, the Studies faculty began to outnumber the RAD faculty. This means that the hiring & tenure committees as well as internal governance and discipline boards came to be dominated by Studies professors.

This has had negative consequences.

Go back to Harris & being Woke. The Studies people have one thing in common: Critical Theory. Critical Theory has one answer to all questions: oppression. The only acceptable exercise is exposing the oppressor/oppressed dynamic that explains all misery everywhere.

Critical Theory which is merely Marxism configured for academic consumption, is, like Marxism in general, fundamentally an adolescent idea. It’s stupid, and contradicted by all experience. Any adult-level interaction with reality would disabuse one from it – but the products of our schools are inoculated as far as possible from any such interactions. Get ’em while they’re young! Because once it’s set in, it often takes a nuclear-level red pill to break the spell.

Back to colleges. We’ve reached the point where now, if any RAD professor were so crazy as to suggest that biology, history, (non-Marxist, i.e., real) economics, etc. contradict the crazies, the Studies people can deny him tenure or get him fired – if he somehow made it past the hiring committee in the first place. Then the loving, enlightened students will harrass him, dox him, threaten his children, threaten any venue that publishes his work and slander anyone who interacts with him.

Good times. Just imagine how bad it would be if our Woke children weren’t so loving and kind.

Thus, when the serious-looking talking head says idiotic things like Science supports Gender Theory, the biologists, physiologists, evolutionary biologists etc., who know this is idiotic nonsense stay silent – if they want to keep their grants and jobs.

The well-educated, who spent 12+ years ‘succeeding’ by sitting in their desks, standing in their lines, regurgitating the acceptable answers, and in general doing exactly as they were told feel a thrill of victory when the bad man who said mean things is punished. This is called being enlightened.

Even more convenient, being Woke means you already know the answer. Being Woke is inoculation against ever having to think. You know you are just the best, finest, most moral people EVER, in a way that simply cannot be explained to the unwoke. To even attempt such an explanation would be ridiculous. You either get it or you don’t.

The schooling we have today, promoted by Harris (and many others), taken over by Critical Theorists, is the chief tool of today’s totalitarian, anti-science nihilism. Comply or Die!

Conclusion: we are so screwed. The schools must be burned to the ground. True, the useful idiots will be the first to go if the revolution they are enabling ever comes to pass. A successful backlash would save their lives. Amusing if you like bitter irony, but small comfort.

Probably going to move out of my home state of California, always the leader in social trends. I’m taking suggestions for states that are accepting political refugees like me and mine, preferably ones where a finance/business guy can find a job. Any ideas?

  1. Heard RAD from Severian, not sure if it’s original with him, it was too cool not to use.
  2. The bottom rung in business, smarts-wise, is Human Resources. If a Woman’s Studies grad were ever to get hired, that’s where she’d end up – where they can act as gatekeepers to future job applicants. What could go wrong?

Odd Lenten Hymns

In the comments to the last post, J. J. Griffing asked for examples of the sort of traditional Lenten hymns that are out of vogue in my little corner of the world, tunes which I find a little odd, but also miss. The oddness consists of two factors: dirge-like hymn tunes, and graphic descriptions of suffering and penance often described in archaic language. Some hymns have one, some the other, some both. Here goes:

Forty Days and Forty Nights

Forty days and forty nights
Thou wast fasting in the wild;
Forty days and forty nights
Tempted, and yet undefiled.

Sunbeams scorching all the day;
Chilly dew-drops nightly shed;
Prowling beasts about Thy way;
Stones Thy pillow; earth Thy bed.

Should not we Thy sorrow share
And from worldly joys abstain,
Fasting with unceasing prayer,
Strong with Thee to suffer pain?

Then if Satan on us press,
Jesus, Savior, hear our call!
Victor in the wilderness,
Grant we may not faint nor fall!

So shall we have peace divine:
Holier gladness ours shall be;
Round us, too, shall angels shine,
Such as ministered to Thee.

Keep, O keep us, Savior dear,
Ever constant by Thy side;
That with Thee we may appear
At the eternal Eastertide.

The tune here is very much a dirge, and the lyrics speak for themselves. I like it! Hymnody.org has this to say to say about the composer: George Hunt Smyttan. The tune is attributed to Martin Herbst, who died in 1681. Other verses have been added by other poets over the years, generally with the same flavor.

Here’s a cheerier tune:

The Glory of These Forty Days

  1. The glory of these forty days
    we celebrate with songs of praise,
    for Christ, through whom all things were made,
    himself has fasted and has prayed.
  2. Alone and fasting Moses saw
    the loving God who gave the law,
    and to Elijah, fasting, came
    the steeds and chariots of flame.
  3. So Daniel trained his mystic sight,
    delivered from the lions’ might,
    and John, the Bridegroom’s friend, became
    the herald of Messiah’s name.
  4. Then grant us, Lord, like them to be
    full oft in fast and prayer with thee;
    our spirits strengthen with thy grace,
    and give us joy to see thy face.
  5. O Father, Son and Spirit blest,
    to thee be every prayer addressed,
    who art in threefold name adored,
    from age to age, the only Lord.

This is great song, good tune, nice lyrics. Tune can go down the dirge road, although a musician with any sensibility would sing it at a decent tempo with a slight lilt, saving it from being a wade through molasses.

Honorable mentions include Lord, Who Throughout These Forty Days, which always cracks me up – the Lord doing a little clean up, tossing an extra 40 days that were cluttering up the place, and the classic and wonderful O Sacred Head Surrounded, which does get sung, but usually just on Good Friday. Now those are some graphic lyrics.

Stuff just came up. This will have to do for now.

3/31/19 Music as Mass Review: Improvements

It has been years since I’d attended a Sunday evening mass at our parish, because the last time I did, the amatuer rock band composed of aging ex-hippies sort of failed to provide the kind of liturgical experience with which I am most comfortable. To put it gently.

Yesterday, because I forgot that I was up for leading the Candidates and Catechumens out after the Scrutinies, I needed to catch a later mass – I usually catch an earlier one. So, off to the evening mass I headed.

And – the rock band was gone. The congregation skewed a bit younger, maybe, with more college-age and young adults. Otherwise, looked like the usual UN subcommittee meeting we get at our parish – here comes everybody. Pretty sure all the inhabitable continents were well represented, although I’m a bit unsure about Australia.

But I knew something really different was in store when a woman went up to read the first reading – in a mantilla. Whoa. I think the elderly boomers in the band heads would have exploded, had they been there. Then, we sang the common Latin Sanctus and Agnus. It was good and peaceful. I was and am grateful.

Image result for mantilla
Not like this Although if you’ve got it, work it, ladies.

Unfortunately, we sang modern, marginally appropriate songs for the other musical spots in the Mass. Many of the traditional Lenten songs are frankly a little weird, as in Volga Boat Song style dirge-like melodies and perhaps uncomfortably direct language to the modern ear. I’m cool with them, myself, but can see how they might not appeal to people with more conventional sensibilities, especially as many people younger than 50? 60? have probably never heard them.

Image result for lace head scarf for church
More like this, just a wee bit more understated.

Nonetheless, a lovely, respectful mass with at least a little appropriate and good music. Seems things can change to the better, thank God.