| Shelley, Prometheus Unbound, concluding lines |
[Nov. 8th, 2009|04:45 pm] |
This is the day, which down the void abysm At the Earth-born's spell yawns for Heaven's despotism, And Conquest is dragged captive through the deep: Love, from its awful throne of patient power In the wise heart, from the last giddy hour Of dread endurance, from the slippery, steep, And narrow verge of crag-like agony, springs And folds over the world its healing wings.
Gentleness, Virtue, Wisdom, and Endurance, These are the seals of that most firm assurance Which bars the pit over Destruction's strength; And if, with infirm hand, Eternity, Mother of many acts and hours, should free The serpent that would clasp her with his length; These are the spells by which to reassume An empire o'er the disentangled doom.
To suffer woes which Hope thinks infinite; To forgive wrongs darker than death or night; To defy Power, which seems omnipotent; To love, and bear; to hope till Hope creates From its own wreck the thing it contemplates; Neither to change, nor falter, nor repent; This, like thy glory, Titan, is to be Good, great and joyous, beautiful and free; This is alone Life, Joy, Empire, and Victory. |
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| The Hound -- HPL |
[Oct. 30th, 2009|05:25 pm] |
By what malign fatality were we lured to that terrible Holland churchyard? I think it was the dark rumor and legendry, the tales of one buried for five centuries, who had himself been a ghoul in his time and had stolen a potent thing from a mighty sepulchre. I can recall the scene in these final moments - the pale autumnal moon over the graves, casting long horrible shadows; the grotesque trees, drooping sullenly to meet the neglected grass and the crumbling slabs; the vast legions of strangely colossal bats that flew against the moon; the antique ivied church pointing a huge spectral finger at the livid sky; the phosphorescent insects that danced like death-fires under the yews in a distant corner; the odors of mould, vegetation, and less explicable things that mingled feebly with the night-wind from over far swamps and seas; and, worst of all, the faint deep-toned baying of some gigantic hound which we could neither see nor definitely place. As we heard this suggestion of baying we shuddered, remembering the tales of the peasantry; for he whom we sought had centuries before been found in this self same spot, torn and mangled by the claws and teeth of some unspeakable beast.
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| Hallowe'en: The Adventure Begins |
[Oct. 29th, 2009|04:31 pm] |
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It was only this morning I committed to going to the thing at Je'Bon tonight, so had to give some thought to costume. Eventually I decided that the long black coat I bought to go out to Pennsylvania last year is a good match to the leather skull mask with the steel spikes I bought from the artist quite a few years ago now -- when I was still going to those Mensa parties at the Soldiers and Sailors Club. It even fits over my glasses. The coat is a couple of sizes too big, so I can pull the back of the collar over my head without strangling my armpits, and the gloves still in my pockets complete the outfit. So I can take a shower and maybe even finish folding the wash before heading downtown. And maybe I can ask someone there to snap my photo for everyone's delectation. |
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| John Henry Newman at the Alexander Men Conference |
[Aug. 10th, 2009|05:57 pm] |
( Read more ) What then is it, that these little ones of Christ lack, who, without wilful sin, past or present, on their consciences, are in gloom and sorrow? What is the doctrine that will quicken them, and make their devotion healthy? What will brace them and nerve them, and make them lift up their heads, and will pour light and joy upon their countenance till it shines like the face of Moses when he came down from the Mount? What but the great and high doctrines connected with the Church? They are not merely taken into covenant with God; they are taken into His Church. They have not merely the promise of grace; they have its presence. They have not merely the conditional prospect of a reward; for a blessing, nay, unspeakable, fathomless, illimitable, infinite, eternal blessings are poured into their very hearts, even as a first step and an earnest from God our Saviour, of what He will do for those who love Him. They "are passed from death unto life," and are the children of God and heirs of heaven. Let us steadily contemplate this comfortable view, and we shall gain {146} strength, and feel cheerful and joyful in spite of our sins. O fearful follower of Christ, how is it thou hast never thought of what thou art and what is in thee? Art thou not Christ's purchased possession? Has He not rescued thee from the devil, and put a new nature within thee? Did He not in Baptism cast out the evil spirit and enter into thee Himself, and dwell in thee as if thou hadst been an Archangel, or one of the Seraphim who worship before Him continually? Much and rightly as thou thinkest of thy sins, hast thou no thought, I do not say of gratitude, but of wonder, of admiration, of amazement, of awful and overpowering transport, at what thou art through grace? When Jacob woke in the morning, his first thought was not about his sins or his danger, though he rightly felt both, but about God;-he said, "How dreadful is this place! this is none other but the house of God, and this is the gate of heaven." [Gen xxviii. 17.] Contemplate then thyself, not in thyself, but as thou art in the Eternal God. Fall down in astonishment at the glories which are around thee and in thee, poured to and fro in such a wonderful way that thou art (as it were) dissolved into the kingdom of God, as though thou hadst nought to do but to contemplate and feed upon that great vision. This surely is the state of mind the Apostle speaks of in the text when he reminds us who are justified and at peace with God, that we have access to His royal courts, and stand in His grace, and rejoice in hope of His glory. All the trouble which the world inflicts upon us, and which flesh cannot but feel, sorrow, pain, care, bereavement, these avail not to disturb the {147} tranquillity and the intensity with which faith gazes upon the Divine Majesty. All the necessary exactness of our obedience, the anxiety about failing, the pain of self-denial, the watchfulness, the zeal, the self-chastisements which are required of us, as little interfere with this vision of faith, as if they were practised by another, not by ourselves. We are two or three selves at once, in the wonderful structure of our minds, and can weep while we smile, and labour while we meditate. http://www.newmanreader.org/works/parochial/volume4/sermon9.html |
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| I'm Back. Sort of. |
[Dec. 10th, 2008|10:45 am] |
It's been a while.
For more pretentious remarks, check the blog at http://blog.arisbe.net . This LJ can also be reached at http://journal.arisbe.net. And you can join my ZenZuu network at http://zen.arisbe.net . Yes, I am going apesh*t with subdomains. I should probably set one up for my Facebook. And my MySpace, if that phrase is not redundant. And even if it is.
A month or so back I consolidated my domain registration and forwarding services, which had somehow become separated, and gained a subdomain functionality I never had before (for much less than I was paying, by the way).
First thing I did was set up my affiliate pages, first for my Clickbank publications, such as http://secrets.arisbe.net , then for products like internet calling from your cell phone ( http://button.arisbe.net ) -- boy, is that ugly -- is it my browser? Anyway, there's also health stuff like human growth hormone precursor ( http://hgh.arisbe.net ) and green lipped mussel extract for arthritis and even asthma ( http://omega.arisbe.net ) and herbal remedies in general ( http://native.arisbe.net ). And pheromone spray, of course, with a business type approach ( http://trust.arisbe.net ) and what I consider a tackier approach, though probably a more advanced formula ( http://ascent.arisbe.net ). And, while we are on the subject of smells, there's always http://stinks.arisbe.net .
Not that I want you to buy any of this stuff. We don't do ads on LiveJournal. Just to see what I have been up to. Of course if you really want to make me rich in time for Christmas, I can't stop you, can I?
Meanwhile I keep getting ads for more and more hypnosis downloads, and I have discussed these at greater length at http://arisbe.net/hypno , which is on a wiki somewhere on Poland. Though I might migrate the site to Ning.
Bless you all. Time to do some wash. |
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| 01 09 11 |
[Sep. 11th, 2008|09:28 pm] |
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Got through the day without being exposed to the media on the subject, except for one bit. I was surfing around about a half hour ago when I saw the beginning of a rebroadcast of the Pope's visit to the World Trade Center site. It was enough. I had of course seen it live, broadcast to the enormous screens at Yankee Stadium, where I sat for hours in the cold fog waiting for him to arrive, but then there was no sound, and not much of a clue to what was going on. Early this afternoon I walked down to the river, as I had so often walked to the river at the World Financial Center in the months before the attack, not so much afterward, even when we had moved back to Barclay Street. I have often mused on the faces in the crowds I would see crossing over from the WTC to the WFC, and wondered how many of those lives had been obliterated and how many merely ruined, as some would say my own was when my job was moved to Chennai, perhaps in consequence of the attack, but perhaps not. Certainly my country was destroyed, not by the attacks themselves, but by the politicians who used them as a pretext for starting the war they had long promised their backers. In so doing they had befouled the pride and prostituted the grief of my city. The priest whose skull was crushed when he took off his helmet to pray for a fallen comrade did not die for this. Indeed, his helmet was later presented to the Bishop of Rome, an old, sick man keeping himself alive by sheer willpower -- and prayer -- to fight the Satanic power he felt emanating from the White House, a fight his successor gloriously reigning, whom I watched tonight, continues. |
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| Not Being in Denver |
[Aug. 26th, 2008|10:23 am] |
Hell, I didn't even make it to Cambridge weekend before last, and that's more my scene. Cambridge NY, I mean.
Was reading Guy Davenport last night while the Better Half (as they are known) had the DemoCon on in the next room; she turned up the sound for Teddy and Michele. I have to give Ted credit, especially as I can only assume he is making his peace with God as best he knows how. And, disgusting as I have found him, he is certainly a class act compared with the Clintons, and if the Demos return to the spirit of Camelot, it will be all to the good. Bobby at least was a comparatively admirable fellow, and even JFK did some good. My reaction to Michele Obama is pretty much that of Justin Raimondo, so I will let you follow that link to Taki's site.
I feel a lot better about the whole Obama thing now. Though I don't want Biden as president, I really don't.
I was rewarded before I slept by some wonderful Davenport anecdotes of JRR Tolkein. And Thomas Merton, who could, even in his hermitage days, put down a half dozen martinis -- though not at the hermitage, I hasten to add, or with his Roman collar on. What a metabolism! I'm sure holiness helps. |
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| The Education of a Paleoconservative |
[Aug. 24th, 2008|09:27 am] |
One of you has asked, and perhaps some of you have wondered, just what the hell is this neocon-paleocon thing. Isn't neocon just a word used by anti-Semites to smear everything good, clean, and decent?
I think not. But I do need to make myself clearer. So I have gathered up some of the essays Taki has been kind enough to publish, or at links to them, in an order that makes sense, an order that, I imagine, might do for a book:
http://www.squidoo.com/paleo
Take a look and let me know what you think. If you do now you will miss the ads for hypnotic mind control, lose nine pounds in eleven days, get ripped abs in thirty three.
Of course it's a personal take. Nothing in it about Oakeshott. Or about not only Strauss, but Voegelin, as a neocon. Or when and where the tern neoconservative appeared in print. (In a book, it was in one by Peter Viereck in the middle '50s, referencing a magazine reference by Will Herberg to Reinhold Niebuhr. Good to know, because it all goes back to Reinhold's debate with his brother Richard in the '30s. And Reinhold was, with Rabbi Heschel, I think, the originator of the pernicious myth of Judeo-Christendom, that Christians must withdraw from public view and discourse everything in their faith a Jew might object to, everything, that is, about Jesus as other than a mere prophet of the Social Gospel.)
I fear that there might be more research ahead of me, and this at a time of my life that I am more anxious to communicate what I already know while I am still able. I wonder if it might not be better to stick to autobiography, to give otherwise abstract ideas some kind of human resonance. But my life, viewed from the outside, has not a great deal of biographical interest. |
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| Back for Good? |
[Jul. 24th, 2008|11:47 am] |
Who knows?
Maybe if I unfriend some massive feeds (or unfeed some massive friends) it won't be such a chore to check in here. Then, of course, it would be just my luck to get another job that requires me to keep on top of them.
As before, if you have something in a personal entry you want to call my attention to, please comment.
I will be checking in more regularly, even posting.
Most of my posting has been links to stuff I was publishing on line anyway, and my writing has been for other things of late.
I think a lot of my online presence will be through Squidoo, a good place to set up web pages, I think. My first effort, very much a work in progress, is an investigation, from an educator's point of view, of mind control. I got interested in this at the end of last week when I started noticing the ads for conversational hypnosis, underground hypnosis, tantra, and, of course, ripped abs.
All of these are instructional products in electronic format, so that there is no cost of manufacture, and the creator, distributor, and affiliate internet marketer split the revenues. This is a business model that appeals to me, and of course would appeal to me more if my stuff on line got more traffic. But that is an issue that concerns me anyway -- the things I write are important, damn it, and more people oought to read them, damn it, and not just the sort of people who read Taki. Oops, forgot to say "damn it!"
For all of you who hated Charlie the Unicorn, I was going to post Vangelis' and Irene Pappas' version of the Paschal Troparion. Maybe another time.
Cheers f |
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| Back. Sort of. |
[Jun. 22nd, 2008|10:51 pm] |
Well I am checking in here again. But this time, for the first time, I am not going to be able to scroll back over the pages and pages of days and days of posts. I therefore must ask you to leave a comment if there is anything you think I ought to know, or just want to tell me. Sorry. To make up for my lameness, I will post this, which I owe to Srsti:
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| Bad and Good |
[Jun. 6th, 2008|02:38 pm] |
The bad news (for some) is that I am not posting regularly yet. The good news, known to all you paleocons out there, is that John Zmirak, author of the new Grand Inquisitor comic book, has blogged our last visit to Turkish Bellydance Night at the Sushi Bar. Perhaps I should say, Turkish Music night with eclectic bellydancing. Or Brooklyn Turkish Fusion. Or something. But here's the link -- scroll down in the comments to see my links to the troupe and the band: http://www.takimag.com/blogs/article/back_in_the_briar_patch/ |
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| The Catholic American |
[May. 10th, 2008|11:17 pm] |
I am a Catholic American. When I was a little kid, knee high to a trilobite, some folks still had a problem with that. My mother was one of them. As long as I was a Catholic like my father (and her own mother as a little girl in Ireland and on the lower East Side), I couldn't be a real American like her father, a bookbinder replaced by a machine, disowned by his family for marrying out of caste, who spent his days in the nearest tavern. "Pop" Palmer died at 78, and four years later I was born and named for him, or at least that was my mother's intention. The priest baptized me in Latin, as was the custom in those dark days, and pronounced "Frank" so that it sounded like the nickname ("Frenchy") of a (doubtless) dirty medieval Italian beggar. ( Read more... )
The opening paragraphs of the remarks I presented part of at seraphimsigrist's little East Village gathering this afternoon; see his entry for the picture. More later if you like. And maybe even if you don't.
Cheers. |
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| Of Stents and Stones |
[Apr. 18th, 2008|06:58 pm] |
Destentified. Took a Tylenol 3 in the waiting room afterwards for when the local wore off, but have not needed a second, at least so far.
Curiously, the stones blasted out of my bladder two weeks ago turned out to be uric acid of the sort that tends to form in the joints of my left foot, rather than the calcium oxylate that was growing in my kidney.
So everything looks good for Sunday as far as my health goes, and Srsti has picked up the tickets, which I understand have our names in bar code. I do hope they included Maya's full name as I submitted it; her married name is not on her driver's license. I think I have a marriage certificate in a sock drawer just in case.
I haven't been walking this comfortably in weeks -- or is it months? Seems like years.
On the Vatican front, I was pleased to see several Copts and maybe even a Nestorian at the ecumenical service at St. Joseph's on live TV this evening, but disappointed that none was presented to the Pope. Armenian is about as exotic as they got. Is it because the Armenians are Chalcedonians, monothelite rather than monophysite? (Is this geeky, or what?) |
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| Sunday in the Bronx with Ben |
[Apr. 15th, 2008|07:40 pm] |
Although my daughter is (or was) one of the notorious Bleacher Creatures, I have never been inside the Stadium, though I once changed trains there conducting some Sough Bronx adult education students to the Coney Island aquarium. Divine Providence, in the form of a cat-loving Baviarian pianist gives me one last chance before they tear it down. (I was at the Polo Grounds only once, for the last game between the Giants and the Dodgers. The real ones.) The last -- I hope -- of my surgical procedures will have been Friday afternoon, giving just enough time -- again, I hope -- for the internal bleeding to stop or get under control. There's nothing in the press about a book signing, which is probably just as well.
This will be my third Papa in person. 39 years ago, I went to see Montini at Castelgandolfo with Potter the Peircean and his mother -- and a decade later I was attempting to cross Broadway at Chambers late for work when the Polish gentleman rode by in his white Popemobile. (Pacelli, Roncalli, and Luciani I only know from TV.)
Am I supposed to bring pocketfuls of holy stuff to get blessed or what? Or Yankee memorabilia? I can't recall anything like that with the Dalai Lama at Columbia, who, by the way, couldn't finish his own joke because he kept cracking himself up.
As you may know Maya and I go to something called School of Community on 96th Street a block this side of the mosque, and Benedict attends one in his private quarters taught by one of his domestic staff, so the wife, the Pope and I are on the same page -- pretty much literally. I like the idea that the Servant of the Servants of God, and the teacher of their teachers, is himself glad to be a student, and of his pastry chef (as I like to think) at that. (I do hope he gets his birthday strudel tomorrow. It should be less of a problem than it was during the conclave.)
This morning I got an email, which I didn't much expect, to pick up our tickets Friday.
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| Latest |
[Apr. 9th, 2008|03:01 pm] |
I have a Friday morning appointment for a procedure than should remove the cause of the discomfort I am still experiencing. On the other hand, I can't predict the discomfort, pain might not be too strong a term, of the procedure itself or during the following days, never mind the anxiety leading up to the undoubtedly minor (in comparison with the big deal in the hospital a week ago, or even the failed procedure last month) event.
Father J. is back to Barcelona (Girona, actually) tomorrow without any dental work having been done for him at NYU, despite his extensive evaluations just before their Spring break and the expectation of appointments Monday and Tuesday.
The website I was working on went down the tubes thanks to a server migration and it took some work on the part of the host before I could reinstall successfully. It's back now in rudimentary fashion, and I will do things slowly, and the way I was beginning to wish I had done it the first time. At the end of which my little chowder and marching society will have more than it ever wanted, and I will be a bit more of a Drupal geek. Which is what I always wanted to be when I grew up, back in Jersey in the '50s.
Meanwhile I am immersed in <i>The Lost Science of Money</i>, which I lugged home exhausted from the monetary reform conference at the Ron Paul HQ Sunday. It is remarkable how hospitable the RP folks are to the discussion of the Federal Reserve system even from a nonlibertarian, anti-Austrian, social welfarist, fiat money point of view, a point of view I find unexpectedly persuasive in spots. And I may come out of this able to read Pound's middle <i>Cantos</i> with something approaching interest. I already see his obsession with the Rothschilds less connected to the European anti-Sems than with his father's professional concern with the minting of precious metals.
And of course local history is involved. August Belmont, the father of the subway, was not only the Rothshild's American agent, but the chair of the Democratic National Committee in 1868, who may well have worked to throw the election to Grant when his own candidate failed to endorse the gold standard. So says the fascinating Alexander del Mar, anyway, whose works I have located on Google. One of those names you see in Pound, and wonder what Pound saw in them. (Mussolini being an extreme example.)
Belmont's was the only private car on the IRT... |
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| Thanks to All |
[Apr. 3rd, 2008|02:47 pm] |
Thank you for your good wishes. Got home around eight last night minus two stones but with something called a stent inserted up into the kidney. This time it shouldn't be in there long enough for stones to grow on it like rock candy on a string. The radiologist (not the pretty one) noticed something he didn't like in the EKG which will be the topic of further discussion. Evidently something that isn't threatening to do anything, but which will have to be taken into account if my heart should ever, in Mel Brook's immortal phrase, attack me. Indeed, it's the sort of thing it leaves behind when it does, but if it did I was paying attention to something else at the time, though as far as I know it's not the sort of thing you would miss. Unless you're mostly Irish or something.
I am pleasantly sleepy and will take advantage of the fact, and of the fact that the web site I would be otherwise be working on seems to have been disabled by a server migration.
The air coming in the bathroom window smells good; it's a happy time of year, and maybe I can get away with unsealing the bedroom window.
Cheers, all.
f |
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| Back to Roosevelt |
[Apr. 1st, 2008|06:07 pm] |
Tomorrow. The hospital, not the president. The one where I was training doctors and nurses in computer operations. (The nurse who left me on the bedpan for hours took an early retirement rather than learn something new.) The hospital named for the fellow whose grandson (or something) was the first (?) Bishop of Newark, and the founder of Seton Hall.
I show up at 7:30 for a procedure at 9:30. This one should work, unlike the one a couple of weeks ago, and may even (I may be permitted to hope) entail less pain during and after. And if it works, of course, ordinary living should be a good bit less onerous. At this point I can't even imagine that. Wish it for me anyway. Should be out around noon, maybe walking a little funny. In time for lunch at one of those little Greek diners if I am up to it.
The Asus eeepc is proving just the thing to carry around in my shoulder bag, especially when I do on-site college inspections. I wish there were more free wifi hotspots around, but there's the Gigi Cafe across from the subway station, not to mention the Bowery Poetry Club. I was happy to get SILC working on the livingroom desktop and actually connect to a server, but of course nobody was actually on. Then again, why should they be? IRC is esoteric enough to keep the vulgar out, and encryption is just the icing on the cake. Still, I like the idea for some reason. Then again, I thought ICQ was fun back around 2000.
More later, maybe. |
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| Adoramus |
[Mar. 11th, 2008|04:04 am] |
In the midst of excruciating pain and narcotic fog I learned of the death of a dear old friend from whom I had been unhappily estranged. Yesterday I learned more of the circumstances of her death, which brought her close to me in a way she had not been before. I should probably tell you that I am speaking of a woman of old WASP stock, as in Santayana's classic Last Puritan. A year or two behind Hillary at Holyoke, too austere to have been a hippie, more like the very serious single women of earlier times who turned to pacifism, vegitarianism, Theosophy. Not a Quaker, but on reflection I am not quite sure why.
I posted this on the Yahoo group for my high school class:
From the newsletter of Blessed Sacrament Roman Catholic Church Memphis TN: Adoramus Te December 2006 Happy Birthday to us! This newsletter was first issued in December 2005. Father Bravata had discussed sharing spiritual insights as well as parish news, but his vision had yet to become a reality. The moving force behind that first issue was Elli Light, an RCIA candidate who got the ball rolling. Retired from The Commercial Appeal as a copy editor, Elli was an intelligent woman and a talented writer. She died in September shortly after coming into the Church. We thank God for sending Elli to share her many gifts with us during her short time here. Rest in peace, Elli! ****************************** Cathy R______ found this on the parish website to which the obit had led me -- it was distinctly odd to see that her memorial service was at a Catholic church. I put in a call to the church office, and they got back to me at the end of the day. Elli enrolled in RCIA (the Roman Catholic program for potential converts) in 2005, I guess shortly after the removal of much of her intestine (cancer?) and her retirement from newspaper work. Because of her generally poor health the Bishop gave the pastor special permission to give her Communion, but too late -- she was suddenly admitted to the hospital and she was already on a ventilator when he got there. He was able to hear her confession, confirm her, and give her the sacrament of the sick before the end. That's what I remember, anyway. It was all so unexpected. Elli was on a spiritual quest as long as I knew her. The college year she spent in India she did an extensive comparison of Shankaracharya with Nagarjuna in which the latter came out ahead, but told me later that it's all in John of the Cross. There was the Vietnam War and the smuggling of potential draftees to Canada. There was the Gurjieff commune, her experience of which prompted The Record to assign her to the local followup to the Jonestown massacre. There were the years of Reichian analysis, and perhaps some Jungian work as well, and the New Age books she worked on at Harper and Rowe, her working as a freelance yoga teacher -- my roommate and I were among her (few?) clients. I used to think Elli was PC before there was a name for it. When the late Bill Buckley began to appear on educational TV, he reminded me of her, though of course from the other side of the alleged spectrum. It seemed to me that her model was that Mrs. Roosevelt whom he so publicly hated and despised. If you knew Elli as a political being, you will smile to think that she chose Joan of Arc as her confirmation saint. But Catholic? It is easy to see Elli as part of the Church of Thomas Merton, Dorothy Day, Catherine Doherty, Bede Griffiths. It may be much harder to see that Church behind the Catholic Church of the headlines and the movies. If you are curious, perhaps one of these names will be a clue. As we say on Mulberry Street, Eleanor Jeanne Darc Bird Light Memory Eternal, Eternal Memory
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