Words, words, words

ver·big·er·a·tion (vr-bj-rshn)

n. Obsessive repetition of meaningless words and phrases, especially as a symptom of mental illness.

 

This is the word of the day on my Dictionary.com app. I am not sure whether to be bothered by the fact that it showed up so soon after I posted about where I get my ideas for stories ...

 

I have to admit, however, that my first thought upon seeing it was of political speeches. 

 

The title of this post is from a song in My Fair Lady, "Show Me" -- 

Words, words, words!
I'm so sick of words.
I get words all day through
First from him, now from you
Is that all you blighters can do?

Don't talk of stars, burning above
If you're in love, show me!
Tell me no dreams, filled with desire
If you're on fire, show me!

Here we are together in the middle of the night
Don't talk of spring, just hold me tight.
Anyone who's ever been in love will tell you that
This is no time for a chat.

Haven't your lips longed for my touch?
Don't say how much, show me, show me.
Don't talk of love lasting through time,
Make me no undying vow;
Show me now!

Sing me no song, read me no rhyme,
Don't waste my time, show me!
Don't talk of June, don't talk of fall,
Don't talk at all!
Show me!

Never do I ever want to hear another word.
There isn't one, I haven't heard.
Here we are together in what ought to be a dream.
Say one more word and I'll scream.

Haven't your arms, hungered for mine?
Please don't "expline", show me, show me!
Don't wait until wrinkles and lines
Pop out all over my brow, show me now!

Our Lady of Guadalupe

The first time I heard anything about Our Lady of Guadalupe was in a Dennis the Menace comic book in the winter of 1960. I was ten years old. I recall nothing else about that comic, but one thing that Dennis did was visit the basilica of Our Lady of Guadalupe at Tepeyac where he heard the story of Juan Diego's encounter with the beautiful lady who was morena -- dark -- like him and his people, but who sent him on a mission to the Spanish bishop to ask for a church to be built in her honor as the Mother of the Lord of the World. According to the story, after Juan Diego's initial efforts to convince the bishop failed, the lady reappeared and told him to gather the roses that were in bloom where she stood and to take them to the bishop as a sign. When Juan Diego opened his tilma -- mantle -- which he had filled with roses, the flowers fell to the floor revealing imprinted on the tilma an image of Mary that millions come to venerate at the basilica near Mexico City to this day. Such is the story.

 

I studied in Mexico City for three summers in the mid-1970s, and I visited the basilica -- the present one, dating from 1976, as well as the one that preceded it -- at least once each summer. The first time I went in 1974, before I even made it through the large open doors, I caught sight of the image high over the main altar and began to cry. Not sobbing, just tears flowing down my cheeks. It was very moving, which surprised me because the atmosphere I had walked through outside the church was culturally foreign to me: people crawling on their knees across the stone courtyard, people hawking pictures and statues and all sorts of religious kitsch. It was not at all what my Northern European religious sensitivities found inspiring or even appropriate. But every time I visited that summer, I shed tears when I caught sight of the tilma.

Tonight I am making Mexican food and Rich and Peggy will join us for dinner. This is my way of honoring the Virgin of Guadalupe and remembering that strange story of the poor Juan Diego and his encounter on the hill of Tepeyac in 1531. Do I believe it? I don't know how to answer that. All I know is that I cried.

Where do you get your ideas?

Dame Agatha Christie said that one of the questions she was frequently asked and hated was, "Where do you get your ideas?"

No one ever asks me that. Or at least, not the way people asked Dame Agatha. If anyone does ask me it is more likely going to be because they wonder or worry about my sanity.

Of course, the John of the Cross mystery idea came to me because I studied and taught about him and his life for over a quarter of a century. The central story about the disturbed novice master in the novel was based on historical testimony, and many of the names and other incidents mentioned in the mystery were historically accurate. Not the murders, of course.

The Elijah book and the Gratian book also came from my years with the Carmelites and my study of those two figures. But those two books pass as nonfiction, and it is always easier (I think) to come up with ideas for nonfiction.

As for the WhoVille novel and stories, however, I do not know what to say. 

They are rooted to some degree in my years in Hyde Park working on campus at the University of Chicago and later at the downtown campus of Loyola University. But only in the most tangential way. Certainly Philip Peabody Horton University and its misfits have no connection with those two august institutions of higher learning. Fictional Barona [Verona] is somewhat connected to Hyde Park, but it is equally connected with every small college town in America.

The stories just popped into my head from somewhere. As for the Honorian patriarch story, again, who knows? I tied it to WhoVille for the sake of the books, to be honest. Clearly it has a Chicago setting, and the fictional Honorian community is based on an actual heresy in the first Christian millennium. But the silly plot itself is just a product of misfiring neurons in my brain.

Thanks for not asking!

Sweet dreams

I had thought about posting something about my writing today, but I will let that wait until later -- maybe today, maybe tomorrow, maybe ... 

My friend Debbie Kinder sent me this poem from today's Writer's Almanac, and I thought I would share it with you instead.

Bad News About My Vocation
by Ron Koertge

I remember how the upper crust in my hometown
pronounced it -- care-a-mel. Which is correct, I guess,
but to everybody else it was carmel.
Which led to the misconception about the order
of Carmelites.
I imagined they served God by heating sugar
to about 170 C, then adding milk and butter
and vanilla essence while they listened
to the radio.
I thought I could do that. I could wear the white
shirt and pants. I knew I couldn’t be good
but I might be a good candy maker.
So imagine my chagrin when I learned about
the vows of poverty and toil enjoined
by these particular friars.
I also crossed off my list the Marshmellowites
and the Applepieites, two other orders I
was thinking of joining.

 When I joined the Carmelites, Dan Slater -- husband of the woman who owned the bookstore where I worked when in high school and college -- told me he had heard of a rival outfit -- the Chocolites.

Although the Carmelite friars did not make candy, some communities of nuns and monks do so as a way to earn a living. The Brigittine monks of Amity, Oregon are such a group. The Brigittines -- monks and nuns -- were founded in 1344 by St. Birgitta (Bridget) of Sweden. Today the community in Oregon, founded in 1976, is the only house of the monks left in the world. At one time,  as I recall, they were in contact with the Discalced Carmelites about finding a place to make a foundation in the States. In case you want to try their confections, click here.