Packing List

Before I leave for choir tomorrow, I have to remember to pack up my things. Halloween in Liberalville USA gets a little crazy, you know? I mean, there are plenty of zombies *anyway*, but they show up in great hordes especially on Halloween. So peace-loving (nervous grin here) citizens like myself who wish to remember the lives and deaths of saintly beings have to be prepared.
Anyway, here's my packing list. If anyone else wants to use it, feel free. I think we could all use these.



The M-16A4 is a very good option for when Zombies come out.



Good for female vampires. If someone looks a bit suspicious, offer them a mirror to fix their lipstick with. Observe reaction.



Another goodie. Of course, it not only scares away vampires, it'll also scare away your closest friends, depending on how much you've eaten.



The Wooden Stake, a staple of mine (not to be ironic). With modern medicine, sometimes it's best to ask questions later--if it's a vampire, the staked should be gone. If it's a person, I dunno...do open-heart surgery or something.



Great for the local werewolves. You can also load these particular silver bullets into the M-16, but that'll make your zombie-smashing a bit pricier. I'd save the silver bullets for the werewolves and give the zombies standard issue, if I were you.



Another favorite of mine. Magically repels vampires, zombies, werewolves, reanimated corpses and liturgical dancers.



Won't kill any of the baddies, but they'll scream like heck. I recommend for special use on politicians.



An absolute necessity if you're expecting vampires and werewolves. Also works for the occasional politician-zombie that occasionally lumbers onto the scene.

My Halloween Costume

Scaredja, didn't it?

Celestine's Winning Story

Celestine entered the local newspaper's annual Halloween Story Contest, and she won in her category (Grades 9 through 12). It was published in this morning's paper, but you can read it here for free.

“Flowers for Amelia”

The delivery man glanced at the pile of mail. He approached the door, but before he could knock it was opened hurriedly by a tall blonde woman wearing a string of pearls and wringing her hands.

“Jacob!” she cried, stepping out onto the patio, “Do you have anything for me?”

He sighed. The socialite was Lydia Cunningham, a former high school beauty queen who had married high up in the food chain and now lived in a house about seven times too big for herself and her oft-absent husband.

He shook his head, “A few catalogs and a bill, ma’am.”

She visibly deflated, and said in a smaller voice, “Oh, well then. Thank you.” With an emphatic thunk she threw the mail to the floor and gave it a stomp with her pink-heeled foot before marching off to the kitchen.

For the past six months her best friend, Amelia Leonard, had been giving her the proverbial cold shoulder. No mail at all—not even an invitation to a party. Neither of them used email, since they were women of luxury—they preferred to indulge in the almost antiquated snail-mail system that spanned Lydia’s gated community and Amelia’s suburb.

They had been best friends since eighth grade, when Amelia helped Lydia study for her science final exam. Amelia stayed up until five in the morning, trying to help Lydia, then turned up at class the next morning, paralyzed from exhaustion, and failed the test —a calamity that might have been avoided had she slept. For that Lydia felt a twinge of guilt, but ever since then, they had been best friends. Throughout their high school and college years, whenever one of them went shopping or to a movie, the other went along. Nigh inseparable, it had lasted them these twenty-four years. Until six months ago.

Lydia felt depressed. She glanced morbidly at her selection of fine wines, and then decided against it. They were too expensive to waste on drowning one’s sorrows. I wonder what I did? She thought to herself.

As she thought, however, it occurred to her that she wasn’t the one to be blamed for their lack of communication—Amelia was. It was her fault, not Lydia’s. Why should I feel sorry? She mumbled, irritated, “I wasn’t the one who started ignoring my best friend.”

But the next morning, after a night of a splendid cocktail party and the opera (Lucia di Lammermoor), Lydia woke up feeling acutely lonely. Her face brightened, though there was no one to see it. “I know!” she exclaimed as she leapt out of bed. She grabbed her phone and dialed the flower shop eagerly. Amelia always did love flowers!

Jon Carter looked over his deliveries. He picked up the next one on his list, and read it aloud, “Amelia Leonard, 3222 Pickford Drive.” He frowned. He wasn’t familiar with that road. He drove a bit more slowly than usual, and at last came to a large gate, which automatically opened as he neared. There sat a sign—Magdalene Cemetery.

His blood ran cold.

He recounted his words with Lydia Cunningham: “Say hello to Amelia for me!”

He shuddered, and walked around. The cemetery was scenic in its own right, with many hills and all the headstones very orderly. His eyes wandered to a headstone at the foot of an oak tree, and he jumped back slightly. It read,

AMELIA LEONARD
JULY 3 1970-DECEMBER 21 2008

He numbly fingered the notecard that came with the flowers:
Hi Amelia! I’m sorry for the trouble I’ve caused. I want to make amends. Call me! :)

In Honor of Certain Writers...

The girl staggered. Her throat was dry and constricted, as if icy talons were clutching at her and trying to strangle the life out of her. There was a faint shriek.
The poor girl had never faced horror like this. She wished, desperately, that she could faint clean away, and so would not have to continue on in this manner.
The sight of such bad writing made her eyes burn with pain, and terror seized her. She could barely move her legs to run, and her eyes grew wider still as she read on in spite of herself.
She began to cry, and her tears were blood red. Was it actually blood, or was it a mere phantom of the horrors she was witnessing?
At last, her heart pounding in her chest, she threw the newspaper down and began convulsing violently. The poor, dry prose; the overblown and formulaic gore had done her in. Yes, it was true--Miss Celestine had been killed by bad writing.

Then, of course, the paramedics arrived, and after a nice high voltage circulated through her chest and restored the thumpity-thump to the thumper, she stood back up and began writing this post.

There is an affliction in the world of writing; an affliction which can be summed up as "crap". This is most commonly found, it appears, in thrillers or horror novels or romance novels. In other words, in 99% of novels.
I call this "Dan Brown syndrome". It is a syndrome which says that if you overlay visceral descriptions over and over (in horror novels, this involves blood, gore and fear in ridiculous quantities. You know, the kind where you actually wish that the person that's scared would just die so that we don't have to listen to the descriptions any more) you'll have a novel. There's nothing wrong with formulas per se, but they are so frequently abused that sometimes you get:

The Da Vinci Code, opening sentence: Renowned curator Jacques Saunière staggered through the vaulted archway of the museum's Grand Gallery.

Angels and Demons, opening sentence: Physicist Leonardo Vetra smelled burning flesh, and he knew it was his own.

Deception Point, opening sentences: Death, in this forsaken place, could come in countless forms. Geologist Charles Brophy had endured the savage splendor of this terrain for years, and yet nothing could prepare him for a fate as barbarous and unnatural as the one about to befall him.

...
yes. My point. It is there.
It makes me long for the days of:

In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit.

Is there a patron saint of writing? Chesterton, perhaps.

P.S If I ever write a novel and it sounds remotely like you-know-who, PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF HUMANITY grab a shovel and hit me over the head with it.

Solemnity of All Saints - November 1, 2009

Processional: For All the Saints (BB 736)
Offertory: How Firm a Foundation (BB 734)
Communion: Notas mihi, Listen Here; then Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring (BB 532)
Recessional: Ye Watchers and Ye Holy Ones (BB 733)

How about chanting the Dies Irae as a prelude?

Prayer Request UPDATE

'Ello, peoples. I suppose I should update you all on my first test that may or may not decide my fate.

I think I did very well on part of it, and blew the other part. I'm hoping, though, that I aced it more than I blew it, though, so that it'll balance out.

I still have one more test of a decidedly different nature and an interview coming up. Prayers for those are appreciated as well.

On a completely different (not really) note, I've been having technical issues with an online application. I've tried to find technical help, but the website does not give a phone number. So I've been searching in vain for techies to help me out, since my own inclination is to stare things into submission (which usually doesn't work with electronics. Works with people, though). And I have yet to find one.

So, if my good choirpeoples could please pray for that as well, I would most appreciate it.

Believe me. Someday, all this will make sense. Really, it will.

...or maybe not.

In the meanwhile, enjoy this picture. I saw one of these today. It gave me warm fuzzy feelings inside.



Funny story: Four cadets were operating this beautiful creation of man (also known as the Humvee Avenger, an Air Defense Artillery vehicle that has been known to scare terrorists out of their jihadi socks). Two were standing by the front, one was in the driver's seat and one was in the turret. The turret can also be controlled by a control-panel usually located inside the vehicle, but in this case it had been brought out so that the two standing beside the Avenger could control it to show people things. One cadet gave a grin and pressed the toggle-switch to the side, spinning the turret around--with his buddy still sitting inside. After about six full rotations, he stopped.
I can't imagine his turret-sitting comrade was very happy about that.

New music list for Saturday, October 24, 2009

We're having a visiting priest, Fr. Leonard Cencula, this weekend, and here's what he's expecting:

#221 Holy, Holy, Holy
#624 For The Beauty Of The Earth
Communion antiphon
#553 Praise The Lord, Ye Heavens

It's also Parents' Weekend at OU.

Prayer Requests

As some of you may be aware, I'm rapidly approaching Hell Week. Hell Week is thus named because within this particular week I have much studying, two meetings to attend, two major tests to take and an interview during which I must impress the interviewer. Not to mention, of course, the fact that these two tests and interview will almost certainly dictate the next 4 years of my life.

So. That being said...

Pray. For me, that is. Please. I need it terribly. I have to pass muster, or else my plans are back to squat. If I don't, then I'll probably have a heart attack. So either way I really need your prayers. Anything helps. A "Please, God, help this girl get what she needs so she'll shut up" is actually far more helpful than you'd realize.

I should find out results from all this crap I'm going through around the end of December. So until then, I'm going to be a bundle of nerves.

Secretive? Me? No, not at all.

But once again, I entreat, I beg you all--pray for me.

A Tale of Homecoming

Last weekend was homecoming weekend. And, of course, there was the parade with all the (literal) fanfare.

It was quite cold; in fact, my fingers were so cold that I could not unbutton the pockets of my jacket without staring straight at them and trying to coordinate fingers which I could not feel. I was, however, otherwise quite warm--with the exception of my nose--due to a long-sleeved shirt, a short-sleeved shirt and a used BDU jacket, complete with camouflage.

This particular jacket, possibly due to its origins, is not the kind of thing that makes you toasty-warm, but wind, however piercing, does not cut through it and it is practically indestructible. Thus, with a good layer underneath, it is remarkably good for cold weather.

My thoughts, you see, were wholly practical. While I know that in some places (this town not really being one of them, though they have *other* objections to this pattern) camouflage is thought of as being gang-related, I hardly look much like a gangster, especially with my then-freezing-white fingers and young siblings picking up candy. All the same, a strange thing occurred.

I was avoided.

It was painfully obvious, considering these people were offering pamphlets and brochures to anyone with hands, and while being very in-your-face with everyone else, made sure to avoid me as if I had a circle of protection with a three-foot radius around me. I would lie if I said I was not pleased in a way--whenever people hand out brochures and such, I never have anywhere to put them, and usually they are of a matter that is of importance only to about five or six people in the entire city.

All the same, I thought it very queer. (not like that, you genius you) After all, heaven knows that at the Fourth of July parades, in spite of the fact that I'm carrying a hat, a bag and occasionally my sibling's jacket, I am bombarded with advertisements and information packets about Issue No. 32004958305032902359035.

Kids have it off better. We old folk get paper, while *they* get candy!

Regardless, I pondered it a great deal.

Given that we live in Liberalville USA, Land of the Free Because Someone Else Died For It, I wondered if maybe--just maybe--the former history of my jacket bothered them.

Note to Self:

This

is afraid of

This.

30th Sunday in Ordinary Time - October 25, 2009

Prelude: Something Bach-ish
Processional - Now Thank We All Our God
Offertory - maybe Come, My Way, My Truth, My Life (choir only)
Communion - Laetabimur (I've never seen a ledger line on a chant before!) (Listen Here), Adoro te Devote
Recessional - O God, Our Help in Ages Past
Postlude: Prelude in C Major, BWV 547 (J.S. Bach)

29th Sunday in Ordinary Time - October 18, 2009

Processional: Praise, My Soul, The King of Heaven (BB 563)
Offertory: Abide With Me (BB 642)
Communion: antiphon - Domine Dominus, Panis Angelicus
Recessional: I Sing the Might Power of God (BB 416)

We've not done "Abide With Me" before. I've not heard it done before this quarter, so it was totally off my radar. However, it's one of the hymns we've used in my Choral Conducting class, and I was surprised to see it in our book. If we can manage it in SAT(B), that'll be awesome.

Recordings from 10/9/09 Practice

Check out the progress since last week.

Jesu, Rex Admirabilis

Oculus Non Vidit

Beauty of Antiquity pt 3

Greek temples. Somewhat obviously.

SNL highlights Obama's Accomplishments

Just kidding!!

Catholic Caveman has the post.

28th Sunday in Ordinary Time - October 11, 2009

Processional: Praise the Lord, Ye Heavens, Adore Him (BB 553)
Offertory: Jesu, Rex Admirabilis
Communion: antiphon - Aufer a Me, Oculus Non Vidit
Recessional: The King of Kings, Christ Jesus Reigns (BB 745)

Vinegar at the Crucifixion

Please get on over to The Anchoress and read this post. Good Stuff!

Bishop Vasa Convicts Me AGAIN!

Purity of intention, key to spiritual life, takes practice | Catholic Sentinel

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Recordings from 10/1/09 Practice

The only one of these being done this Saturday night is the Communion Antiphon.

Both Jesu! Rex Admirabilis and Oculus non vidit will be done next weekend, so we'll have another week to practice them.

What would YOU do?

If there was, hypothetically speaking, an insanely beautiful NEW 2008 (been setting in a showroom since then) Ford Mustang Shelby GT (NOT a Cobra) with 95 miles, that was originally $40K+, and had been marked down to $28K to get rid of it....would you be tempted? Leave purely hypothetical advice in the com box.

27th Sunday in Ordinary Time - October 4, 2009

Processional: Joyful, Joyful, We Adore Thee (BB 555)
Offertory: All People that On Earth Do Dwell (BB 313)
Communion: antiphon (In Salutari), then some Couperin- "Elevation" on the organ
Recessional: I Sing the Mighty Power of God (BB 416)