In your charity, gentle reader, please offer a prayer for the soul of my grandmother, Mrs. Kathleen (Mai) Brady, 19.v.1911—7.xii.1999.
She died ten years ago today.
Showing posts with label personal. Show all posts
Showing posts with label personal. Show all posts
Monday, December 07, 2009
Thursday, April 02, 2009
Where we're at
The past month’s inactivity on Infelix Ego may have given the impression that Melancholicus has given up blogging for Lent.
He hasn’t.
He has been tremendously busy with work, with wedding preparations, with planning his move to the United States and, most recently, with a family crisis for which he earnestly solicits the prayers of his benevolent readers. March has not been an easy month, and April looks to be no kinder.
Please, gentle reader, pray for someone close to me who is being harrassed by her employer. She is really suffering, has lost a lot of weight, has lost her appetite, is unable to sleep properly and is developing health problems as a result. In your charity pray for the persecutor too. It is easy to pray for one’s enemies when one doesn’t really have any, but when such are obnoxiously in one’s face, shoving their inimicitas down one’s very throat, it is difficult indeed to maintain a spirit of Christian charity.
As for the blog... dear blog, I shall update thee before long! But not before next week, for this evening I drive down to county Waterford for a two-day Lenten retreat in a Cistercian monastery, which I was nearly going to cancel on account of what’s going on in my life, but my friend—who is a good deal more than merely my friend—has insisted that I go and use that precious recollected time to pray to God for her. Please join with me in prayer for her intentions.
Yours with grateful thanks,
Infelix ego, Melancholicus, peccator.
He hasn’t.
He has been tremendously busy with work, with wedding preparations, with planning his move to the United States and, most recently, with a family crisis for which he earnestly solicits the prayers of his benevolent readers. March has not been an easy month, and April looks to be no kinder.
Please, gentle reader, pray for someone close to me who is being harrassed by her employer. She is really suffering, has lost a lot of weight, has lost her appetite, is unable to sleep properly and is developing health problems as a result. In your charity pray for the persecutor too. It is easy to pray for one’s enemies when one doesn’t really have any, but when such are obnoxiously in one’s face, shoving their inimicitas down one’s very throat, it is difficult indeed to maintain a spirit of Christian charity.
As for the blog... dear blog, I shall update thee before long! But not before next week, for this evening I drive down to county Waterford for a two-day Lenten retreat in a Cistercian monastery, which I was nearly going to cancel on account of what’s going on in my life, but my friend—who is a good deal more than merely my friend—has insisted that I go and use that precious recollected time to pray to God for her. Please join with me in prayer for her intentions.
Yours with grateful thanks,
Infelix ego, Melancholicus, peccator.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
And now for some music
“French might be the language of love, but German is the language of anger”—Oliver Riedel
Time for a music video.
Today Melancholicus is angry, hence the music will be in German.
Introducing Rammstein:
Time for a music video.
Today Melancholicus is angry, hence the music will be in German.
Introducing Rammstein:
Thursday, January 01, 2009
Anno Domini MMIX
It is likely that blogging will be light in January, for on Saturday Melancholicus will remove himself to the left coast of the USA, there to visit his sweetheart whom he has not seen in the flesh for many months.
He shall do his best to get near a computer some time over the next three weeks so as to keep his regular readers—all eight of you!—informed of developments in the God-forsaken half-catholic wasteland that is the archdiocese of Seattle, or indeed anywhere else on earth that might claim his passing interest.
Melancholicus was once a seminarist, and 2009 was to be the year of his ordination. Almighty God hath disposed otherwise, however, and so the state of life to be embraced this year will not be holy orders at all but holy matrimony.
We would both be grateful, gentle reader, for your prayers.
Infelix ego, Melancholicus, peccator
He shall do his best to get near a computer some time over the next three weeks so as to keep his regular readers—all eight of you!—informed of developments in the God-forsaken half-catholic wasteland that is the archdiocese of Seattle, or indeed anywhere else on earth that might claim his passing interest.
Melancholicus was once a seminarist, and 2009 was to be the year of his ordination. Almighty God hath disposed otherwise, however, and so the state of life to be embraced this year will not be holy orders at all but holy matrimony.
We would both be grateful, gentle reader, for your prayers.
Infelix ego, Melancholicus, peccator
Tuesday, December 02, 2008
Ubi es, Domine?
Melancholicus is feeling rather well this Tuesday morning of the first week of Advent, notwithstanding his ugly encounter yesterday with the conciliar church openly playing with its own faeces even within sight of members of the public.
And no, he did not make it to Harrington Street today either, but this was due to reasons of charity rather than sloth, as he had arranged to give someone a lift to work this morning at the same time as Mass was beginning in St. Kevin’s.
He has since been reflecting on the frustratingly quixotic nature of the conciliar church. Sometimes it looks so much like the Catholic Church as to deceive (if it were possible) even the elect. At other times this synagogue of Satan flaunts its true colours in the faces of its few remaining faithful without the slightest shame.
Small wonder Catholics are confused, and why so many have long since ceased to have any contact with the Church or with churchmen. Apart from the occasional spirited defence of Catholic social or moral teaching which catches us all off guard, the public pronouncements of our hierarchs are mostly insubstantial and thoroughly secular ramblings about world peace, immigration, employment, welfare, equality and suchlike, and harmonize startlingly well with the views of the Labour party on the same subjects. And the state of the liturgy is absolutely atrocious.
When was the last time, gentle reader, you heard an Irish bishop (or indeed any bishop) talk about God, or the eternal destiny of the human soul? When was the last time you heard such a bishop talk about sin, and the need for repentance and conversion (in the Catholic sense, that is), never mind the need for the sacrament of penance? When was the last time you heard a bishop discourse on the joys of heaven or the pains of hell, or on the awesome beauty of the holy sacrifice of the Mass? Well, you won’t have heard a bishop discourse on this last unless he is given, unusually, to celebration of the immemorial rite for (let’s face it), the novus ordo just doesn’t have any beauty, awesome or otherwise, on which a bishop could discourse.
Can you think of any bishop who has publicly discoursed on these things? Please take as long as you need. And Archbishop Lefebvre doesn’t count.
What does it mean to be a member of the Catholic Church? Theologically, it means one is incorporated into the mystical body of the Lord. But in practical terms, how is this incorporation realized? Does my salvation depend on my being in communion with Father Jesuit, with Bishop Arthur Roche, and with Judas Priest? How about my local ordinary, “Dermot our archbishop” (as the text of the vernacular liturgy has it)? Since his installation in 2003 what, precisely, has he done to help the Church in this rapidly sinking diocese, where the continuing decline in the number of priests and the similar decline in the number of the church-going faithful are vying to outstrip one another? Does the salvation of my soul depend on my preserving communio in sacris with such a negligent, double-tongued, equivocating, politicised careerist as this? Sure, he has done good things, such as the erection (in response to Summorum Pontificum) of the so-called Latin Mass Chaplaincy, where traditional Catholics have at least some semblance of parish life, but even this grand gesture is not untainted with the self-interest of the conciliar church since it effectively corrals the Tradition onto the ecclesiastical equivalent of an Indian reservation.
It is a matter of faith that the Church is a visible and hierarchical society. Catholics must believe this. It is also a matter of faith that the Church is a perfect society, and is sinless, without spot or wrinkle, the immaculate bride of the Lamb. This last stands to reason, since the Church is the mystical body of the Lord Jesus, and how could there be any trace of imperfection—never mind sin—in the Lord Jesus? I understand full well the distinction between the sinlessness of the Church and the sins of churchmen. But the sheer scale of the negligence and turpitude among churchmen of the present time, not to mention the fanaticism wherewith they have pursued a gospel other than that which they had received, has the effect (at least to me) of clouding the visible nature of Holy Church, at least from time to time, as though I were trying desperately to glimpse the face of the Lord Jesus under ruffled water. Frighteningly, when the water calms enough for me to see through it, it is often not the face of Jesus that I glimpse, but something quite other, ugly and horrifying. Some might say this is the disfigured, bruised and bloodstained face of the Lord crowned with thorns and crucified, and that is the reason for my horror. I say no; the crucified does not leer with the malevolence I see on this face.
And so I ask: Ubi es, Domine? Where art thou, O Lord? I feel like a man stumbling along an uneven road, soaked through with the heavy rain that has reduced visibility ahead to only the few yards in front of his face. The night is dark and I am far from home. Among the stark limbs of trees denuded by winter frosts on either side of the road I glimpse sinister crozier-wielding impostures, talking out of both sides of their mouths, contradicting themselves and each other, and beckoning me to hear them and to participate in their ghastly idolatry. One does oneself more harm than good by listening to such, and I leave them well alone, and press on through the darkness and the rain.
How does one preserve one’s membership of the Catholic Church in these trying times, when, entering a church or even simply talking to a priest, one is in constant doubt about whether one is about to have an encounter with the Catholic Church or with the synagogue of Satan? Holy Mother Church now shows herself, and now hides, and it is often not easy to find her. Her state—now open, now hidden—has become uncannily similar to that of a possessed girl—the personality of the girl herself is still in there somewhere, but the baleful influence of the demon, with its malice, keeps inexorably coming through.
Do not, gentle reader, misunderstand me. I’m not thinking of going anywhere. I’m simply trying to find the Catholic Church, still buried as she must be under tons of rubble since that devastating earthquake of 1962-65 in which countless parishes, dioceses, religious orders, schools and beautiful churches were wrecked, and in which millions of souls perished. A few years ago, galled beyond endurance by the sheer unreliability of the conciliar church with its relentless perfidy and abuses (and, it must be admitted, in the grip of a rather severe depression), I considered abandoning the Roman communion entirely for that of Anglicanism, and even had a few exploratory meetings with a rector of the Church of Ireland to that effect. But I could not bring myself to doubt (never mind disbelieve) the doctrine of transubstantiation, upon which all my adherence to the Catholic Church turns. It was the Mass and the Eucharist, far more than abstract things like papal primacy and apostolic succession, which kept me within the Church; and as the Mass is so vitally important to my life as a Christian—a Catholic Christian—I cannot bear to see it abused and trampled on with the casual off-handedness I see in so many churches in this diocese and elsewhere.
One last remark before I close this already overlong and personal post. If any bright spark reading this feels driven to leave a comment exhorting me to cleave to the SSPX as though such would solve all my problems, I have just one word of advice: don’t. Save your time, and my own. I am not under any illusions regarding that sect, or regarding those who hold authority within it.
Nor am I at all interested in sedevacantism. I recognize Pope Benedict XVI, and his office. I pray for him daily. It is true that he is, like his immediate predecessors, a conciliar pope, and that he says—and sometimes does—some disappointing things. But he is such an immense improvement over John Paul II that I cannot express how thankful I am for his election.
Herein, incidentally, we find a possible reason why our holy mother the Church sometimes appears possessed by an alien spirit. The conciliar popes have tried—without much success, in my opinion—to be pope of two mutually-antagonistic churches at the same time. Paul VI most fully embodied this unstable and precarious position—it was he, in fact, who acted as midwife at the birth of the conciliar church—but John Paul II likewise tried to be pope of two churches at once, and to serve the cult of God alongside the cult of Man, picking up the cudgels where his predecessor had left them, and with similar contradictory and chaotic results. Thankfully, I believe the tendency of the Vicars of Peter to ape the double-minded attitude of Paul VI is waning. At least let us hope so; a great deal of damage might be done at the next conclave, whereafter we might see all the careful and patient restoration work of Benedict XVI undone in a trice.
But one day at a time; right now I can’t begin to imagine such a scenario. Now it is time for me to go to chapel for my midday prayers.
And no, he did not make it to Harrington Street today either, but this was due to reasons of charity rather than sloth, as he had arranged to give someone a lift to work this morning at the same time as Mass was beginning in St. Kevin’s.
He has since been reflecting on the frustratingly quixotic nature of the conciliar church. Sometimes it looks so much like the Catholic Church as to deceive (if it were possible) even the elect. At other times this synagogue of Satan flaunts its true colours in the faces of its few remaining faithful without the slightest shame.
Small wonder Catholics are confused, and why so many have long since ceased to have any contact with the Church or with churchmen. Apart from the occasional spirited defence of Catholic social or moral teaching which catches us all off guard, the public pronouncements of our hierarchs are mostly insubstantial and thoroughly secular ramblings about world peace, immigration, employment, welfare, equality and suchlike, and harmonize startlingly well with the views of the Labour party on the same subjects. And the state of the liturgy is absolutely atrocious.
When was the last time, gentle reader, you heard an Irish bishop (or indeed any bishop) talk about God, or the eternal destiny of the human soul? When was the last time you heard such a bishop talk about sin, and the need for repentance and conversion (in the Catholic sense, that is), never mind the need for the sacrament of penance? When was the last time you heard a bishop discourse on the joys of heaven or the pains of hell, or on the awesome beauty of the holy sacrifice of the Mass? Well, you won’t have heard a bishop discourse on this last unless he is given, unusually, to celebration of the immemorial rite for (let’s face it), the novus ordo just doesn’t have any beauty, awesome or otherwise, on which a bishop could discourse.
Can you think of any bishop who has publicly discoursed on these things? Please take as long as you need. And Archbishop Lefebvre doesn’t count.
What does it mean to be a member of the Catholic Church? Theologically, it means one is incorporated into the mystical body of the Lord. But in practical terms, how is this incorporation realized? Does my salvation depend on my being in communion with Father Jesuit, with Bishop Arthur Roche, and with Judas Priest? How about my local ordinary, “Dermot our archbishop” (as the text of the vernacular liturgy has it)? Since his installation in 2003 what, precisely, has he done to help the Church in this rapidly sinking diocese, where the continuing decline in the number of priests and the similar decline in the number of the church-going faithful are vying to outstrip one another? Does the salvation of my soul depend on my preserving communio in sacris with such a negligent, double-tongued, equivocating, politicised careerist as this? Sure, he has done good things, such as the erection (in response to Summorum Pontificum) of the so-called Latin Mass Chaplaincy, where traditional Catholics have at least some semblance of parish life, but even this grand gesture is not untainted with the self-interest of the conciliar church since it effectively corrals the Tradition onto the ecclesiastical equivalent of an Indian reservation.
It is a matter of faith that the Church is a visible and hierarchical society. Catholics must believe this. It is also a matter of faith that the Church is a perfect society, and is sinless, without spot or wrinkle, the immaculate bride of the Lamb. This last stands to reason, since the Church is the mystical body of the Lord Jesus, and how could there be any trace of imperfection—never mind sin—in the Lord Jesus? I understand full well the distinction between the sinlessness of the Church and the sins of churchmen. But the sheer scale of the negligence and turpitude among churchmen of the present time, not to mention the fanaticism wherewith they have pursued a gospel other than that which they had received, has the effect (at least to me) of clouding the visible nature of Holy Church, at least from time to time, as though I were trying desperately to glimpse the face of the Lord Jesus under ruffled water. Frighteningly, when the water calms enough for me to see through it, it is often not the face of Jesus that I glimpse, but something quite other, ugly and horrifying. Some might say this is the disfigured, bruised and bloodstained face of the Lord crowned with thorns and crucified, and that is the reason for my horror. I say no; the crucified does not leer with the malevolence I see on this face.
And so I ask: Ubi es, Domine? Where art thou, O Lord? I feel like a man stumbling along an uneven road, soaked through with the heavy rain that has reduced visibility ahead to only the few yards in front of his face. The night is dark and I am far from home. Among the stark limbs of trees denuded by winter frosts on either side of the road I glimpse sinister crozier-wielding impostures, talking out of both sides of their mouths, contradicting themselves and each other, and beckoning me to hear them and to participate in their ghastly idolatry. One does oneself more harm than good by listening to such, and I leave them well alone, and press on through the darkness and the rain.
How does one preserve one’s membership of the Catholic Church in these trying times, when, entering a church or even simply talking to a priest, one is in constant doubt about whether one is about to have an encounter with the Catholic Church or with the synagogue of Satan? Holy Mother Church now shows herself, and now hides, and it is often not easy to find her. Her state—now open, now hidden—has become uncannily similar to that of a possessed girl—the personality of the girl herself is still in there somewhere, but the baleful influence of the demon, with its malice, keeps inexorably coming through.
Do not, gentle reader, misunderstand me. I’m not thinking of going anywhere. I’m simply trying to find the Catholic Church, still buried as she must be under tons of rubble since that devastating earthquake of 1962-65 in which countless parishes, dioceses, religious orders, schools and beautiful churches were wrecked, and in which millions of souls perished. A few years ago, galled beyond endurance by the sheer unreliability of the conciliar church with its relentless perfidy and abuses (and, it must be admitted, in the grip of a rather severe depression), I considered abandoning the Roman communion entirely for that of Anglicanism, and even had a few exploratory meetings with a rector of the Church of Ireland to that effect. But I could not bring myself to doubt (never mind disbelieve) the doctrine of transubstantiation, upon which all my adherence to the Catholic Church turns. It was the Mass and the Eucharist, far more than abstract things like papal primacy and apostolic succession, which kept me within the Church; and as the Mass is so vitally important to my life as a Christian—a Catholic Christian—I cannot bear to see it abused and trampled on with the casual off-handedness I see in so many churches in this diocese and elsewhere.
One last remark before I close this already overlong and personal post. If any bright spark reading this feels driven to leave a comment exhorting me to cleave to the SSPX as though such would solve all my problems, I have just one word of advice: don’t. Save your time, and my own. I am not under any illusions regarding that sect, or regarding those who hold authority within it.
Nor am I at all interested in sedevacantism. I recognize Pope Benedict XVI, and his office. I pray for him daily. It is true that he is, like his immediate predecessors, a conciliar pope, and that he says—and sometimes does—some disappointing things. But he is such an immense improvement over John Paul II that I cannot express how thankful I am for his election.
Herein, incidentally, we find a possible reason why our holy mother the Church sometimes appears possessed by an alien spirit. The conciliar popes have tried—without much success, in my opinion—to be pope of two mutually-antagonistic churches at the same time. Paul VI most fully embodied this unstable and precarious position—it was he, in fact, who acted as midwife at the birth of the conciliar church—but John Paul II likewise tried to be pope of two churches at once, and to serve the cult of God alongside the cult of Man, picking up the cudgels where his predecessor had left them, and with similar contradictory and chaotic results. Thankfully, I believe the tendency of the Vicars of Peter to ape the double-minded attitude of Paul VI is waning. At least let us hope so; a great deal of damage might be done at the next conclave, whereafter we might see all the careful and patient restoration work of Benedict XVI undone in a trice.
But one day at a time; right now I can’t begin to imagine such a scenario. Now it is time for me to go to chapel for my midday prayers.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Remembrance
The eleventh hour of this eleventh day of the eleventh month saw the 90th anniversary of the armistice that ended the Great War pass by.
For (now somewhat irrelevant) historical reasons, it is not usual in Ireland to commemorate the Great War or to remember the fallen, even though around 140,000 Irishmen enlisted for service in the British armed forces between 1914 and 1918, at least 35,000 of whom lost their lives.
There is still no shortage of angry republicans who bitterly oppose the notion of honouring the dead of the World Wars in this country lest honour be inadvertently given to things or persons British—witness some of the savage and small-souled responses to this perfectly reasonable suggestion; alas that we must still deal with that mentality, the same irrational loathing of Britain which made Ireland a haven for fleeing axis henchmen in the aftermath of World War II and led then Taoiseach Éamonn De Valera to sign a book of condolences for the death of Adolf Hitler.
But I am not of that ilk, for every day this week I am proudly wearing a poppy in the breast pocket of my jacket.
Today I remember one young man in particular, for he was of my mother’s family, and is to my knowledge our only relation who was slain in the carnage of a World War.
My maternal grandmother’s maiden name was Roche. She came from Wexford town in the south-east of Ireland and was born in December 1910. I never knew her, for she died in 1970, before I was born. In 1995 I was clearing out the basement of my parents’ family home in Greystones and in the process discovered several interesting artefacts, one of which was a prayer book once owned by my grandmother and which, after the custom of her time, was bursting at the seams with holy cards and prayer cards commemorating deceased friends and members of the family. Among these commemorations was a card for a Private William Roche, of the 2nd battalion of the Royal Irish Regiment. He was killed in action in France on 24 May 1915. Pt. Roche was 26 years old when he fell. I succeeded in tracking him down on the website of the Commonwealth War Graves Commission (certificate here), and I will not have his memory dishonoured by uncivilised, foul-mouthed, far-left, Republican Sinn Féin types. His name is on the Menin Gate memorial at Ypres; sadly, there is no cemetery information provided, hence I conclude the location of his grave must be unknown. He is probably buried under one of the many headstones inscribed with the tragic legend “A Soldier of the Great War / Known Unto God”.
May his soul, and the souls of all who fell in the carnage of two World Wars, find rest, consolation and peace at the right hand of almighty God.
For (now somewhat irrelevant) historical reasons, it is not usual in Ireland to commemorate the Great War or to remember the fallen, even though around 140,000 Irishmen enlisted for service in the British armed forces between 1914 and 1918, at least 35,000 of whom lost their lives.
There is still no shortage of angry republicans who bitterly oppose the notion of honouring the dead of the World Wars in this country lest honour be inadvertently given to things or persons British—witness some of the savage and small-souled responses to this perfectly reasonable suggestion; alas that we must still deal with that mentality, the same irrational loathing of Britain which made Ireland a haven for fleeing axis henchmen in the aftermath of World War II and led then Taoiseach Éamonn De Valera to sign a book of condolences for the death of Adolf Hitler.
But I am not of that ilk, for every day this week I am proudly wearing a poppy in the breast pocket of my jacket.
Today I remember one young man in particular, for he was of my mother’s family, and is to my knowledge our only relation who was slain in the carnage of a World War.
My maternal grandmother’s maiden name was Roche. She came from Wexford town in the south-east of Ireland and was born in December 1910. I never knew her, for she died in 1970, before I was born. In 1995 I was clearing out the basement of my parents’ family home in Greystones and in the process discovered several interesting artefacts, one of which was a prayer book once owned by my grandmother and which, after the custom of her time, was bursting at the seams with holy cards and prayer cards commemorating deceased friends and members of the family. Among these commemorations was a card for a Private William Roche, of the 2nd battalion of the Royal Irish Regiment. He was killed in action in France on 24 May 1915. Pt. Roche was 26 years old when he fell. I succeeded in tracking him down on the website of the Commonwealth War Graves Commission (certificate here), and I will not have his memory dishonoured by uncivilised, foul-mouthed, far-left, Republican Sinn Féin types. His name is on the Menin Gate memorial at Ypres; sadly, there is no cemetery information provided, hence I conclude the location of his grave must be unknown. He is probably buried under one of the many headstones inscribed with the tragic legend “A Soldier of the Great War / Known Unto God”.
May his soul, and the souls of all who fell in the carnage of two World Wars, find rest, consolation and peace at the right hand of almighty God.
Tuesday, October 07, 2008
A personal message
... to the love of my life, in celebration of this day, the anniversary of our first finding one another.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Fear
Melancholicus is afraid.
And to tell the truth, he is more than a little depressed.
These are most uncertain times. It appears that the world is headed for a hyper-inflationary depression, which is bad news for everybody but particularly bad news for the economy of the United States of America.
There have been warnings and alarums aplenty since the current misery began in the wake of the subprime lending crisis. That such is more than merely gloomy forecasting may be seen from the recent and oftentimes high-profile collapse of many companies in divers places; the Canadian airline Zoom on 28 August, the British holiday company XL on 12 September, and recently in Ireland Fáilte Travel ceased trading on 11 July while Mayo-based tour company Great Escapes closed on 26 August. At the time of writing, Alitalia is at death’s door in a commercial crisis severe enough to warrant the prayers even of our Holy Father the Pope for the airline’s survival.
Over dinner on Saturday evening last, Melancholicus’ mother expressed grave concern for the stability of both Allied Irish Banks and Bank of Ireland, the two largest banks on this island. Together with his brother and with and his sister (who is a certified accountant), he attempted to explain that nothing beyond a catastrophic event could possibly bring down either institution. But yesterday Melancholicus awoke to the news that Lehman Bros. Investment Bank had filed for bankruptcy protection in the largest such suit in US history, and he has since heard that both of the Irish banks about which he was reassuring his mother on Saturday can be expected to write off hundreds of millions of euro in bad debts over the next two years.
Which is unlikely to put them out of business altogether, but nevertheless.
Now, AIG has not been able to convince credit agencies of its solvency, so there may be further calamities just around the corner unless the US government should intervene.
Apparently, there will be no further growth in the US economy until at least 2010 (if even then). These economic woes would not be so terribly worrying to Melancholicus were he not getting married next year. Not only is he getting married, but since his fiancée is American, he will be emigrating to the United States. Which means he must find there a reasonably well-paying job in order that he might buy a house and provide for his wife and whatever children it may please God to send us.
Although Melancholicus is well-qualified in his field, the prospect of being able to land a secure position in the current economic climate is looking increasingly difficult. While he is tempted to say that this could not have happened at a worse time, he acknowledges that of course it could have—he could be sitting here with negative equity up to six figures hanging round his neck.
Which thanks be to goodness he is not.
But these events have left him in the meantime feeling not less gloomy than Eeyore.
There is at least some consolation: in the midst of the upset of the markets, oil is down to only $90 a barrell, so go fill your tanks y’all.
And to tell the truth, he is more than a little depressed.
These are most uncertain times. It appears that the world is headed for a hyper-inflationary depression, which is bad news for everybody but particularly bad news for the economy of the United States of America.
There have been warnings and alarums aplenty since the current misery began in the wake of the subprime lending crisis. That such is more than merely gloomy forecasting may be seen from the recent and oftentimes high-profile collapse of many companies in divers places; the Canadian airline Zoom on 28 August, the British holiday company XL on 12 September, and recently in Ireland Fáilte Travel ceased trading on 11 July while Mayo-based tour company Great Escapes closed on 26 August. At the time of writing, Alitalia is at death’s door in a commercial crisis severe enough to warrant the prayers even of our Holy Father the Pope for the airline’s survival.
Over dinner on Saturday evening last, Melancholicus’ mother expressed grave concern for the stability of both Allied Irish Banks and Bank of Ireland, the two largest banks on this island. Together with his brother and with and his sister (who is a certified accountant), he attempted to explain that nothing beyond a catastrophic event could possibly bring down either institution. But yesterday Melancholicus awoke to the news that Lehman Bros. Investment Bank had filed for bankruptcy protection in the largest such suit in US history, and he has since heard that both of the Irish banks about which he was reassuring his mother on Saturday can be expected to write off hundreds of millions of euro in bad debts over the next two years.
Which is unlikely to put them out of business altogether, but nevertheless.
Now, AIG has not been able to convince credit agencies of its solvency, so there may be further calamities just around the corner unless the US government should intervene.
Apparently, there will be no further growth in the US economy until at least 2010 (if even then). These economic woes would not be so terribly worrying to Melancholicus were he not getting married next year. Not only is he getting married, but since his fiancée is American, he will be emigrating to the United States. Which means he must find there a reasonably well-paying job in order that he might buy a house and provide for his wife and whatever children it may please God to send us.
Although Melancholicus is well-qualified in his field, the prospect of being able to land a secure position in the current economic climate is looking increasingly difficult. While he is tempted to say that this could not have happened at a worse time, he acknowledges that of course it could have—he could be sitting here with negative equity up to six figures hanging round his neck.
Which thanks be to goodness he is not.
But these events have left him in the meantime feeling not less gloomy than Eeyore.
There is at least some consolation: in the midst of the upset of the markets, oil is down to only $90 a barrell, so go fill your tanks y’all.
Friday, August 01, 2008
Request for prayers
Of your charity, gentle reader, please pray for the repose of the soul of Jim Bohl, sometime clerical student for the Priestly Fraternity of St. Peter at Our Lady of Guadalupe Seminary, Denton, Nebraska.
Jim died today, 1st August 2008, after a long battle with cancer.
His funeral Mass will be celebrated on Monday 4th August at 10am in St. Therese church in Southgate, Kentucky. The Mass will be celebrated by Fr. Scott Haynes SJC, and Fr. Valentine Young OFM will preach.
Requiem aeternam dona ei Domine, et lux perpetua luceat ei. Requiescat in pace. Amen.
Jim died today, 1st August 2008, after a long battle with cancer.
His funeral Mass will be celebrated on Monday 4th August at 10am in St. Therese church in Southgate, Kentucky. The Mass will be celebrated by Fr. Scott Haynes SJC, and Fr. Valentine Young OFM will preach.
Requiem aeternam dona ei Domine, et lux perpetua luceat ei. Requiescat in pace. Amen.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Just a note to say I'm still alive
To my few faithful readers that have persevered in visiting this blog over the last three weeks in the hope of finding some fresh posts for their entertainment, all I can say is ... sorry.
I have rather a lot on my mind at present, and this has rendered me somewhat uncommunicative and less inclined to post.
This is unfortunate, since there are so many fascinating things going on in both Church and State at the present time, not to mention the catastrophe now snowballing through the Anglican Communion ... but personal circumstances being what they are, I am preoccupied and unable to reflect on anything else except that which preoccupies me.
I am meeting my beautiful fiancée this evening—she is in Ireland at present—and she will doubtless notice how preoccupied I am and invite me to explain.
So concerned souls may like to offer a prayer. Or two. Or whatever. In any case, normal service will be resumed as soon as possible. For regardless of personal circumstances, life—and Infelix Ego—must go on.
Faithfully yours,
Infelix ego, Melancholicus, peccator
I have rather a lot on my mind at present, and this has rendered me somewhat uncommunicative and less inclined to post.
This is unfortunate, since there are so many fascinating things going on in both Church and State at the present time, not to mention the catastrophe now snowballing through the Anglican Communion ... but personal circumstances being what they are, I am preoccupied and unable to reflect on anything else except that which preoccupies me.
I am meeting my beautiful fiancée this evening—she is in Ireland at present—and she will doubtless notice how preoccupied I am and invite me to explain.
So concerned souls may like to offer a prayer. Or two. Or whatever. In any case, normal service will be resumed as soon as possible. For regardless of personal circumstances, life—and Infelix Ego—must go on.
Faithfully yours,
Infelix ego, Melancholicus, peccator
Friday, May 30, 2008
End of hiatus
As the reader will no doubt have foregathered, Melancholicus has returned from the western extremities of the United States and is once more ensconced in his wonted abode on the emerald isle. And for those of you who cannot read either Latin or Norwegian, he wishes to announce he is engaged to be married. Yes, he has met the woman of his dreams; although she is not a traditionalist (yet!), she is devout and has a great love for almighty God and His blessed mother. If she’s a Catholic, that means there’s a trad in there somewhere, and Melancholicus shall do his level best in the years ahead to draw said trad out.
Melancholicus’ life had been rather static, changeless and wholly unfulfilling since his departure from the seminary, and despite the fact that he makes a reasonable amount of money, life seemed to him to be going nowhere. And so he started this blog to give vent to his bitterness and frustration. A mere four days after first posting to Infelix Ego, very much by chance, he met the woman to whom he is now engaged, although he never dared imagine at the time that it would come to this!
Almighty God does indeed work, as they say, in mysterious ways, and he often gives their hearts desire to those who love Him when they least expect it.
Owing to the fact that Melancholicus is an Irishman resident in Ireland, and his fiancee an American resident in the U.S., someone must be prepared to uproot themselves and move permanently to the country of the other, if any attempt at married life is to be possible at all.
Accordingly, the wedding shall take place in Ireland (in this church, Deo volente), but our conjugal life shall be transacted in the bride’s home town in the state of Washington. And so Melancholicus shall move to Tacoma, attempt to adjust to permanent residency in the U.S. and try to find a reasonably well-paying job (easier said than done in these times of economic uncertainty) to support his wife and, ultimately, whatever children it may please God to grant us.
He will also have, for the first time in his life, to obtain a mortgage and buy a house, which prospect he finds perfectly terrifying, although he is looking forward finally to the challenge of being paterfamilias in his own domain.
Speaking of children, these will of course be brought up in the knowledge and reverence of Catholic Tradition, which shall include attendance at the Traditional Mass, and they shall be as strangers to the rite known commonly as Novus Ordo.
All this shall not take place for at least another year, since we are not due to tie the knot until July 2009. In the meantime, however, Melancholicus shall continue posting to Infelix Ego on matters of religious and political interest, and on whatever subjects succeed in claiming his passing interest, for as long as time and workload permit him.
For this, to quote Churchill, is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning.
And let us say once again with the psalmist, A Domino factum est istud, et mirabile in oculis nostris!
Melancholicus’ life had been rather static, changeless and wholly unfulfilling since his departure from the seminary, and despite the fact that he makes a reasonable amount of money, life seemed to him to be going nowhere. And so he started this blog to give vent to his bitterness and frustration. A mere four days after first posting to Infelix Ego, very much by chance, he met the woman to whom he is now engaged, although he never dared imagine at the time that it would come to this!
Almighty God does indeed work, as they say, in mysterious ways, and he often gives their hearts desire to those who love Him when they least expect it.
Owing to the fact that Melancholicus is an Irishman resident in Ireland, and his fiancee an American resident in the U.S., someone must be prepared to uproot themselves and move permanently to the country of the other, if any attempt at married life is to be possible at all.
Accordingly, the wedding shall take place in Ireland (in this church, Deo volente), but our conjugal life shall be transacted in the bride’s home town in the state of Washington. And so Melancholicus shall move to Tacoma, attempt to adjust to permanent residency in the U.S. and try to find a reasonably well-paying job (easier said than done in these times of economic uncertainty) to support his wife and, ultimately, whatever children it may please God to grant us.
He will also have, for the first time in his life, to obtain a mortgage and buy a house, which prospect he finds perfectly terrifying, although he is looking forward finally to the challenge of being paterfamilias in his own domain.
Speaking of children, these will of course be brought up in the knowledge and reverence of Catholic Tradition, which shall include attendance at the Traditional Mass, and they shall be as strangers to the rite known commonly as Novus Ordo.
All this shall not take place for at least another year, since we are not due to tie the knot until July 2009. In the meantime, however, Melancholicus shall continue posting to Infelix Ego on matters of religious and political interest, and on whatever subjects succeed in claiming his passing interest, for as long as time and workload permit him.
For this, to quote Churchill, is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning.
And let us say once again with the psalmist, A Domino factum est istud, et mirabile in oculis nostris!
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
The cafeteria has re-opened, and other animals
The internet is at present abuzz with the fall from grace of a well-known Catholic blogger.
The person in question recently published remarks on his blog which can be construed as running contrary to the teachings of the Church on the subject of same-sex attraction. His post generated a storm of controversy, as the number of comments (nearly 500 at the last count), and their heated content, will testify.
A subsequent post contained remarks on — I shit you not — the gender realignment of children which, if intended seriously, can only identify their author as a kook. But Melancholicus feels this latter post must surely have been written to bait the fellow’s already infuriated readership rather than advance shocking deviancies, so he will say no more about that.
It is always a sad and unfortunate affair whenever a previously sound and orthodox writer goes off the rails, and begins publishing opinions which cannot be reconciled with profession of the Catholic faith.
While Melancholicus was dismayed at the fall of the person in question, he was disturbed most of all by the uncharitable nature of the criticisms and the personal attacks this person received in his commbox. The spite and fury wherewith the fellow’s readers turned on him is truly lamentable; they would have done better to say an Ave for his erring soul rather than savage him after the manner of a rottweiler. Harsh criticism always has the effect of hardening a man in his position. Did not St. Francis de Sales remind us that we would catch more flies with a spoonful of honey than with a barrelful of vinegar?
To their credit, some of the commentators were likewise disturbed by the rage evident in their peers. One remarked sardonically, “These Christians, how they love one another!” One of the cheapest remarks was (on a different blog dealing with the same issue) “...when he started linking to Rod Dreher a few weeks later, I knew all I needed to know”.
So what if he links to Rod Dreher? Is it not his blog, to link to whomsoever he chooses? And poor Rod Dreher needs prayers, not derision.
Rod Dreher is now a pariah among Catholics since he left the Roman communion in favour of Eastern Orthodoxy in 2006. His departure was likewise accompanied by shrill cries of condemnation and horror. Having read Mr. Dreher’s account of his reasons for leaving the Church, Melancholicus is saddened and feels for the man. He would feel keenly for any man in a similar situation. Melancholicus has a peculiar empathy for those who leave the Church under such circumstances, since not so long ago, he was on the verge of leaving the Church himself, and for reasons not entirely dissimilar to those of Mr. Dreher (as well as a certain imbalance of mind owing to personal circumstances, which may have rendered any such departure, had it occurred, material rather than strictly formal).
Now our erstwhile popular Catholic blogger has not left the Church, as far as we know. But who knows, really, how life is treating him these days, or what his personal circumstances are?
Accordingly, Melancholicus would ask the readers of blogs to show some restraint whenever they come up against a post they don’t like. Melancholicus has read a great many blog posts that annoyed him, provoked him, infuriated him, and not a few peddling blatant untruths, but he has always resisted the temptation to shout back in anger at the author. We don’t know what goes on in people’s lives, and if we knew first-hand the excruciating personal difficulties our neighbour may be wrestling with, we might be abashed and inclined to be more circumspect in our response to his postings.
Men are possessed of a radical freedom, a freedom even to reject the sovereign good in eternity. A man may choose the true and the good — or he may choose otherwise. Thanks to the darkness of the intellect as a result of original sin, a man may have a hard time discerning the true and the good, and may often arrive at mistaken conclusions, often influenced in his thinking by other factors and external pressures. God Himself does not compel adherence to the truth, so why should the readers of a blog expect unfailing adherence to truth as a matter of course? No private person is infallible. Even popes have in their day uttered nonsense incompatible with the teachings of the Magisterium.
So Melancholicus will not condemn the unfortunate blogger, not because he is sympathy with the fellow’s views (he most certainly isn’t), but because he chooses to reserve condemnation for those who truly merit it — bishops, theologians, Jesuits, the unelected and unaccountable European Commission, idealistic socialist twits, and those mad Moslems.
The person in question recently published remarks on his blog which can be construed as running contrary to the teachings of the Church on the subject of same-sex attraction. His post generated a storm of controversy, as the number of comments (nearly 500 at the last count), and their heated content, will testify.
A subsequent post contained remarks on — I shit you not — the gender realignment of children which, if intended seriously, can only identify their author as a kook. But Melancholicus feels this latter post must surely have been written to bait the fellow’s already infuriated readership rather than advance shocking deviancies, so he will say no more about that.
It is always a sad and unfortunate affair whenever a previously sound and orthodox writer goes off the rails, and begins publishing opinions which cannot be reconciled with profession of the Catholic faith.
While Melancholicus was dismayed at the fall of the person in question, he was disturbed most of all by the uncharitable nature of the criticisms and the personal attacks this person received in his commbox. The spite and fury wherewith the fellow’s readers turned on him is truly lamentable; they would have done better to say an Ave for his erring soul rather than savage him after the manner of a rottweiler. Harsh criticism always has the effect of hardening a man in his position. Did not St. Francis de Sales remind us that we would catch more flies with a spoonful of honey than with a barrelful of vinegar?
To their credit, some of the commentators were likewise disturbed by the rage evident in their peers. One remarked sardonically, “These Christians, how they love one another!” One of the cheapest remarks was (on a different blog dealing with the same issue) “...when he started linking to Rod Dreher a few weeks later, I knew all I needed to know”.
So what if he links to Rod Dreher? Is it not his blog, to link to whomsoever he chooses? And poor Rod Dreher needs prayers, not derision.
Rod Dreher is now a pariah among Catholics since he left the Roman communion in favour of Eastern Orthodoxy in 2006. His departure was likewise accompanied by shrill cries of condemnation and horror. Having read Mr. Dreher’s account of his reasons for leaving the Church, Melancholicus is saddened and feels for the man. He would feel keenly for any man in a similar situation. Melancholicus has a peculiar empathy for those who leave the Church under such circumstances, since not so long ago, he was on the verge of leaving the Church himself, and for reasons not entirely dissimilar to those of Mr. Dreher (as well as a certain imbalance of mind owing to personal circumstances, which may have rendered any such departure, had it occurred, material rather than strictly formal).
Now our erstwhile popular Catholic blogger has not left the Church, as far as we know. But who knows, really, how life is treating him these days, or what his personal circumstances are?
Accordingly, Melancholicus would ask the readers of blogs to show some restraint whenever they come up against a post they don’t like. Melancholicus has read a great many blog posts that annoyed him, provoked him, infuriated him, and not a few peddling blatant untruths, but he has always resisted the temptation to shout back in anger at the author. We don’t know what goes on in people’s lives, and if we knew first-hand the excruciating personal difficulties our neighbour may be wrestling with, we might be abashed and inclined to be more circumspect in our response to his postings.
Men are possessed of a radical freedom, a freedom even to reject the sovereign good in eternity. A man may choose the true and the good — or he may choose otherwise. Thanks to the darkness of the intellect as a result of original sin, a man may have a hard time discerning the true and the good, and may often arrive at mistaken conclusions, often influenced in his thinking by other factors and external pressures. God Himself does not compel adherence to the truth, so why should the readers of a blog expect unfailing adherence to truth as a matter of course? No private person is infallible. Even popes have in their day uttered nonsense incompatible with the teachings of the Magisterium.
So Melancholicus will not condemn the unfortunate blogger, not because he is sympathy with the fellow’s views (he most certainly isn’t), but because he chooses to reserve condemnation for those who truly merit it — bishops, theologians, Jesuits, the unelected and unaccountable European Commission, idealistic socialist twits, and those mad Moslems.
Saturday, May 03, 2008
Request for prayers
Melancholicus is saddened.
In the aftermath of his departure from seminary in the summer of 2005, he moved back to his mother’s house in Wicklow for a bit, to relax and unwind and attempt to gather his scattered wits.
It was not the best choice for a quiet life, for not only did Melancholicus have to adjust to sharing the house with a boisterous, half-grown collie pup, but his mother was having a patio laid in the back garden, and the gentleman hired for this work was nothing short of a cowboy.
The two of us were at our wits’ end trying to cope with the unreliability of this person, and with the tremendous mess he left behind him in the back garden. In the end he was dismissed, and my mother found an able young man who was not only able to finish the job and clear up the mess, but who offered advice and suggestions as to what should be done next, and carried out some landscaping work also. Today there are twin flower beds, a garden seat between them, and a little wall along the border of the lawn, all of which are his handiwork.
This young man was a hard, conscientious worker, and an honest man, who charged no more than his due. His obvious good will and good character impressed us all.
Recently, my mother was thinking of having some further work done in the garden now that the good weather has returned. Naturally, her first thought was to turn to the same young man who had been so helpful three years previously.
Unable to find him at his old number, she called various tradesmen in an attempt to locate him, and in the process discovered that the young man was dead.
He had committed suicide in June 2007.
This news was a shock to us all. We did not know the young man well, but he was a man of obvious talent and virtue, and ought to have had his whole life ahead of him. He can hardly have been more than about 25 years of age.
We do not know the reason why, and it is useless to speculate. We cannot guess what really goes on in people’s lives. Since he did not know the young man’s family, Melancholicus does not feel that it is proper to divulge his name. Nevertheless, he wishes to ask his readers to say in their charity a Pater, Ave and Gloria for the repose of the young man’s soul.
Do not be troubled by his anonymity, for almighty God knows for whom you pray.
To lay violent hands upon oneself is, objectively speaking, a grievous sin, one that merits eternal separation from God. But for such a sin to be mortal, it must be done with full knowledge of its gravity and with full consent of the will. It is now generally recognised that suicidal acts proceed from grave anguish and such disturbance of mind that the possibility of full knowledge and consent is exceedingly remote. Of old, the Church refused an ecclesiastical funeral to suicides, who likewise could not be interred in consecrated ground. Happily, these restrictions have now been charitably rescinded, and we must never consider it a futile exercise to pray and have Masses said for the soul of one who has taken his own life.
There was a lady in nineteenth-century France whose husband had killed himself by leaping from a bridge. In despair over the prospects for his eternal destiny, she resolved to visit the holy Curé of Ars, St. Jean Vianney. Arriving in the village, she went to the parish church, where the Curé was hearing confessions. When she saw the vast crowds in the church and the lengthy queues of those waiting to go to confession, she despaired of ever being able to meet the Curé and tell him about her husband. So she knelt down to say a quick prayer, intending to depart again immediately. While she knelt in prayer, the door of the confessional opened, and the Curé emerged, coming straight towards her. To her amazement — for they had never previously met and he could not have known who she was — he came over to her and said, “Do not be afraid, my child. Between the bridge and the water there is room for the grace of God.”
Between the bridge and the water there is room for the grace of God.
What merciful graces God gives to His faithful through His holy saints! Melancholicus has always taken much comfort from this story. How merciful is God, how great His love. Melancholicus does not know whether the young man was a Catholic, a Protestant, or of no religion at all. But at this point, it doesn’t matter. In your kindness, gentle reader, please pray for his soul.
May God reward you.
In the aftermath of his departure from seminary in the summer of 2005, he moved back to his mother’s house in Wicklow for a bit, to relax and unwind and attempt to gather his scattered wits.
It was not the best choice for a quiet life, for not only did Melancholicus have to adjust to sharing the house with a boisterous, half-grown collie pup, but his mother was having a patio laid in the back garden, and the gentleman hired for this work was nothing short of a cowboy.
The two of us were at our wits’ end trying to cope with the unreliability of this person, and with the tremendous mess he left behind him in the back garden. In the end he was dismissed, and my mother found an able young man who was not only able to finish the job and clear up the mess, but who offered advice and suggestions as to what should be done next, and carried out some landscaping work also. Today there are twin flower beds, a garden seat between them, and a little wall along the border of the lawn, all of which are his handiwork.
This young man was a hard, conscientious worker, and an honest man, who charged no more than his due. His obvious good will and good character impressed us all.
Recently, my mother was thinking of having some further work done in the garden now that the good weather has returned. Naturally, her first thought was to turn to the same young man who had been so helpful three years previously.
Unable to find him at his old number, she called various tradesmen in an attempt to locate him, and in the process discovered that the young man was dead.
He had committed suicide in June 2007.
This news was a shock to us all. We did not know the young man well, but he was a man of obvious talent and virtue, and ought to have had his whole life ahead of him. He can hardly have been more than about 25 years of age.
We do not know the reason why, and it is useless to speculate. We cannot guess what really goes on in people’s lives. Since he did not know the young man’s family, Melancholicus does not feel that it is proper to divulge his name. Nevertheless, he wishes to ask his readers to say in their charity a Pater, Ave and Gloria for the repose of the young man’s soul.
Do not be troubled by his anonymity, for almighty God knows for whom you pray.
To lay violent hands upon oneself is, objectively speaking, a grievous sin, one that merits eternal separation from God. But for such a sin to be mortal, it must be done with full knowledge of its gravity and with full consent of the will. It is now generally recognised that suicidal acts proceed from grave anguish and such disturbance of mind that the possibility of full knowledge and consent is exceedingly remote. Of old, the Church refused an ecclesiastical funeral to suicides, who likewise could not be interred in consecrated ground. Happily, these restrictions have now been charitably rescinded, and we must never consider it a futile exercise to pray and have Masses said for the soul of one who has taken his own life.
There was a lady in nineteenth-century France whose husband had killed himself by leaping from a bridge. In despair over the prospects for his eternal destiny, she resolved to visit the holy Curé of Ars, St. Jean Vianney. Arriving in the village, she went to the parish church, where the Curé was hearing confessions. When she saw the vast crowds in the church and the lengthy queues of those waiting to go to confession, she despaired of ever being able to meet the Curé and tell him about her husband. So she knelt down to say a quick prayer, intending to depart again immediately. While she knelt in prayer, the door of the confessional opened, and the Curé emerged, coming straight towards her. To her amazement — for they had never previously met and he could not have known who she was — he came over to her and said, “Do not be afraid, my child. Between the bridge and the water there is room for the grace of God.”
Between the bridge and the water there is room for the grace of God.
What merciful graces God gives to His faithful through His holy saints! Melancholicus has always taken much comfort from this story. How merciful is God, how great His love. Melancholicus does not know whether the young man was a Catholic, a Protestant, or of no religion at all. But at this point, it doesn’t matter. In your kindness, gentle reader, please pray for his soul.
May God reward you.
Thursday, May 01, 2008
Gaudeamus carissimi
On this day, Thursday 1st of May 2008, the feast of the Ascension of the Lord, Melancholicus finally passed the Irish driving test. Not before time, this being his fifth attempt.
This means he can now exchage his provisional licence (the green one) for a full driving licence (the red one). He has already removed the learner plates from his car, informed his insurance company of the happy event, and once he obtains his full licence he will be able to drive freely on motorways without having to worry about being stopped by the police.
He is most grateful to those who prayed for a happy outcome in this matter, and not least to almighty God, who this year has showered His blessings so abundantly on this undeserving sinner that Melancholicus feels that some special work undertaken in gratitude to God is now in order.
Deo gratias, alleluia. Such a weight has been lifted from these groaning shoulders.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Jose Gonzalez: Heartbeats
It’s been a while since Melancholicus posted a music video on Infelix Ego, and while ferreting around on YouTube the other day, he came across this gem, namely a video of that Sony Bravia commercial that features thousands of bouncy balls of every shade and colour spilling in slow motion down the streets of San Francisco to the accompaniment of Jose Gonzalez’ song Heartbeats.
This commercial was aired regularly in Ireland around 2005 and 2006, when Melancholicus was in his first year of absence from the seminary, attempting to adjust once again to the lay state and quite at a loss for what to do with himself. Each time he saw it, he was transfixed, unable to speak or to act, and moved by a surge of strong emotion even to the point of tears. In fact, even thinking about it now is enough to cause a lump to rise in his throat. How very odd.
Melancholicus wonders what sort of dark necromancy is going on in his subconscious that he should be so moved by a commercial for a high-definition flat-screen TV. He has not had this peculiar response to other ads for the same product, so there must be something about the combination of the soundtrack and the slow-motion sight of the coloured balls spilling down the street that reaches into the depths of his soul. The song is heart-stirringly beautiful, but played on its own it does not have the same effect. Nor do the bouncy balls, in the absence of the song. But together they draw forth teary springs in an experience of almost religious intensity.
Psychology is a fascinating thing. Enjoy.
Best watched on a Sony Bravia, naturally.
This commercial was aired regularly in Ireland around 2005 and 2006, when Melancholicus was in his first year of absence from the seminary, attempting to adjust once again to the lay state and quite at a loss for what to do with himself. Each time he saw it, he was transfixed, unable to speak or to act, and moved by a surge of strong emotion even to the point of tears. In fact, even thinking about it now is enough to cause a lump to rise in his throat. How very odd.
Melancholicus wonders what sort of dark necromancy is going on in his subconscious that he should be so moved by a commercial for a high-definition flat-screen TV. He has not had this peculiar response to other ads for the same product, so there must be something about the combination of the soundtrack and the slow-motion sight of the coloured balls spilling down the street that reaches into the depths of his soul. The song is heart-stirringly beautiful, but played on its own it does not have the same effect. Nor do the bouncy balls, in the absence of the song. But together they draw forth teary springs in an experience of almost religious intensity.
Psychology is a fascinating thing. Enjoy.
Best watched on a Sony Bravia, naturally.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Felix ego
The most recent post (before this one) to appear on Infelix Ego was published on March 4th, which is almost a month ago. Accordingly, Melancholicus feels he owes his readers some explanation of his absence, and an apology for having tried their patience with such prolonged inactivity.
In his first post of 2008, Melancholicus expressed himself uncharacteristically optimistic about what changes to his life the new year would bring. It seems this optimism — unlike that of the ’sixties and Vatican II — was not altogether unfounded. For a strange sensation has crept over Melancholicus in the last few months, so slowly at first that he failed to notice it, but growing in strength and intensity such that by now he cannot help but be aware of it.
This odd sensation feels almost like ... like ... yes, I remember now ... like happiness.
Happiness!
Happiness and Melancholicus go together like chalk and cheese, like oil and water, like salvation and perdition, like Islam and peace. Can it really be that Melancholicus is happy? The very idea seems somehow immoral.
Melancholicus even thought of starting a new blog, with the title Felix Ego to reflect his much changed circumstances, but that would not have been fair to his readers, and much less to those fellow bloggers who have so generously linked to him over the past three months. And happiness is a fleeting emotion anyhow, a fickle thing, ephemeral as the morning mist and which vanishes again just as quickly. So this journal shall remain and, workload permitting, continue to be updated on a regular basis. Nor shall its author change his name, for regardless how gay (in the pre-modern sense of the word) and elated he may at present be, his temperament is still two parts melancholic and one part phlegmatic, so he shall always be Melancholicus.
As for the reason for this unwonted happiness... well, we shall now come to that.
Much of this month Melancholicus has spent in the United States. This is the first time he has been back to the US since his departure from the seminary in 2005. But on this occasion he went not to Nebraska, but to Tacoma, Washington.
The purpose of this journey to the ends of the earth — for one can hardly travel further west than Washington, except perhaps to Alaska — was to visit a friend. Specifically, a lady friend. Melancholicus shall not embarrass her by mentioning her name, but her temperament is three parts melancholic and one part choleric, so we are perfectly matched.
Melancholicus may on occasion be overly prolix, but he is not a gushy person (at least not on Infelix Ego), so he will refrain from informing his readers how he regards his lady friend as his sun, moon and starlit sky, and all that sort of thing. Suffice it to say that she loves him, and he her.
There is as yet no betrothal; nevertheless, Melancholicus feels that it is not jumping the gun to say he believes we shall one day be husband and wife, perhaps even next year or the year after. Time will tell.
To those who have followed the details of Melancholicus’ personal life as they have from time to time been revealed on this blog and who fear he may be making a terrible mistake, he wishes to give the reassurance that his beloved is not the same person as a certain L. of whom mention was made in a few posts of November and December last. That is now ancient history, and that chapter of Melancholicus’ life has been definitively closed, never to be re-opened. The answer of St. Francis Xavier, whom Melancholicus implored for guidance, was unmistakably clear.
But Melancholicus has in these developments been so blessed by almighty God that he is replete with heartfelt gratitude, and he will end this post by saying, with the psalmist (117:22):
a Domino factum est istud, et est mirabile in oculis nostris — ‘this has been done by the LORD, and it is marvellous in our eyes’.
In his first post of 2008, Melancholicus expressed himself uncharacteristically optimistic about what changes to his life the new year would bring. It seems this optimism — unlike that of the ’sixties and Vatican II — was not altogether unfounded. For a strange sensation has crept over Melancholicus in the last few months, so slowly at first that he failed to notice it, but growing in strength and intensity such that by now he cannot help but be aware of it.
This odd sensation feels almost like ... like ... yes, I remember now ... like happiness.
Happiness!
Happiness and Melancholicus go together like chalk and cheese, like oil and water, like salvation and perdition, like Islam and peace. Can it really be that Melancholicus is happy? The very idea seems somehow immoral.
Melancholicus even thought of starting a new blog, with the title Felix Ego to reflect his much changed circumstances, but that would not have been fair to his readers, and much less to those fellow bloggers who have so generously linked to him over the past three months. And happiness is a fleeting emotion anyhow, a fickle thing, ephemeral as the morning mist and which vanishes again just as quickly. So this journal shall remain and, workload permitting, continue to be updated on a regular basis. Nor shall its author change his name, for regardless how gay (in the pre-modern sense of the word) and elated he may at present be, his temperament is still two parts melancholic and one part phlegmatic, so he shall always be Melancholicus.
As for the reason for this unwonted happiness... well, we shall now come to that.
Much of this month Melancholicus has spent in the United States. This is the first time he has been back to the US since his departure from the seminary in 2005. But on this occasion he went not to Nebraska, but to Tacoma, Washington.
The purpose of this journey to the ends of the earth — for one can hardly travel further west than Washington, except perhaps to Alaska — was to visit a friend. Specifically, a lady friend. Melancholicus shall not embarrass her by mentioning her name, but her temperament is three parts melancholic and one part choleric, so we are perfectly matched.
Melancholicus may on occasion be overly prolix, but he is not a gushy person (at least not on Infelix Ego), so he will refrain from informing his readers how he regards his lady friend as his sun, moon and starlit sky, and all that sort of thing. Suffice it to say that she loves him, and he her.
There is as yet no betrothal; nevertheless, Melancholicus feels that it is not jumping the gun to say he believes we shall one day be husband and wife, perhaps even next year or the year after. Time will tell.
To those who have followed the details of Melancholicus’ personal life as they have from time to time been revealed on this blog and who fear he may be making a terrible mistake, he wishes to give the reassurance that his beloved is not the same person as a certain L. of whom mention was made in a few posts of November and December last. That is now ancient history, and that chapter of Melancholicus’ life has been definitively closed, never to be re-opened. The answer of St. Francis Xavier, whom Melancholicus implored for guidance, was unmistakably clear.
But Melancholicus has in these developments been so blessed by almighty God that he is replete with heartfelt gratitude, and he will end this post by saying, with the psalmist (117:22):
a Domino factum est istud, et est mirabile in oculis nostris — ‘this has been done by the LORD, and it is marvellous in our eyes’.
Monday, January 07, 2008
Anno Domini MMVIII
It is now Monday, January 7th, and Melancholicus is once again in his office at the university, gloomily contemplating a huge stack of exam scripts awaiting grading on the table before him.
One of the perks of working in a university is that one invariably receives a satisfyingly lengthy Christmas holiday wherein to unwind and relax, and to recharge one’s batteries. Today is Melancholicus’ first day back on the job, and he has decided to ease himself into his duties gently, by first posting to Infelix Ego and afterwards turning his attention to matters of research and educational import.
Without further ado, Melancholicus notes that this is his first post of the year 2008, and accordingly he wishes to extend his warmest New Year’s greetings and felicitations to all his readers—or at the very least to that one visitor who was kind enough, just before the end of last year, to leave a comment on this post below.
Melancholicus also notes—not without a wee twinge of regret—that on March 1st this year, he would have been ordained to the diaconate had he persevered with his vocation. Ah well, never mind. As God wills, so be it done.
It has been a delightful Christmas, however, and Melancholicus is refreshed spiritually, emotionally and physically. He is always optimistic at the beginning of every new year, but this year seems somewhat different.
A sense of change is in the air. 2008 must surely bring with it some change of direction to this poor idiot’s life. Melancholicus would like to think that in 2008, something will happen for him, rather than happening to him. Perhaps he will recover his lost vocation. Perhaps, failing that, he will meet the woman of his dreams. Perhaps he will pass his fifth—yes, fifth!—driving test. Perhaps the parish will permit the celebration of a Mass in the so-called “extraordinary form”. Perhaps he will change his job (the university seems to want to keep him, but he’s not sure if he wishes in turn to keep the university); perhaps all these things will happen (well, the first two are mutually exclusive, but nonetheless) or perhaps, this year Melancholicus will be just a little less infelix. That alone would be worth the wait.
There is much promise in this new year. Should anyone reading this be moved to pray for any of the above intentions, Melancholicus would really, really like to have a full driving licence, to take the L-plates off his car, and to drive on motorways without having to worry about being stopped by the police.
But we will not let 2007 go without mentioning those to whom he is indebted for their kindness and for making that wretched year so much less unbearable amid so great an adversity. Melancholicus will not embarrass any living persons by enumerating their generosity, so he will confine himself instead to rendering his most heartfelt thanks to two in heaven — the Blessed Mother and St. Francis Xavier, both of whom really came through for him in a special way.
You see, gentle reader, there is a God. And prayer does work (eventually).
Are you sceptical? Give it a try.
And Melancholicus would like to inform his favourite protestant that the saints do intercede in heaven for those who ask them.
One of the perks of working in a university is that one invariably receives a satisfyingly lengthy Christmas holiday wherein to unwind and relax, and to recharge one’s batteries. Today is Melancholicus’ first day back on the job, and he has decided to ease himself into his duties gently, by first posting to Infelix Ego and afterwards turning his attention to matters of research and educational import.
Without further ado, Melancholicus notes that this is his first post of the year 2008, and accordingly he wishes to extend his warmest New Year’s greetings and felicitations to all his readers—or at the very least to that one visitor who was kind enough, just before the end of last year, to leave a comment on this post below.
Melancholicus also notes—not without a wee twinge of regret—that on March 1st this year, he would have been ordained to the diaconate had he persevered with his vocation. Ah well, never mind. As God wills, so be it done.
It has been a delightful Christmas, however, and Melancholicus is refreshed spiritually, emotionally and physically. He is always optimistic at the beginning of every new year, but this year seems somewhat different.
A sense of change is in the air. 2008 must surely bring with it some change of direction to this poor idiot’s life. Melancholicus would like to think that in 2008, something will happen for him, rather than happening to him. Perhaps he will recover his lost vocation. Perhaps, failing that, he will meet the woman of his dreams. Perhaps he will pass his fifth—yes, fifth!—driving test. Perhaps the parish will permit the celebration of a Mass in the so-called “extraordinary form”. Perhaps he will change his job (the university seems to want to keep him, but he’s not sure if he wishes in turn to keep the university); perhaps all these things will happen (well, the first two are mutually exclusive, but nonetheless) or perhaps, this year Melancholicus will be just a little less infelix. That alone would be worth the wait.
There is much promise in this new year. Should anyone reading this be moved to pray for any of the above intentions, Melancholicus would really, really like to have a full driving licence, to take the L-plates off his car, and to drive on motorways without having to worry about being stopped by the police.
But we will not let 2007 go without mentioning those to whom he is indebted for their kindness and for making that wretched year so much less unbearable amid so great an adversity. Melancholicus will not embarrass any living persons by enumerating their generosity, so he will confine himself instead to rendering his most heartfelt thanks to two in heaven — the Blessed Mother and St. Francis Xavier, both of whom really came through for him in a special way.
You see, gentle reader, there is a God. And prayer does work (eventually).
Are you sceptical? Give it a try.
And Melancholicus would like to inform his favourite protestant that the saints do intercede in heaven for those who ask them.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Another dream!
L. was in my dreams AGAIN last night.
I wasn’t nearly as depressed when I woke up this morning as on the last occasion I had dreamed about her. Actually, it was rather nice and quite touching — she even kissed me, which her dream persona has never before done. I felt vaguely at peace with God, the world and even myself when I awoke. I had also had a refreshing night’s sleep.
But that’s two dreams about L. in the space of only a couple of weeks. I wonder if God is trying to tell me something?
Should I, perhaps, write to her? Or is it best to let sleeping dogs lie? I can hardly imagine that she is dreaming about me like I am about her, but I already know how she feels. I just don’t know how she’d react after all this time. I guess I feel that by writing to her, I would be disturbing her, or even distressing her by dragging old emotions back up to the surface.
And I definitely wouldn’t want what happened the last time to happen again.
Even though it’s now been a year and a half, it’s not like I’m spoiled for choice now, is it? Nobody has come along to take her place in all that time.
My novena to St. Francis Xavier finishes this evening. I just hope his answer isn’t indecipherably cryptic.
Or perhaps it is best to just forget about women altogether and go back to the seminary ...
I wasn’t nearly as depressed when I woke up this morning as on the last occasion I had dreamed about her. Actually, it was rather nice and quite touching — she even kissed me, which her dream persona has never before done. I felt vaguely at peace with God, the world and even myself when I awoke. I had also had a refreshing night’s sleep.
But that’s two dreams about L. in the space of only a couple of weeks. I wonder if God is trying to tell me something?
Should I, perhaps, write to her? Or is it best to let sleeping dogs lie? I can hardly imagine that she is dreaming about me like I am about her, but I already know how she feels. I just don’t know how she’d react after all this time. I guess I feel that by writing to her, I would be disturbing her, or even distressing her by dragging old emotions back up to the surface.
And I definitely wouldn’t want what happened the last time to happen again.
Even though it’s now been a year and a half, it’s not like I’m spoiled for choice now, is it? Nobody has come along to take her place in all that time.
My novena to St. Francis Xavier finishes this evening. I just hope his answer isn’t indecipherably cryptic.
Or perhaps it is best to just forget about women altogether and go back to the seminary ...
Thursday, December 06, 2007
Request for prayers
On occasion, Melancholicus must admit to resorting to feeling sorry for himself, but at least such shallow self-pity is brought up short by the troubles of others, some of whom have problems much worse than any of those which afflict Melancholicus at present.
Melancholicus wishes to ask the kind readers of Infelix Ego to pray for two friends of his, namely Jim Bohl, a former FSSP seminarist, and Robert Lane, a young man who has tirelessly striven for the restoration of the Old Mass in his native Galway. Both were recently diagnosed with cancer, and in each case it looks serious.
Mother of mercy, take pity on them.
Melancholicus wishes to ask the kind readers of Infelix Ego to pray for two friends of his, namely Jim Bohl, a former FSSP seminarist, and Robert Lane, a young man who has tirelessly striven for the restoration of the Old Mass in his native Galway. Both were recently diagnosed with cancer, and in each case it looks serious.
Mother of mercy, take pity on them.
Monday, December 03, 2007
Spe Salvi: the 2nd encyclical of our holy father Benedict
Pope Benedict XVI released his second encyclical, Spe Salvi, on Christian hope, on the feast of St. Andrew, 30 November 2007.
The full text is available in English on the website of the Holy See. Click here to read.
Due to the straits of his life at present, Melancholicus sometimes finds it difficult to keep his sights set on the glory of God, and of the joys which hereafter await those who remain faithful until the end. Sometimes it is tempting to believe that God has forgotten, or does not care, about the travails of His people on earth, particularly when fervent prayers have gone unanswered for so long. Sometimes it seems as though God and His saints are deaf to earthly entreaties, and that Heaven has rolled itself up like a blanket, only to disappear completely.
In these circumstances it is easy to despair, and to seek comfort instead in earthly things, since Heaven is silent. Yet faith tells us that God and His saints have not abandoned us, and that they are with us always, even and especially at those times when Heaven seems most silent and the grace of God most absent.
Melancholicus could here rehearse the familiar parable of the footsteps in the sand, but that would be too cloyingly sentimental for his phlegmatic disposition.
Whence the importance of the virtue of hope, and of fortitude as well. Melancholicus has not yet finished reading the Holy Father’s new encyclical, but he has found it thus far an important and inspiring document, and it will be his staple reading in this season of Advent.
Today is also the feast of St. Francis Xavier, a missionary of extraordinary piety and miracles, and a saint for whom Melancholicus has a special affection. St. Francis was a Jesuit, but let us not hold that against him. Let us instead begin a novena to St. Francis this very evening.
The full text is available in English on the website of the Holy See. Click here to read.
Due to the straits of his life at present, Melancholicus sometimes finds it difficult to keep his sights set on the glory of God, and of the joys which hereafter await those who remain faithful until the end. Sometimes it is tempting to believe that God has forgotten, or does not care, about the travails of His people on earth, particularly when fervent prayers have gone unanswered for so long. Sometimes it seems as though God and His saints are deaf to earthly entreaties, and that Heaven has rolled itself up like a blanket, only to disappear completely.
In these circumstances it is easy to despair, and to seek comfort instead in earthly things, since Heaven is silent. Yet faith tells us that God and His saints have not abandoned us, and that they are with us always, even and especially at those times when Heaven seems most silent and the grace of God most absent.
Melancholicus could here rehearse the familiar parable of the footsteps in the sand, but that would be too cloyingly sentimental for his phlegmatic disposition.
Whence the importance of the virtue of hope, and of fortitude as well. Melancholicus has not yet finished reading the Holy Father’s new encyclical, but he has found it thus far an important and inspiring document, and it will be his staple reading in this season of Advent.
Today is also the feast of St. Francis Xavier, a missionary of extraordinary piety and miracles, and a saint for whom Melancholicus has a special affection. St. Francis was a Jesuit, but let us not hold that against him. Let us instead begin a novena to St. Francis this very evening.
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