Whoa

http://www.foxnews.com/story/0,2933,331313,00.html

 

This story should creep out anyone who's read The Mountains of Madness, by Lovecraft.

 

The Origin of the Humor

I was just thinking lately about how senses of humor develop. I don't remember much about my sense of humor as a child, but I'm fairly sure it was based on very bad puns (thanks, Dad!) and very dry elephant jokes (thanks, mom!). I also enjoyed parodies and verbal sparring, but am not so skilled in those fine arts. I hardly ever understood the humor of my peers: I still don't like Friends or Seinfeld. I remember this great sense of joy when I first saw Mystery Science Theater 3000, and thought: "Here are my people." Parody, snark, culture references, and sheer geekdom, all rolled into one hysterically funny show. A similar reaction to Monty Python: surrealism, dry humor, British accents, and deadpan delivery.

And then there was the Internet. Sometimes it seems like the Internet was invented solely so geeks could find each other and take solace in their own culture and comedy. Most of my favorite books and movies I have found from online friends.

So, current sense of humor? I still love puns, and I still crack up over elephant jokes. But to that classic repertoire I've added MST3K, Monty Python, Doctor Who, Douglas Adams, Jasper Fforde, and Lileks.com. Dry, mostly British, sarcastic, snarky, referential, surreal, and abstruse. How I love it.

Castro Retires

Of all the commentary I've seen this morning on the announcement, I think (no surprise) that John C. Wright says it best.

 

http://johncwright.livejournal.com/2008/02/19/

 

Sic semper tyrannis.

 

More about Mitt

I've been reading the headlines here from work (shh, don't tell!) and thinking. For anyone who missed it, here's the text of Romney's speech to CPAC: http://www.mittromney.com/News/Press-Releases/CPAC_Address

 

I can't help but wonder if part of Romney's problem in campaigning was that he was too much of a gentleman. He wouldn't stoop to smears like McCain and Huckabee did (Hey, I actually like Huckabee, but he said some very untrue things of Romney), but kept his comments restricted to the issues. He wouldn't press McCain on areas where he knew McCain had flip-flopped. He wouldn't get riled up when McCain provoked him during the debates. All good things, but not so good for campaigning in this day and age.

 

Even his withdrawal was gentlemanly: he withdrew with no real pressure to do so, and gave a great speech. Here's the end of it, and in my opinion, the highlight:

 

"And finally, let's consider the greatest challenge facing America – and facing the entire civilized world: the threat of violent, radical Jihad. In one wing of the world of Islam, there is a conviction that all governments should be destroyed and replaced by a religious caliphate. These Jihadists will battle any form of democracy. To them, democracy is blasphemous for it says that citizens, not God shape the law. They find the idea of human equality to be offensive. They hate everything we believe about freedom just as we hate everything they believe about radical Jihad.

"To battle this threat, we have sent the most courageous and brave soldiers in the world. But their numbers have been depleted by the Clinton years when troops were reduced by 500,000, when 80 ships were retired from the Navy, and when our human intelligence was slashed by 25%. We were told that we were getting a peace dividend. We got the dividend, but we didn't get the peace. In the face of evil in radical Jihad and given the inevitable military ambitions of China, we must act to rebuild our military might – raise military spending to 4% of our GDP, purchase the most modern armament, re-shape our fighting forces for the asymmetric demands we now face, and give the veterans the care they deserve.

"Soon, the face of liberalism in America will have a new name. Whether it is Barack or Hillary, the result would be the same if they were to win the Presidency. The opponents of American culture would push the throttle, devising new justifications for judges to depart from the Constitution. Economic neophytes would layer heavier and heavier burdens on employers and families, slowing our economy and opening the way for foreign competition to further erode our lead.

"Even though we face an uphill fight, I know that many in this room are fully behind my campaign. You are with me all the way to the convention. Fight on, just like Ronald Reagan did in 1976. But there is an important difference from 1976: today, we are a nation at war.

"And Barack and Hillary have made their intentions clear regarding Iraq and the war on terror. They would retreat and declare defeat. And the consequence of that would be devastating. It would mean attacks on America, launched from safe havens that make Afghanistan under the Taliban look like child's play. About this, I have no doubt.

"I disagree with Senator McCain on a number of issues, as you know. But I agree with him on doing whatever it takes to be successful in Iraq, on finding and executing Osama bin Laden, and on eliminating Al Qaeda and terror. If I fight on in my campaign, all the way to the convention, I would forestall the launch of a national campaign and make it more likely that Senator Clinton or Obama would win. And in this time of war, I simply cannot let my campaign, be a part of aiding a surrender to terror.

"This is not an easy decision for me. I hate to lose. My family, my friends and our supporters – many of you right here in this room – have given a great deal to get me where I have a shot at becoming President. If this were only about me, I would go on. But I entered this race because I love America, and because I love America, I feel I must now stand aside, for our party and for our country.

"I will continue to stand for conservative principles. I will fight alongside you for all the things we believe in. And one of those things is that we cannot allow the next President of the United States to retreat in the face evil extremism.

"It is the common task of each generation – and the burden of liberty – to preserve this country, expand its freedoms and renew its spirit so that its noble past is prologue to its glorious future.

"To this task, accepting this burden, we are all dedicated, and I firmly believe, by the providence of the Almighty, that we will succeed beyond our fondest hope. America must remain, as it has always been, the hope of the Earth.

"Thank you, and God bless America."

 

So, again....Romney for 2012!!!

DRAT

Romney is suspending his campaign. SIGH. But I think he's probably doing the right thing, since the conservatives continued to split their votes between Huckabee and romney on Super Tuesday. Maybe next time....Romney for 2012? Sounds good to me!

 

I'm keeping the Romney banner on my blog until I know for sure who the GOP nominee is.

A rare politcal post

I almost never talk politics on this blog, but with it being Super Tuesday, I couldn't resist. This comes from Fox News (link here) :

Huckabee’s accusation followed Romney’s remarks to FOX News last week, in which the former Massachusetts governor said: “A vote for Huckabee is a vote for McCain, and if they want John McCain as their nominee … that’s exactly what the vote would do.”

Huckabee then cast Romney’s comment as an attempt to keep voters from going to the polls.

“If you try to discourage people from voting for somebody, what else would you call it? Isn’t voter suppression when you try to keep people from voting a certain way, by anybody’s definition? … Isn’t that voter suppression, suppressing the vote, pushing it down, keeping people from feeling comfortable and going and making a vote? I think that’s exactly what it is,” Huckabee told reporters during a stop in Chattanooga, Tenn., on Monday.
But Romney, speaking in Atlanta, dismissed the charge, saying Huckabee has misused the term.

“First a couple of rules in politics. One, no whining. And Number 2, you get them to vote for you. And so I want them not to vote for Mike Huckabee and not to vote for John McCain and to vote for me. … That’s not voter suppression. That’s known as politics,” Romney said. “I want people to vote, but I want them to vote for me.”

Amen to the "no whining" bit, especially if you saw Huckabee in the last debate. Spending your debate minutes whining about how you aren't getting any time is not effective for winning debates or persuading voters.

Now, if Romney would just direct a little of that towards McCain...he's just too darn polite sometimes.

This is a meditation I've been working on for several days. I was recently able to spend several lovely rainy hours reading T. S. Eliot on my balcony. That sort of environment is very conducive to odd strains of thought while reading the Four Quartets, and this piece is the result of that. Please feel free to critique!

Reading Eliot in the Rain

I sit out on my balcony, with an old copy of the collected poems of T.S. Eliot. The book is a rather unattractive edition, in a dark teal with a picture of an aging Eliot on the front. The dust jacket has been covered with that plastic that librarians use to make sure that the cover will not stay in place, and will crinkle loudly whenever it is adjusted. The words are difficult, and do not always scan easily. Across the street, a neighbor locks his car doors with a jarring squawk of the remote, making me jump and lose my place.

Time present and time past are both perhaps present on this balcony. I am surrounded by things that are mine, and yet not mine. This book is a used edition that I got at a bookstore; though there are no markings in it, you can tell that it has been read often. I am seated comfortably in an old blue armchair donated to me by my parish priest. Since it is chilly outside, and drizzling rain, I have wrapped myself in two warm blankets. One is a bright blue fleece, a gift from my grandmother who got it for donating money to one of her many charities. The other is a thick brown blanket, with deer on it; it was given to me by my best friend, and yet it always makes me think of my grandfather, now dead for fifteen years. This balcony is attached to my room, in a house that I am leasing from someone I have never met. What I own is what I do not own.

Between the stanzas of the poem I meet one walking whom I had known; some dead master, both one and many. The thinning white hair, the glasses (are they his, or Eliot’s?), both familiar and strange. The college professor who encouraged me to write the first story I ever put to paper, and the poet who guides me through these lines; it does not matter which. He is gone forever beyond recalling. I turn towards him to speak the words of thanks, but my hand meets only the chilly air of a California winter. A bird calls through the rain, the lament of the disconsolate chimera.

O dark dark dark. They all go into the dark, and my father (who looks so much like his father) spends a day walking through the empty house he was raised in, before it is torn down for farmland. I have the cold of Scandinavian ice in my spirit, an inheritance from ancestors I never met who spoke a language that I do not understand. And what they had no speech for, when living, they can tell me, being dead: the communication of the dead is tongued with fire beyond the language of the living, especially if that language was Norwegian.

The fog is in the fir trees. The rain comes and goes; sometimes the clouds are a grey sheet, completely featureless. Now and again they break apart, and are blown by the wind, forming and reforming as the sunlight spears through the brief apertures. A blast of wind shakes the bare branches of the trees, and sends a shower of leaves cascading from the roof, scattering onto the driveway. While the light fails on a winter's afternoon, in a secluded cul-de-sac, history is now and California.

A plane descending breaks the air, and time reasserts its presence. My ancestors and the professor take their places beneath the yew tree once again, my father is in Texas, and I am here on a balcony in an old arm chair that makes my legs go to sleep because it has no footrest. The rain is still falling, with that faint scattered roar that seems to fill the senses, and it is time to go back inside, but I cannot bring myself to leave. I close my eyes for a moment, inhaling the scents of rain, smog, and jasmine. There is a stillness between the drops of the rain, and the voice of the waterfall can be heard in the rush of water in the gutter. It is enough. And all shall be well.

Book meme

Shamelessly stolen from Julie at HappyCatholic.blogspot.com!

 

1. Which book do you irrationally cringe away from reading, despite seeing only positive reviews? Well, until last year, it was Pride and Prejudice. But then I finally read it and liked it, so...hmmm. Have to pick a new irrational dislike soon.


2. If you could bring three characters to life for a social event (afternoon tea, a night of clubbing, perhaps a world cruise), who would they be and what would the event be? Drat, Julie already picked Harry Dresden. I guess mine would be Thursday Next from Jasper Fforde's hilarious books, Dejah Thoris from Burroughs' Mars books, and Gabriel Gale from Chesterton's stories. The afternoon would consist of throwing squashy veggies at over-rated authors (C. Paolini, watch your back!)


3. (Borrowing shamelessly from the Thursday Next series by Jasper Fforde): you are told you can’t die until you read the most boring novel on the planet. While this immortality is great for a while, eventually you realise it’s past time to die. Which book would you expect to get you a nice grave? Tale of Two Cities or Great Expectations. I like Dickens, but hey.
   


4. Come on, we’ve all been there. Which book have you pretended, or at least hinted, that you’ve read, when in fact you’ve been nowhere near it? Actually, I don't pretend to have read books. I may pretend to remember more about a book than I actually do, but I think that's it.
   
5. You’re interviewing for the post of Official Book Advisor to some VIP (who’s not a big reader). What’s the first book you’d recommend and why? (If you feel like you’d have to know the person, go ahead and personalise the VIP). Chesterton's The Everlasting Man. Fascinating overview of history from pagan times forward. Good idea for any VIP to read, regardless of personal theology.
   


6. A good fairy comes and grants you one wish: you will have perfect reading comprehension in the foreign language of your choice. Which language do you go with? Hmmm..hard to choose between Latin (so much beautiful stuff) or Greek (Plato in the original! *drools*). Oh the whole though, there's more to read in Latin. And it would get me out of 3 months of Latin homework that I haven't done.


7. A mischievous fairy comes and says that you must choose one book that you will reread once a year for the rest of your life (you can read other books as well). Which book would you pick? Only one? Well, I already read A Christmas Carol every year, and I'm starting to re-read The Divine Comedy every Easter...i guess maybe Eliot's Four Quartets? I re-read a lot...Books are wonderful friends!


8. I know that the book blogging community, and its various challenges, have pushed my reading borders. What’s one bookish thing you ‘discovered’ from book blogging (maybe a new genre, or author, or new appreciation for cover art-anything)? Well, I like most genres and styles as it is, so mostly the book bloggers make me aware of single books I haven't read: Eifelheim, World War Z, etc. No, I take it back: classic pulp. My love of classic pulp was instigated by John C. Wright's blog. since reading that blog, I have begun the Lensman series, the Tarzan series, and the Mars books. I love them all!


9. That good fairy is back for one final visit. Now, she’s granting you your dream library! Describe it. Is everything leather bound? Is it full of first edition hardcovers? Pristine trade paperbacks? Perhaps a few favourite authors have inscribed their works? Go ahead-let your imagination run free. *brain freeze induced by excessive bookyness* Uhh....Well, all the pulp would have two editions: the original and a good pulpy-looking paperback that's readable. I'd have at least one signed edition by each favorite author (my entire Bradbury collection would be autographed). I'd have copies of the classics in their original languages, and in English translations (if someone put Dorothy Sayers' Dante translation and notes with Gustav Dore's drawings, that would be heavenly). Of course it would have stone floors with thick oriental rugs, and those high bookshelves with the rolly ladders. Think the library from Beauty and the Beast, but in rich earth tones instead of icky pastels. And cushy armchairs, deep enough to curl up in. And a fireplace. And big french doors that open up onto a balcony with a mountain view. And a refirgerator, because I'd never leave to go get food. Seriously.

A re-post

I am re-posting this, because I want some of my writing groups to see it, and don't feel like moderating comments that far back in the archives

Four years ago, in my friend's English class, the prof was talking about the idea of the sublime, and said that some things, such as elephants running off a cliff into the sea in a rainstorm, could not be sublime. Liz, of course, took this as a challenge, and had our writing group write scenes in which that experience is sublime. Here is mine:


Sublime
-------------------
The problem with being granted a sign is that quite often, you need another sign to explain the first one.

So it is with the sign I have been given. I have no doubt that it is, in fact, a sign: it has unmade my thoughts and my heart is aflame. But what the sign signifies is beyond my ability to grasp.
It was a day ripe for signs, an apocalpyse contained in a rainstorm. The air was heavy and pregnant with moisture, yearning for release. The wind was cold and damp, heavily scented with the smell of the sea and rains from distant lands. The clouds hung heavy, barely clearing the ground, and lightning flashed in the distance.

I stood, with the ocean on my right and the trees to my left, looking out along the coast, and admiring the brief reflections that the lightning cast on the water. The waves rippled in the wind, as restless as the air itself. Suddenly, as the storm drew closer, an arc of lightning dashed out from the stormfront and cast itself into the water. The air was full of steam, and my nose prickled with a scent unlike any I had ever smelled. If anyone had been around to see, they would have seen my hair standing around my head like a halo, practically shimmering with electrons. It was then I knew that I must wait, for a sign would be granted.

I'm not sure how long I stood there, the incense of fire and water wafting around me, but it could not have been long, for the steam was still rising from the water when I began to hear it. At first, it was indistinguishable from the thunder. Then it was part of the thunder, a deep rumble in the land. Finally, it become the source from which the thunder rolled, crashing about my head.

As I turned to the trees, I saw them. They moved out of the trees as if they did not see them, and I am not at all sure that they did. I would say that they moved through the trees like ghosts, but it would be more truthful to say that the land and all that was in it were like ghosts in their presence. As they moved across my line of sight, I could see the water in their eyes. It called to them, as it had to me, but they alone knew how to answer the call.

To this day, I do not know whether they were called by the water, or the lightning, or by some force of which both were merely a symptom. But on they came, the lightning reflected in their tusks, ears blowing in the gusting wind. They were silent giants, except for the thunder of their stampeding feet. They did not trumpet to herald the lightning, nor to mourn their passing, but accepted it in a way that I cannot. For as they reached the cliffs that overlooked the sea, they did not slow, nor did they turn to the left or the right, but simply went over the edge of the cliff, into the water. Perhaps my hearing was damaged that day, or perhaps I simply was not listening, but I did not hear a single splash as they entered the water. The size of their bodies should have made a terriffic impact, but I heard nothing. Nothing, except the thunder of their feet, thunder beneath the waves.

I do not expect you to believe that this was a sign. After all, what could be significant about a herd of elephants running off a cliff into the ocean, in the rain? But this was my sign, my grail, and I do not know what it means. But to this day, when I hold a seashell to my ear, I hear a dim thunder beyond the rushing sound of the sea.

I have fallen in love with this group! (h/t to Anne for telling me about them). They are...well...i guess you could say Renaissance rock, or something like that. This is a video of them doing a lovely version of The Times They Are A-Changing.

Vote for my LolFrog!

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A much-neglected author

I suspect that many people have heard of the books of Edgar Rice Burroughs, but that relatively few remain who have actually read them. After all, to say that you are reading A Princess of Mars, or God forbid, Tarzan, tends to bring a laugh in reading circles, and outright derision in regular social circles.

But Burroughs is a wonderful pulp writer. (if you think I mean "pulp" in a derogatory sense, go read this essay by Chesterton, then come back and finish reading this post) Tarzan and John Carter are both gentlemen who would rather walk through fire than harm a woman; Dejah Thoris and Jane Porter (poor Jane; she is not the simpering weakling that she has been made out to be) would rather die than break a promise or draw their men away from a clear duty.

Burroughs writes characters who fight epic battles (approximately every three pages: but again, it's pulp, in the best sense) for honor alone, yet leave their enemies alive more often than you would expect (it is dishonorable to kill an enemy who can no longer harm you, after all).

Here is a sample, from the second Tarzan book. Tarzan has won the love of Jane Porter, but she has already promised herself to his cousin Clayton, Lord Greystoke:

"It was not for William Cecil Clayton, Lord Greystoke, that he had denied his birth. It was for the woman whom both he and Clayton had loved, and whom a strange freak of fate had given to Clayton instead of to him.

"That she loved him made the thing doubly difficult to bear, yet he knew that he could have done nothing less than he did do that night within the little railway station in the far Wisconsin woods. To him her happiness was the first consideration of all, and his brief experience with civilization and civilized men had taught him that without money and position life to most of them was unendurable.

"Jane Porter had been born to both, and had Tarzan taken them away from her future husband it would doubtless have plunged her into a life of misery and torture. That she would have spurned Clayton once he had been stripped of both his title and his estates never for once occurred to Tarzan, for he credited to others the same honest loyalty that was so inherent a quality in himself. Nor, in this instance, had he erred. Could any one thing have further bound Jane Porter to her promise to Clayton it would have been in the nature of some such misfortune as this overtaking him."

Not much contemporary literature would be able to contain words like these seriously, without any hint of sarcasm or irony. Duty. Honor. Loyalty. Keeping one's word, even when rashly given. When was the last time you heard these concepts taken seriously in a story? (well, probably Harry Potter, but then we're back to pulp. )

Now, of course the books do fall into some of the sins of their era: there is some racism, especially in Tarzan (though I hasten to add, white folk do not come off too swell, either; Burroughs seems to prefer to take people as individuals rather than groups). The important thing, though, is that they do NOT fall into the errors of today: heroism is glorified, not mocked; honor is expected; courage is praised; and both men and women are expected to act honorably.

Go read the books.

I just finished reading one of the oddest books I've ever encountered (other books on the list include The High House, Canticle for Leibowitz, the books of Charles Williams and George McDonald, Dune, etc). It is also, like the other books on the list, one of the best books I have ever read. The book is Eifelheim, by Michael Flynn.

The book has a rather bizarre premise; it tends to make people laugh, so let's get it out of the way first. The story is set in 14th century Germany, just before the Black Death hits. A group of aliens appears outside a small village, and are befriended by the local priest.

There. Odd, yes? Very. But the whole thing is presented so believably that it almost feels more like a narrative history than science fiction. One reviewer compared it to "Carl Sagan meets Umberto Eco." That's a very good description of the book, though I would argue that it has more of Eco than Sagan. It is not a fluff book: knowledge of medieval philosophy, theology, cosmology, and science is essential (you can get a good feel for those things by reading C.S. Lewis' The Discarded Image). Some knowledge of current physics and dimension theories is also useful, though not necessary.

The story is a very intense, character-driven work. No-one in the story is without serious flaws, but virtue also comes out in unexpected places. One of the things that impressed me the most was that the author took seriously the translation troubles that would occur between the aliens and the Germans. The aliens manage to construct a rudimentary translator, but even then, the reader can see serious miscommunication happening. (this is one problem with most sci-fi/fantasy--no-one takes the language barrier seriously. The animated movie, Atlantis, was particularly execrable in this regard. At least Stargate came up with something remotely believeable for the movie, though there seems to be no barrier in the tv series) However, the author also finds ways for the two peoples to have productive philosophical and scientific discourse, which often drives the story.

I can hardly recommend this book highly enough. Several of my favorite bloggers have also enjyoed the book (Happy Catholic, for one, and I think John C. Wright as well, though I can't find the post. It may have been a different blogger)

Vote for my LOLcats!

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When I was a young child, perhaps 7, I attended a church service that affected me deeply. It was around New Year's, and the pastor read aloud the names of those in the congregation who had died the previous year. After he had read the list, a soloist sang a song that almost made me cry with its loveliness and sentiment; I made a point to memorize the song. It is my practice to think of this song at New Year's, and to think of those in my life who have passed on.

This year:

Irene Clancy
Roy Clancy
Madeleine L'Engle, my favorite author
Michael K., husband of my coworker
Pam Cole

Those from years past who are still on my heart:

Irene Pearcy
Gene Ledbetter, the teacher who inspired me to write
Rich Mullins, musician
Pope John Paul II
Frank Capra (yes, I pray for celebrities. Allow me my eccentricities)
Myles Connolly, author
Richard Omondi
Janelle Debris

The Abiding Love, to the tune of Auld Lang Syne:

It singeth low in every heart,
We hear it each and all-
A song of those who answer not,
However we may call;
They throng the silence of the breast,
We see them as of yore-
The kind, the brave, the true, the sweet,
Who walk with us no more.

'Tis hard to take the burden up
When these have laid it down;
They brightened all the joy of life,
They softened every frown;
But, Oh, 'tis good to think of them
When we are troubled sore!
Thanks be to God that such have been,
Though they are here no more.

More homelike seems the vast unknown
Since they have entered there;
To follow them were not so hard,
Wherever they may fare;
They cannot be where God is not,
On any sea or shore;
Whate'er betides, Thy love abides,
Our God, forever more.

moar funny pictures

Respect

I've been thinking lately about my co-worker. She is a very devout follower of a religion that I consider to be a false one, but I simply have to admire her actions. In the office she never participates in any of the holiday celebrations, since they are not observed by her faith tradition, but she never makes a big deal about it, either. The office radio is right behind her, and she never complains when it plays all Christmas music.

 

We all know her stance on these things, but no-one is inconvenienced or embarassed because of it. She quietly does what she believes is right, with no compromise on her part, but no forcing of her beliefs on anyone else here.

 

I find that immensely impressive. That's a tough line to walk.

Meeting the Master

Ok, I really am going to try to keep up with my blog.

 

For those of you who don't know, on Saturday, I went to a community theatre performance in South Pasadena. There were only 80 seats in the theatre, so it was a pretty intimate crowd. The plays performed were based on short stories by my favorite living author(and one of my tope three fav of all time), Ray Bradbury. Mr. Bradbury himself was present, and spoke to the audience about love and writing for about an hour. Afterwards, I got to have my copy of The Martian Chronicles signed by the master himself.

 

It is hard for me to express how much the experience meant to me. I've been reading Bradbury since I was about 8, and he had a huge influence on my creative style. His stories have made me laugh, think, and cry. To meet him was a huge honor, and to hear him talk so openly to the audience was quite moving. I know of no other author of his stature (he's one of the 2 living classic sci-fi greats) who is so generous with his time (he does this every few months).

 

I can't wait for the next performance!

What Color Is A Dark Night?

I met him on a blustery day in late October. I was sitting on a bus stop bench, reading the day's newspaper, trying to ignore the damp chill sinking into my bones. The South is incredibly beautiful, but humid beyond my usual tolerance. It was a gray overcast day, so I was surprised to see a thin young man wearing sunglasses walk out of a coffee shop across the street. His green scarf was wrapped loosely around his neck, and hung down his back, contrasting with the dark grey of his jacket.

I have never thought of myself as a patricularly nosy person, but I am very interested in the things that happen around me. On a whim, I decided to follow this young man, though I was careful to stay a block or so behind him. He turned right and went up a small side street. He didn't seem to be aware of me following him, so I dared to come a little closer. At the next intersection, he turned left  around the corner, I lost sight of him, and quickened my pace a little in hopes of finding him again. I suddenly found myself at the street corner, looking up at a large spired building. A shaft of sunlight broke through the clouds for a moment, and the basilica's shadow stretched across the road for a moment, before fading back into the grey dimness of the afternoon.

One of the doors stood open, and I found myself drawn inside; there were few lights on, and the sanctuary was dim. My eyes took some time adjusting to the light, because I stumbled in the back of the room.

"It's unusual to find anyone else here at this time of day," came a quiet voice from one of the pews. I squinted into the gloom, and could just make out the gleam of candle light on two black lenses.

"Most people don't stop by here unless there's a Mass. And unless I'm mistaken, you're from out of town." I could see him now, silhouetted against the dimmed lights at the front of the sanctuary. He slowly removed his sunglasses, and looked at me.

"Yes, I'm just in town visiting. I'd heard about the basilica and wanted to see it. I guess I came at the wrong time, it's too dark to see anything in here. I suppose I'll come back when they turn more of the lights on." I got up to leave, embarassed at having been noticed.

"Actually, I like the santuary best at times like this. It's quiet now, and the lights don't hurt my eyes."

I let out a short laugh, which echoed around the room. "That's a bit of an understatement. It's so dim in here that I can hardly see. But I guess it would be gentler on the eyes in some ways."

He shook his head. "I see more than you do." He walked over to where I stood, and looked into my eyes. His eyes were almost black, the pupils wide and dilated. "I was born with abnormal pupils. They don't close right in bright light, so I don't go out much in the day." He held up the thick black sunglasses. "On cloudy days like today, I can just manage with my shades." The thin young man saw the look on my face, and laughed quietly. I guess I must have had a ook of pity, because he continued, "Don't feel sorry for me. I have a night job, and I live a normal life. Well, not normal as most people would consider normal, but a full life."

I nodded; my eyes had adjusted to the dimness, and I coudl see him more clearly now. He stood in the aisle, leaning against a pew, eyes fixed on the green carpet at his feet though he seemed to be looking at something much farther away.

I took another step toward the door, and he looked up again. "Can you look outside and tell me if it's still cloudy? I should be getting home, but if the sun's breaking through I can wait a while."

"What if it clears off? Will you wait till night?" I wished I had a car to offer him a ride, but I'd come into town on the bus lines, and walked anywhere I wanted to go.

"I won't have to wait long in any case. There's a storm coming up, I can smell the rain on the wind. Didn't you notice it? It's such a unique scent, almost a metallic tang, but so much sweeter. It'll be raining in another hour or so, and I can make my way home then, if I need to."

I went over to the door and opened it. "It's alright, the clouds are heavier now, it's darker than when I came in." He put on his sunglasses again, and joined me at the door. "Good. I shouldn't have any trouble getting home then. Thank you."

"What if it rains while you're walking home? Isn't there anyone you can call to come pick you up?"

"No, it's alright.  It's not that cold today, and the walking keeps me warm anyway. I like the rain. I can see more in the rain than I can in the sunlight, and even more when it rains at night." His smile looked strange, with his eyes hidden behind the dark lenses. "If you come out in the storm tonight, I can show you a little bit of what I see. Believe me, it's like nothing you've ever seen in the light of day." He scribbled short set of directions on a slip of paper, and handed it to me. "I'll be there when the storm hits. Once you've seen what I see, you won't feel sorry for me again." He gave a slight bow, and touched the edge of his glasses like a salute. Then he turned and was soon out of sight among the buildings.

 

I spent the rest of the afternoon in my hotel room, pacing restlessly. Out of my window, I could see the street below; everyone seemed to be hurrying by, eager to complete their daily activities before the rain hit. Every so often a large drop would hit the window, but it didn't begin to rain in earnest until the sun went down. It peeked out from behind the clouds, red and swollen, for a few moments, then seemed to sink into the waters of the river.

Almost at once, the wind rose, and I heard the rain begin to fall. I shivered; it looked cold outside, and I had no raincoat. I wanted nothing more than to fix a pot of coffee, and settle down with a good book, but I found myself pulling on a thick sweater and a pair of boots, and setting out into the storm.

 

The first gust of wind took my breath away, and I wrapped my arms around myself. I was saoked through in a few minutes, and quickened my pace to try and keep warm. I stopped under a streetlight to check my directions, and continued down the street. In about half an hour I found the place; it was almost completely dark, away from all the street lights, and I felt a moment's hesitation. But then the lightning flashed, and I could see a thin form standing on top of a small hill, arms spread outward and face upraised to the sky.

"So you did come!" he called to me, as I walked up beside him. "I thought you might not; every so often I invite someone out here, but usually no-one comes."

His face was pale in the cold night air, and I could see the steam from his breath. "It's cold out here, and it's night. I can't see anything." I stepped up beside him, shivering.

"Here, stand on top of this little hill. Now face into the wind. Dont' worry, the rain might sting a little, but it won't put out your eye or anything. Look out there, straight into the wind."

I turned slightly, and felt the rain dash itself against my face, stinging the blood to my cheeks. Beside me, the young man lifted his arms to the sky again, and began to sing. The words were drowned out by the wind and the thunder, but the tune was wild and joyful, sad and sweet. As the lightning flashed, I could see the leaves caught up by the wind, swirling in a  mad dance, and the trees shone wetly green, but after an instant the sight was gone.

"What do you see," I called into the wind.

"I see red leaves so sharp-edged that you'd swear they drew blood, whirling in a crazy wind. The trees are throwing themselves against each other like giants wrestling. The grass shines in the lightning, and glows dimly green in the rain. The raindrops are like meteors blazing through the air, and I can see them flattening themselves against the asphalt."

The storm rose in fury, but I didn't notice it. The things I could see in the flashes of lightning could never compare to what my companion saw in the darkness of the night. I stood there for an hour while the storm spent itself out, listening as he called out the sights that passed before his wide-open eyes.

Finally, the wind died down, and the rain slowed to a steady drizzle. My companion had gone, disappeared into the night. I stumbled my way back to my hotel, drawing the stare of the desk clerk as I came through the lobby. I must have been quite a sight: soaked through to the bone, hair tangled by the wind, with bits of leaves caught up in it. I took a hot shower, but even after I was warm and dry, I couldn't sleep. I sat by the window, with all the lights in the room off, watching the rain. Finally, just before dawn, I fell asleep.

My bus left at 10am, and I barely made it. I had just enough time to fling myself into the last remaining window seat. I stuffed my bag under the seat in front of me, and looked out at the small town. I caught a glimpse of a few people milling around the station. Near the street stood a young man, thin t-shirt covered by a jacket, large black sunglasses protecting his eyes, and the looks of pity he received from those who passed by. He touched the tip of his glasses as the bus went by, and then he was gone.

I never found out his name. But even now, I go out and stand in my backyard when the rain comes, and sometimes I can see a little.