PittGirl has figured out how to guarentee a Steelers victory tomorow.

Terry Teachout on why some artists dry up.

“Some ways indeed are very odd

By which we hail the birth of God.” – Advent 1955, John Betjeman

It feels so strange for anyone trying to live according to the liturgical year.  It is not Christmas yet.  Christmas is a faint, far away hope.  A glimmering light, barely perceived along the horizon.  And between that light and us stretches a bleak, yet beautiful field – all snowy grasses and icy ruts and grey sky.

And yet, as the world goes, it is Christmastime.  I saw people driving home today with trees strapped to the roofs of their cars.  The local radio station has started to work Christmas music into their rotation.  There are lights up – lining shop windows and glimmering behind the thin curtains of so many living rooms.  The seasonal aisles have shaken off the turkey feathers and are decked in red and green.

I want to enjoy all this.  And part of me does.  I have a love for the secular season that no amount of theological reflection can dim.  “Silver Bells” is my favorite non-religious carol and for me it conjures up both memories (the childhood trip to Pittsburgh to see Santa and look at the fancy downtown windows) and a nostalgia for a time I never knew (Miracle on 34th Street-land – Christmas in a classier time).

And yet…

There is much to do before Christmas.  Much I must do.  Oh Come, Oh Come Emmanuel to sing.  Alms to give.  Prayers to say.  Confession to go to.  Housecleaning to do.  I must reflect on how bleak the time is, before I can marvel at the light that makes all bright and cheery and fine.

And then, just when I’m ready to kick off my shoes and party – it all goes away.  Just when my liturgical shindig commences, the world’s shuts off.  There is nothing sadder than the November pine, shorn of tinsel, and lying, ready for the garbage men on December 26th.

It is a balancing act: enjoying the public Christmas, while the public is willing to give it to you, but keeping Advent in your heart.

Everyone else has posted it, and I hate to be left out:

I await Mr. Thompson’s “more later,” but my experience of the “Irish clerical diaspora” (at least in its American incarnation) has, I suspect, been somewhat different from his.  In the meantime, prayers are all that are left, really.

Theatreites provide Thanksgiving Play Puns.

Light-hearted, sitcomy, romance.  Check.  I’m with you.

Cold-blooded murder.  Check.  I’m with you.

Cold-blooded murder right in the middle of a light-hearted, sitcomy romance.  Cold-blooded murder that we’re supposed to laugh at and think is no big deal.  Ummmm….. You lost me.

Today I visited the grave of my father, dead just over four months.  It was a beautiful day, crisp and clear and bracing and tonight brought a full moon.  If you are of a praying disposition, please pray for the repose of his soul.  “Of your charity,” as they used to say.

It hurts and hurts and hurts.

I will write of him soon.  But not quite yet.

Now, I must to bed.

- William Archer, About the Theatre

Movie narrative charts.  Via.

November issue of the magazine of the Priestly Fraternity of Saint Peter in England, Dowry, is now online.

Pre-order your copy of Terry Teachout’s Louis Armstrong biography.

This is one of the reasons why I no longer live in California.  Not the most important reason.  But a reason none the less.  I am, I gather, part of a small, but growing movement: members of the “creative class” making a life outside the traditional centers of arts and culture.  Cost of living is certainly one of the explanations.  New York and LA are getting too expensive for true Bohemians.  More on this some other time.

The Guardian First Book Award short list.  Anything here I shouldn’t miss?  My attention was drawn to The Rehearsal… I wonder why?

The Kindertrauma Jukebox.  So little time.  Sigh.  Via.