My sister-in-law said on her blog that “if you’re too busy to blog, then you’re too busy!” I read this while I glanced through my blogroll this morning during my quick Internet routine, prioritizing emails, posts, etc, to go over again when I get back from class and (maybe) have a little time. Considering that my posting frequency has dropped, and correspondingly the posts have become longer, my response was “but I am busy!” I try to make up for my infrequent posts by writing interesting ones when I do. Otherwise you might get a post written while I wait for my oatmeal to cool to a temperature suitable for consumption, the oatmeal-and-apple being my second breakfast, masquerading as lunch, for the day, eaten in an absentmindedness caused from staying up until 1 AM doing homework that we weren’t going to turn in, for a class I’m not even being assessed on. I need to go to the store, as my options for lunch were pasta or oatmeal, and I opted for oatmeal because it took less time to make, and I’m on my last tea bag. After I finish reading Nicholas Love today I’m supposed to call Felicity and we’ll both make the dreaded trip to Tesco. Until then, I’m going to eat my apple, finish my tea, read “Sunday” and the Treatise, go over the discussion questions, and brush up on my Lollardy and Carthusian monks.
A moment of victory: Dr Maxwell-Stuart switched to my side of the room half-way through the new exercises–“I don’t want to leave anyone out unnecessarily”–where I sit at the front, leaving me no time to prepare, and I successfully parsed Stellam claram viderunt et statim Altum Deum laudabant. “They saw a bright star and immediately began to praise God on High.” Three weeks into Latin and we’ve got 6 cases, 4 tenses, and 4 declensions, and somewhere in my brain it’s beginning to click.
More than once this passage has come to mind over the past few weeks:
For povreliche yfostred up was she,
No likerous lust was thurgh hir herte yronne.
Wel ofter of the welle than of the tonne
She drank, and for she wolde vertu plese
She knew wel labour but noon ydel ese.
But thogh this mayde tendre were of age,
Yet in the brest of hire virginitee
Ther was enclosed rype and sad corage;
And in greet reverence and charitee
Hir olde povre fader fostred shee.
A fewe sheepe, spynnynge on feeld she kepte,
She wolde noght been ydel, til she slepte.
–“The Clerk’s Tale,” The Canterbury Tales, Geoffrey Chaucer, IV. 213-224