"The world is too much with us; late and soon,Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers”
I’ve been trying to remember that quote all week. Well, for the last several weeks. I had it wrong in my head, and it turns out it’s from Wordsworth. When will that dead poet ever leave me alone?
In the very first conversation I had with the chairman of the English Department when I was beginning the work on my Masters, I remember saying something to the effect of “Wordsworth is aptly named, as he seemed the think more words were better than fewer.”
Turns out the chairman of the department was a Wordsworth scholar.
Our next conversation had to do with some of my paperwork regarding my assistanceship. I was attending a religiously-funded school (religious as in religious and not as in devoted to the regular funding of education). He wanted to ask about one of the answers I had given as to religion: I had entered “None.”
At that time, I gave an honest answer to what I thought was an honest question.
The chairman kindly noted that he had seen me at the Episcopal church that he attended and advised me that the institution I was attending wouldn’t mind if I were Jewish, but I had to have a religion to get an assistanceship.
So I became, for their reasons, Episcopalian.
The Episcopal church doesn’t know that I used their good name to dodge a thorny (and in my view, still) silly question.
And to them, I apologize.
If I have besmirched with my later life the reputation of a denomination that I have great respect for, I’m truly sorry. If I were going to participate in any organized religion, it would be with you.
Turns out I’m a little too mouthy for most people. I’ve long thought that saying what you mean and meaning it and standing by it is more important than who your favorite writer is or how you choose to celebrate the majesty of the universe.
Unfortunately, Mr. Wordsworth was right. The world is too much with us. That’s become painfully clear in the last few months.
Daddy’s ill and may not see his 68th birthday this September. And I haven’t been home in 15 years. I saw Daddy a couple of years ago when he came to town to see my sister.
We had lunch.
That was about it.
I’m going home next month for the first time in a decade and a half. I haven’t told them yet, so let me break the news. I’m going to tell them not to tell anyone else until after I’m gone. I only have couple of days, and everyone else can wait. It’ll be sort of a commando visit.
Slip in.
See Daddy.
Come back home, where my prime responsibility lies.
Right now, he’s asleep in the next room, and I’m going to join him soon.
Between the two of us, we’ll get through “life too much with us” or otherwise.
We’re both male and well-old enough to be stubborn as hell.
In the mean-time, I write about things that happened long ago and just yesterday. They’re equally relevant, the two. We learn from our past and from our present, or we are dead.
Spiritually, I mean.
And I will go on trying to yank some truth and meaning from the jungle of absurdity that life has become. If I have to do it root by root and tree by tree.
The only good thing about getting to be an old man (you don’t want to know the down side, believe me) is that the stubborn factor goes up by a power of ten each year. And I get more fiercely protective of my baby (aka “Old Man”) on about the same scale.
He’s the only baby I’ve got, and Daddy’s the only daddy I have.
I’m going to steering clear of Wordsworth, though. He’s already gotten me in trouble. Or, rather, my big mouth got me in trouble talking about Wordsworth to the wrong person.
As a very strict rule, I don’t talk about how much money I make (or don’t make) or who I voted for (or didn’t). Those subjects are between me, Chase Bank, God and the Democratic party.
Perhaps I should include dead poets on the list.
I’ve been trying to remember that quote all week. Well, for the last several weeks. I had it wrong in my head, and it turns out it’s from Wordsworth. When will that dead poet ever leave me alone?
In the very first conversation I had with the chairman of the English Department when I was beginning the work on my Masters, I remember saying something to the effect of “Wordsworth is aptly named, as he seemed the think more words were better than fewer.”
Turns out the chairman of the department was a Wordsworth scholar.
Our next conversation had to do with some of my paperwork regarding my assistanceship. I was attending a religiously-funded school (religious as in religious and not as in devoted to the regular funding of education). He wanted to ask about one of the answers I had given as to religion: I had entered “None.”
At that time, I gave an honest answer to what I thought was an honest question.
The chairman kindly noted that he had seen me at the Episcopal church that he attended and advised me that the institution I was attending wouldn’t mind if I were Jewish, but I had to have a religion to get an assistanceship.
So I became, for their reasons, Episcopalian.
The Episcopal church doesn’t know that I used their good name to dodge a thorny (and in my view, still) silly question.
And to them, I apologize.
If I have besmirched with my later life the reputation of a denomination that I have great respect for, I’m truly sorry. If I were going to participate in any organized religion, it would be with you.
Turns out I’m a little too mouthy for most people. I’ve long thought that saying what you mean and meaning it and standing by it is more important than who your favorite writer is or how you choose to celebrate the majesty of the universe.
Unfortunately, Mr. Wordsworth was right. The world is too much with us. That’s become painfully clear in the last few months.
Daddy’s ill and may not see his 68th birthday this September. And I haven’t been home in 15 years. I saw Daddy a couple of years ago when he came to town to see my sister.
We had lunch.
That was about it.
I’m going home next month for the first time in a decade and a half. I haven’t told them yet, so let me break the news. I’m going to tell them not to tell anyone else until after I’m gone. I only have couple of days, and everyone else can wait. It’ll be sort of a commando visit.
Slip in.
See Daddy.
Come back home, where my prime responsibility lies.
Right now, he’s asleep in the next room, and I’m going to join him soon.
Between the two of us, we’ll get through “life too much with us” or otherwise.
We’re both male and well-old enough to be stubborn as hell.
In the mean-time, I write about things that happened long ago and just yesterday. They’re equally relevant, the two. We learn from our past and from our present, or we are dead.
Spiritually, I mean.
And I will go on trying to yank some truth and meaning from the jungle of absurdity that life has become. If I have to do it root by root and tree by tree.
The only good thing about getting to be an old man (you don’t want to know the down side, believe me) is that the stubborn factor goes up by a power of ten each year. And I get more fiercely protective of my baby (aka “Old Man”) on about the same scale.
He’s the only baby I’ve got, and Daddy’s the only daddy I have.
I’m going to steering clear of Wordsworth, though. He’s already gotten me in trouble. Or, rather, my big mouth got me in trouble talking about Wordsworth to the wrong person.
As a very strict rule, I don’t talk about how much money I make (or don’t make) or who I voted for (or didn’t). Those subjects are between me, Chase Bank, God and the Democratic party.
Perhaps I should include dead poets on the list.
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