EXTRA

I was in prison and you came to visit me.
[Matthew 25:36]

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If you aren’t Ecuadorian, you might not appreciate this story. And if you’re very, very Ecuadorian, with no outsider’s perspective, you might not appreciate it, either. But I’ll try to explain it.

The Russian soccer league is on holiday. One of its employees — Felipe Caicedo, Ecuadorian goalscorer — is using his time off to play soccer in his homeland, for charity. (1) A week ago he played in a fundraiser in Esmeraldas. (2) More recently he’s been visiting prisoners in Guayaquil, bringing them food (5000 kg of rice, 280 chickens) and playing in their soccer tournament.

He explains how God called him to do this:

Mira, estaba en mi cama y recordé la Peni Champions, lo leí en el EXTRA y era como si Dios me decía lo que tenía que hacer, y me puse como meta venir hasta acá.

When Stephen read this to me, I laughed for five minutes.

Translation:

I was in bed and remembered [the prison soccer tournament]; I read about it in the EXTRA and it was as if God were telling me what to do. …

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EL DIARIO EXTRA is a tabloid, a purveyor of sex and graphic violence, infamous for its lurid photos and shocking headlines:

¡Pum! contra un camión

Con un arma mató a siete

¡Mató al entenado a “cuchillo limpio”!

Una piedra en el camino … ¡lo mató!

This is Ecuador all over: horror viewed with a certain innocence. It isn’t strange for a Christian to admit to reading this. EXTRA is our most popular newspaper.

Caicedo explains why he serves the prisoners:

Son personas que por cosas de la vida están acá y qué mejor de venir y poder estar unas horas y hacer que se olviden de sus problemas, y si eso sirve de algo gracias a Dios.

(“They’re people who, because of life’s circumstances, are here [in prison]. What could be better than to come and stay a few hours and distract them from their troubles? If this is useful, then thanks be to God.”)

“Life’s circumstances.” Ordinary disasters. Violent porn culled from daily life. One reads it for amusement, then hears the call of God and visits the local prison to comfort the broken.

Christmas 2012

Christmastime: family, family, and more family. It’s been kind of nice.

I hadn’t expected that Mary & Martin would be here in South Bend — they’d intended to go to Illinois — but on Christmas Eve, Mary got an infection and had to be admitted to Memorial Hospital. I visited her for several hours. It was kind of nice.

She’s out of the hospital now. She’s better.

I spent three consecutive days with my Uncle John, my Aunt Lorena, and their daughters, Annie & Vickie. Today I went to their house for Christmas dinner. At first they were surprised, but then they remembered they’d invited me. We ate spaghetti. It was good. … I convinced my aunt and cousins to read Wuthering Heights with me, one chapter each day. I’ve never read it. My aunt has, several times.

Annie was given a tree for Christmas — a Charlie Brown Christmas tree. Here it is:

:) :) :)

Tomorrow is Carlos Muñoz Day.

Romaniacs, pt. 862: The twins (and their father)

This was how they looked in 2006:

And in 2012 the twins are in middle school, more bashful, more aware of boys. Their openness is gone. Now they stare downward, hair veiling their eyes.

As usual, I give them unsolicited advice:

“When a boy likes you, be nice to him.”

They look up shyly and smile.

(The advice is from the heart, but upon reflection seems incomplete. Perhaps I should have said: “Be nice to the boy — provided he’s not deluded, or narcissistic, or a non-Christian …”)

(Or maybe such provisos are too complicated, or beside the point. Maybe the most effective principle really is, simply, Be Nice.)

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I’ve known these friends since they were infants. They used to be wild but submissive; now they’re quiet but rebellious. Their father suffers constant rejection from them. He bears it cheerfully enough. What could he still teach to such full-minded creatures? They will no longer listen to him: in writing they inform him, “Your pounts are erelivent, your judgmints are too.” What a handicap for a philosopher, to be disarmed of his points and judgments! It would appear that his only recourse is to love.

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We go into a green-carpeted warehouse. This is where the Hispanic girls have their soccer league; the twins (Romaniacs) play for one of the teams. The style of play is pinball. The league’s purpose is to teach girls not to fear the ball, not to shirk from getting blasted in the face. (This happens again and again.)

I am unimpressed. As the twins’ father and I recline in our chairs and watch the bloodbath, I mention girls’ concussion rates. I mention the superior youth training at F.C. Barcelona. He shrugs it all off. Are my points irrelevant? And are my judgments, too?

Better to discuss my friend’s research on forgiveness. Forgiveness is what he thinks about now. This, finally, is worth prioritizing: what forgiveness is, what a forgiving person is. Not what dating is, or debating: those pursuits may have some value, but the fact is, people are alienated from each other more than they realize. Forgiveness must be cultivated first.

More Yeats

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Before the World Was Made

If I make the lashes dark
And the eyes more bright
And the lips more scarlet,
Or ask if all be right
From mirror after mirror,
No vanity’s displayed:
I’m looking for the face I had
Before the world was made.

What if I look upon a man
As though on my beloved,
And my blood be cold the while
And my heart unmoved?
Why should he think me cruel
Or that he is betrayed?
I’d have him love the thing that was
Before the world was made.

A First Confession

I admit the briar
Entangled in my hair
Did not injure me;
My blenching and trembling
Nothing but dissembling,
Nothing but coquetry.

I long for truth, and yet
I cannot stay from that
My better self disowns,
For a man’s attention
Brings such satisfaction
To the craving in my bones.

Brightness that I pull back
From the Zodiac,
Why those questioning eyes
That are fixed upon me?
What can they do but shun me
If empty night replies?

Her Triumph

I did the dragon’s will until you came
Because I had fancied love a casual
Improvisation, or a settled game
That followed if I let the kerchief fall:
Those deeds were best that gave the minute wings
And heavenly music if they gave it wit;
And then you stood among the dragon-rings.
I mocked, being crazy, but you answered it
And broke the chain and set my ankles free,
Saint George or else a pagan Perseus;
And now we stare astonished at the sea,
And a miraculous strange bird shrieks at us.

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A literary gathering

Kenny had invited over some Koreans and Japanese. When I walked in, the party was winding down. The revelers were sitting on the floor with their dregs of Asian booze; Lost in Translation was on TV, but nobody was paying attention.

I was an instant hit. “You are very handsome,” said the Asians. (Males, all of them.)

I decided these guys were all right.

“All Americans are very handsome,” said the Asians.

This irked me, for I knew that by “Americans” they meant gringos, not South Americans. But I quietly forgave them.

Soon I had them debating which was better – Korea or Japan. Or rather, I had the Koreans debating against each other. The Japanese wouldn’t debate that issue; to them, the answer was clear enough.

Then I showed them which novel I’d been reading that day: The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle by Haruki Murakami. There were grunts of approval all around. “He’s a good writer,” said one of the Koreans. “He describes everything.” “What do you mean, everything?” said his compatriot. “I mean, he describes all the clothes everyone wears,” explained the first Korean.

I hadn’t noticed that, but I’d noticed how Murakami would describe everyone’s food: spaghetti, stir-fry, cheese-and-tomato sandwiches. I really like it when a novelist will do that; it’s a trick I associate with Hemingway. That prosaic sensualist. That glutton.

The first Korean had earned a degree in English literature, but his favorite writer was Yeats. And so tonight I looked at some of Yeats’s poems.

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A Crazed Girl

That crazed girl improvising her music,
Her poetry, dancing upon the shore,
Her soul in division from itself
Climbing, falling she knew not where,
Hiding amid the cargo of a steamship
Her knee-cap broken, that girl I declare
A beautiful lofty thing, or a thing
Heroically lost, heroically found.

No matter what disaster occurred
She stood in desperate music wound
Wound, wound, and she made in her triumph
Where the bales and the baskets lay
No common intelligible sound
But sang, ‘O sea-starved hungry sea.’

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Fifteen years later

A couple of weeks ago I said my team would end its title drought. And now it has. Last night, Deportivo Quito defeated Emelec, ensuring that Barcelona would finish in first place.

All around Ecuador, thousands (millions?) of barcelonistas took to the streets.

My parents, gleeful:

In South Bend, Kenny and I took to McDonald’s.

KPC

This year I’m looking at job ads in a different way. For example, there’s one from a college in rural Saskatchewan. Last year I would’ve leaped at it, anticipating that Netflix and Amazon would sustain me. But now I’m warier: I want to know which churches are in that place.

For the first time, I’m being picky about where to worship. I don’t want to just settle for the nearest building or for the most familiar denomination (i.e., the least distant relation). I wish I could choose a church first, and move to it.

Why am I being so picky? I guess it’s because I’m (surprisingly) glad to be worshiping at Keller Park. I’ve often had enthusiasm about this church; I used to admire what it did for other people (or what it was trying to do). But now I’m experiencing its influence:

• my resistance (intellectual, emotional) is loosening;
• my prayers are more frequent and less vexed;
• I’m more interested in the other congregants.

And if elsewhere I don’t continue experiencing these things, I’ll be disappointed.

When I do get hired to teach philosophy, I’ll be sad to move away from KPC. But I remind myself that right now I’m enjoying a respite, not fulfilling my vocation. For all I know, the blessings here will cool if I overstay my season.

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At the bus stop, a beggar fleeces me. We converse; he notices the wound on the back of my hand.

How did you get that?

I spattered hot cooking oil onto my hand.

You should cover it with cocoa butter.

No.

Yes, that’s what you should do for burns. Be careful. Those scabs will scar.

I wouldn’t mind. That would look cool.

[Delighted:] Like a tattoo?

Yes, like a tattoo. And I’m pleased with these scabs because people talk to me about them.

[He sits down next to me.] Where are you from?

Ecuador.

Where’s that?

South America.

South America! And where do you live?

Here. In the neighborhood.

[We discuss our schooling, our work. He is a mechanic. He wants to be trained to become a welder but first must earn his G.E.D.]

[The bus is arriving. Now is my chance. I say:]

Do you go to church?

Yes, at First Methodist.

I attend the Keller Park Church. That’s why I moved into the neighborhood. To attend that church.

[A wave of feeling washes over him. He smiles with his three teeth:]

Well that’s wonderful.

[Fist bump.]

I board the bus. He walks down the sidewalk with the fare I’ve given him.

A room with a view

Having just finished reading A Room with a View, I revisited the movie. It improves upon its source in this way: it gives more humor to the young George Emerson.

In this added scene, George climbs a tree and says his “creed.” And in this one, he teases the story’s killjoy, the spinster Charlotte Bartlett. Without such scenes I doubt that Roger Ebert would have said that George was his favorite character.

And not only does the movie reveal George more completely, it also reveals Freddy Honeychurch and the Reverend Arthur Beebe.

My own bedroom has no view; the blinds are always closed. (They’re translucent, however, and through them one sees the dancing silhouettes of leaves.) I do not stay long in my bedroom. I leave it to sit in the front room, or to pace in the kitchen. Or I spend hours out of doors. I’ve been outside more this year than ever in my life. In Ithaca my room had a splendid view, but I languished in my armchair day after day.

Thirty-one

Yesterday I turned thirty-one. Loved ones gave me lunch and supper; on Facebook, the commentators were effusive. So I’ve no complaints.

But the previous day, Sunday, was the spectacular one. I played soccer for the first time in a month. I ran tirelessly and scored five golazos. (So what if most of my opponents were approx. twelve years old.)

Meanwhile, in Ecuador, Barcelona were thrashing Emelec, 5 to 0. This is the year we’ll end our title drought.

Some thoughts about turning thirty-one:

(i) My experience is vast.

(ii) I wish I owned more books. I don’t own as many as my parents did at thirty-one. The other day, my brother Stephen told me in all seriousness, “John-Paul, you really don’t own very many books.”

(iii) I look younger than I did last year. Or, at least, more youthful.

(iv) I’m as idealistic as ever. (This is evident from my recent blog posts.) Barring some Phineas Gage disaster or weird chemical influence, that quality will never, ever change.

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Kenny wants me to tell you that his Xanga is currently unavailable because he’s hiding. He’s been offered a new job, and wants to appear squeaky-clean on the Internet for a while.

Kenny, I love you, but we are not alike. I will never try to appear squeaky-clean.

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I wish I could trust someone who wanted to be President of the United States.

[Kelly Oxford]

I am cocky

I thought it was windy on Tuesday when I took my exercise; I didn’t realize I was running along the edge of a hurricane. No wonder there were moments when I was blown across the sidewalk. And later, when I returned home from work, I was the only pedestrian for miles. Such moments offer a peculiar, lonely satisfaction: I’ve outlasted everyone; I’ve won.

Last week I covered fifty-six miles outside, on foot. It was no special effort. It’s becoming normal.

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With Cat, my neighbor, I saw A River Runs Through It: a movie about fathers and sons. The son shows his writing to his father; the father praises it, then highlights every error. That was kind, said Cat. That’s what I do all day long, I told her; that’s my job. Showing people how stupid they are, said Cat.

That amused me: it was accurate. Well, I said, I manage to do it with some tact.

Gradually I’ve amassed a sort of clientele: students who hope to be tutored specifically by me. I suppose that deep down, I wish to outperform the other tutors. But I try to concentrate on other things. Before I go in to work, I pray that I might show my students and colleagues the love of Christ. Then I put that out of mind, and until a student approaches, I try to focus on Agatha Christie, or upon the problems in my life. And when I’m finally asked to tutor, I’m able to give the student my full, bemused attention. The trick is to coax the student into sharing that bemusement. Usually it works.

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What’s your name? said one student. It’s not just Paul.

It’s John-Paul.

I don’t want to forget your name, she said.

I will forget yours, I told her. I see hundreds of students; I don’t remember all of them. And I don’t expect them to remember me.

They will remember you, she said.

She told me she wanted to become a social studies teacher, Lord willing. Lord willing indeed. That job is hard to obtain. She wasn’t stupid, not at all, but she was a college senior who still had serious trouble writing. My heart was aching for her.

Usually my feelings are more triumphant. In this small arena, I’m the unquestioned expert. I bask in the students’ awe and gratitude. My confidence is unchecked: it shines, and the students photosynthesize some of it for themselves. I take pleasure in explaining, in being the one who’s able to explain. I’m discovering that this job really winds my clock.

Jane Eyre, pt. 3

And so I’ve reached the end of Jane Eyre, which I began reading in January. In March, I remarked upon Mr Rochester’s “marvelous ferocity.” Now here’s someone worth knowing, I thought. But I expected his brutal way of speaking would be tamed by love.

Fortunately I was wrong. Love embraced it:

I was forgetting all his faults, for which I had once kept a sharp look-out. It had formerly been my endeavour to study all sides of his character: to take the bad with the good; and from the just weighing of both, to form an equitable judgment. Now I saw no bad. The sarcasm that had repelled, the harshness that had startled me once, were only like keen condiments in a choice dish: their presence was pungent, but their absence would be felt as comparatively insipid.

And so I (JP) was treated to a stimulating ping-pong match: Rochester slamming and spinning with all his force; Jane neutralizing each blow, often with a mere “Yes, sir” or “No, sir”: these artless, artful utterances causing Rochester to stagger. Jane says “Master” and “Sir” to Rochester knowing that she owns him; and when she says “I love you” it’s the freshest sentence in the world.

There are other interesting competitions in the book, not least the one between heavenly and earthly pursuits. But the novel’s greatest achievement is its depiction of two true originals and their delight in one another.

(And yet I worry that outside of fiction, this ping-pong match would be unsustainable. Over time, would sour words continue to excite? Or would they inevitably corrode?)

Spain, pt. 386: On tackling

This is from my brother Stephen:

Xabi Alonso on English soccer:

There is a pause as Alonso reaches, again, the crux of the issue. A single English word he returns to that, unpacked, analysed and investigated, explains much. “I don’t think tackling is a quality,” he says. “It is a recurso, something you have to resort to, not a characteristic of your game. At Liverpool I used to read the matchday programme and you’d read an interview with a lad from the youth team. They’d ask: age, heroes, strong points, etc. He’d reply: ‘Shooting and tackling.’ I can’t get into my head that football development would educate tackling as a quality, something to learn, to teach, a characteristic of your play. How can that be a way of seeing the game? I just don’t understand football in those terms. Tackling is a [last] resort, and you will need it, but it isn’t a quality to aspire to, a definition. It’s hard to change because it’s so rooted in the English football culture, but I don’t understand it.”

The tackle is perhaps the greatest expression of an English conception of the game — physical, epic, emotional. By definition, reactive. …

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Come to think of it, what is the Ecuadorian word for tackling? I’m not sure. The behavior lacks referential magnetism.

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So it goes for soccer — and for religion — and for romance more generally. Fleeing solipsism, we embed ourselves into those narratives which seem most universal, only to discover, bitterly, that the tropes which are most sacred to us are widely disregarded or despised: not just by foreign interpreters, but also by our colleagues, and even by our loved ones.

There are some who are shocked or saddened because I’m not fond of Lent or Christmas; and I pity those who can’t sense that a backpass may be performed simply to sustain a pleasing rhythm.

The game against Venezuela

Ecuador and Venezuela scored one goal apiece.

(Video)

Before the game, when it was time for the Venezuelans to perform our anthem, they performed the anthem of Mexico … jackasses.

(Video)

We’re second in South America, nipping at Argentina’s heels, well on pace to reach the World Cup. This was our last qualifier of the year. Our next qualifier will be contested in March.

Pink socks.

The game against Chile

By now you surely know that Ecuador defeated Chile, 3 goals to 1. These were the most important plays.

On Facebook the nation’s mood was generous. The Football Federation took a poll: Who was our best player? And in comment after comment, Ecuadorians replied: Everyone played well. Even the Hormiga Paredes played well, despite his autogolazo. (No Chilean was able to score.)

But if one player was commended more than the others, it was Felipe Caicedo, our prodigal son. After having suffered a 14-month banishment, he’s returned to score four goals in three games.

Our next qualifier, in Venezuela, will be played tomorrow — Tuesday — at 6:00pm (U.S. Eastern Time). Pray for Ecuador to win.

Alas, Caicedo has been suspended.

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Readers in your twenties: find this book. I wish I had. My twenties were 10 times tougher than my teens. This book explains why.

There’s still hope for you. But not for me. Now that I’m thirty, my personality is set, and I’m doomed.

Columbus Day

I almost forgot!

What: World Cup qualifier, Ecuador vs. Chile.

Where: Quito.

When: TODAY !!! (Friday) at 5:00pm, U.S. Eastern Time.

Pray for Ecuador to win.

Antonio Valencia, our best player, has been suspended. But some fine Chileans will be absent as well.

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[Edit:] In Ecuador, today is El Día de la Raza; and where I am, in this empire of rugged individualists, it’s Columbus Day.

For years I searched the Internet for one particular comic strip, and never found it. But here it is, thanks to my brother Stephen:

This is just perfect.

Voss

Excerpts from Voss, chs. 3 and 4:

Men are necessary, but are they not also, perhaps, tedious? Una Pringle debated.

Una and Laura began to extricate themselves.

‘Woburn McAllister, the one who has been telling about the worms, is the owner of a property that many people consider the most valuable in New South Wales,’ Una remembered, and cheered up. ‘He must, by all accounts, be exceedingly rich.’

‘Oh,’ said Laura.

Sometimes her chin would take refuge in her neck; it could sink low enough, or so it felt. …

Laura listened to Voss’s feet following her shame in soft, sighing sand. Una did look round once, but only saw that German who was of no consequence.

‘And such a fine fellow. Quite unspoilt,’ said Una, who had listened a lot. ‘Of excellent disposition.’

‘I cannot bear so much excellence,’ Laura begged.

‘Why Laura, how funny you are,’ said Una.

But she did blush a little, before remembering that Laura was peculiar. There is nothing more odious than reserve, and Una knew very little of her friend. But for the fact that they were both girls, they would have been in every way dissimilar. Una realized that she always had disliked Laura, and would, she did not doubt, persist in that dislike, although there was every reason to believe they would remain friends.

‘You take it upon yourself to despise what is praiseworthy in order to appear different,’ protested the nettled Una. ‘I have noticed this before in people who are clever.’

‘Oh dear, you have humbled me,’ Laura Trevelyan answered simply.

‘But Miss Pringle is right to admire such an excellent marriage party as Mr McAllister,’ contributed Voss, drawing level.

Shock caused the two girls to drop their personal difference.

‘I was not thinking of him as exactly that,’ Una declared.

Although, in fact, she had been. Lies were not lies, however, if told in the defence of honour.

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‘I think that I can enter into the minds of most men,’ said the young woman [Laura], softly. ‘At times. An advantage we insect-women enjoy is that we have endless opportunity to indulge the imagination as we go backwards and forwards in the hive.’

‘And in my instance, what does your imagination find?’ [said Voss.]

He was laughing, of course, at the absurdity of that which he expected to be told. But he would have liked to hear practically anything.

‘Shall we go a little?’ he invited.

‘Walking in the darkness is full of dangers.’

‘It is not really dark. When you are accustomed to it.’

Which was true. The thick night was growing luminous. At least, it was possible almost to see, while remaining almost hidden.

The man and woman were walking over grass that was still kindly beneath their feet. Smooth, almost cold leaves soothed their faces and the backs of their hands.

‘These are the camellia bushes Uncle planted when he first came here as a young man,’ Laura Trevelyan said. ‘There are fifteen varieties, as well as sports. This one here is the largest,’ she said, shaking it as if it had been an inanimate object; it was so familiar to her, and now so necessary. ‘It is a white, but there is one branch that bears those marbled flowers, you know, like the edges of a ledger.’

‘Interesting,’ he said.

But it was an obscure reply, of a piece with the spongy darkness that surrounded them.

‘Then you are not going to answer my question?’ he asked.

‘Oh,’ she said, ‘that silly claim I made! Although, to a certain extent, it is true.’

‘Tell me, then.’

‘Everyone is offended by the truth, and you will not be an exception.’

That it would take place, they both knew now.

Consequently, when she did speak, the sense of inevitability that they shared made her sound as if she were reading from a notebook, only this one was her head, in which her memorandum had been written, in invisible ink, that the night had breathed upon; and as she read, or spoke, it became obvious to both that she had begun to compile her record from the first moment of their becoming acquainted.

‘You are so vast and ugly,’ Laura Trevelyan was repeating the words; ‘I can imagine some desert, with rocks, rocks of prejudice, and, yes, even hatred. You are so isolated. That is why you are fascinated by the prospect of desert places, in which you will find your own situation taken for granted, or more than that, exalted. You sometimes scatter kind words or bits of poetry to people, who soon realize the extent of their illusion. Everything is for yourself. Human emotions, when you have them, are quite flattering to you. If those emotions strike sparks from others, that also is flattering. But most flattering, I think, when you experience it, is the hatred, or even the mere irritation of weaker characters.’

‘Do you hate me, perhaps?’ asked Voss, in darkness.

‘I am fascinated by you,’ laughed Laura Trevelyan, with such candour that her admission did not seem immodest. ‘You are my desert!’

Once or twice their arms brushed, and he was conscious of some extreme agitation or exhilaration in her.

‘I am glad that I do not need your good opinion,’ he said.

‘No,’ she said. ‘Nobody’s opinion!’

He was surprised at the vehemence of feeling in this young girl. In such circumstances, repentance, he felt, might have been a luxury. But he did not propose to enjoy any such softness. Besides, faith in his own stature had not been destroyed.

He began to bite his nails in the darkness.

On the ownership of books

Your ambition in life should be to have libraries and libraries of Voss.

[My brother David]

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Sabby — Sam & Abby — are the most agreeable couple I have met. Some weeks ago I hosted them in my apartment for beans and rice, and then obliged them to carry away half a dozen Agatha Christies.

A week later, they told me how much they’d been enjoying those books.

I gloated about this to David. “They accepted my Agatha Christies and have been reading and enjoying them!”

“Of course they have been,” said David. “Sabby are agreeable. There is nothing they don’t enjoy.”

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Last night we again discussed that couple.

“What books of mine are in your apartment?” said David.

“A considerable number of Agatha Christies,” I told him. “You were saying how eager you were to repossess them.”

“I was saying how eager I was to burn them,” David said. “I suffer from the cold: I need kindling for the fire.”

“You were desiring to read them,” I said. “Your interest in them is keen. Recall also that Sabby have been enjoying those books.”

“What Sabby enjoy is Phantastes,” said David, changing the subject. “I’ve read much of that, on Sabby’s recommendation.”

“I own Phantastes — the Dover edition. Do you have the Dover edition?”

“No,” said David, “I don’t own that book. The copy which I read was Sabby’s. But yes, Dover was the publisher.”

There was a pause, pregnant with fellow-feeling. And then I said:

“Isn’t it a solace to find a friend with whom to discuss the variegated editions of books?”

September

I continue to walk home from IUSB. Today it took less than an hour.

I continue to run on the Riverwalk. For a while it was cold enough that I had to bundle up, but today I was able to wear shorts. The fog was picturesque. The water-treatment plant stank worse than usual.

On the weekends, I continue to play soccer. Like Juan Román Riquelme, I contribute some little effort and much flamboyance. Last Sunday, I wore pink stockings and scored three golazos. Also, for long periods, I tended goal — flamboyantly.

(At first, Meridith refused to drive me in her car, because of my stockings. But then she relented.)

(Also, my parents attended the game and recorded me on video. They were eager to be near to their child. Today they returned to Ecuador.)

On Sunday I spent my church-time in the nursery. Mostly I stood back and allowed the children to play with one another. (I did have to break up one small fight.) But then one child asked me to read to her. We sat down together, and three or four others cuddled up beside us.

(Next time, I may bring my own books. I wonder if these children are old enough for Peter Rabbit.)

And now I’ll stop bragging and disclose that this has been an anxious month for me. In the tutoring office, my stomach is in knots because so many other people are in the room, or could enter into it. Other worries are ruminated in my mind. But my condition is improving (how else would I conclude this post?); these last few days, I’ve enjoyed some peace.

Walking

I’ve been walking home from IUSB. Every day, I change the route; usually it’s a little more than four miles. My longest walk was straight up Twyckenham, then straight across Edison and Angela. My shortest walks have (mostly) followed the East Bank Trail, which goes beside the St. Joe River.

One night I walked along Lincolnway East. That is one lonely-assed road. But I was delighted when I finally reached Downtown South Bend, because I was able to cut across a series of empty, shiny parking lots.

Alas, I can’t say I’ve had a lot of epiphanies during these walks. This doesn’t mean that the mental gears haven’t been turning. They just haven’t been turning any more than usual. Today they were turning during an idle period at work. I was sitting absolutely still. My boss walked past my window, then did so again. Then he came into the office just to point out that the whole time, I’d been staring at the same spot. I asked him if that was OK, and he said it was.

Last week I did have some epiphanies, walking beside Angela in the dark. It was a curious feeling, all those neurons firing inside me, and flowing out of my nose, while next to me the stream of headlights drifted quietly along.

The game against Uruguay

Ecuador, my Ecuador. From the first, we attacked bravely. Felipe Caicedo earned a penalty and then scored it in the same manner in which he’d scored against Bolivia.

Then we hung back and waited for Uruguay to give us spaces. During a counterattack, Christian Benítez seemed to’ve earned another penalty — but instead was booked, unjustly, for diving.

Infuriated, we committed our sole defensive lapse, and the Uruguayans tied the score.

Still, we outplayed and stole points from one of the world’s best teams. The replays are here.

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More tutoring at IUSB. Dunno how helpful I really am, but my students thank me profusely. Many are panicked and seek reassurance. I give them that in heavy doses in order to make my criticisms go down more smoothly.

It’s remarkable what a gentle “bedside manner” I’ve developed these last few years — especially since, with non-students, I continue to be abrasive.

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After work yesterday I watched my dear little friends, the Romaniacs, play soccer. Their team dominated; the ball never seemed to leave their opponents’ half of the field. It was like watching the Spain of the middle-school girls’ league.

Then I visited the Romaniacs’ house; they have two new pet rats, Dusty and Pickles. We all ate supper and I persuaded the Romaniacs to watch “Swooner Crooner.” When Bing Crosby came onscreen, they cracked up, which pleased me. Later I re-sung one of Frank Sinatra’s lines, and cracked up Cristian, the Romaniacs’ father. It’s so gratifying to be with people who think you’re hilarious. :)

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Kenny and I have Web access! We’ve negotiated for weeks with AT&T, and today they finally sent us a technician who could help us. (The previous one was of no use.) Best of all, I got them to promise to waive their installation fee.

More soccer news

Ecuador defeated Bolivia, 1 to 0. The goal was from a non-dubious penalty. The nice thing is that we’re in second place in South America, on target to qualify for the World Cup.

Tomorrow we’ll play another qualifier (away to Uruguay). Pray for Ecuador to win.

Overrated

And now, an important announcement:

What: World Cup qualifier, Ecuador vs. Bolivia.

Where: Quito.

When: Tomorrow (Friday) at 4:30pm, U.S. Eastern Time.

Pray for Ecuador to win.

According to the newest FIFA rankings, Ecuador is the 17th-best team in the world. We’re overrated, I think. Still, I predict we’ll defeat Bolivia by two goals (inelegantly).

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Speaking of FIFA (the video game, not the organization): One of the perks of working at IUSB is that I can use my I.D. card to play FIFA in the recreation building. The problem is, I don’t have an I.D. card. The supply has been exhausted. But a new shipment will arrive next week.

Another nice thing about IUSB is the “walking taco,” available on Thursdays for $2. It consists of an open bag of Fritos corn chips, and meat and cheese mixed with them.

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Outside of tutoring, the first student I met at IUSB was a Pre-Raphaelite girl at the bus stop, daintily sprawled out all over the bench. “Oh, you want to sit here,” she said. She made room for me and then told me about her nomadic past. I also am a nomad, but did not mention it.

The next day I met another student, on the elevator. He glared at me for some moments and then abruptly confessed: “I hate everyone here. The faculty, the staff, and the students. I hate them all.” I told him I was sorry.

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JP, how many books do you intend to write? And why are you so prolific on Xanga, but not in philosophy?

Well, this is what I’m constantly explaining to my friends in academia who aren’t philosophers.

More of the same

Who are these Californians who read my Xanga? Sometimes I wonder.

Kenny and I finished viewing Barry Lyndon — an act of masochism. One scene, especially painful, showed various 18th-century bigwigs and damsels playing cards by candlelight. The shots were beautifully composed, but there was little dialog or drama, and the scene dragged on for ten minutes; all the while, tedious chamber music blared.

When, at last, the scene was changed, the narrator said: “To make a long story short …”

This sort of joke was repeated for three hours.

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Still no regular Web access, though not for lack of trying. As far as we can tell, our modem is defective.

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Today I am inspired by Evelyn Waugh.

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Finally my holidays have ended. Yesterday, Cat and Kenny and I went to the beach, and afterward I hosted a dinner party. (I entertained my guests by talking about my books.) But today I put in six long hours tutoring at IUSB.

I acquit myself

I played soccer against the other graduate students, on the quad. How was it? Well, imagine a player with a physique like Hermano Wachito’s. Or if you don’t know who Hno. Wachito is, think of Néstor Ortigoza.

Though I only scored twice, I was pleased with the manner in which we won. I foresaw the outcome when we were still losing 2–0. We were smothering our opponents on their own half of the field. I earned one corner kick after another and finally squeezed in an angled shot. That goal opened up the floodgates.