Happy inefficiency

“It is seldom the efficiency of a writing system or script that determines its longevity and influence, but rather the economic power and prestige of those using it” (Fischer).

I had no idea that the Korean writing system was not just another logography, but rather an ideal script. The characters systematically represent the sounds of the language, much like Tolkien’s Fëanorian script. I didn’t realize there was a working example of this in our messy world. It took the edict of King Seycong in 1446 to replace the hand-me-down Chinese logographs his country was using, which were inadequate to represent the Korean language, with what Fischer calls “the most efficient system ever devised in the history of writing.” It is attractive as well.

It’s strange how we take our writing systems for granted. Of course we would write English with the Latin alphabet... But countries have switched from Arabic systems to Roman systems to Cyrillic systems at the whim of their emperors. If it happened to us, it probably wouldn’t be that big a deal. We adapt.

English spelling is notoriously awkward. But diglossia―having a written language that is essentially a different language from the spoken one it is supposed to represent―is the natural result of time’s passing, and the whole world lives with it to various extents. There are benefits to the way written language tends to stay the same while spoken language mutates. We still easily understand Shakespeare’s texts, even if he wouldn’t recognize the sound of his words in our mouths.

At least our script has had a systematic relationship to spoken modern English across the centuries. The poor Japanese conquer scriptological insanity to become literate. From what I can understand, they borrowed a script (Chinese characters) that did not necessarily correspond to the sounds it represented in Japanese and could not convey all the grammatical information that Japanese words had to convey (this was the same thing the Koreans were dealing with before King Seycong). The Japanese continue to use Chinese characters, but tack on a couple other scripts to indicate inflectional endings, grammatical particles, glosses, and speech sounds. They can write their language using any one of the scripts, but apparently they prefer to mix them. The Roman alphabet can also be used.

One can always find a silver lining in one’s circumstances. Having all the Chinese characters is kind of like our having homophones like bear and bare; the script contains information that the speech does not, and Japanese, like Chinese, is full of homophones.

Many populations besides the Japanese function with an ill-fitting script. Yet few nations shackled by language become Boston Tea Partiers in response. Part of it is powerlessness, of course, but could it also be that we love our languages for their absurdities, not despite them? “Written language, so East Asian writing teaches us, is not subordinate to spoken language,” Fischer says. I talked earlier about the the aesthetic pleasure of Chinese characters. The idea that a well-formed character has merit in itself, aside from its linguistic function, fascinates me.

Many important things in life are inefficient: art, love, sports, children. Fischer says, “It is well known that because of its writing system, Japan forces its young to endure many more years of education―placing demands on its young people and at great cost to the state―than are necessary in other countries. Yet this may also explain, if only in part, Japan’s manifest success. One thing is clear: in no way has Japan’s writing hindered the intellectual growth of its users.”

In a different way, French culture has proved to many of us that it’s worth taking time to do small things well. We are still left with the question of which small things to choose.

Forests of symbols

I’ve been reading Steven Fischer’s A History of Writing ever since Christmas and finally finished it. It’s sort of hard to follow (I think he could have used a more systematic editor), but it has prompted much reflection on the nature of writing.

Writing fascinates me. Learning new alphabets is fun; handwriting is important enough to experiment with and remodel from time to time. Letters are exciting. Living in another era, I would have been temperamentally inclined to credit the myths that described writing as a sacred gift from the gods.

In truth writing probably began with accountants, who made knots in ropes, scratched notches on sticks, or inscribed clay tokens to symbolize unwieldy animals. It was when the marks they made assumed a phonological significance apart from the objects they represented that this became complete writing. Fischer emphasizes that this was a groundbreaking technological innovation, not an evolutionary process. He suggests that complete writing was invented only once in all history: a rare idea indeed. All the diverse instances of it around the world, from the most awkward to the most ingenious, are variations on the unique idea of complete writing that popped up in Sumer around 3700 BC:

1. Its purpose is communication.
2. It consists of artificial graphic marks on a durable surface (or electronic medium).
3. It uses marks that relate conventionally to articulate speech.

It is not that unromantic that we owe accountants for the concoction of letter magic. After all, what is a story but an account? In French, a compte rendu is a summary of something you’ve heard. And a conte is a pure fairy tale.

To populate our tales (a word that used to mean counts, just like tallies,) we need all the races of letters―gothics and grotesques, romans and moderns and humanists, capitals and uncials and minuscules. We delight in their anatomy of bowls and crossbars, ears and crotches, legs, arms, apices, vertices, tails, terminals, hairlines, stems, spurs, and spines. Not to mention heng, shu, and the other limbs I haven’t learned yet, to make beautiful creatures I mentioned earlier.

With picayune pecunia we assemble the words that form our armies of arguments. We can take nothing for granted in our accounting. The tale of writing is rich.

Simple patio or vast estate?

Tonight I installed a cuter (and hopefully more reliable) modulator-demodulator. I am filled with good humor at being able to post, and at a happy ending to my long, heroic battle with the Enemies.

I have discovered that you get better results with “I need this replaced. It doesn’t work and it’s under warranty” than with a reasonable articulation of the problem. At the Apple Store it got me an appointment with the less than enthusiastic Geniuses (have you heard of them??) after they were officially closed, and at the cable place it got me the cute new modem, no questions asked. I was delighted at the force with which the taciturn employee hurtled the old one into a bin in a cabinet plastered with “LUV YA” and “SWEET BOY” hearts. I was expecting they would test it, it would work, and I would drive the 45 minutes back home crying.

I have always prided myself on being reasonable, but now I am beginning to appreciate that unreasonable and closed-minded women may be more highly evolved for today's society.

So anyway, since I am in a good humor, I think I will postpone my planned post on life as a long defeat (which gets ever more confusing the more I think about it) and just share some silly things that have amused me lately.

I.
I was driving to work this week and heard two delightful radio ads, one after the other. One was for an outdoor lighting installation service that will meet your needs “whether you have a simple patio or a vast estate.” That made me laugh. Alas for them, I have a simple patio that is already amply lit.

II.
The other ad was for some kind of car-leasing arrangement, I think. I wasn’t really listening. At one point the man said, “How would you feel about buying a pre-owned car whose previous owner wasn’t a person?” He goes on to explain that the previous owner was the car dealer, but not before my mind had pictured King Kong or some large muddy reptile at the wheel of my fine automobile.

III.
So, speaking of strange creatures, I just have to share these wonderful peoplemals. My favorite is the octopus.

One of my childhood friends drew a silly picture of a person once. For a long time I kept it because I couldn’t help laughing every time I saw it. I have no idea what is was about that picture. I still have it somewhere, backed with cardboard and stuck to a popsicle stick. I hope these peoplemals have a similar effect on you when you see them. I’ve been waiting for an excuse to link to them for a long time, but do you ever need an excuse for this?

IV.
I love it when you buy a head of lettuce and the metal twist tie around it says, “Eat 5 a day for better health.”

Those are all the funny things I can remember right now (that are appropriate to share with my vast and diverse readership). I should have kept a list.

Here Be Dragons

For someone who had always pictured Kings Richard and John of England as cartoon lions, Sharon Kay Penman’s book was an enlightening read. I thought John was especially well portrayed. I want to read more about Eleanor of Aquitaine.

For me the great value of this book was in the details about life in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. For instance, they spread rushes on the floor as a sort of carpeting, and changed them when they needed to be changed. I might try that one of these days. It might beat vacuuming.

The most shocking thing for me was that they only had one meal a day in Wales, in the evening. I would have died. I was comforted that it was a significant adjustment for the main character, too.

Pictured above is one of several small scenes I encountered upon coming home yesterday. My guest―a delightful friend who sows beauty and poetry wherever she goes―had posed my penguin with his wing in the almond jar. She’s also the kind of guest who replaces certain disapproved-of items in your pantry with higher-quality or less-toxic varieties. It cracks me up. I appreciate her audacity... and generosity.

This reminds me of one of my favorite scenes in The Book of Lights by Chaim Potok. But I don’t want to spoil the scene for people who haven’t read it. What do I do? I guess I will have to keep quiet. Some kind of blog.

Conclusions

I have come to some conclusions about life lately. I have decided that Out of Africa is now my favorite book and that of Brahms’s symphonies, my favorite is the fourth.

Also, I’m kind of off the bunny kick. A majority of my family is anti-bunny. Several acquaintances have been unenthusiastic. I don’t really have time to give a bunny the attention it needs. And before Christmas, a wise-looking elderly man in Tucson’s best used bookstore, glimpsing the About Your Rabbit book I was carrying under my arm, warned me that they are twice as much work as you expect them to be. What could be more convincing than an aging stranger’s unsolicited advice?

Since my blog must remain inconclusive, I will wrap up with today’s wildlife sighting:

In the distance behind me I hear the consternation of a woman whose dog has gotten loose. I keep walking ahead, hoping not to encourage the animal, but as I hear it approaching I grow curiouser and curiouser. A great whirring and flapping indicates a beast of significant size.

Sure enough, a huge brown hound (please pause to say that out loud) is soon trotting beside me, its spine almost as high as my hipbones, its head down sniffing, taking no notice of me. I am content to have such a calm and independent creature at my side, filling up the empty half of the sidewalk, but after a few steps I begin to worry about its owner, who is becoming breathless in her pursuit.

I turn around and wait for a few moments while she approaches. I express my amazement at her pet’s dimensions. “And he’s just a puppy,” she says. “Eleven months.”

“Do you mean he’ll get bigger?” Truly, this is a marvelous beginning to the day. The words “huge brown hound” bring considerable merriment to the rest of the walk. I know, it doesn’t take much.

An ear for German

I was reading some Rilke to a friend two nights ago and was happy to hear her say it was beautiful. I have always wanted to prove to someone that German is a pretty language, or at least could be thought of as pretty. Most people think it isn’t. But would they think so if everyone else hadn’t told them that from their inception? Is it really an objective truth?

Take a word like Friedrich. If you say it right, it’s the gentlest rippling of air through your mouth, a relaxing of control to let a soft breeze pass along your throat, tongue, and teeth. You have to smile to say it.

Now German is the poorer for lacking our exquisite th sounds, but it has other sounds that fall in the same class of feather-soft, downy, maternal whisperings.

As for Rs, I think German’s uvular R is superior to the French velar one. It is liquid rather than raspy. I enjoy hearing my German-speaking friend pronounce her French Rs à l’allemand.

I think what people hear and dislike about German is a lot of stops and fricatives. But German is about control of the vocal passages. Americans don’t have to open their throats, and we become unpleasantly nasal. However, German is a rhythmic river of sound, a carefully restrained singing.

Useless characters

Recently my mom sent me a story from The New Yorker about a guy who made miniature palaces. He was a big hit with the king who hired him. This artist could carve not only an apple the size of a grain of sand but the fly on the apple. He got better and better, carving the fly’s hairs and the molecules of the hairs. His work got steadily more and more precise until neither he nor anyone else could actually see what he was carving. They didn’t fire him, just shut him up in a room alone and had food brought to him while he carved his amazing but pointless carvings. He was perfectly happy, obsessively happy.

Sometimes I think I could be like that. I consider myself a writer by nature and I have a job that involves writing and layout and graphic design. I enjoyed drawing as a kid, and I used to create newspapers for fun, so it’s all right up my alley. But sometimes I feel like my tastes take a turn that is obsessive, minute, approaching uselessness.

Most people who consider themselves “visual” or “creative” can come up with great schemes or ideas. There are days when I have good ideas and grand schemes. I think I am reasonably productive. But the grand scheme is not my greatest joy in life. I am happier staring at a black-and-white page of type (the right type, set in an attractive manner) than at a colorful poster. I am happier staring at a single perfectly curving letter than at the flashiest full-color effect that a Photoshop artist can produce.

People who consider themselves writers often have plots and ideas. Sometimes I have plots and ideas, but I’m best at just amassing words. People will complain about too much information on a page and I will nod my head, completely uncomprehending. I love spreadsheets and pages of words. Or I look at closed books and revel in all the wisdom and adventure and beauty that I know, without even opening them, is inside.

When you read about the carver of miniature palaces, it does occur to you to wonder if the things he is carving really exist, since even he must be unable to see them. But that is not the conclusion that I reached at the end of the story. I believe that he really could carve things that minuscule. I believe that his gift continued to approach the ever-more-slightly tinier limit of perfection until he died.

I am interested in Chinese calligraphy right now. Chinese writing is remarkable because it conveys meaning that speech alone cannot convey. To us, written language is an imperfect system for representing speech. Chinese script, however, is more perfect than speech.

In China, calligraphy has historically been an art form as eminent as (or even moreso than) poetry or painting. The characters are important for their appearance, not just their meaning. A specimen of calligraphy is described this way: “reeds on the shoreline of a quiet lake―the slender strokes bent by the night breeze rustle in the still twilight,” or compared to dancers, farmers, forests, waterfalls, in Johan Bjorksten’s book pictured above.

I could get lost in this arguably useless world forever. Fortunately I have a marvelously broad range of tasks at work, including talking to people, and ample extracurricular activities that keep me away from home, so there is no immediate danger of ending up in a lonely room with food passed to me under the door. I know I would probably hate it if I actually did have that much solitary time on my hands. But I admit I dream of it sometimes.

Double delight

One of my favorite things is setting up surprises and waiting for them to hatch. It can be tricky when you’re targeting a large concentration of people with a single source of surprise, because you want as many unique instances of surprise as possible. This was satisfactorily achieved over my Christmas vacation, with no particular care on my part.

I got my brother and sister-in-law a blue faucet light. It wasn’t really a Christmas present, but I wanted to get them something extra for their house since I was staying there for a long time. I came across the light in my favorite gift shop. I had no idea they existed, but it was prophetically clear that this had to be purchased for them. Gift-giving is one of my greatest sources of anxiety, so it is wonderful when the perfect gift appears. Everything is right. Nothing is better than that.

You may be wondering about the blue faucet light. It is not a cheesy gift. It is a reputable, high-quality piece of hardware that installs onto the end of your faucet after you remove the existing mesh thing. It comes with batteries installed PLUS a second set of batteries. It also comes with two adaptors, making it likely to fit any faucet in America. My siblings were pleased with the improvement it caused in their faucet’s water flow. The light it emitted was remarkable. It would even flash after you turned the faucet off, as water continued to drip.

So we installed it. I have to mention here that the reaction from my siblings was disappointing. They seemed to think it more weird, less amazing. But I persevered in my enthusiasm, and I think they eventually saw it for what it was. They began looking forward to episodes of discovery by the guests at their New Year’s party.

Meanwhile, I was anticipating the joyful reactions of my parents, who arrived later than I did. They flew in and went straight to their hotel the first night. The next time they were there, I casually asked if anyone needed to wash their hands and no one wanted to. (Pigs.) It might have been a days later when the older generation finally came over to the Little Presidio after dinner. While everyone was hanging around in the living room accomplishing nothing, I finally couldn’t stand it any longer.

“Hey, Mom,” I said, “I think you need to wash your hands. They smell kind of funny.” My sister-in-law, sitting across from my dad, lowered her face into her hands and tried not to laugh audibly.

“Oh, OK,” Mom said, and headed into the bathroom. I guess decades of raising tactless children keeps one from taking offense too easily.

She used the toilet and then washed her hands. I imagined her happiness at seeing the unexpected electric-blue water.

She came out of the bathroom. “Why is the water blue?” The room erupted in riotous laughter. “That’s really cool!” she added. I knew my mom had taste!

“Bear, you need to go use the sink,” she said. “I think you’ll like it.” My dad was sitting in the epicenter of the hilarity, reading The Arms of Krupp.

“Oh, really?” he said, slowly entering the 21st century. He hesitated, got up, walked slowly down the hall as if he feared some trap, and went over to the sink. Then he gave his daughter the gift she wanted: a spontaneous “That is so neat!”

Keatsian advent calendar

I thought I was flirting with blasphemy in my last entry, but this beats all. Thanks to my Eastern European friend for recommending this devotional practice.

I probably won’t be posting for a while. Merry Christmas, blogosphere!

Righteous are you, O Lord,
and right are your rules.
You have appointed your testimonies in righteousness
and in all faithfulness.
My zeal consumes me,
because my foes forget your words.
Your promise is well tried,
and your servant loves it.
I am small and despised,
yet I do not forget your precepts.
Your righteousness is righteous forever,
and your law is true.
Trouble and anguish have found me out,
but your commandments are my delight.
Your testimonies are righteous forever;
give me understanding that I may live.

Trolleys, bunnies, and Keats

Three inordinate affections of mine in one entry!

The trolley is decked out for Christmas. I have not mastered the art of photographing it, although I try every chance I get. But I think you can at least dimly sense how attractive it is.

About the bunny: the more I think about this adorable creature that will soon share my home, the less I can understand why anyone would ever want any other kind of animal. Bunnies seem to have all the merits and none of the drawbacks of pets in general. My friend cautioned me tonight—after I had mentioned how much I already missed having the bunny, and when I dismissed today’s woes by saying that everything would be better when I got a bunny—that maybe I needed to lower my expectations or risk serious disappointment. All I can say is, be prepared for Christmas cards with photos of me and the bunny next year. Maybe the best way to end one’s annoyance with pet-obsessed people is to become one.

Now I’m going to finally catch up with my reportage of Keatsmas. There’s no way I can write about it without writing about my friend the gorgon. I feel like an imposter, really, when people act like Keats is my specialty, because Medusa is the one who first loved Keats. I enjoy Keats, but I’m sure I’ve never understood him like she did.

Our little group of literature majors studying abroad one summer found no end of amusement at how seriously she took the dead poet. I must admit some embarrassment, some uncertainty about whether to lose track of the rest of the group or leave her behind as she trudged ever more slowly up Hampstead Heath to the house where Keats had stayed in his illness, muttering things like, “I’m not sure I can handle this.” The towering, brooding Greek with her long, dark waves of hair and the five-foot-two-inch Cockney poet, existential status aside, were an odd couple indeed.

Inside I was wholly charmed by her passionate spirit, her determination to care about things. The day we spent at Blenheim Palace—she, I, and the complete poems and letters of Keats that she insisted on reading entirely, no matter what the syllabus said—is one of the most perfect days of my life. I have no idea what I was reading or writing on that grassy bank overlooking the water, but I relished the frequent excerpts and reactions erupting by my side.

I have celebrated the high holy days pretty religiously, reciting “To Autumn” on October 31, his birthday, and eating only bread and water on February 23, the day of his death at 25. I’m pretty good at slavish rituals, even though for the last few years I thought Medusa had moved on. It has occurred to me that in venerating Keats maybe I have really been venerating my dear gorgon. It made me so happy, almost Blenheim-happy, when she e-mailed me this year and said we must celebrate together.

I never let myself have high expectations for Keatsmas—the only time we’ve celebrated it together in person, it went so dreadfully wrong that Medusa has forbidden me to ever speak of it.

This year I had two pleasant Keatsmas experiences. A few days early I recited “To Autumn” in a dugout for the first time, with an intensely poetic friend, someone who recites poetry better than anyone I’ve ever heard, as we gazed at barred clouds across the baseball diamond; and then that evening I recited it via cell phone to the gorgon as she was being rowed to her sailboat in a dinghy off the coast of Massachusetts. I’m sure she had never heard “To Autumn” in a dinghy.

I hate the double-minded,
but I love your law.
You are my hiding place and my shield;
I hope in your word.
Depart from me, you evildoers,
that I may keep the commandments of my God.
Uphold me according to your promise, that I may live,
and let me not be put to shame in my hope!
Hold me up, that I may be safe
and have regard for your statutes continually!
You spurn all who go astray from your statutes,
for their cunning is in vain.
All the wicked of the earth you discard like dross,
therefore I love your testimonies.
My flesh trembles for fear of you,
and I am afraid of your judgments.

Blogger is best

I did some experimentation the other night and decided to stick with Blogger. Although I am in love with Wordpress, it has a size limit (unless you pay) and I want to be able to keep uploading my photos until kingdom come. And although Wordpress’s canned templates are lovely and Blogger’s are hideous, Blogger allows you to modify your template, and Wordpress doesn’t (unless you pay). I hope someday to find the time to make my blog visually exquisite.

Alas, there is one thing I would dearly like to have, and that is the “recent comments” sidebar item you can get in Wordpress. How else will you know that I have added a significant comment to the post on yams? It is important to read it, because it completely alters the existential equilibrium reached at the end of the main post and proves that life is forever unresolved.

I am never going to catch up with all the things I want to write about. There are times when I have nothing to blog about and there are times when I have billions of things. Currently I have billions.

Oh how I love your law!
It is my meditation all the day.
Your commandment makes me wiser than my enemies,
for it is ever with me.
I have more understanding than all my teachers,
for your testimonies are my meditation.
I understand more than the aged,
for I keep your precepts.
I hold back my feet from every evil way,
in order to keep your word.I do not turn aside from your rules,
for you have taught me.
How sweet are your words to my taste,
sweeter than honey to my mouth!
Through your precepts I get understanding;
therefore I hate every false way.

Happy visit review

I went to the Texas State Fair twice this year. I still didn’t see all there was to see. I love the Texas State Fair. But the coolest thing was the people who went there with me.

First, I took a friend I’ve known since first grade who came to visit me for a weekend. I treasure my times with faraway friends, and this is the first time an old friend from my hometown has come to visit me on my home turf. I’m not used to being around someone who shares so much of my life history. It was very refreshing.

My grandparents stopped by a couple days later. I went to the fair again with them. Their average age is 80, as they put it, and they traveled around the country in a camper van for several months this year. They used to run a campground in the summers, and Grandpa was a forest ranger for a while, and they still cultivate their adaptability.

“You know, we’re campers,” Grandma says when I apologize for the limitations of my guest suite. “We’re used to it.”

My friends and coworkers were amazed to hear that they slept on my futon for a couple of nights. We walked all over Dallas in cold weather. We rode buses and trains and trolleys. We climbed in and out of my little two-door car. As octogenarians go—as anyone goes—they’re low-maintenance guests.

It has struck me lately that Grandma and Grandpa never complain. Being with them is nothing but pleasure. Grandpa is curious about everything and has great stories. Grandma is humorous and sincere. They’re both good at being grandparently, making you feel special and interesting and loved. And I like seeing them work together like people who’ve been together for decades and decades do.

Forever, O Lord, your word
is firmly fixed in the heavens.
Your faithfulness endures to all generations;
you have established the earth, and it stands fast.
By your appointment they stand this day,
for all things are your servants.
If your law had not been my delight,
I would have perished in my affliction.
I will never forget your precepts,
for by them you have given me life.
I am yours; save me,
for I have sought your precepts.
The wicked lie in wait to destroy me,
but I consider your testimonies.
I have seen a limit to all perfection,
but your commandment is exceedingly broad.

Yams

In the kitchen at work, as I was preparing some coffee, my ears sent me rumors of a conversation on a topic that greatly concerned me. Were they really talking about the difference between sweet potatoes and yams in the reception area just outside? It became clearer and clearer to me that they were. Eventually, as I hovered closer and closer, their eyes turned to me, and to me they directed the wobbling queries that had been looping around in ever-wilder orbits of indecision.

There are many cases of children being raised in exotic locations and coming back to the dreary colonial homeland with airs of Kubla Khan. These insufferable children, described with sympathy in Frances Hodgson Burnett’s books, for example, alienate their playmates with the false grandeur they feel for having seen untamed landscapes and eaten indescribable tropical fruits. I am afraid I might have been such a child for a while after a short, barely remembered Caribbean sojourn in my near-infancy, and I now take pains to avoid projecting such privileged superiority. Still, when yams are misidentified I feel it deeply.

Sweet potatoes are clearly understood. When asked to indicate a sweet potato, no one will hesitate to point out the lovely orange potatolike root with its delicious properties and important vitamins.

However, a horrifying number of people, especially in the South, will call this same tuber a “yam.” My mother used to cook yams. If you have ever tasted their dense, buttery texture, their sweet, hard, grainy flesh, you will know that this is an unforgivable confusion. It is hopeless to explain it to anyone, for the reasons mentioned above and because yams are not commonly available here.

Does this explain the immense good fortune of being asked to discuss the difference between the two vegetables, twenty-three years after my transplantation to this country, at 9:30 in the morning in an office building in Dallas? And after a heartfelt exposition on the subject, allowing all the respect in the world for those who retained their own (mistaken) opinions, to receive this vindicating link from a coworker who had researched the matter after our conversation?

My soul longs for your salvation;
I hope in your word.
My eyes long for your promise;
I ask, “When will you comfort me?”
For I have become like a wineskin in the smoke,
yet I have not forgotten your statutes.
How long must your servant endure?
When will you judge those who persecute me?
The insolent have dug pitfalls for me;
they do not live according to your law.
All your commandments are sure;
they persecute me with falsehood; help me!
They have almost made an end of me on earth,
but I have not forsaken your precepts.
In your steadfast love give me life,
that I may keep the testimonies of your mouth.

Paris frames

The previous photo (before Chevènement) was on Mockingbird Lane in Dallas. Maybe you are beginning to guess the theme.

You have dealt well with your servant,
O Lord, according to your word.
Teach me good judgment and knowledge,
for I believe in your commandments.
Before I was afflicted I went astray,
but now I keep your word.
You are good and do good;
teach me your statutes.
The insolent smear me with lies,
but with my whole heart I keep your precepts;
their heart is unfeeling like fat,
but I delight in your law.
It is good for me that I was afflicted,
that I might learn your statutes.
The law of your mouth is better to me
than thousands of gold and silver pieces.

Chevenement

I just discovered that a former neighbor of mine is once again running for president of France. Above are a couple of pages of the scrapbook my friend and I kept back in those months when we lived so close to him.

The Lord is my portion;
I promise to keep your words.
I entreat your favor with all my heart;
be gracious to me according to your promise.
When I think on my ways,
I turn my feet to your testimonies;
I hasten and do not delay
to keep your commandments.
Though the cords of the wicked ensnare me,
I do not forget your law.
At midnight I rise to praise you,
because of your righteous rules.
I am a companion of all who fear you,
of those who keep your precepts.
The earth, O Lord, is full of your steadfast love;
teach me your statutes!