Et In Acadia Ego

. . . except not with that exquisite languorous hedonistic decadence of Brideshead, but with mere stupid thick heavy torpor . . .

I have been reading a book my sister got me: Dylan's Visions of Sin, and oh is it wonderful. I can almost pretend I am back in academia for a moment whilst reading it, such is the level of it. And I'm not sure how well I fit into academia, but much better, it seems than I fit anywhere else:



i had to laugh when my friend gave me this song, because we worked together in an office and, besides knowing me that well, she's seen first-hand what a rotten time I have cooped up in an office. It's miserable. And it is highly likely that part of my problem is being tied down, 'cause I get the wandering blues, still, mighty easily, except it's the blues from not wandering . . .

Anyway, back to Ricks on Dylan: He categorically goes through the Seven Deadlies, and as I was reading through "Sloth", I came across the following passage:

"Accidie, the extremity of not-caring that has been characterized as 'an acquiescence in discouragement which reaches the utmost of sadness when it ceases to be regretful.'"

Ah that sweet relief of having words, whether one's own or someone else's, to define one's state . . .

not that I've aquiesced, but that I want to. Oh Sweet Jesus, how I want to. And everyday is a constant, uphill battle not to. Because here it is, in all its hideous strength: that constant proof of all my failures. The multiple dead baby goats. The hen that stopped brooding when someone--ones--took advantage of my very sick-making migraine to harass her to the point of abandoning her eggs. The thing I begged and prayed and pleaded for this last winter, that I was so excited about and has turned out to be the most ill-advised disastrous decision that possibly I've ever made. Be careful what you ask for, my mother used to say, you might get it. When will I ever learn that? The constant, constant serpent-whisperings in my ear about the lovely women I know: You KNOW she doesn't REALLY like you; why are you bothering? Why are you trying again? Not experienced enough rejection yet, hm, have we, hmmmmm?

oh, gentle reader, yes here i am spilling all my ugly secrets at 4:45 a.m., but it is not because i want your pity or sympathy. just know that, maybe, if you too know these thoughts, know this Acadia, this struggle with Sloth--yes, sloth!--that you are not alone.

a spiritual sloth: the acquiescence, note, not the discouragement itself. join me, then, good friend, in once more girding up the loins not to give in to these sweet-whispered lies to give in and give up. once more, weary hand, take up the Sword of the Spirit, Who is mightier than the Father of Lies, and the Shield of Salvation, for we have been given the graces to bear all crosses, and to shod these blistered feet with the Gospel, the Word, who said "Come to Me, all you who are weary and heavy-ladended, and I will give you rest."