(no subject)
Along with my favorite people, my favorite church, and my favorite cat, I left my most beloved book in Portland. Dorothy Day: Selections from her Writings and Readings is this slim, Ade Bethune print illustrated book that synthesizes everything I love about 20th century Christianity (everything besides Elaine Pagels and Mother Anegelica, actually). Among my favorite little snipets is a work-related quote from Jacques Maritian ("As I see it, the death penalty is a sin against humanity committed by society itself") and a favorite one from Dorothy. "Melancholy and despair are friends of the evil one."
Her mother's advice to fight off melancholy, Dorothy wrote, was "to clean the house, take a walk, and buy a new hat." I love the practicality of her mother: do something productive, and then go treat yourself. I used her as an inspiration Sunday (these long weekends just kill me); after Mass, I went to work and studied logic games for a bit, then walked over to a bookstore on Dauphine Street, read a few Woody Allen short stories ("death is an acquired trait"), and bought myself a Graham Greene novel.
Until yesterday, the weekends and free time had been the hardest. Then I got myself pinned between a socially graceless Loyola law professor and a prisoner being released next Monday. Nobody seemed to know where to put the prisoner when he gets out; the law professor was clueless, and my coworker on the project was in Peru. I was given a day to catalogue, evaluate, and enlist the social services available to released men in town.
Good thing this is New Orleans, where the social services list is as long as the DA's temper. After a drug and alcohol treatment woman snarled at me, I went to Mass, prayed a bit, and called up every semblance of a friend I have here. Two hours later, there was a bed in a house downtown waiting for him, and an appointment with a job placement agency for the next day.
Maybe the blessing of difficult work is realizing just how much we are at the mercy of each other. I'm in a strange town getting a crash course in legal work on society's fringes. She sent a letter that arrived yesterday, with photos of us at a July wedding tucked inside a Monet painted card. There was no way some snarly clinical intaker or a barky JD was going to ruin what was for me a 24 hour pass on melancholy.
Her mother's advice to fight off melancholy, Dorothy wrote, was "to clean the house, take a walk, and buy a new hat." I love the practicality of her mother: do something productive, and then go treat yourself. I used her as an inspiration Sunday (these long weekends just kill me); after Mass, I went to work and studied logic games for a bit, then walked over to a bookstore on Dauphine Street, read a few Woody Allen short stories ("death is an acquired trait"), and bought myself a Graham Greene novel.
Until yesterday, the weekends and free time had been the hardest. Then I got myself pinned between a socially graceless Loyola law professor and a prisoner being released next Monday. Nobody seemed to know where to put the prisoner when he gets out; the law professor was clueless, and my coworker on the project was in Peru. I was given a day to catalogue, evaluate, and enlist the social services available to released men in town.
Good thing this is New Orleans, where the social services list is as long as the DA's temper. After a drug and alcohol treatment woman snarled at me, I went to Mass, prayed a bit, and called up every semblance of a friend I have here. Two hours later, there was a bed in a house downtown waiting for him, and an appointment with a job placement agency for the next day.
Maybe the blessing of difficult work is realizing just how much we are at the mercy of each other. I'm in a strange town getting a crash course in legal work on society's fringes. She sent a letter that arrived yesterday, with photos of us at a July wedding tucked inside a Monet painted card. There was no way some snarly clinical intaker or a barky JD was going to ruin what was for me a 24 hour pass on melancholy.