Lucifer Orbis

I've spent the last two hours caring about the wonders of bank accounts, outstanding payments, various updates, invoice control, etc. I would love to have someone who could take care of this mess for me, but part of being an adult – so people say – is being able to control our own finances and everything else in our life. I am on the good path! Also, I'm happy living in a country where if I fail to remember some payment, I will get spammed with notifications. In my home country I'd get one notification and then, shortly after, a fine. Maybe things have changed now and I'm too absorbed in my life to notice it. I mean, I see things changing for the worse. No, this is not an introduction to some profound message. I'm too tired even for that.

When I was a child, my grandfather used to say that I was already born tired. He did it with a chuckle and tenderness that still fills my memories every time I think about him. My grandmother was the boss. There wasn't time for exhaustion and tiredness. We should go to school or work, be active, and don't think too much about our problems – we should solve them instead. I miss her resolve. I can imagine her in Heaven, with everyone lying on the clouds in peaceful meditation, and complaining that she has to do all the tasks and paperwork by herself. “You, get up and help me.” If you think Heaven is easy – not with my grandmother there. What could be written in those papers? Words no one cares about here below.

My divinely sweet cat has been very sick. We took him to the vet, they didn't find anything, but he has a chronic illness that, little by little, will take away years of his life. He lost a lot of weight, at least for a cat. I have much to learn with him. How to feel weakened, living with an incurable disease, and still being simultaneously happy and cranky. Our relationship has evolved greatly after I took care of him during one of his episodes. If he wants something, he will make himself understood, and when he doesn't, there's claws and teeth waiting for me. I'll gladly take everything if it means taking a glimpse at the enormous spirit inhabiting his eyes. When I arrive home, he's the first to run towards the door to congratulate me for having survived another day in the adult world. Then he jumps into the kitchen area and says “Human, I need food. Go to work.” But I know it isn't food that he wants; it's just his convoluted way of asking for cuddles, because he's as good at communicating feelings as I am. Then, cuddles it is, but not without some protest in between. Then comes the food, and of course he doesn't eat it because he had done it five minutes earlier.

In the end, I give him a big hug. “No-no, go away, you witch.” I put him on the floor, and he comes back straight after, asking for more pats. And then there's lap time, but carefully, because Your Highness doesn't like to be petted just like that. Things should be done with grace. One takes ten minutes to find the right position and then God help me if I need to get up because my feet got numb. There's a bit of protest and then, finally, relaxation. At this point, a book or a handheld console can rest on his back. As a proud owner/owned I was well trained in the art of staying still. Some movement is allowed, but what he really enjoys is conversation around him. The sound of our voices and the company (without touching!) is the best a King can have. The sound of talking about life, politics, culture, religion, everything is music, even if it's about the US. He's very attentive to everything I do. If it's bathroom time, “Better go and keep watch lest she gets swallowed by the toilet and I lose my source of food!”

I have another cat. A cat-cat. When I arrive home, he keeps napping, and doesn't even notice me. I fill him with kisses and he doesn't bite or scratch. He chirps a little, still half asleep, starts purring and falls asleep again. When it's time for cuddles, he doesn't understand the word “no.” How could I dare having any will of my own? The difference is that I can do whatever I want with him. I can go full Elmyra Duff on him and he loves it. His favourite place is the crook of my arm (before, it was my head, but even I have limits) and I use my other arm to pet him. All arms on deck and no books. But if the King dares to set paw on the bed at that precise moment, the Dragon is unleashed, and a fight ensues. Being able to defend the territory is of paramount importance to ensure the source of cuddles is well protected against intruders. Sometimes, even a simple eye contact for a short moment is enough to expel the intruder from the battleground. This little Dragon Snake has been with me for many years and now he's taking advantage of his brother's illness to steal his special food. He also stole his bed.

When there's fireworks outside or any other suspicious sound that could indicate a catastrophic hazard, the King rings the alarm, “Alarm! Alarm!!! Move, you fools!” running around plants, over the furniture, on window sills, to the front door and back; while the other one just sits and stares in pure ataraxia, watching the world burn around him, watching his brother panicking over nothing. Purr, purr, purr.

Reality is always More or less Than what we want Only we are always Equal to ourselves.

Ricardo Reis (excerpt) 1-07-1916

Updating on my previous post, I finally – finally – finished The Mirror of Simple Souls by Margaret Porette. I’m so happy because it wasn’t easy and I may or may not have something to say about it. Maybe in general terms, but even to me it was too much. And not even on purpose, another book came out: Dissident women, beguines, and the quest for spiritual authority by Catherine Lambert. I’m going to read it after taking 1000 naps. I mean, the book title says everything. What I enjoyed the most about Margaret was precisely the independence with which she lived her faith, especially at a time when independence and women were mutually exclusive. I wrote the following text a while ago, but didn’t publish it because I didn’t think it was that good but here goes.


I was listening to a song called Ballad of the Prodigal Son. It's terribly beautiful and collected. It's actually funny that the story, being a joyful one, and with a happy ending, at least for the father and the son – the brother being rightfully pissed at the special treatment and kinda missing the point – the angelic voice shifted tone just in the right measure to bring tears to my eyes. I still have no idea why I listen to these things, but I do. Oh, it's late at night. Silence! And a midlife crisis.

Circling back, this is a very well-known story but as my memory fails me consistently, I don't recall it from my childhood; or maybe it was in a book a nanny gave me. I must have heard it, but without much contextual memory from those early years, I can only trust that the story reached me one day somehow. It’s common knowledge that the communion of saints is one of the fundamental principles of the Catholic Church. But why exactly do people need saints? What's a saint supposed to do? After all, Christ is Lord. He is, but sometimes you just need a little nudge to get there. The saints can do precisely that. So, a normal Catholic will tell you “we don't worship saints!” even though they may be talking with their favourite saints the whole day, but this is the part that they don't tell you so it can't get confused with “worshipping”. However, if they tell you that they're talking with other Catholics the entire day, it's not worshipping, it's a conversation. This is exactly what the communion of saints is – relishing in the very connection between earthly and heavenly things, and everything in between – that of holy people united by the sacraments and communion with Christ our saviour. Think about it as a connection between the human and the divine; the human turned holy, touched by grace and by the Holy Spirit which is common to us all. In other words, it’s being in touch.

Of course I’m only mentioning this in very loose terms, not even explaining anything, but you get the idea. Where I want to get at is, as made abundantly clear in a previous post, I have a favourite saint. That person died 400 years ago. I could try to update myself a little bit and choose another saint as a guide but I can’t. My head is resting on the perfect lap, if I can be so candid. I can push it a bit further and say that my body is being held by the perfect pair of arms and my soul is being fed the most eloquent whispers. That my will is being guided by the wisest actions and my dreams are being set on fire by the most ferocious passion. Ok, I’ll stop here before this gets weird – and it does. Remember that angel? Where do you think that passion comes from? It came from God, it was infused into a human being who subsequently wrote a number of theological teatrises that pierced the soul of another human being 400 years later. Now think about this as a web of connections, of a pulsating heart from where all arteries and veins expand. This is just the power of one saint and her communion with Christ. Think how many individuals are connected to Christ through a web of connections with other people, and these, with others. It is, in other terms, a Church.

My head is resting on the perfect lap My body is held by the perfect pair of arms My soul is fed the most eloquent whispers My will is guided by the wisest actions My dreams are lit by the most ferocious passion

Hah, it almost looks like I’m in love! Teresa of Avila, in her younger years, got access to a number of books. One of them was Letters of St. Jerome. See, St. Jerome was an inspiration to her and a guide in her own faith. As such, I also started reading his letters, learning that he was the translator of the Bible to Latin and a few other facts about his life. I wanted to read his letters, because they lingered in the eyes of Teresa and his words flipped a switch some time later. One of his letters caught my eye – To Theodosius and the rest of the anchorites. It was there that I saw Luke 15:3-5 and ended up reading the whole passage. For context, St. Jerome wrote: “I am the prodigal son who although I have squandered all the portion entrusted to me by my father, have not yet bowed the knee in submission to him; not yet have I commenced to put away from me the allurement of my former excesses.” Oh Jerome, how much we have in common! And then, by some weird coincidence, the heavenly voice I mentioned in the first paragraph starts singing the ballad that gave melody to my ears, a ballad previously unknown to me, playing on shuffle on YouTube, echoing the Holy Spirit, echoing Luke’s gospel, echoing Jerome, echoing Teresa, and piercing me.

I am exhausted. It's a good kind of exhaustion, but still, I need naps. I've been able to juggle my job, drawing, reading, writing, playing video games and watching silly horror flicks. After all, it's October and I need inspiration to keep going after the cold and darkness sets in for good. Winter is coming, right? Last Winter, we had a lot of snow. Our little neighbourhood looked like a cosy postcard people used to send to their families during Christmas. Do people still do that? Things at work have been fine despite the fact that sometimes what I really, really need is silence. I've seen that silence these days can enter the realm of luxuries. Not everyone has access to it, not everyone can enjoy its all encompassing bliss, it's the realm of the privileged.

Silence, silence, silence. I need it so my soul can sing.

Maybe it's the reason why I sleep so little. I enjoy the early hours of the night to stay in absolute silence. During this time I get inspired to write or draw while processing the many thoughts flowing in waves through my head. Sometimes I get desperate! I need to do everything all at once and can't seem to find rest. At least, I don't have neighbours digging their heels on the upper floor, children practising the piano right above my bedroom. Beats all the neighbours I had before, though. These don't make free use of an hi-fi system or play video games at maximum volume during the night. I am very lucky and enjoy their presence even when we don't interact.

Following my last post, I wrote some ramblings in my journal about a somewhat new translation of Teresa's biography. I'd like to transcribe it here, but first I need to understand my own handwriting and second I need to edit a fair amount. So, I think the idea will stay inside the drawer alongside my journal. Writing about Teresa's works and ideas wasn't easy and I assume that when I start seeing what I wrote here, I'll probably bin the whole thing. The gist of the text is translation for authenticity vs. translation as experience. At first, I didn't understand the whole purpose of changing so many things in the original text “for a modern audience”. I also shouldn't fall into traditional bigotry over religious texts. It's exhausting and useless. I just got slightly annoyed because one part of me thinks the original text and respective direct translation (as far as possible) is the right thing to do, whereas the other part felt the new translation is the right way to take it in. Therefore, if you want to read the original text, as written, in all its authenticity and sweet imperfection, all well and good. If you choose instead to read something that is truly transformative, then the new translation is the way to go. Why, though, can't the old one be both? Well, it can. I’ve experienced it both ways and the conclusion I reached is, in order to grasp the old (original) discourse, the one thing we have to put in is work – a lot of it. And it's this work and effort that I miss when I’m reading the new translation. I must be very clear that this translation couldn't be more beautiful and rich – it’s the one I have in physical format – but it just did all the work for me.

In the end, I rambled intensely about this in my journal. I had to cross-reference some sources. I was comparing translations all the while reading about traditions on literature produced by women in the Late Middle Ages. It was over 4am, fortunately on a Friday. My brain was on fire. Then, not on the same day, I wrote about my progress with a book called The Mirror of Simple Souls, written by Margaret Porette. It's not an easy read, but the translation I got, from the University of Notre Dame Press, comes with a f a n t a s t i c introductory essay. Ah, joy! I'll transcribe what I've written here if the inspiration strikes again as I still have to finish the book and read another one about the Latin translation. What drives me to the Mirror is pure curiosity and it's a brilliant piece of spiritual literature from the Middle Ages. The essay focuses on what we know about the life of Margaret before being taken by the Inquisition, as well as theological themes, literary style and tradition, reception, custodial history and translation. A treasure, is what it is.

I finished reading River Kings – The Vikings from Scandinavia to the Silk Roads by Cat Jarman. Wonderful read about the exploits of the Viking Army and viking presence in Central and Eastern Europe, and then further East. I got a deeper look into their society, belief system, military operations, trade, expansion and connection with Constantinople. The book was recommended by someone who knows about my peculiar taste for badass saints and it presented me with a couple of pages about Olga of Kyiv, the scourge of the Drevlians. I wondered if she was the patron saint of widows, and that she is! It was a great way to finish the last chapters at the prow of trade currents possibly reaching Baghdad and further beyond, maybe.

After finishing this month’s Inktober event, I’ll be dedicating more time to Trails from Zero on Nintendo Switch and will hopefully write a few words about it on my blog. There’s a website that runs prompts like Inktober, except it’s year-round. In order to make some effort on that front I could challenge myself to create at least four or five drawings per month, just to train the line and eventually develop my skills. I like to draw on prompt; it’s easier to come up with something almost immediately, without having to waste a long time staring at a blank page. A prompt can either summon something of a creative nature or purely descriptive. I’m satisfied with whatever comes to mind. Time is something I don’t have when I feel that I already have so much going on. And time with silence, lesser still.

I’m not a practising Catholic but there’s aspects of Christian spirituality that I still feel somewhat drawn to. I don’t know if it’s like this or the other way around, but I usually am very critical of my beliefs. Faith and belief are two different things, but let's not go there. The only thing I know is that I’m definitely not an atheist, however it’s with atheists that I often talk about such things. I enjoy the pragmatism, the critical thinking, the freedom and the sense of humour that comes in conversation. But sometimes it's not enough and that’s why I read historical writings about the spiritual life of religious people. Some of these people were canonised and others were tragically condemned by the Inquisition. Both are equally valid to me if I happen to find inspiration in their writings.

The 15th October is the celebration day of St. Teresa of Ávila. She died exactly at the transition from the Julian calendar to the Gregorian calendar, so either the 4th of October or the 15th of October 1582. It was, in any case, established the 15th of October as her celebration day. I’m writing this text mostly from memory and it’s possible that I’m not correctly getting some facts about her life, but that’s not the point. I'd like to praise her as a very important presence in my spiritual thinking. Even when I wasn't listening, I think her soul (or the Spirit dwelling within her) was somewhat passing through me, either as a warm and kind companion or blowing straight into my face. That came, however, a bit later.

Everyone from my Art History class knew about the seminal Bernini sculpture, a beautiful composition of two figures. One is an angel wearing a smile and holding a spear pointed towards a woman leaning against a rock, head bent backwards, eyes closed, lips slightly apart. The angel gracefully grabs the woman's vest, draped in such a way resembling the wild flames of desire. The altarpiece is a moving picture in itself; his eyes focused on her face, his spear pointed straight to her heart. Appropriately called “The Ecstasy of St. Teresa,” it decorates the church of Santa Maria della Vittoria in Rome. The sculpture created by Gian Lorenzo Bernini was commissioned by the Venetian Cardinal Federico Cornaro for his own final resting place in the church. The work was completed around 1652.

Pope Gregory XV canonised St. Teresa in 1622, not long before the commission. It was only in 1970, however, that St. Teresa was declared a Doctor of the Church (DoC), the first woman to get the recognition, by Pope St. Paul VI. There are thousands of saints in the Catholic Church, thousands upon thousands, but only 36 are DoC. From these 36 only 4 are women: Teresa of Ávila, Catherine of Siena, Therese of Lisieux and the almighty Hildegard of Bingen.

At the time, when we saw Bernini's sculpture in our baroque art classes, we didn't know any of this, nor who the woman was. She was just another saint, and in our Catholic country, we knew there were many to speak of, almost all nuns and monks, and we wanted to go to the smoking room and there was still an hour left of class. Yes, I smoked at the time. For some reason my asthma wasn't so predominantly present in my life and smoking a cigarette after class was part of our little rituals. And, of course, an espresso taken from a real espresso machine!

We were observing the sculpture projected on the screen and wondering, “Is this like... religious?” And the teacher explained that the reception was a bit controversial and the reason why was blatantly obvious: to our younger minds (and to the minds of the older men who criticised it) it looked like the woman was having something closer to a sexual climax. It could have been a naughty artistic choice to imbue the sculptural elements with expressive theatrical features or it could have simply been what the artist envisioned when consulting Teresa's writings where she described her rapture in detail. The artist filled in the blanks and came up with what we, in the class, felt was a masterpiece. No matter what crossed our minds at the time, if the café was still open or if we had to smoke outside, the altarpiece made an impression on the younger me.

Only years later would I sit comfortably and read the story of Teresa’s life, written in her own words. By that time I had already forgotten about the sculpture and when I reached the part where she described her “visions” it wasn’t what Bernini created that I imagined, but it was likewise much closer than I thought, except a bit bloodier:

It was our Lord’s will that in this vision I should see the angel in this wise. He was not large, but small of stature, and most beautiful – his face burning, as if he were one of the highest angels, who seem to be all on fire: they must be those whom we call cherubim. Their names they never tell me; but I see very well that there is in heaven so great a difference between one angel and another, and between these and the others, that I cannot explain it. I saw in his hand a long spear of gold, and at the iron’s point there seemed to be a little fire. He appeared to me to be thrusting it at times into my heart, and to pierce my very entrails; when he drew it out, he seemed to draw them out also, and to leave me all on fire with great love of God. The pain was so great that it made me moan; and yet so surpassing was the sweetness of this excessive pain that I could not wish to get rid of it. The soul is satisfied now with nothing less than God. The pain is not bodily, but spiritual; though the body has its share in it, even a large one. It is a caressing of love so sweet which now takes place between the soul and God, that I pray to God of His goodness to make him experience it who may think that I’m lying.

[There are many translations of this passage even though it sounds better in the original language. I picked a translation available at Project Gutenberg – Chapter XXIX]

It wasn't the visions and the validity she tried to justify to her confessors that struck me when I read her book. The raptures she experienced could have been induced by many things, both natural and supernatural, depending on who you ask. Even though she was writing under the vow of obedience we are able to capture, through her writings, a clear picture of her soul, her faith and conflict. What I mean is not a conflict of faith, on the contrary. It’s a devotion that communicates dynamism, movement, flow, stress, restlessness, desire, reach, like a courtship! A constant wanting to leap into the arms of another who’s not entirely within reach, not yet, but to whom we can say anything, to whom we can love how we love, unshackled and undressed and frail and unafraid. We as mere readers and testimonies of these writings are left with this incredible gift, an incredible mystical experience pushing the soul into every direction. Her experience and intellectual ability to absorb the church’s doctrine and transcend it through her own words didn’t come without scrutiny. I wonder what she would have done without such intense monitoring.

I don’t want to misstep and say that Teresa wasn’t worried about salvation or worried about good works for the Church which she loved so much, in good measure with some criticism, I may add. However, at least from my readings, the church was more in the way than anything else. It was the people she was concerned with, and the actions upon the world with the promise of bringing religious perfection onto God. In order to do that, she reformed a religious order and founded the Discalced Carmelites, proceeding to found 17 convents across 16th century’s Spanish territory. Perhaps her endeavours were even more daunting, not only because she was a woman navigating a patriarchal society, but because she had some serious health issues. And yet, despite the limitations of her body, she strove for perfection in the way that she instituted the principles of her order.

It’s interesting how she wanted to live among small groups of people, no more than 13 nuns. The convent of the Incarnation in Ávila had about 180 [I don’t remember the precise number; it was more than 100]. As someone suffering from social anxiety and concentration difficulties among large groups of people I can only imagine Teresa’s unfruitful attempts at mental prayer and contemplation while 180 nuns were having visits from their families, not to mention the chattering, the noise, the infighting and the bustle. Teresa believed deeply that God was guiding her steps and it gave her a sense of purpose and a mission. From an early age she knew that a life of marriage and motherhood wasn’t the right vocation for her, but neither was a life of just being inside a convent and begging to creepy noblemen for patronage, or spending the day visiting people’s houses for alms. Money was something she despised with a passion. She wanted her nuns (her daughters) to be as self-sufficient as they could possibly be, as physically and spiritually strong and independent as they could be, as united in the love of God through effective forms of prayer, but above all that this should be their choice and their vocation too, independently of their social origins.

The accounts of contemporary Discalced Carmelites describing their own enclosure elucidate the reasons for such a radical life decision. Very few, if any, aren't there because they couldn’t be somewhere else, much less in this day and age. This was the wish of Teresa for the future, that people could be free to choose but when they did, that they’d be working towards something and pursuing something, not running away from less savoury aspects of worldly life. This was also her conflict and she sacrificed her well-being to leave an opportunity in the open for religious women and men at the time – she also founded male monasteries with great support from St. John of the Cross in the reformation of the Carmelites.

I still have so much to learn about Teresa's mysticism and her life in more practical terms. I haven’t read her book about the foundations, her letters or her poetry. She had a worldview and I think I’ve found my little corner in it. She struggled to explain her experience of the divine because it’s something extremely personal and unique, meaning that if we haven’t experienced it ourselves most likely we won’t know what she’s talking about. It’s not only about what images she saw, perceived or thought – images that were already part of her tradition – but all the sensations vibrating through her at that moment and the way she interpreted these: as gifts and perfect communion.

It’s funny that I’ve been trying to figure out her work in isolation, and I have absolutely no idea if the message I get from her writings is true, false or in between. Did I nail it or did I miss the mark? It’s one of those rare cases where I read more of the primary source than the secondary interpretative essays. In most cases, I prefer to read alongside deep historical context, introductory essays, literature analysis, you name it. It helps a lot to go for mediaeval studies and proceed from there. I would avoid sources without any connections to University departments. It’s just that in this specific case I may have been looking for something else and my perspective as a reader was marked by intentions I wasn’t even aware of.

I have to thank Bernini for the figure immortalised in his sculpture and the little cherubim that almost killed our saint with passion. Some clergymen won’t get much praise here for distrusting the experiences of a religious woman to the point that she had to lay it out for everyone to see and analyse its validity. It seems like intense scrutiny is what validates a mystic. It was yet another sacrifice Teresa wasn’t entirely aware of as she was very picky as to who should read her writings. Well… that part didn’t go so well for her to the advantage of theologians, medievalists, feminists, lay people and even atheists.

Some months ago, I bought a book called En Reise til Roma – I sporene til pilegrimen Nikolas Bergsson året 1152 (A Journey to Rome – In the footsteps of the pilgrim Nikolas Bergsson in the year 1152) by Hans Jacob Orning and Svein Harald Gullbekk. Both authors are history professors at the Oslo University and have made research in the fields of Norwegian and European history in the Middle Ages. Svein Harald did also run research projects in the area of numismatics. I think they must be a very interesting duo and their classes are surely packed with curiosities about history, big societal questions, nasty details about religious relics, period currency and also tips and tricks about bike maintenance. Yes, both gentlemen are passionate about cycling.

The book is about an Icelandic monk called Nikolas Bergsson and the pilgrimage he undertook from Iceland to Rome and then Jerusalem. He left a travel guide to help other pilgrims. The document is called Leiðarvísir og borgarskipan. As a trve icelandic man, Nikolas was sceptic of authorities, didn't dabble too much in political intrigue, still had the saga of Sigurd Fåvnesbane and Gudrun in his imaginary, had a special interest in saints and relics and whether or not he found what he was looking for in his pilgrimage is still a mystery. Of what is known, he managed to go safely back to Iceland. He became abbot of the benedictine monastery of Munkaþverá in Eyjafjörður.

So what did Hans Jacob and Svein Harald decide to do? Walk in the steps of Nikolas and see the world through his eyes to the best of their ability? Of course not! They would cycle! The book's title is A Journey to Rome because the authors opted to make the first half of Nikolas' pilgrimage from Iceland to Rome and experience the world from their bike seats. They had to make sporadic use of transportation and resort to current-day facilities but soon found themselves in Norway. Thus the book, in general terms, tells the story of what they are able to see and find in the places Nikolas visited at a time when most territories in Europe were part of the Western Roman Empire. What did Nikolas see? More than that, what was he aware of?

The book is packed with historical facts and curiosities from the get-go and it can quickly get a bit overwhelming. The authors followed the guide very closely, informing the reader about the instances they deviated from and why. It's an astronomical amount of research that my brain, used to read texts focused on one aspect of historical thinking, struggled a bit to keep up. I can't say I didn't get distracted at times, but there was always something grabbing my attention a few sentences sooner or later. I think I saw a bit of myself in Nikolas, going back to something I've mentioned two paragraphs ago as is expressed here:

Det var helgener, relikvier og kirker han [Nikolas] var opptatt av, ikke paver, ei heller kirken som helhet eller ideologi. (p. 61)

“Nikolas was interested in saints, relics and churches, not popes or the church as a whole or as ideology.” I can see this. Do I share a bit with Nikolas? Maybe so. After what I learned about him I could see myself walking by his side and drinking some beers with him, exactly how Hans Jacob and Svein Harald imagined if they were in the same pilgrimage. I'm just not so sure, though. There's a lot of speculation about Nikolas' thinking – if there was some interest in the church as an institution it may be lost to us. However, it strikes me as odd if there's a total disconnect between a future abbot and his current-day church affairs. The authors don't seem to be very interested in the church as an ideology either, especially when there's emperors and politics to think about. In any case, in good academic spirits, it's always good to maintain some neutrality when it comes to matters of religion and faith, even in a book which is supposed to be about the complexity of the time period it illustrates, the travel and Nikolas pilgrimage. In the end the authors painted a very profound picture of the mentality of people in the Middle Ages, their interconnected webs of actions and reactions, the spiritual and the mundane connected, the supernatural realm and its impact and significance in the physical world. At times, I struggled to see the difference between this mentality and the unique experience of meeting (some) religious people today.

I continued reading the book and our friend Nikolas made his way through Speyer, he saw the Speyer cathedral – a massive building with cruciform plan, a central nave and two side aisles, the transeptum, a big vault and a deambulatorium. It's a large, earthly, serene, and powerful construction built with red sandstone and the final resting place of emperors. By the time Nikolas visited the cathedral Conrad II, Henry III, Henry IV and Henry V were already buried there. The authors were completely drawn to it and me too. I want to visit that cathedral for other reasons, not of the same world as our author’s, but now that I have a little more information, I also wish to take a look at the graves and marvel at them, not only at the Divine. I want to see the cathedral from the outside and see it, not only as the house of God, but as house-like, an oversized house that doesn’t project itself to the skies like a meteor.

The reaction of our travel companions to the Strasbourg cathedral was visceral to say the least (p. 134). Its rayonnant gothic architecture didn’t allow for an opportunity to rest the eye. Used to Protestant churches with minimal religious imagery, I can only imagine the overwhelming impact gothic architecture has on people who aren’t religious or are used to simplicity and practicality. I myself love gothic churches for their artistical, architectural and engineering value; they’re like a museum or an open book which tells many stories if we’re able to comprehend or identify them. I just don’t see them as optimal places of prayer. I never entered a gothic church and got that pull to sit in introspection or say a word of prayer. The reaction of our authors shocked me at first but now in hindsight I can see where it came from. Who were those bells and whistles made for anyway? How did people react at the time the rayonnant part was finished? Was the objective to disturb or to invite? Or both?

The chapters about the church, relics, and saints are among my favourites. The exciting practice of stealing relics from a city to considerably increase the economic power of another city is described in such a way that almost I forgot that stealing is wrong. Our authors call it kulturkriminalitet which dispenses any translation. The idea of cultural crimes is a relatively modern one and at the time of Frederik Barbarossa it meant serious business (p. 84). When his troops took over Milan they got access to massive loot. Among the goodies were the relics of the Three Kings. This was a wonderful score handed to the Archbishop Rainal of Dassel that made Cologne into one of the most important centres of pilgrimage. What I find most captivating are the discussions between both authors at the end of the chapters, where the subject shifts from a very compressed mixture of names, places, dates and events (all relevant and well structured) to little bits of introspection, analysis and reflection. They themselves reflected upon the relics and what they felt upon seeing them.

Many such stories, like the one I described, populate the book like illuminated manuscripts. Reflections about religion, doctrine, mentality, faith, fear, danger, wars, beauty and contemplation are present more or less prominently across the book, through Nikolas’ experience of the world around him, and the author’s experience from their informed perspective – rational, relevant and informed. A lot about Nikolas is clouded in uncertainty but of the many times Hans Jacob and Svein Harald stop to take a breather, they think about the motives of a pilgrimage, its biggest triumph, if it’s the higher heavens and salvation or something more. They left donations only to the small churches that were in most disrepair and need. They eventually met the heroes of this story – Andrea and his family. Isn’t this also a part of a pilgrimage? The human connection, the experiences and the edification (danning) we derive from it.

There will be a lot of back-and-forth in History to comprehend the world Nikolas moves in, his 12th century of constant clashes between papal and imperial powers. By the end of the book we find a modern translation of the Leiðarvísir with all the most likely locations Nikolas visited. They must have decided not to add the part from Rome to Jerusalem but it can easily be found online. There’s also a timetable with the approximate number of days the pilgrimage took. Also a bibliography with commentary from where I underlined about nine books to read.

As a closing note, both Hans Jacob and Svein Harald are research colleagues and they had the idea of writing this book after working on a project called Standardization in the Middle Ages supported by The Research Council of Norway. The research resulted in a book which is now in open access in its whole or in parts. The book En Reise til Roma was also supported by The Research Council of Norway and the Norwegian Non-Fiction Writers and Translators Association. It was published by Dreyers Forlag in 2024. I hope the book gets an English translation soon. If it does, I’ll read it again, maybe in ebook format. I can’t say that I didn’t get stuck at times. Norwegian is still a new language to me. Even though I speak it every day, I don’t make much use of it outside of my job, and my reading habits in the language have been very lacking. English is our Latin. Jumping right into an History book wasn’t the best idea, or maybe it was. I have read light romance novels where I didn’t struggle so much. My head is extremely tired but I am very satisfied with overcoming this reading without interrupting the flow to check the dictionary. This book was also a pilgrimage to me. I can’t wait to read some articles about standardisation in the Middle Ages!

We already knew beforehand about our plans to go to a bouldering introduction course. My wife has been training these last few months, somewhat on-and-off but doing what she can handle, sometimes in reality, and other times in intention. Me on the other hand, not that much. I’m a sitting person doing sitting things. I go to work, walk a little bit, sometimes try to catch the bus two or three bus stops away, all well and good. But training, no, it’s not my specialty. Do I have one? Complaining in silence. I spent my Monday writing and working and wondering how the bouldering course would be. It would be great, of course! No reason not to be able to climb a short wall, I guess. I think I’ll manage given that, for some good blessing of nature, I have good upper-body strength. Were it not at the expense of my lower-body I could almost think myself a fitting human. Even in muscle distribution I am able to be a contrarian. As long as I can use my hands and shoulders, using my legs as support, I can climb at least the easiest colours. This is exactly the opposite of what should be done. Let me be very straightforward: don’t use anything you read here about physical exercise as gospel.

I arrived home and after hearing the story about how our washing machine is not working yet and the neighbours were nervous because there was a water leak that was immediately fixed before their eyes, not without the implication of panic plastered on their foreheads, I finally put the dinner in the oven and waited patiently for the meal that would give me superhuman strength to climb my way to heaven. After more lively dialogue we decided to leave. My wife usually drives because I have driving phobia and can only be summoned in situations of dire need in case someone in distress needs help. In a nutshell, if you’re dying, I’ll drive.

With GPS in hand we readied for the road trip to the klatresenter (the place of boulders). Suddenly my mother-in-law calls and the phone is busy with the GPS because the one in the car isn’t updated and we didn’t want to drive over the mountains but take the tunnels instead. I messed up the buttons because touch screens were invented for accidental taps and I’m still from the time when pressing buttons expressed intent. “I don’t want to talk with her now, “ my wife declares, “reject the call!!!!” I tried, but there wasn’t any digital red button on the screen, just a green rectangle over the GPS and a myriad of words I wasn’t able to read in passing. I just closed the window and chose to believe the call was gone. “It’s still there!!!” I tried my best to look it up but the phone wasn’t giving any sign of an ongoing call. It disappeared. I opened all the tabs and it was gone and transferred to the car’s computer. God, don’t make me describe all this because I don’t know what happened or what I did wrong. After a while, I assertively said that I wanted relaxation so we could drive safely. With call or no call it’s not like she was able to hear us, right? (She wasn’t.)

We arrived at the place and couldn’t find the right building. There was a complex of concrete blocks that housed companies and offices. We parked near the dentist practitioners. On the opposite side was a Barry’s with loud music and voices coming from the inside. It’s the place where people go for exorcisms – not our thing. After calling the klatresenter we were guided to the right place, around the complex, passing by another establishment where people have fun jumping on trampolines. I tried to shove aside all visions of nightmarish leaps of faith and broken necks. Finally at our destination, we entered the place and the reception was also a cafeteria. It was cosy and we were welcomed by two very smiley individuals and another, not so smiley one, showing signs of not wanting to be there. It was our instructor. We introduced ourselves and she asked if we wanted to start right away considering that we were early? Were we? Well, that’s a first! We told her we would wait and get ourselves ready. We used that time to grab a pair of shoes and see the place. Not a lot of people were there, everyone seemed skilled and welcoming. It was obvious we didn’t belong but I didn’t feel like I was just landing from Sirius. The relaxed atmosphere made me feel relaxed too, despite the idea of trying a new activity, something I never tried before. It wasn’t a big place with very high walls and it made me feel slightly reassured and less intimidated.

When the instructor showed up we were directed to an area with the easiest colours, where we could safely start. She gave us some tips and my wife went first, showing clear proof of courage and might. She did well, and then it was my turn. I also did well, first try, using my arms to raise my body, not entirely aware of where my legs were. I used intuition and strength. Then another time, then another. There were a lot of those easy routes, some reached higher than others and I enjoyed reaching the highest boulder and then climbing back down. The instructor told us she also prefers to climb back down instead of falling down on purpose due to the higher risk of back, knee or arm injury. However, in case we fall, it is recommended to bring our hands close to our chest and let ourselves fall. “Also, pay attention to other people climbing in the same area, especially above you, in case they fall over you.” Visions of leaps of faith and broken necks.

After what appeared to be one hour tops, my wife got tired. Her legs weren’t responding so well and she looked extremely happy but exhausted. It was to be expected as we haven’t been exercising, much less doing something like this. I could still go a little more. There was a wall where the boulders were a ways apart from each other. I pulled myself up and easily climbed it. I could safely conclude that I was ready for the easiest parts without much effort; it was only a matter of training until I was ready for higher difficulties, just like in video games. What I wasn’t expecting was the quality of my tendons in contrast with the quality of my muscles. When I looked down, a small bump on the inner side of my forearm was already showing and I was slowly feeling every connector tissue compressing against every muscular fibre inside my right forearm. I had a choice right then and there. Either I could play the hero of my story and keep climbing until I was really tired or I could go home and take care of an obvious case of inflammation and come back another day. I decided for the latter because I’m an adult, albeit imperfect.

My wife’s left arm ghosted her, and her legs were shaking when she climbed down. I didn’t notice mine were also in the same messy state although it would have been a fun sight, were I been able to select a third person view only to see my thin feet shaking like the tail of our cat when he’s angry. I mentioned what appeared to be one hour doing this. It wasn’t. We were at it for only half an hour of a two-hour course. After this extremely awkward realisation we had to say we were done. The instructor told us we beat the record of less time travelled in the boulders. People say so many things when they don’t know what to say. In any case, despite the obvious lack of a good build for the sport, we managed to climb! For 30 minutes we raised our bodies in artificial walls and didn’t fall or struggle that much! Two ladies who like reading and knitting and never leave the house did the unthinkable. I call it a win! When we arrived home, I put some ice on my swollen arm, and it worked like a charm. A few more climbs and I wouldn’t be typing silly things about myself for the internet to see. Now the pain, the real pain, will come tomorrow, or maybe not. Maybe it was just tendons and I’ll be relaxed, feeling that I used my body for something more than a vessel for a poor functioning brain.

I was rereading the book “Arte e Beleza na Estética Medieval” by Umberto Eco, edited by Editorial Presenca in 1989 (EU Portuguese edition). The title in English is “Art and Beauty in the Middle Ages” but when citing the book I'm using my translation unless stated otherwise. It's a slow-paced reread that I've been doing. Umberto Eco has always been my favorite for studies about the Middle Ages and semiotics. Finding more than one of his books in our literature lists at the university was to be expected. “Art and Beauty...” was one of those books. It works more or less like a guide with the most fundamental concepts on aesthetics coupled with a variety of sources to pave the way for further study. There must be better and much more comprehensive sources by now. Everything changes. The reason why I'm still so attached to these books is purely emotional because it comes from a time I'm still longing for. I'm not the same person, I don't have the same life, I'm not surrounded by the same things, but I still have the same nature.

I was reading a section about the Chartres school and found an excerpt of a poem in Latin that goes like this:

O Dei proles genitrixque rerum. vinculum mundi, stabilisque, nexus, gemma terrenis, speculum caducis, lucifer orbis. Pax, amor, virtus, regimen, potestas, ordo, lex, finis, via, dux, origo, vita, lux splendor, species, figura, Regula mundi.

Alain the Lille (Alanus ab Insulis) (1128 – c. 1202) De Planctu Naturae, ed. N. Häring, Spoleto, Centro Italiano di Studi sull'Alto Medioevo, 1978

It's one of the primary sources cited in the book on page 49. The poem was followed by a Portuguese translation and I got stuck in the word lucifer which was translated the same as lux. The person who translated the translation from Italian (the original “Art and beauty...” is written in Italian) chose to use the same word – luz – to translate lucifer and lux. Since I don't live in a place where I can go to the library and easily find Latin sources and romance languages, I had to search online. A possible translation for lucifer that isn't Lucifer, the angel, is estrela d'alva – morning star – with reference to the planet Venus and it's seldomly used, at least with that wording. After a while I found what I was looking for. Lucifer: that brings light (que traz a luz), that gives (or reveals?) clarity (que dá claridade), luminous (luminoso). I very badly need to read this translation in Italian but I'm going to leave you with an English translation by Douglas M. Moffat that, accurate or not, shows the beauty of this poem:

O offspring of God, mother of all things, Bond and firm chain of the universe Jewel of earth, mirror to mortality, Light-bringer of the world! Peace, love, virtue, government, power, Order, law, end, way, light, source, Life, glory, splendor, beauty, form, Pattern of the world!

I may have seen a number of English translations and couldn't decide which one to choose. The Italian translation I was looking for is locked behind a paywall. But if the title De Planctu Naturae appears often translated as The Complaint of Nature in English, in Italian it's instead called, in direct translation, The Lament of Nature. The frustration I have to deal with for now is that the Portuguese translation of the excerpt could have been reworked, but it still depicts what touched me about this poem (which is much longer that what's written here). Umberto Eco selected this strophe to express the organic sense of nature in contrast with static mathematical principles, where the immanence of the Son is the organizing principle of aesthetic harmony, the Father is the effective cause (causa efectiva), the Holy Spirit is the final cause (causa final) – amor et connexio, anima mundi. (Eco, p. 49).

What is accuracy in translation after all? With spiritual texts and prayers in Latin I prefer to go for perceived meaning instead of exact meaning or, say, a translation with literary flourishing. However, when reading these works from an academic and study perspective is when my hands are tied. I may (or may not) know that it means, as in what it refers to. What is the spiritual link that connects the soul of the world? What lies in the root of nature's primordial force? What's the sense we make of it and its connection to God's creation?

*

By a stroke of luck I found another translation. The book “Art and Beauty...” is available online for your perusing. Let's go to page 34 of this translation by Hugh Bredin and see how he nailed the poem (spoiler alert: he did):

Oh child of God, mother of creation, Both the universe and its stable link, Bright gem of those on earth, mirror for mortals, Light-bearer for the world: Peace, love, virtue, guide, power, Order, law, end, way, leader, source, Life, light, splendor, beauty, form, Rule of the world.

In the Portuguese edition species is translated as aspect (aspecto). There's a reason for it. Species can mean beauty, yes, but its meaning is not only confined to value. It can be aspect, appearance, look, exterior. It can also be beauty! And, let's face it, between splendor and form isn't beauty so vibrant?

The light-bringer, the light-bearer presupposes an agent: the one that brings the light, the one that bears the light. Can the light be brought or borne with the passive voice? What was Alain thinking? Did he mean the so-called offspring of God or the children of God as agents? The progeny of God born from the origin (female/ genitrix) of creation, the one who brings light, stability, bond (vinculum), the one that unveils the world (orbis) and brings the world to light? Or the creative nature of all things from which the offspring generated? Well, we could be here all day but if Umberto Eco moved on to the next point, so will we.

Just to close the subject, De Planctu Naturae is, to put it simply, an allegorical depiction of the Creation, the order of the universe and its disorder. Alberto Bartòla on the article “Filosofia, Teologia, Poesia nell 'Planctu Naturae' e nell 'Anticlaudianus' de Alano di Lilla” page 233, wrote the following:

Nella seconda scena della prima parte, attraverso un lungo monologo, il personaggio feminille svela sua vera identità e definisce il ruolo che assume rispetto al Creatore e nel contesto de tutta la creazione: ella è la vicaria Dei, la mediatrice dei disegni della divina volontà sulla terra.

“In the second scene of the first half, there's a long monologue, the female character reveals her true identity and defines the assumed role in relation to the Creator and in the context of all creation: she is the vicar of God, the mediator of the divine will's design on earth.” – My extremely direct translation. It gives some clues on Who in fact is our secret agent!

So simple. A blank page. I couldn't ask for a better interface. Look how these words populate the page so magically. It's a sight to behold, considering the clutter we are subjected to in other online spaces.

I was a bit unsure about what to write here. I created this blog as a backup space in case my WordPress blog went out of commission for some reason. Usually the reasons aren't communicated from the get-go and they urge you to take action in case you wish to recover all content you no longer have access to. It's confusing and I wasn't prepared to take in the idea that what I write in platforms owned by others doesn't actually belong to me. Pretty basic concept I was blissfully unaware of.

I'm still trying to figure out how this blog works, so this first post will be shorter and against the rules, or maybe not. Having less options for customization doesn't mean I get way faster at figuring things out. I can no longer give the excuse of my age because there's many people my age who are way better than me at navigating online platforms and using software. If there's one thing I've learned when I started using Mastodon was that I must be extremely techno-stupid. Mea culpa.

One day I told my wife: “A day will come when I'm going to get banned from Facebook or some other very well-known network and it will be for some stupid reason involving spam filters or because I chose the wrong react emoticon or something. Mark my words.” So yeah, let's wait and see. I can say that I'm a proud owner of a Mastodon account for almost (or probably exactly) one year and nothing happened yet, I haven't offended anyone and didn't crash the instance. I also never got angry, and that is a first.

I could start by saying where the name of this blog came from but I'll keep it for another time. It's not important. What's more important is that I'm in good company here – of this I'm absolutely sure – and I hope to fit well. I really do. What I'm not going to use this blog for is writing about video games, because I already do it somewhere else, unless in comes from an ongoing stream of consciousness. I could write about books but in order to do that I have to read them, and many other activities are just in the way, sometimes my own thoughts are in the way.

*

I've been using Discord a bit more often to connect with other bloggers. For some reason that I'm yet to understand I can't seem to like the chat. It surely is great to exchange tips about video games and other hobbies but I find it very difficult to keep a conversation going. It's like I go there, check the latest chats, send one or two comments and that's it. I struggle to communicate with people and I feel that chatting amplifies this shortcoming. I managed to keep it going once, with one person, and it was actually pretty cool. For a brief moment I was thrown back to my IRC times, where the chat window was brimming with activity and people constantly cycled between private and public chat. At the time, we had about five or more private chat windows and then just shitposted on general chat. It was fun, and we could always get to know people.

Now on Discord we have profiles that say “Ask to DM” and I wonder what that means. DM used to be the default so I think people must have changed. Or the internet changed. And where are we supposed to ask? If it's a private message wouldn't announcing ourselves in public defeat the purpose? “Illustrious person, could I please send you a private message about a given situation I'd very much like to discuss with you in private because it only concerns you and I don't see any reason to go off-topic in this general chat?” My goodness. The best course of action, I think, is to refrain from DMs altogether and react only if someone sends one to me. I miss IRC though. Some people were crap but at least we learned first-hand why.

I know why it is so. I know what trolling and abuse are and I've also been on the receiving end of it. I just wanted to rant a little and dwell in my own thoughts for a brief moment. There's a Norwegian expression that I enjoy very much: å ha mye på hjertet. It means, in direct translation, to have a lot in our heart, meaning that we have a lot to process, to communicate and to put out there. It can also mean that we have a lot of opinions about a subject. So let's relax a little. I think this blank page is the best place to start.