Am rather late to this...

But it is a beautiful morning, and warmer. At the supermarket, the word was that it is supposed to be hot during the next several days; who knows what that might mean but I bought a six pack of Coke to see me through, ha; had never had them before but because they were on sale I bought the 7.5 oz size cans. Often I lose interest at some point during the drinking of 12 oz of the stuff so this will presumably prevent that from happening. 

It is the feast of the Apostles Saints Philip and James (Introibo) in the 1960 Calendar i.e. in the 'Extraordinary Form' of the Roman Rite; having already said their Office myself, back on the Kalends, I've been saying the Office of the Tuesday in Rogationibus. Not going to hurt, hearing a second Mass of the Apostles, however [but the 1st was a Saturday i.e. no Mass from St.-E.]; Saint-Eugène begins momentarily. The Mass is Clamaverunt ad te, Domine

Post Sextam. I never learned much about Simone Weil, being put off I think by her enthusiasm for the wrong side in the Spanish Civil War and for industrial laborers. But I ought to put aside my prejudices and read about the woman, I expect; just finished Gjertrud Schnackenberg's The Heavenly Feast (A.M. Juster on Twitter plurimas gratias ago). 

... But hidden in the grass

As if the grass itself
Were giving out a cry,
I overhear the finch
Begin her native rhyme

And toil to paraphrase
Her version of your words.
It seems she tries and tries
Until the words come clear,

It is theirs, she seems to say,
Or that is what I hear,
And again: It is theirs, it is theirs.
And the plover joins in praise

With her fluttering, murmured prayers:
Send it to them, it is theirs.
And the blackbirds breaking wide
Take it up in their dialects

To sing you in their way,
I swear I can hear the words,
Send it to them, they say,
Send it to them, it is theirs,

Then all the birds of the air
Give thanks above your grave,
As if they were your cause
And those you meant to save,

As if the birds were there
In attendance at the end,
And, seeing the sacrifice
Had borne your body up,

So wasted as it was,
To your chair in Paradise,
And saw, before they fled,
Your first breathtaking act

Before the heavenly feast,
The bread set at your place:
To refuse to eat till none
On earth has less than you,

Though God in pity take
Your hands and lift them toward
His table for your sake.
Father, they have no food,

Send it to them, it is theirs.
And the birds returning here
Give tongue to what they've heard,
They tell the grass and stones

And the stream of moths who carve
Their tortuous paths in the air....

Ante Vesperas. Someone in one of the Facebook groups asked for 'wholesome' movie recommendations; I proposed Krzysztof Kieślowski's Dekalog. My surmise is that Song of Bernadette is more what she is looking for but, who knows. Now I realize that I haven't watched those films since, oh, the early years of the millennium and that was via Netflix, which I don't do any longer (I don't even know if they still mail out actual DVDs or only do the streaming business.) Criterion sells the DVDs for $100 ($70 this month!) but doesn't stream the work. Hmm. Cinetek in France rents movies for $5; but I don't know if they have the rights to rent to the US, and if they rent the entire 8+ hours of Dekalog for $5, they aren't very sharp businessmen. $50 to rent (am having vague unpleasant memories of sad lonely visits to Blockbuster after work on Friday evenings) or $70 to buy the DVDs. $70 is the annual subscription cost for Loeb. Eh. This is the circumstance in which I should like to return to work for three hours only.

It is also the feast of Saint Ignatius (18th century), of Saint Illuminatus (13th century), and of Saint Francesco (18th century). 

V. Et álibi aliórum plurimórum sanctórum Mártyrum et Confessórum, atque sanctárum Vírginum. R. Deo grátias.