The fourteenth century poem incorporated into the requiem Mass warns of that “day of wrath,” in Latin, dies irae. Seems that many of us don’t have to wait for some Day of Reckoning for a dies irae, that is, at least for some in Los Angeles. Ironic, isn’t it? The City of Angels finds itself on top of the road-rage list published by AutoInsuranceCenter.com from an analysis of Instagram posts. Then there’s Hawaii. Yes, the whole state. That island Paradise ranked first among states for road rage. Oh! And if you’re wondering about when the moment of “wrath” occurs, think 6 p.m. and the day of wrath is itself Friday. Let’s begin the weekend in dangerous anger.
Think that with this knowledge drivers will put some brakes on rage? “Probably, not,” you’re thinking. But what about you? Gotten a little perturbed by a distracted driver who blocks your journey momentarily? Just a little miffed?
In the poem sung in Gregorian chant, incorporated into works like Berlioz’s Symphonie Fantastique, and played over many YouTube stations, the haunting repetitive melody begins with the dire warning. Earth will lie in ashes. But within its many stanzas, there is some sign of hope in a plea for Mercy.
Is mercy a concept we’ve lost on our highways? Are they the conveyor belts of rage and judgment? Are we better at self-control when we stand still, encompassed by a single place? Is it the moving? Does anger emerge from incessant decisions and distractions: Accelerate, decelerate, stop, avoid, turn, read signs, miss objects and animals, turn on wipers, turn signals, place coffee cup in holder, hear the phone, answer…. “Lord, save me from all these temptations!”
Liber scriptus proferetur
In quo totum continetur
Unde mandus iudicetur.
Basically: the Book of Consciences is going to be read; drivers will be judged, probably by the police as well as other drivers (Okay, that’s not a literal translation).
Yet, drivers blatantly yell, “Go to Hell!” playing god on a dies irae of their own making. No mercy, lots of rage, particularly at 6 on Friday the dies illa, the “dreadful day.” And in culmination of a week of work and the long history of humanity, drivers in the City of Angels or on an island Paradise act as Judges whose tuba mirum is a prolonged blast of a car horn. Some even emerge from their moving sepulchers to summon other drivers to mutual wrath and perdition.
Here’s a thought. Given to road rage? Read the poem, if not in the original Latin, then in translation. And listen to the chant. Or, listen to Berlioz’s ending to Symphonie Fantastique. In his version, the tubas start the theme with an ominous sound, but the work ends rather joyfully in an uplifting manner. Mercy can ride the same highway as wrath. Mercy can also be a destination, even on “the day of wrath” because everyone travels on a road of life until that dies illa.
Think that with this knowledge drivers will put some brakes on rage? “Probably, not,” you’re thinking. But what about you? Gotten a little perturbed by a distracted driver who blocks your journey momentarily? Just a little miffed?
In the poem sung in Gregorian chant, incorporated into works like Berlioz’s Symphonie Fantastique, and played over many YouTube stations, the haunting repetitive melody begins with the dire warning. Earth will lie in ashes. But within its many stanzas, there is some sign of hope in a plea for Mercy.
Is mercy a concept we’ve lost on our highways? Are they the conveyor belts of rage and judgment? Are we better at self-control when we stand still, encompassed by a single place? Is it the moving? Does anger emerge from incessant decisions and distractions: Accelerate, decelerate, stop, avoid, turn, read signs, miss objects and animals, turn on wipers, turn signals, place coffee cup in holder, hear the phone, answer…. “Lord, save me from all these temptations!”
Liber scriptus proferetur
In quo totum continetur
Unde mandus iudicetur.
Basically: the Book of Consciences is going to be read; drivers will be judged, probably by the police as well as other drivers (Okay, that’s not a literal translation).
Yet, drivers blatantly yell, “Go to Hell!” playing god on a dies irae of their own making. No mercy, lots of rage, particularly at 6 on Friday the dies illa, the “dreadful day.” And in culmination of a week of work and the long history of humanity, drivers in the City of Angels or on an island Paradise act as Judges whose tuba mirum is a prolonged blast of a car horn. Some even emerge from their moving sepulchers to summon other drivers to mutual wrath and perdition.
Here’s a thought. Given to road rage? Read the poem, if not in the original Latin, then in translation. And listen to the chant. Or, listen to Berlioz’s ending to Symphonie Fantastique. In his version, the tubas start the theme with an ominous sound, but the work ends rather joyfully in an uplifting manner. Mercy can ride the same highway as wrath. Mercy can also be a destination, even on “the day of wrath” because everyone travels on a road of life until that dies illa.
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