Friday's Cat

Monday had a sweet beginning. DJ sensed I was close to waking up around five, and walked up from where she was – in the crook of my knees – up to my left shoulder. She set her front paws in the depression just under my shoulder blade, then started purring up a storm. Naturally, I started petting her. But it was an awkward position for either hand, so I stopped after 15-20 minutes. She was feeling pretty relaxed, I guess, because the next thing I knew her chin was resting on the left side of my mouth.

Thursday morning wasn't quite so nice. I woke at around 1:30 or 2. Which didn't make any sense, because Wednesday was the big stress day. If I was to lose sleep due to stress, it would've made sense on Wednesday morning, in anticipation of the day. But no. I wake up early the morning after the mission has been accomplished. After the goal had been achieved, all three grants got out the door in acceptable condition.

So I sat up and played solitaire for a bit, which normally is sufficiently boring to put me to sleep. I guess the fact that I wasn’t paying attention to her was distressing to DJ, because she became very vocal. Her meow is beginning to show a fascinating variety and musicality. After several losing hands of solitaire, I decided to lie down again, in hopes that DJ would understand it was time to be quiet and curl up in one of her favorite spots.

No such luck. The meowing continued. Then she started running and playing around the bedroom. At this point, I was lying on my tummy – a position that often facilitates sleep. She jumped up on the bed and – you guessed it – landed in the small of my back.

She was gently ushered from the room, and the door was closed. Amazing I could be gentle at that hour and in that condition. But I was.

It’s been a hard week for Miss Julian. I’ve not been home but one evening this week (except to eat and sleep of course). Next week will be slightly better – I’ll only be gone Shrove Tuesday and Ash Wednesday.

No doubt I’ll be buying her a new toy in the near future to relieve minor guilt pangs.

What Will I Say?

What will I say when I see her again?
I made a fool of myself.
Well, ok, that's the human condition.
She thinks I was just infatuated, or had a crush.
Doesn't matter what she thinks;
what matters is where you're at right now.
I still like her. I still think she's pretty special.
I hope we can still be friends.
I think we can still be friends even though I made a fool of myself.

How did you make a fool of yourself?
By saying you cared for her?
Too many people go to their graves
without expressing their love.
It's good she knows.

Well, there's my feelings and then there's her feelings.
You know, she was probably uncomfortable with all that attention.
I mean, I broadcast it to the whole friggin' internet!
Well, of course I hid her name, but still.
And even if it had been a series of e-mails to her alone,
she still would have been in that uncomfortable position.
That position that nobody wants to be in,
of saying, "I'm sorry, but I just don't think of you in that
way."

I think maybe she's forgiven you.
After all, she's open to seeing you again.
So, go meet with her.
Greet her as a sister and friend.

You know, I never did sing for her....
Oh man, just grow up!

Idée d’jour

A little nonsense
now and then
Is cherished by
the wisest men.
— Roald Dahl

Five Minute Exercise

Second hand sweeps backwards
as the house sighs in candlelight.
Break open the stars!
The ground is swollen with shadows;
the night slips through intimate keyholes.
Break open your heart!
This stone heart in the stew pot,
this lonely stele.
Break open the wine!
Drink the candlelight down
in one gulp, me hearty,
be the light you seek in the world.
Discipline suggested by Reverend Mother

The Iraqi Election

I took it as a given that the Administration would spin the elections in Iraq as a victory for democracy, no matter what happened. I did not suppose that every media outlet in America - including my beloved NPR - would also proclaim it as a victory.

Much of what I would say on this topic has been said better by Rob Salkowitz. In this entry, he offers a brief civics lesson, while at the same time enumerating a number of the problems with proclaiming the Iraqi election a victory for democracy.

Let's not forget that over 150,000 American troups occupy the country. Let's not forget that the polling places were heavily guarded by those troops. The High Council for Elections was appointed by the occupying force. The current head of state, Ayad Allawi, was installed by the occupying force.

Enough Sunni boycotted the election to call its results into question.

For security reasons, there were no names on the ballot. People voted for a list, which could represent one person or a number of people. People were not voting for a party, in the sense we understand the term. There was little in the way of pre-election information, so people did not know what they were voting for.

Just a few months before the Americans invaded Iraq, there was another election. The only choice was Saddam Hussein. A majority voted for him. I agree with those who would question the validity of that election.

I would suggest, however, that the only difference between that event and what happened this past Sunday is in the number of candidates.

Haiku d’jour

Winter having come,
the crows perch
on the scarecrow.
— Kikaku (from Workman Press' Zen Calendar)

Wolf Moon

Image by Dr. Omed

Gibbous wolf moon
string of pearls trail the highway
north wind skips leaves

Friday's Cat

Perhaps she dreams of her brother, Yoda, frolicking in Heaven. Corrected in response to Ms Candide's comment

Idée d’jour

All art is autobiographical; the pearl is the oyster's autobiography.
— Federico Fellini, film director, and writer (1920-1993)

Prayer for the Church

Lord, do something about your Church.
It is so awful, it is hard not to feel ashamed of belonging to it.
Most of the time it seems to be all the things you condemned:
hierarchical, conventional, judgmental, hypocritical,
respectable, comfortable, moralising, compromising,
clinging to its privileges and worldly securities,
and when not positively objectionable, merely absurd.

Lord, we need your whip of cords.
Judge us and cleanse us,
challenge and change us,
break and remake us.

Help us to be what you called us to be.
Help us to embody you on earth.
Help us to make you real down here,
and to feed your people bread instead of stones.
And start with me.

— Rt. Rev. Dr. Jeffrey John, Dean of the Cathedral of St. Alban's
I originally read this prayer at Rev. Sarah Dylan Breuer's web-log.

Idée d’jour

Men always want to be a woman's first love – women like to be a man's last romance.
— Oscar Wilde, writer (1854-1900)

Zen d’jour

For forty years I've been selling water
By the bank of a river. Ho, ho!
My labors have been wholly without merit.
— Sogaku Harada (Zen Calendar, © Workman Press)

On the Vestry

I was elected to the Cathedral's Vestry this past Sunday.

That's a statement that might require a bit of explanation for a non-Episcopalian. The simplest explanation is to say the vestry is equivalent to the church board. It might also be equivalent to a city or town council.

In other words, a highly political operation. This group of twelve, plus clergy, primarily discuss financial matters.

My running joke has been that when you want someone to leave the church, you put them on the vestry.

I have more than a passing acquaintance with church politics, having served for nine years on the vestry of a mission church in south OKC. I also served two terms (six years) on the Diocesan Council (sort of a vestry for the church in the whole state). I had a pretty good idea what I was getting myself in for.

Ninety minutes to two hours of cussing and discussing. The subversion of Robert's Rules of Order. People swallowing great honking whales, yet straining at gnats.

Org.

In fact, the last time I served on a vestry was so painful, I did in fact leave the church because of it.

This happened at that mission church in south OKC. I had served on vestry there for some time. I had been active in the church for well over a decade. I’d been faithful in attendance, was a member of the choir, and had edited the church newsletter.

The mission had come perilously close to having to close its doors, and I perceived myself to be one of the handful whose effort helped keep the doors open.

Mary Ellen and I married in that church. I feel it safe to say I was well known and well-liked by most.

The church called Fr Paul a year or so before Mary & I got married. After he had been there a couple of years, he asked for deacon. The bishop assigned Bill S to our church. Fr Paul asked Bill S to work with Mary on the music program.

Now, a little explanation of church polity may be in order. As you might expect, the priest is charge of all matters related to the worship service, including music and music selection. Often – especially in mission churches – the priest delegates that responsibility to the organist and/or choir master. Mary was the organist and choir master at this church.

The problem was, many in the congregation wanted to hear “the old standards”, and Mary wanted to mix the old with the new. And, as I learned, Mary was not a master of compromise.

So, Fr Paul has delegated the responsibility for the music to Deacon Bill with the understanding that the deacon will work with Mary toward a compromise. Problem was, Deacon Bill wasn’t much for compromise either. He believed in issuing orders.

The two of them got in a shouting match in the choir loft, and I was the sole witness. Deacon Bill was literally in Mary’s face. And raised his hand to her.

I thought this was unacceptable. I reported the incident to Fr Paul, who seemed inclined to sweep it under the rug. I then went to the vestry.

Deacon Bill was at the vestry meeting, and denied that anything of the sort had happened. And the vestry supported him.

They believed the guy with the dog collar, who had been there two to three months, over the guy wearing a normal shirt, who had been there 10 to 15 years.

I felt I had little choice but to resign from the vestry. Mary turned in her resignation as organist/choirmaster at the same time. Few would blame me if I never ran for vestry again in my life.

So, why in the world would I accept a nomination now?

It has to do with the call to the ministry. In visiting with the Dean of the Cathedral, he has made clear that service on the vestry was almost required to be considered. My understanding is that this would give the leaders of the Cathedral a chance to see my skills, and so on.

So, here I am. The situation, thankfully, is different. I am the relative new-comer, having been at the Cathedral a little over two years. And, already I’m prepared to keep my head down and my mouth shut.

Wish me luck. I need it.

Review: Stupid, Stupid Rat-Tails

Did I mention that I like to read comic books?

I was reminded of this recently when Real Live Preacher made a comment which indirectly questioned the literary quality of Neil Gaiman's Sandman series. Along with several other commentators, I expressed the opinion that the series was literature.

Anyway, I've got boxes full of the things. I started out reading the standard DC line — Supes, Batman, etc. Then, Brother Dave introduced me to the unique Marvel vision. Tellingly, the reward of a Marvel comic book was the incentive for me to wash the dishes when I was 13 or 14. At the time, Marvel was reprinting classic stories from their beginnings - Fantastic Four, Doctor Strange, The Hulk - in an anthology series. I was hooked from the first Kirby splash page for Fantastic Four.

The mid 70s to early 80s were new glory days for comic books: Frank Miller was re-inventing Daredevil, people were re-discovering Will Eisner (thanks to Kitchen Sink's reprints of The Spirit), and some saw comics as an investment. At an average of $3 - $5 a pop, I do have a considerable investment in those little magazines.

Comic books as an investment went bust somewhere in the mid-to-late 80s, when DC and Marvel both glutted the market with product (much of it negligible at best). But I continued finding value in them, especially the independents, like Terry Moore's Stangers in Paradise (Self-published by Abstract Studios).

In 1991, Jeff Smith founded Cartoon Books in order to self-publish his epic fantasy, Bone. It was a story he'd been imagining since high school, with a definite beginning, middle, and end. It's a story that was completed just last year. It is available in nine volumes, or in this single "complete" edition.

Here's the standard synopis, from the inside front cover of one of the individual issues:

After being run out of Boneville, the three Bone cousins, Fone Bone, Phoney Bone and Smiley Bone are separated and lost in a vast, uncharted desert.

One by one, they find their way into a deep, forested valley filled with wonderful and terrifying creatures..

It is not necessary to go into more detail about the plot here. The collection under consideration may be read as a "prequel", but it takes place outside of the main story, and may be read indepently of it.

The main character is Big Johnson Bone, who is rather fond of telling somewhat convoluted versions of his adventures. These adventures, like the story itself, are in the "tall tale" tradition (e.g. Pecos Bill and Paul Bunyon). It fact, one sequence has Big Johnson riding a tornado — a probable nod to the Pecos Bill stories.

For me, part of the humor is that something incredible occurs in the action just as Big Johnson is telling one of his tales. Which could lead one to conjecture that there is some truth in Big Johnson's story.

Another source of the humor is the simian side kick, Mr. Pip, whom Big Johnson wins in a poker game. Mr. Pip's running commentary will be appreciated by anyone in the working week. "Why didn't I listen to my mother and join the circus?"

Recommended: Stupid, Stupid Rat-tailsby Jeff Smith.

Idée d’jour

If only I may grow:
firmer, simpler — quieter, warmer.
— Dag Hammarskjold

Idée d’jour

From the outset your own nature is pure.
— The P’u-sa-chieh

Haunted by Accordions

Accordion; (Click to enlarge)

We were haunted by accordions.

I believe it began with my taking the above picture of an accordion I have at home, which I took for Fiona's amusement.

Then, I decided to make my bi-annual pilgrimage to the Diocesan Center of the 7th Day Atheist Aztec Baptist Synod's, in the mystical land of Tulsa.

In other words, I went to visit the Rt Rev Dr Omed.

As we left, the good doctor informed his loving spouse that he and I were going to do "Poet Guy" stuff.

As it turned out, "Poet Guy" stuff involved visiting various temples of the Cargo Goddess.

It was at the second temple that we happened upon a booth that had more than a half-dozen accordions. Below, you see your correspondent holding one. You may be able to make out the squeeze box in the upper right-hand corner as well. This booth also had what I believe were concertinas. One of which was marked as being from 1926, and was priced at $85. Man, it's a good thing I didn't have that much cash with me.


(Click to enlarge)
Later, we went to the Salvation Army store. Tulsa's Salvation Army Store has a very fine selection. And there we found yet another accordion.

In the picture of me, you can see Fiona's projected anima. It's that pale circle of light near the treble keys .

We did see one more accordion, on the way back to the Diocesan Center. It was a prop in an restaurant window.

We were haunted by accordions.

Haiku: 15.Jan.05

The white fox moon,
a hands-width above the sky-line,
is a yellow smile.

Friday's Cat

I enjoy playing fetch with DJ. When she’s ready, she brings her rabbit-fur mouse to my chair. If I ignore her, she dumps it in my lap. Or she makes a slight small sound.

I toss it to different areas of the room. Most of the time, I toss it through the doorway that connects the living room to a hall, because that’s the furthest distance without obstructions.

I love watching her bring the mouse back to me. Her head is erect, almost proud. Her legs dance in tandem concert. Her ears tilt back at a 45° angle.

This game can go on for well over an hour.

When she’s done, she just drop the mouse in the floor and wander off elsewhere in the house.

This is my favorite time of the evening, next to the time she curls in my lap as I pet her.

Zen d’jour

No matter how much
I contemplate this tea bowl
It is still — a tea bowl!
Thus I arrive in San Francisco.
— Soen Nakagawa (from Workman Press' "Zen Calendar")

Review: Careless Love by Madeline Peyroux

I originally talked briefly about this cd when I bought as a birthday present to myself, back in November of last year. I've been listening to the first several tracks almost every morning, courtesy of my CD player/alarm clock.

The CD features songs by a wide range of singer-songwriters (L Cohen, Dylan, Hank Williams). Ms Peyroux is backed by competent jazz quartet (piano, bass, guitar, & drum), which has grown on me with repeated listenings. When I first wrote about the cd, I was not complimentary of this jazz combo — I think I called in MOR night-club jazz. After repeated listenings, I believe I was unfair. There's colorations in the arrangements I didn't notice in my initial, somewhat superficial, first listen.

It may sound like a gimmick, but there's a couple of tracks where she sounds like Billie Holliday and a couple of others where she sounds like Nina Simone or Sarah Vaughn.

However, there's more to it than gimmick. She's got some chops in her own voice too. And unerring instincts in how to interpret the song. Right now, my favorite tracks are 1 and 5. The opening track is a song by Leonard Cohen, "Dance Me to the End of Love"; this is one where she sounds like Lady Day. The quartet plays a hopping little figure (based on a similar figure in the original), then she dives in: "Dance me to your beauty with a burning violin / Dance me through the panic til I'm gathered safely in / Lift me like an olive branch and be my homeward dove / Dance me to the end of love."

Track five, "Between the Bars" by Steven Paul Smith, is an almost tuneless thing which is nevertheless chilling. After hearing it several times, I've come to think of it as the bottle singing a lullaby to an alcoholic:

Drink up baby, stay up all night
Things you could do, you won't but you might
The potential you'll be you'll never see
Promises you'll only make

Drink up with me now and forget all about
Pressures of days, do what I say
And I'll make you ok, drive them away
Images stuck in your head

Another favorite is her cover of Dylan's "You're Gonna Make Me Lonesome When You Go." I hear a melancholy in Ms. Peyroux's version which is not immediately apparant in Dylan's original (from his classic Blood on the Tracks). Dylan's original is bouncy, almost joyous in performance — you can almost hear him laughing at himself. There's a funhouse irony going on; the bounciness of the music seems to belie the sadness implicit in the lyrics. That is to say, you would not expect a song with the word "Lonesome" in the title to be this bouncy.

But Ms. Peyroux's cover takes its time with the song. For example, she lingers just the appropriate amount of time on the final word in the line "[love's] never been so easy, nor so slow." This is not to say that her cover is bluesy; nor do I mean to imply that her cover is superior to Dylan's original. In my humble, it just adds an additional tint to the song.

Madeline Peyroux, Careless Love. Recommended.

Almost Not A Damned Dime

I have not written much about politics of late, as it is just too depressing. A majority of the electorate voted for our Fearless Leader. It might be fair to say that many voted thinking this demonstrated some form of support for our troops Over There. It might be fair to say many votes were motivated by fear of what the other guy might do.

Regardless of the reasons, the Handsome One has received his coronation inauguration as our Supreme Leader. He claims he sees his selection by a majority of the electorate as a positive reforendum on his policies — past, present, and future. If any other politician made this statement, we would discount it as typically hyperbolic rhetoric. When our Fearless Leader says something like this, there's a fairly decent chance that he actually believes it.

Just like there's the chance that he sincerely believes the High Holy One put him in office so we would have resolute leadership following the 9/11 attacks.

Gah. The man is bad for my blood pressure. I know it's not healthy, but I have the same response to his visige and voice that many on the right had to Bill Clinton. My blood boils. I'm not quite at the point that I believe the Handsome One is evil incarnate (that honor belongs to K.Rove), but I can easily imagine a certain contract being in a secure safety deposit box.

In the icy bowels of Hell.

Many have called for an economic boycott today, a Not One Damned Dime Day, and I had intended to observe said boycott. Unfortunately, I overslept this morning and was unable to eat breakfast at home (as is my common practice). My blood sugar can be tricky, and I relunctantly decided to buy something for breakfast. So, I have spent a little over twenty dimes.

I hope the Fearless Leader chokes on ’em. (Note to any lurking SS agents: this statement is made with satirical intent, and is not intended as an actual threat on any world leader, actual or imagined)

Idée d’jour

That man is truly good who knows his own dark places.
— Beowulf

Idée d’jour

Nothing is more dangerous than an idea when it's the only one you have.
— Emile Chartier, philosopher (1868-1951)

Pooh Day

Today is the birthday of A.A. Milne, the author of the Winnie the Pooh books. Although Pooh's birthday is October, my almanac notes that today is "Pooh Day" More about the bear of little mind may be read at this excellent site.

I read the first Pooh book when I was in 3rd grade, if memory serves. I do recall that the books became excellent friends.

Eyore has become my sigil in my maturing years.

Haiku d’jour

The smoke
is now making
the first sky of the year
— Issa

In which our heroine comments...

Idée d’jour

What is the straight within the bent?
— Zen Koan

Grandfather Will's Guitar

Here is a picture of me playing Grandfather Will's guitar. Family history has it that it was made in the 30's, and is one of the first electric guitars. Will lead music in his church, and they needed amplification. Imagine that, an electric guitar in the Nazarene church!

The guitar is an Epiphone. The design on the headstock suggests it was a mid-line guitar at the time. The pick-up suggests the guitar was made about 1939, which would substantiate the family history.

Grandfather Will died when I was one year old, so I never heard him play. Brother Dave did hear him, and says he was a fine front-porch player.

When Will died, his guitar was passed on to his only son, Padre. I grew up listening to Padre sing and play that guitar. He had a fine tenor voice, and used it well. In addition to "The Reverend Mr. Black", he also loved to sing "Tom Dooley" and "St James Infirmary". The song Brother Dave associates with Padre is "Blue Skies", which he sang at a local jazz club with friend Wally at the piano.

It would seem I came by my musical talent naturally.

As is traditional, the guitar was meant to be passed down to Brother Dave, the eldest son. But Dave doesn’t play the guitar, so he was willing to let the guitar come to my hands.

Grandfather Will wrote a song, "The Little Old Brush Arbor," copyright 1939. This song was also part of family legend. I don’t believe I ever heard Padre sing it. I thought I saw it once, in the family piano bench.

As I was recovering from Padre’s death, I kept thinking about that song. Wondering if the internet could help me find a copy. Hoping I could find it, learn it, and recover it. I did some tentative searches, but – to be honest – I didn’t have a clue as to how to hunt it down.

Then, I went to visit Brother Dave in 2000 – for the first time since Padre’s death. Dave pulled out a brief case, which held everything left from Padre’s estate. Sure enough, there among various curiosities, was a copy of "Little Old Brush Arbor."

I spent the next several months plunking out the tune on my electronic keyboard. Once I felt like I had the tune memorized, I transposed it. See, it was in the key of "G" — either a bit high or low for my range — so I transposed it to "D."

An interesting side-note to the sheet music is that it is in "shape note" format.

Here’s the first verse and chorus of "The Little Old Brush Arbor," by William James C—. It's the song I'm singing in the picture above.

In the little old brush arbor, where the people used to tell
How Jesus’ power can save you from your sins,
I can see my dear old mother where she used to kneel in prayer,
I can hear the choir sing those songs again.

CH:
There I gave my heart to Jesus and he satisfied my soul.
Oh, I love to tell of all he’s done for me;
And the little old brush arbor holds its mem’ries dear to me,
I will love them ’til my Savior’s face I see.

But Is It Poetry?

Mike Snider has returned to his occasional argument against "art for art's sake" poetry. He quotes Samuel Johnson: "No man but a blockhead ever wrote except for money." To which I responded:

What's the average amount you get paid per sonnet, Mike? Let's do a cost analysis per poem: there's the labor of writing & revising, which we might calculate at minimum wage (just as a starting point). Then there's the cost of envelopes & postage. And this is a cost spread out over the accepted and rejected poems. Not to mention the poems written & never submitted (for whatever reason).

Can you claim to break even in that analysis?

<snip>

I think there needs to be a corollary to that Johnson quote, that addresses the enjoyment factor.

As I understand his answer, Mike concedes the point that he wouldn't bother writing poetry if he didn't enjoy it. His point is that poetry might be more successful economically if poets made more of an effort to communicate with the "common man." That phrase "common man" may seem to put words in Mike's mouth, but he speaks of the need to make poems for cooks and engineers and housekeepers and carpenters, and so on.

For me, this once again raises the question of how one recognizes a poem. In other words, is a group of words a poem simply because I say so? Is there, as it were, an objective yard stick one may use in this discussion?

One measure might be sustainability over time. Shakespeare is literature, and poetry, because we still read his works. This will apply primarily to the plays and a handful of sonnets, of course.

The drawback to this method is that it gives us little help with modern writers.

So, another yardstick might be economic in the sense that someone was willing to pay for the poem. This is a measure, inferred, at least, from Mike's use of the Johnson quote. If a magazine is willing to pay for the material, it must be a poem.

The problem is, this would force us to accept as poetry work that we would otherwise reject as bunk. Ron Silliman is a writer Mike and I both like to use as an example of the worst of “Langpo,” yet he is a published poet, and has been paid for his work. One assumes that people have paid for his books.

I'm not sure that Mike would say that rhyme and/or meter are required for a work to be considered a poem. I don't know — maybe if he were king of the world, he would institute that restriction.

Personally, you want to call rearranged words from cooking directions poetry, that's your thing. I wouldn't like it, I wouldn't buy it. But no skin off my nose if you want to call a random collection of words poetry.

What about my writing in this space? How do I judge its success? Well, since comments are far and few between, I judge my success on number of visits and number of return visits. My regular visitors could probably be counted on two hands — according to Site Meter, I have 20 visitors per day, on average. In reviewing the stats from Site Meter, I perceive that many come from the same server (coxnet, frontiernet, etc). This doesn't mean it's the same person each time, but odds are reasonable.

So, that repeat business suggests to me that I am successfully communicating with that group of people. Perhaps not statistically meaningful, but good enough for me.

Tea First

Tea first.
10,000 things follow.
Stars second, match flares.
Then add honey.

Idée d’jour

I embrace emerging experience. I participate in discovery. I am a butterfly. I am not a butterfly collector.
— William Stafford

Haiku: 11.Jan.05

Fog's getting thicker
Cold cuts to bone, through three layers
January morning

Thought

I don't need a stinkin' alarm clock; I've got a kitten.
She's insistent, persistent, and consistent.

Idée d’jour

Compared to what we ought to be, we are half awake.
— William James

Idée d’jour

What happens to the hole when the cheese is gone?
— Bertolt Brecht (best known as the author of The Three-Penny Opera)

The Abortionist Washes His Hands

Click image for larger version

after the short film The Abortionist Washes His Hands & Slips on His Wristwatch by Gary S—
I.
Straight as an arrow, or crooked as a lake,
Maybe you can tell me what diff'rence that might make...
Jason & the Argonauts go sailin' late tonight,
I guess you'll have to find your love by candle light
     I know we have to go along,
     But must we keep on going to the end of
this song?

Your face was a dream when I was a stranger,
Your baby left without a sound or a word;
I see you lying there in that blood-stained manger —
Was that a tear of grief that I heard?
     I know we have to go along,
     But must we keep on going to the end of
this song?

Bloody hands and shirt, and blood on your sheets,
With just a little more practice at love,
You know this ceremony would be complete,
Now, tell me, is it push & pull or could it be push & shove?
     I know we have to go along,
     But must we keep on going to the end of
this song?

Now I wash my hands of this whole affair,
Slip on my wrist watch and pretend that I don't care
I see you lie there with your belly so suddenly empty
I guess bein' alive ain't always the same as bein' free
     I know we have to go along,
     But must we keep on going to the end of
this song?

Jason & the Argonauts go sailin late tonight
I guess you'll have to find your love by candle light

II.
Knife's in his hand, a grin's in his teeth,
I wonder what could be on his mind?
The blood in your mouth, ooh, it tastes so sweet,
You were the best lover I could find.

   All the Fifth Avenue ladies tell me they don't care
   With their long satin slacks and that comb in their
hair
   But they aren't takin' me anywhere....
   Tell me could it be that I'm too late
   Tell me could it be maybe that I'm too late?

There was a child you were not to have
I'm glad to take it off your hands
And if emptiness doesn't drive you mad
Just wait til the final frame of your plans

   Music in your laughter or in your clothes
   I'm not the one to choose between them, I suppose
   But let me have one more look before this novel closes
   Tell me could it be that I'm too late
   Tell me could it be now baby that I'm too late?

Jason & the Argonauts go sailin' late tonight
I guess you'll have to find your love by candle light
Written circa 1976 - '77; I was between 20 - 21

---

There you have it, as promised, the lyrics to "The Abortionist Washes His Hands" a.k.a., "Jason & the Argonauts." As I said a few weeks ago, this is a song Dr. Omed requests almost everytime we get together and I have a guitar in tow.

Hard to describe what this is like musically. It's a pastiche of a number of musical styles: punk, rock, and folk. People who have heard me perform it discern Dylan's influence, but that could be as much as in the way I sing it as anything. Sometimes, like Dylan toward the end of the "Hard Rain" tour, I'll draw out rhyming syllables; e.g., "Bein' alive ain't always the same as being FREEEEeeEEEE!"

Not much I can recall about the movie. The abortionist was played by Rusty N—, who is gay. Rusty was the first openly gay man I met. Oddly enough, I didn't feel threatened by him, since he had a crush on one of my friends — which lead me to believe I wasn't Rusty's type. Anyway, I came up with the first line as a comment on his sexuality. My reasoning was that if a heterosexual was "straight as an arrow," then a homosexual might be "as crooked as a lake." Well, I liked it better than "queer as a $3 bill".

In the third verse (the one beginning "Bloody hands and shirt"), there's the line "Is it push and pull or could it be just push & shove". This was a restatement of a notion the director, Gary S&mash; was considering at the time, which he called "the push and pull of love." Which meant, I think, the sort of give and take that occurs in a healthy relationship.

In the final stanza of part one (beginning "Now I wash my hands") there's a line I added a couple of years after the first draft. Originally the line was "Freedom is too high a price to pay for being free" (how Dostoevskian of me!). Then, one afternoon I saw a line in a Pogo book: "Bein' alive ain't always the same as bein' free." I liked it so much that I stole it outright.

The second part also has bits that reference the film, which somehow involved the abortionist viewing his practice as a form of love-making. For example, there's a scene in which either the abortionist or the patient is spitting up blood (ergo, "The blood in your mouth tastes so sweet").

Which brings up, I suppose, the issue of abortion. I'm fairly certain Gary did/does support a woman's right to choose. But the concept — and what I can remember of the images — of the movie are somewhat twisted. The song itself could be read as opposing abortion. For example, "I see you lie there in your blood-stained manger / Was that a tear of grief that I heard?" could be interpretted to mean that the woman regrets the procedure. There's a line in the third verse of Part Two which suggests that the loss of the child will drive the woman mad.

There was a period where I had a pretty clear vision of what a recording would be like. Part Two would end with my singing "Tell me, can it be that I'm too late" over & over, while the music builds in intensity and nears cacophony, and a voice-over reads the stages of a fetus' development. You know, the sort of thing the Pro-Life people are fond of, e.g., "eyes can be detected at x weeks". The association alone would reasonably lead one to believe the author is pro-life.

If you had asked me at the time, I would have said that I was pro-choice. I'm not sure where the pro-life undertone comes from, unless it's an unconscious reflection of something I detected in the movie. And, you know, being pro-choice is not the same as being "anti" life. I believe women should maintain the right to choose; but if an individual woman asked my opinion, I would encourage her to consider adoption (depending on the conditions, of course).

As a film song, this one holds the unique position of being longer than the actual film. When I really get into it, the thing lasts for close to 15 minutes (although these days it more likely would clock in at 9-10 minutes). The movie was somewhere around 14. The song is also unique in that more people have heard it than saw the movie that inspired it. Now, a great deal more people have read the lyrics than probably saw the movie.

The image at the top right represents the original draft of the lyrics. The chord structure is burned in my memory, but is not otherwise recorded. I don't think even Dana has seen that original draft. The page was originally torn, by the by. I have bowdelerized one of the doodles in the right-hand margin for PG-13 consumption, but otherwise what you see is what I created in 1978.

Hope it was worth the wait.

Friday's Cat

Wednesday was the anniversary of Padre's birth. He would have been 74 years old.

I think Padre preferred dogs, but we did have cats. Elaine had a rather foul-tempered Siamese when Bro. Dave and I were kids. Here's a hint folks: most Siamese don't like children.

Shortly after Padre remarried, Wanda adopted a stray whom we named Sam. I was responsible for his care. I believe Padre came to love Sam. I remember how his voice slightly wavered when he told me Sam had died.

Padre probably would be charmed by my stories about DJ. He might even enjoy these weekly pictures.

Random Impressions

Icicle memories puddle on the eastern skyline
The sun swings over sparse grey clouds
White oil dericks describe the north
With darker grey clouds on that horizon
To the north-east, simple white cross
atop a dilapidated steeple
Young man in hood sweat jacket and droopy jeans
Drinking his Doctor Pepper
Blonde crew-cut young man, blue hooded sweat shirt
Counting the lunch room
Balding thin monk sits by the western wall
records it all in his little Moleskine journal

---

Just a series of impressions recorded during the day. Compressing the actual vision into espresso-strength images.

Book Recommendations

Reverend Mother, whose blog I recently discovered in the Salon blog suburbs, recently asked for some fiction recommendations. While I share them with her, I thought I'd share them with others. In no particular order, then:

The Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold
Life of Pi by Yann Martel
The Eyre Affair by Jasper Fforde (some metafiction cotton candy)
American Gods by Neil Gaiman

Speaking of cotton candy, a friend and I were recently discussing the Lord Peter Wimsey series, by Dorothy Sayers. One of the best literary mystery series, ever. The Nine Taylors not only has a nifty mystery, but more information on bell-ringing than you thought you'd want to know.

Rev. Mother doesn't mention poetry, or essays, but here's a couple:
Writing the Australian Crawl (Poets on Poetry) by William Stafford
Toward a New Poetry by Diane Wakowski (0472063073)
Both of the above are from the Univ. of Michigan's "Poets on Poetry" series. I've been reading the Stafford off & on, and have found it inspirational (though I have mixed feelings about Stafford's poetry). I recently recommended the Wakowski title to Katey, and now think I need to re-read it.

The book of poetry I've been spending the most time this past year is Stephen Mitchell's edit of Walt Whitman's Song of Myself. Whitman is good for the soul, especially right now. As I've mentioned before, Mitchell's edit takes what he considers the best of the various versions Whitman did from the first, 1855, to the "Deathbed Edition."

I may soon take a page from Michael Wells' blog and post links to other recommendations in my side-bar. Let me know if you'd be intereseted in seeing that addition to this space.

Idée d’jour

A faith that cannot survive collision with the truth is not worth many regrets.
— Arthur C Clarke, science fiction writer (1917- )

Twelve Days of Poems: Afterward

My self-appointed assignment was to write a poem a day for the 12 days of Christmas - which begin December 25. An additional discipline was to make each poem exactly 12 lines long. Each poem was frivolously given a title corresponding to the appropriate gift from the famous carol, although I did not restrict myself to responding to the carol, or, necessarily, the "gift of the day".

I did have a female friend in mind when I wrote these poems. We are not romantically involved, nor does it seem likely that we will be. But it was helpful to have a specific person in mind, rather than generic ether or "the eternal feminine." Using Pam as a model, so to speak, allowed me to include certain physical and sensory details, which gave the poems a firmer ground in reality than they would have had otherwise. I can only hope that Pam was flattered by the attention, and did not mind having these poems shared with the blogosphere. Needless to say, "Pam" is not her real name.

Especially sensitive readers may have noticed a shift in the style of the poetry about midway through the series.At the least, I was aware of a difference as I was writing the poems. A number of unrelated factors were at work.

First was physical, as documented in days 6 and 9. I was sleep-deprived on Day 6 (Goose), and spent the day in a twilit fugue state. As noted in the comments for Day 10 (Leaping Lord), I got one of my severe headaches on Sunday (day 9). I was barely able to concentrate well enough to think, much less write, and the quality of the poem reflects it.

Incidentally, I have come to the conclusion these recurring headaches are either sinus, tension, or migraine in nature. At the moment, the jury is leaning toward mild migraine. The headache is currently bareable, but present.

Another factor influencing the stylistic change in the poems was emotional. Friday, New Year's Eve, was day 7 (Swan). The weekend proved to be lonely. A couple of different plans fell through on December 31st, and I chose to treat the evening like any other Friday night. Another plan fell through on New Year's Day, and I allowed this third disappointment to get me down. It seems likely that the poems written during this three day period reflect a degree of depression. For the record, I believe I take appropriate responsibility for my feelings, and I believe I am on the mend.

The final factor is also environmental, so to speak. The alarm I used last week, while I was on holiday, plays cd's at the stroke of 6 am - this may seem nuts, but the kitten usually woke me up well before then, anyway. The cd I've been waking up to for the past week is Gillian Welch's Time (The Revelator). This cd is filled with lyrical mystery, such as what Greil Marcus found in Dylan's Basement Tapes (see Invisible Republic). On the surface the lyrics might read like normal sentences — noun, verb, object — but on closer inspection there are seeming non sequitor, or lacuna, which prevent the lyrics from making perfect lyrical sense. Here's the opening verse of the title track, as an example:

Darling remember from when you come to me
that I'm the pretender,
I'm not what I'm supposed to be
but who could know, if I'm a traitor?
time's the revelator, revelator.

I suspect Milk Maid, Dancing Lady, and The Piper make a little more sense with this influence in mind. At least you know where I was coming from. Ms. Welch's cd also has a high incidence of "name checking" - everything from Jackson Brown (as in the above sample) to "Casey Jones" to Elvis Presley to "Sweet Home Chicago"; I had this allusive quality in mind as I was writing both Milk Maid and The Piper.

I'll close with another comment on structure. Certain of the poems wanted to rhyme, sometimes in a regular pattern, sometimes a single couplet. Since this was a daily discipline, I allowed the poem to move as the muse directed.

12. Drummers

I thought I saw you
Some restrictions apply
But you were a dream
For a limited time only
One smile, one heart, one kiss
If it's in you, put it out there
I thought I dreamed you
Professional driver on closed course
But you melted into another's hands
Two for the price of one
You are worthy, worthy of affection
Only one partridge per customer

---

"Drummer" was once slang for traveling salesmen (unsure of etymology). Every other line here is from TV advertising (or a variant thereof).

11. The Piper

Counterpane soldiers march
across the sky-soaked ice
Ballerinas practice in their pjs
among the somber chaparral
Eleven faithful feathers float
within the artic thermal column

Diderot paced the pallid precincts
with salty determination
Hemingway wished on sage brush
as he smoked a Cuban cigar
We were artful with our arms
as Margritte stoked his pipe

10. Leaping Lord

I ate a moon cookie on New Years’ Day,
it was quite a skookum delight.
The next day, the moon exploded in my head
and gave the town a fright.

Foggy beams rolled from 8th and Robinson
to the Deer Creek Mission;
they collided with the capital dome
and legislative elision.

The town was lit brighter than Spica
When my dome exploded.
The forecaster was blinded,
and the change was duly noted.

9. Dancing Lady

Green tea hard tack morning
Grey metal bands tighten across the sky
This mind, those clouds,
Are one.

You wore a blue jacket and skirt
And sat with your true love.
The air was an evergreen hue,
And the storm was gathering.

The clouds are tightening.
Electric flares strike across the dome.
I'll sleep beneath Patagonian icebergs
With a Bengal tiger at my feet.

8. Milk Maid

The crack in the cream's not so bad
Miss Muffett has curdled her whey
Sister Magdalene is quietly sad
And Boy Blue is lost by the kay
Simple Simon walked to edge of day
Under a storm-soaked sky
Gingham Cat asleep by the bay
Haloed moons dance in your eye
Tsunami winds brushing by
Tom Joad walks in rail-road beds
Miss Bo Peep is feeling shy
And the cheese is on the shed

Friday's Cat

Julian, on New Year's Eve
Originally uploaded by jacsongs.

Here's our favorite feline, resting up in preparation for the evening's festivities. You see her curled in one of her favorite warm places.

7. Swan

Seven seas to whisper your name.
Seven dreams to bless you.

The southwest wind curls by your door,
having walked this warm winter desert
after its journey from Mistletoe Mountain.
I'm like that wind, only
I ride the asphalt plain;
and when I settle beside you,
then by your side I'll remain.

Seven swans swim on the lake
as the solstice moon wanes
into the halo of your eyes.

6. Goose

Awoke at 1:30 a.m.
with tiny paws on my neck
and a mighty kitten purr
in my right ear.
Perhaps it was
the rich chocolate
savored so late in the evening.
Perhaps it was random dreams
dancing at pre-dawn New Year.
Still, your faithful friend
draws out the ledger
to share this sketch with you.

5. Gold Ring

Your golden hair
calls my name;
your soft silver voice
follows after.
Then there is your heart.

Ah! I wish I had the art
to paint this matter,
but that tender soul is no toy
caught by a rhymer's frame.
It's a dove of the air.

O bless that heart as it soars,
and the hearth wherein it dwells, forevermore.

4. Calling Bird

You saw me first,
a strong voice
from the east.

Then I noticed you,
Venus rising
from the basement.

At old year's sunset,
we drove south
and shared a walk,

as we shared our tales.
Then we marvelled at the reflection
of the cross in the lake.

3. French Hen

While walking the middle path
between sky and land,
I met a lady who
would become a special friend.

Her cheeks are velvet,
her hands as warm as silk.
Her hair is bright & cloudy,
her voice is a watery brook.

Perhaps you think I lie or flatter,
but I would not stretch the truth.
She is all this and more —
mature, yet full of youth.

2. Turtledove

Two arms to hold you.
Two hands to caress you
and stroke your hair at night.
Two years to learn you.
Two years to sing by your side.
Two years, be twelve, then more.

Two standing stones, at earth's center;
they define its magnetic resonance lines.
Love flows from east to west, south to north,
circles the quarters, then rounds back.
Let us walk between those stones
that two hearts may be doubly blessed.

1. Partridge

One smile. One heart.
One tender kiss.
One step closer
to one warm embrace.

One Hope, One Faith, One New Life.
One everlasting Spirit.
One sky enwrapping us.
One voice in the wilderness crying.

Let us not forget the wealth of pears,
that soft fruit of love.
No, let us not forget
ere my true love comes to me.

Rosary Post-Mortem

I had a lovely chat with Pam late yesterday afternoon. I told her I had just posted the final entry in the "Rosary" series. She mentioned that she had been tempted to post a comment on the penultimate entry (4th Glorious Mystery): "Whew."

Honestly, that somewhat sums up how I feel, as well. Posting something everyday, five days a week, is quite an undertaking. In looking over it all, I can tell the results are uneven. No doubt, if I had spent the time honing and editing that Real Live Preacher (RLP) does on his entries, my series could have been a lot better. Thing is, even RLP doesn't challenge himself to write something EVERY SINGLE Day.

The whole thing began with an idea I had for a class I’ll offer at St. Paul’s in January. The idea is to pray the rosary, and invite people to relate the scenes in Jesus’ life to times in their own story. Well, I couldn’t very well ask people to do this without having tried it myself. Thus, this discipline of posting some kind of response to each of 20 events in the life of Jesus.

I hope most of my responses were personal. Sharing information about Padre, was very personal, and perhaps a bit risky, but it seemed "right". How could I ask others to share their personal stories if I am not willing to share stories both pleasant and unpleasant?

I know I occasionally went with an intellectual response; as I have mentioned, that’s a safe response for me.

By the third week, I realized I was trying to write these response in less than two hours each. Well, that’s only partly true. What I mean to say is that I would think about them, meditate on them, for the better part of a morning or a day. But the actual typing and construction of the thing would be fit into time available during the work day. Thirty minutes here, and hour or so there.

And when I thought of it that way, it seemed very much like writing a response for an essay test. Once I noticed that, I realized that the process was also helping me pin down what I believe right now.

I just took a few minutes to copy the text I've written over the past four weeks into a Word document. Trivia: It's 10,541 words, and 24 pages, long. As Pam said, "Whew!"

Who said something like "I won’t know what I believe until I write it"? That has certainly proved to be true for me.

Thanks to those who have hung in with me through these overtly religious entries. I want to especially thank Pam and Mother Susan, who were enthusiastic readers and offered encouragement as I engaged in this wrestling match.

Coming up – twelve days of poetry. You’ll catch on to the gag pretty quick, but it will be a fun challenge to see if I can come close to what I currently envision.

Think of it as my Christmas present to you.

Friday's Cat (belated)

Here's DJ, on her favorite perch. It's about 3:00 Christmas Eve afternoon. I've opened the blinds, so we could see the lady in natural light.

Incidentally, the pillow behind her (with the famous monkeys three) actually belongs to Elsie.

5th Glorious Mystery: Mary Received in Heaven

The main things I remember about Elaine are anger and insecurity.

Elaine and Padre married soon after they graduated from high school. When I asked him about it years later, Padre said they married because "That's what you do."

In other words, like many in the Bible belt (even today), they got married so they could have sex.

Padre made a reasonable living as a watch repairman, and it was enough for two to start a life on the edge of the Oklahoma City suburbs. But soon they had a child, and his salary wasn't enough. Elaine had to work.

This was the early 50s. Elaine was among the first working mothers. There was little support for it then. About the only "daycare" she had was her own mother.

That's one way to tell the story: what happens when a strong, intelligent woman gives up her indepence and becomes a mother. She could feel frustrated and helpless. And these feelings might be taken out on her first-born son.

Another way of telling the story is to quote the proverb "The parents eat sour grapes, the children grit their teeth." For I was once told that Elaine's mother did not show her the attention and affection later given to Elaine's children.

Either way you tell the story, it might help you understand, but it's no excuse. There is no excuse for a mother to hit her children.

Brother Dave has his stories, which are his stories alone to tell. His stories of abuse end when he was about nine, and old enough to defend himself.

Here's my story. I was still an infant, maybe 9 months old, and was fussy at breakfast. Elaine yelled, and hit me hard enough to give me a black eye.

Oddly, years later, she told me I was a sweet baby who never cried. And I think she honestly believed it.

My parents divorced when I was 6. My father was granted custody at a time that just wasn't done (~1962). Elaine was grnated visitation rights, and I saw her every other week until my early teens.

I remember little of those visits. I don't remember that she lost her temper. Probably was easier to put up with a kid from Friday evening through Sunday afternoon than it was 7/24. Sometimes, her apartments were rather squalid. But this is understandable, given that women were earning much less than men. I also remember a series of poorly chosen boyfriends, three of whom she married.

Her third husband was an alcoholic. I remember watching The Avengers in an ante-room during his AA meetings. Was that an appropriate place for a pre-teen to be?

This is where my concept of her insecurity comes up. It seems to me she sought validation through these men. Like many - including myself, on my worst days - she sought validation from outside herself.

The time would come when she would seek validation through her youngest son. Brother Dave had kept a healthy distance from her; I think he saw her less than three times from the time of our parents' divorce to her death. But, I wanted to be good. Society told me that a good son loves his mother. The church told me to honor my parents. So, I tried to connect with her.

But the time finally came when being a good son meant that I had to deny what I knew to be true. I had to act as if Elaine had been a good mother. But she had not been present physically. More importantly, she was so needy within herself, she had little to give her son. She had not been present emotionally - not when I was a child, not when I was visiting her. This was not the foundation of a healthy mother-son relationship.

By Junior High, I saw how other mothers were with their children. I could tell the difference. I could feel the sincere love they had for their children. Somehow, even then, I knew that wasn't present with my mother and I.

I did have some models of good mothers - Elaine's mother, Kathleen, was able to show Dave and I affection she had reportedly not been able to show her daughter. Padre's mother, Gran, also showered us with love. Later, various teachers would also show me the encouragement and faith in my talents that Elaine had not shown.

So, as I think of the Blessed Mother, I think of these women. I project their best qualities on the Heavenly Lady. She is the one who heals the wounds Elaine created. She is the one who comforts me when I feel low. She is the one who praises and directs and encourages. She is the one who sometimes challenges.

It is she who sits, Dante tells us, at the center of the Celestial Rose.

It is she who is my True Mother.

4th Glorious Mystery: Death of the Blessed Mother

Luke 1:46-55, Rev. 12:1

Source: prayer card issued by the Franciscan University Press, © 1988.

Coincidentally, the reading from Luke is assigned for Thursday in the fourth week of Advent (IOW, today) in the Daily Lectionary. Most of the readings I have put at the head of most of these meditations come from a pamphlet, The Healing Rosary of our Mother of Perpetual Help Prayer Companion, edited by Fr. Michael Barrett, C.Ss.R (© 1977 Angelus Media Publications). Another resource has been Scriptural Rosary (© 1961, Chrisitianica Center).

I must note that I consider these last two Glorious Mystery with alternate names. This Mystery is more commonly called the Assumption of Mary. As I understand it, the tradition is that Mary was bodily assumed into Heaven just as Jesus, and Ezekiel before him, were. To me, this suggests two things.

First, all this emphasis on the physical body being assumed into heaven (which we see elsewhere in Revelation) indicates that Christianity respects the human body. Although one could cite Paul to the contrary, all this bodily assumption clearly shows that heaven regards the human body as worthy.

Secondly, I get the sense of how important Mary must have been to the early church. They would have given her the same respect we give Coretta King today, at the very least. What little we know of Mary, mostly from Luke, leads me to believe she was forceful and spiritual.

So – beyond being the Theotokos (Mother of God) – it’s easy to understand how attributes of various "pagan" goddesses were projected onto Mary as time went on. The early church also saw hints of her nature in the Song of Songs; for them, she was the Rose of Sharon. It is for this reason that roses were associated with her, and this connection explains the derivation of the name "rosary" for this series of prayers.

As I meditate on this, the penultimate scene in this cycle, I picture an Orthodox icon. At the center, on a raised bier, is Mary’s corpse. She is mostly wrapped, as in swaddling cloths, but one can still see her aged face. The disciples are gathered around behind her, in a semi-circle. At the center of this circle is the risen Christ. He is holding out his hands, as if accepting an offering. And offering over his hands is Mary’s soul, represented as a baby in a halo.

I have spoken of how the early church saw Mary, but how do I see her? Ultimately, I project onto Mary my notion of the perfect mother. I hope to explore this in more detail in the final installment in this series, tomorrow.

Idée d’jour

In war, there are no unwounded soldiers.
— Jose Narosky, writer

3rd Glorious Mystery: Gift of the Holy Spirit

There are two accounts of the early church receiving the Holy Spirit: the earliest recorded is likely to be Luke's (Acts 2:1-7) which describes the event as occuring at the Jewish festival of Pentecost, and having affected a large group of people, from all nations. John 20:21-22 describes the event as being more intimate, with the post-Resurrection Christ breathing on the Apostles.

When I pray the rosary, I tend to think of the Lucan account most often. In particular, I remember an icon which depicts the crowd with tongues of fire on their heads. I then extrapolate this image to include people in my faith community. I picture the Holy Tongue on the heads of those I like and those I don't like so well.

Then I think of the "Gifts of the Spirit" St. Paul speaks of; a precursory search found two:

1. Here's the list from Romans 12:6-8 (NIV): Prophecy, Serving, Teaching, Encouraging, Contributing to others, Leadership, and Showing Mercy.
2. And here's the list from 1 Corinthians 12:1, 4-11: Wisdom, Knowledge, Faith, Healing, Miraculous Powers, Prophecy, Discernment of Gifts, Speaking in tongues, and Interpretation of tongues

Finally, I consider my own gifts: singing; speaking; compassion; and mercy. Perhaps even writing (he said with a wry self-defacing grin). Seems the life-long task is to be mindful of oneself. That is, to consider my giftedness honestly and humbly. To be sensitive to the possibility of gifts being newly discovered. To the nurturing of gifts new and newly discovered. To honestly consider whether I have applied my gifts properly and appropriately.

How am I doing so far?

---

Along similar lines, I recommend Reverend Mother's reflection on her gift of singing.

2nd Glorious Mystery: The Ascension

Acts 1:3-11

When the day is short and the night is long,
the vault of heaven shall kiss the bosom of earth,
the valleys shall kiss the tender clouds,
and the stars will caress the mountains.
Each root and branch will be called blessed,
every creature that crawls the earth or walks the sea,
shall know your Name.
Each beast from the mighty horse to the fearsome scorpion
will dance to the Name of the Lord.
Even this body, O Lord, you will cradle;
even the body you have broken you will not despise.
This piercéd heart you will renew,
these parched lips you will cleanse,
and they will sing your praise again.

Why do the people stand in wonder, O Lord?
Why do their mouths hang agape as they are crowned with holy fire?

O friends and dear companions,
why do you stand with mouth agape at the sky,
why do you stand like turkeys counting raindrops?
Don’t stand like rural posts,
you know the work to be done:
Proclaim this the acceptable day.
Heal the sick. Feed the hungry.
Console the destitute.
Proclaim this acceptable day
that heaven and earth are wed,
that all are living in the Lord’s house.
Proclaim that all are children of the most high
from each quarter and counter-quarter,
from every point of the Compass Rose.

Wake up, dear friends,
be amazed no more.
Rise up and do the work you are called to.
Rise up and walk the Way of Beauty and Holiness.
Selah.

Idée d’jour

Sometimes I wonder whether the world is being run by smart people who are putting us on or by imbeciles who really mean it.
— Mark Twain, author and humorist (1835-1910)

You know, Mark, I often wonder the same thing. What really scares me is the belief that, right now, it's most likely the latter.

1st Glorious Mystery: The Resurrection

Luke 24: 1-5

I dreamt Padre in eternity,
Walking as strong as he used to be.
The night before, I'd seen his face
On the cross in Jesus' place.

---

This is true: one season, I prayed the rosary and pictured the faces of family and friends in the roles of people in the various tableaux. For some reason, I felt moved to picture Padre's face as Jesus' on the cross. Having seen him in this role, it seemed appropriate to picture him as the Resurrected Jesus as well. And thus, I was able to see Padre as having ultimately overcome all the tragedy and heartache that had undone him.

Traditional catholic theology teaches that the ultimate sin is despair. If one has despaired of God's grace, how can it find them? How will they recognize it? This is one reason suicide is seen as a sin: it rejects God's gift of life, and despairs of God's saving grace. You can understand how troubling this might be for me, as I refer to the last ~20
years of Padre's life as "slow-motion suicide." Even if that phrase is inaccurate, it would be fair to say that Padre's melancholy was overcome by despair.

So, this vision of Padre rising from the dead was, for me, a healing vision. If it comforts me that Padre accepted heaven’s joy at the end, it harms no one.

---

We have less historical evidence for the Resurrection than the Crucifixion. The uncharitable would call the Gospel accounts propaganda, rather than history. The earliest surviving account of Jesus’ life, in Mark, makes no mention of a resurrection.

I am certain of one thing: something incredible happened. People allowed themselves to be martyred for a significant time following Jesus’ death. That is, immediately following his death (accepting the story of Stephen’s death as accurate), to the time of Constantine. People don’t martyr themselves for nothing.

The world has seen many good people cut down early in life since then. Many men and women have spoken truth to power since then, and have been killed as a result. No one has claimed that Martin Luther King, Jr. rose from the dead. So far as I know, no one has started an alternate religion based on the teachings of Ghandi.

So, in this way (at least) the story of Jesus is unique. People saw something unique in him, and tried to live as he taught. They were willing to die rather than reject his teaching. These are no small matters.

Idée d’jour

The best things in life are nearest: Breath in your nostrils, light in your eyes, flowers at your feet, duties at your hand, the path of right just before you.
— Robert Louis Stevenson, novelist, essayist, and poet (1850-1894)

This reminds me of the Thich Nhat Hanh quote I posted below.

Quote d’jour

When we hold a piece of bread,
if mindfulness is there, if the Holy Spirit is there,
we can eat the bread in a way
that will allow us to touch the whole cosmos deeply.
A piece of bread contains the sunshine.
That is not difficult to see.
Without sunshine, the piece of bread cannot be.
A piece of bread countains a cloud.
Without a cloud, the wheat cannot grow.
So when you eat the piece of bread,
you eat the cloud,
you eat the sunshine,
you eat the minerals,
time, space, everything.

Thich Nhat Hanh, from Going Home: Jesus and Buddha as Brothers, pg 5 (Riverhead Books, New York, 1999)
Formatting is mine

Tag!

Sam, you're it. Click the image for larger version. Otherwise, a fair copy is coming via post. You named the game.

Foggy Blues

I went walkin' walkin' walkin'
into the dreadnaught night
I went walkin' walkin'
And something wasn't right
Caught the bank's time & temp,
Copped a cuppa joe & left a quarter tip
Never knew love could come on like this
Got the blues, oh foggy blues

I went walkin' walkin' walkin'
Walking on for my dreams
I went walkin' walkin'
Love is more than it seems
Street lamps holdin' up lazy clouds
Looking for no complications
Lookin' for the right love right now
Got the blues, oh foggy blues

I went walkin' walkin' walkin'
It's the Lord of Love who speaks
I went walkin' walkin'
And I'm watching out for your heart
I love your opal eyes
This is your Lord who speaks
I love your denial
This is the Lord of Loss who speaks
Got the blues, oh foggy blues

I went walkin' walkin' walkin'
Into the slaughterhouse dark
I went walkin' walkin'
Hope as my Covenant Ark
Mistress Death my tempt me
Time may lead me on
Her eyes shine like eternity
She's my latest song
I got the blues, oh foggy blues

I went walkin' walkin' walkin'
Walking into my madness
I went walkin' walkin'
Where time brings no sadness
Here's my right hand, full of desire
Here's my left eye,
Burning like a heart of fire
Got the blues, oh foggy blues.
     12.March.1983
   Co-Written with Dr. Omed

Honor of the Time

Half-moon morning,
bright pink eastern sky;
to the south, cool blue

It's January spring.
The sun slants kindly on
budding trees.

I'm a ghost, walking
the path I walk
every morning.

A ghost of honest memory
taking the well-worn path
that I know so well.

The honor of love
is lingering on the air,
a lava heartbeat.

I see a woman
in the distance, her muffler
wrapped about her neck.

She also sees me,
this thin morning ghost,
and she smiles.

When we meet on the
sidewalk, we do a small dance
in honor of the time.
   30.Jan.81

---

For some reason, this poem commended itself to me recently. I really, really like that last stanza. And the especially nice thing about it is that it's essentially a true story.

Coincidentally, the Rev. Dr. Omed has posted a poem he wrote in my honor back in 1982. As he says, we've known each other a long time; at least since 1978, possibly as early as 1974 or ‘75.

In this poem, he mentions "Jason & the Argonauts". This is (I flatter myself) a special tip o’ the black hat to me, for I had written a song Dana loved, which had this refrain: "Jason and the Argonauts go sailing late tonight / I guess you'll have to find your love by candlelight."

If you're especially good, I may post the lyrics to the song after I've gotten past these Advent entries.

The 5th Sorrowful Mystery: The Crucifixion

John 19:25-30

“Jesus died for somebody's sins, but not mine” — Patti Smith

The Crucifixion of Jesus ben Joseph may be seen in two ways: as historical event, or as myth. As a historical event, we have little record beyond the Biblical canon. So far as I know, Josephus is the only contemporary historian who refers to Jesus. If Roman records of the crucifixion of this itinerant preacher in a backwater of the Empire exist, I am not aware of them.

One thing seems clear in the canonical account: the execution of Jesus is a political act. Jesus' popularity threatens the religious authorities, to begin with. And although he has preached peace, there is always the chance he will incite a revolt. Or, more likely, some of his more radical followers might incite one. The Sanhedrin cannot risk that, for they know Rome will crush any revolt, and what little power the Sanhedrin has will be destroyed. As one leader is quoted in the Gospel of John, "it is better ... that one man die for the people than that the whole nation perish" (Jn 11:49).

But there is a deeper reason for this execution. Jesus has had the audacity to speak truth to power. As such, he has fullfilled the role of a prophet. And, as he acknowledges, the people kill their prophets. In fact, this might be a good test of whether one is a true prophet: if he or she is still alive past the age of 30, odds are that one is no prophet.

By the way, the age of prophets did not end with Jesus. The 20th Century had its share: Ghandi, Martin Luther King, Jr, perhaps even Malcolm X. I'll be clear that an early death is not the sole qualification for prophet. But it's a good one. And one that disqualifies many who claim to be speaking in God's name today.

The traditional mythic explanation of the crucifixion is summed up in the phrase, "Jesus died for our sins." In this formulation, Jesus serves the function of the Sacrificial Lamb, taking our sins upon himself, and thus freeing us from the burden of sin. Because he is the Son of God, this sacrifice is for the whole world, for all time. As Paul writes, "Jesus came into the world to save sinners." (1 Tim 1:15).

This seems antiquated and barbaric. I don't want to contemplate a God who would behave this way. I don't even want to contemplate a God who would require any sort of sacrifice. I especially cannot abide the thought of a God who sends his only Son with the express purpose of suffering the worst form of torture and death that could be devised in the last century before the common era.

How can we worship a God we would turn into the police or child welfare if he lived down the street from us?

Perhaps the crucifixion is symbolic of a type of integration and transformation. In his novel The Last Temptation of Christ, Kazantzakis postulates that the last temptation came on the cross, and the temptation was to live as an ordinary man. The inference is that Jesus overcame all other temptations, and this last one was consumed on the cross.

I think of sin as anything that stands in the way of my becoming what Maslow called an "actualized person" and what Jung called "the individuated personality". It is not a matter of good and evil, or light and shadow, for these seeming contraries are but poles of one whole. It is a matter of looking at the Shadow, and considering what gifts it may offer. Not all gifts must be accepted, but all must be honestly considered and evaluated.

That which is not me must be transformed from a stumbling block to an aid. It must be, in this sense, crucified. This model in essence turns the traditional forumaltion on its head. Rather than Jesus dying for my sins, I symbolically participate as the crucified. I offer my whole self — light and shadow — to that radical transformation, that I may become as fully integrated as Jesus was.

Just as Jesus was transformed from the Hanged Man to the Savior Dancing.

Friday's Cat

In addition to our regular cat picture, I thought I'd share the result of our play on Tuesday evening:


Hopefully, you can just make out the scratches on the back of my left hand.

The 4th Sorrowful Mystery: Woeful Road

Jn 19:16-22; Mk 15:20-21

One of Padre's favorite songs was "Reverend Mr. Black", recorded by the Kingston Trio. The "Reverend Mr. Black" was a story song, where the major part of the narrative was spoken, and a sung chorus was used as a break between parts of the story. The chorus was drawn from an Appalachian spiritual:

You gotta walk that lonesome valley
You gotta walk it by yourself
Nobody here can walk it for you
You gotta walk it by yourself.

The Reverend is described as a man who appears to be "tough and mean," yet proves himself to be a man of peace. A lumberjack comes into the meeting house one day, cursing the church people up one aisle and down the other. He ends up at the front, and cusses right in the Rev. Black’s face. Then the lumberjack hits the preacher.

Rev. Mr. Black turns the other cheek to the lumberjack and lets himself be hit again. "Then with a voice as quiet as can be/he cut him down like a big oak tree when he said: ‘You gotta walk that lonesome valley....’"

Earlier in the song, this is a song the Reverend sings to himself. As he sings it to the lumberjack, I get the sense that it’s a form of sermon.

Curious Good News, that. When times get the hardest, you're going to be left on your own. It's a profoundly Existential statement.

The song has a sentimental twist at the end: "the Rev. Mr. Black was my old man."

I imagine Padre sometimes pictured himself in the role of the Rev. Mr. Black. Mr. Black is described as honorable, brave, and strong, all qualities Padre strove toward.

There is no doubt that Padre walked the Lonesome Valley from Wanda's death, in 1975 (at age 45), to his own, in 1992 (at 63). Although Brother Dave and I tried our best to help him, neither of us could transfuse him with the will to live. As I said earlier this week, my theory is that he suffered too many losses (job, health, and wife) within a relatively brief period of time. The stress of those multiple losses undid him.

I spoke earlier this week of the stages Robert Johnson believes men go through: childhood, youth, adult, and old age. Dr. Johnson says that the transition from one stage to the next is a crisis point.

Tradition holds that Jesus began his public ministry when he was 30, and was crucified around age 33. This age is normally the transition from youth to adult. As we have seen in reviewing his Passion this past week, the challenges he faces are several times worse than the average person experiences in a lifetime.

Padre was 44 when Wanda died, and he began to give up on life. Dr. Johnson sets the transition from adult to old age around 55. Dr. Johnson also cautions that trying to go into a stage too soon, or skipping a stage, can cause problems. It would seem that Padre was confronted with the issues of old age early, and this may be one explanation of why the crisis overwhelmed him.

Padre also sang "Lonesome Valley," and especially enjoyed Woody Guthrie’s version, which includes this verse:

There's a road that leads to glory
Thru a valley far away
Nobody else can walk it for you
They can only point the way

Jesus points one way: keep walking, no matter what. Walk with honor and integrity, not for praise, but because that’s who you are. I believe Padre’s life carries much the same lesson, for he also sought to walk with honor and integrity — even after melancholy consumed him.

I think my initial reading of that spiritual only tells part of the story. Psalm 23 tells us the Lord is our companion, even in the Valley of Death. We must take each step with our own muscles, but this doesn’t necessarily mean we are alone. Our path may unique, and we make our own choices, but we can call upon companions. They can’t take the action for us, or make choices on our behalf, but they can encourage and support us.

As a Christian, I claim Jesus as my companion in the Way.

Idée d’jour

Whenever 'A' attempts by law to impose his moral standards upon 'B', 'A' is most likely a scoundrel.
— H.L. Mencken, writer, editor, and critic (1880-1956)

Think our Handsome Leader would get the hint if I sent this quote to him? No? I didn't think so, either.

Some Humor

It's been rather dour in these parts this week, so I thought I'd share a humorous story that is making the e-mail rounds. This particular version comes to me courtesy of Brother Dave. By the way, this story is rated PG-13.

Calling in sick to work makes me uncomfortable. No matter how legitimate my excuse, I always get the feeling that my boss thinks I'm lying. On one recent occasion, I had a valid reason but lied anyway, because the truth was just too darned humiliating. I simply mentioned that I had sustained a head injury, and hoped I would feel up to coming in the next day. By then, I reasoned, I could think up a doozey to explain the bandage on the top of my head. The accident occurred mainly because I had given in to my wife's wishes to adopt a cute little kitty. Initially, the new acquisition was no problem. Then one morning I was taking my shower when I hear my wife call out to me from the kitchen. "Honey, the garbage disposal is dead again, Please come reset it."

"You know where the button is," I protested through the shower door. "Reset it yourself." "But I'm scared of that thing" she persisted.

"What if it starts going and sucks me in or something?" There was a meaningful pause and then, "Please, it'll only take you a second."

Out I came, dripping wet and buck naked, hoping that my silent outraged nudity would make a statement about how I perceived her behavior as extremely cowardly. Sighing loudly, I squatted down and stuck my head under the sink to find the button. It is the last action I remember performing. It struck without warning, and without any respect to my circumstances. No, it wasn't the hexed disposal, drawing me into its gnashing metal teeth. It was our new kitten, who discovered the fascinating dangling objects hanging between my legs. She had been poised around the corner and stalked me as I reached under the sink. At the precise moment when I was most vulnerable, she leapt at the toys I unwittingly offered and snagged them with her needle-like claws. I lost all rational thought concerning the control of orderly bodily movements, blindly rising at a violent rate of speed, with the full weight of a kitten hanging from my masculine region. Wild animals are sometimes faced with the 'fight or flight' syndrome. Men, in this predicament, choose only the flight option. Do NOT try to fight a kitten hanging on for dear life! I was fleeing straight up into the air when the sink and cabinet bluntly and forcefully impeded my ascent. The impact knocked me out cold. When I awoke, my wife and the paramedics stood over me. Now there are not many things in life worse than finding oneself lying on the kitchen floor, buck naked, in front of a group of 'been-there done-that' paramedics trying to suppress their hysterical laughter - and not succeeding. A few days later I made it back to the office, where my colleagues tried to coax an explanation out of me about my head injury. I kept silent, claiming it was too painful to talk about. Which it was!

"What's the matter?" asked one smart alec. "Cat got your tongue?"

IF THEY ONLY KNEW!

Brother Dave reminded me of our fabled male cat, Sam, who would hide under the bed then attack a person's ankles when that person was least expecting it.

DJ does not limit herself to the bedroom. She'll hide around corners, at the edge of the couch, anywhere — and then attack.

The Thorny Crown

John 19:2-7, 16-22

Padre suffered from severe headaches for at least the last third of his life. I don’t know the cause of his headaches. Since I suffer from severe sinus headaches, this seems a probable source for his as well.

I have found a sort of cocktail – pseudoephedrine and ibuprofen — which reduces the pain enough that I am functional. Padre took aspirin, which reportedly did not help very much. In fact, he eventually became an aspirin addict, which almost lead to an overdose — as I have previously described.

In the years following his retirement, he would often say that the pain was so bad that he was tempted to put a gun to his head. Whether this was an appropriate thing to say to your 19 year-old son is debatable. I suppose the combined pain of the headache and his despair was sufficient that he did not consider the impact of those words on me.

I have been known to make similar statements, in jest. Yes, I know it’s a curious sort of jest, given Padre’s history, but there you go. No doubt some deep dark Freudian stuff going on there.

My last severe headache occurred a little over a month ago. I had hints of it prior to going to church one Sunday, but thought I could get by without taking my "cocktail". As it turned out, I was very mistaken. It got worse during service; worse yet during Sunday School; and was barely able to concentrate well enough to get home safely. I spent the bulk of that day in bed with a cold compress on my forehead. Moral: take the cocktail at the first sign of pain.

It’s difficult to describe the pain, but imagine a heated metal band tightening around your head, at about the level of your temple. Now, imagine knitting needles boring into your brows. At a certain point, nausea joins the mix.

As bad as all that is, it’s nothing compared to a crown of thorns.

---

Most artists depict as a neat circle about the head. Others believe it was more of a thorny cap. Would have hurt either way. The thorns would not have been dainty rose thorns, which would be bad enough, but major brambles measuring a half-inch to an inch long. And these thorns would have been digging into Jesus’ head, drawing blood.

The Roman Empire did not have to worry about a prisoner abuse scandal. It’s fair to say the Roman soldiers behaved like a bunch of bullies. Being a sensitive child, I have some experience with bullies.
I’m no anthropologist, but I have come to see bullying as a perversion of the survival instinct. When the group senses a weak member, it attacks. Either the weak member becomes stronger or is destroyed; either way, the group (or species) benefits.

This makes a certain type of sense in the school yard, but doesn’t for adult groups, in which social norms discourage extreme violence. However, these norms do not apply to any people seen as outsiders or "less than" — enemies, prisoners, and foreigners.

There’s two ways to contemplate the events commemorated as "Sorrowful Mysteries". One is to see them as "things Jesus did for me". While this reflects traditional thinking, it’s not a view with which I’m comfortable (I hope to go into more detail by Friday). Another way is to honestly appraise the dark corners of your personality to see if you are capable of such acts.

I don’t want to believe that I could be among the bullying Roman soldiers. I want to believe I would not have shouted "Crucify Him!" with the rest of the crowd. But I have to admit either as a possibility.

I believe this to be a matter of constant diligence – what our Buddhist friends would call mindfulness – of my motives and the possible consequences of my actions. Another Buddhist principle speaks of Right Action; in this case, right action would seem to be an application of the Golden Rule:

As I would not want to be hurt, so I shall strive not to hurt others.

Idée d’jour

Knowing ignorance is strength; ignoring knowledge is sickness.
— Lao-Tzu, philosopher (6th century BCE)

The Scourging

Mt 27:15-26; Mk 15:6-15
Yesterday, I talked quite a bit about the dragon. I said, with an appropriate degree of reluctance, that Padre had been destroyed by the dragon.

In my version of Padre’s story, the dragon represents a certain vision of the Great American Dream: a steady job, a wife, two kids, house in the ’burbs with a white picket fence. I know I’m doing some post-mortem mind-reading, but it seems to me that Padre expected “the system” to treat him with the same integrity that he strove for in his life. When his job of over a decade gave him an impossible choice between being laid off and retirement, he felt incredibly betrayed by both the system and the American Dream.

The figure of the dragon has gotten considerably bad press in the Western canon. Along with the serpent, the snake, and other reptiles, it is considered "evil". On the other hand, as you may know, the Orient considers dragons omens of good fortune.

This point is made especially well in one of my favorite books, St. George and the Dragon and the Quest for the Holy Grail, by Edward Hays. George is an ordinary suburban male, in his mid 30s (one of those crisis points), and hears a voice sending him on a quest. Upon reflection, he chooses to start small, with a hermitage in his tool shed.

Then the dragon comes. George immediately takes this a sign that he’s on the right path (if you’re on a quest, you’re likely to meet a dragon — right?). The dragon quickly assures George that he’s a Chinese dragon, gives George a title worthy of a quest (Sent, or St., George), and offers direction for the quest. In fact, he invites George to climb on his back!

When St George climbs on the dragons back, he sees several wounds — some of which are glowing. He asks the dragon about them, and the dragon responds:

I have been slain a thousand times, but I have risen again. These old wounds are the source of my power and my insight. ... our greatest and worst enemies are not the monsters who roam the forest or even wicked witches or evil wizards. No, it is our scars, our wounds and old injuries that we must fear...

Life wounds us in a number of ways. We have only hints of how Jesus may have been wounded prior to his passion, but there is no denying the severity of wounds he received within 24 hours.

Both the musical Jesus Christ Superstar and the movie The Passion report 99 lashes (the latter in lovingly sadistic detail). I don’t find such a figure in the canon, so I suppose this number to be from non-canonical tradition. Odds are there were bits of sharp metal tied into the knots. Odds are the man lost an incredible amount of blood.

I think Jesus had choices during every step of his via dolorosa. At this point, I think his choice might have been to give up the ghost and die. He didn’t.

Although our wounds are generally less severe than sharp metal ripping flesh, we have the same choice. We can allow the wound to become our total experience of reality, or we can keep walking.

We have the choice, like the dragon in the story, to find insight and strength in our wounds. For example, one scar teaches me compassion for others. This same scar makes me painfully aware of how easy it is to judge others by mere physical appearance. The scar of Padre’s betrayal has made me suspicious of the American Dream. Other scars have taught me other valuable lessons.

The dragon in Hays’ story speaks to a notion of the Wounded Healer. This phrase was coined by Henri Nouwen, and it means that we minister to each other through our woundedness. Through our wounds, we may heal.

What do your scars teach you?

Idée d’jour

The spirit of democracy cannot be imposed from without. It has to come from within.
— Mohandas K. Gandhi (1869-1948)

Wise words to ponder as the time for Iraq's election approaches.