Idée d'jour

One of the oldest human needs is having someone to wonder where you are when you don't come home at night.
— Margaret Mead, anthropologist (1901-1978)

Must Hear

Dear Mr. President, in which Pink asks a certain commander-in-chief to take a walk with her. Whether it is work-safe depends on whether your co-workers are among the ~38% who still think B*sh is doing a "heck of a job".

Idée d’jour

Never mistake knowledge for wisdom. One helps you make a living, the other helps you make a life.
— Sandra Carey

Honeysuckle

Honeysuckle.

In the spirit of the esteemed Dr. Omed, here is some honeysuckle. It is growing on the north edge of my property.

Idée d’jour

Permanent good can never be the outcome of untruth and violence.
— Mahatma Gandhi (1869-1948)
Take that, Georgie Porgie

Lost at Woods' Edge

Through these woods I once ran naked.
Under unfettered skies I spun beneath tree shadow.
My pale flesh was dappled
by early autumn sun.
Lost savage in public glade.
Pink ghost near the culvert seen.

I can see the ghost now,
running just past memory's limits.
My 9 year-old shade darting between trees,
between park and suburban homes,
between distant street & concrete culvert.

And I wonder if the ghost is true,
or a memory fragment,
or a dream.

The afternoons were Lone Ranger & Superman.
In the summer Dick Van Dyke and Mary Tyler Moore
were my surrogate parents.

And breeze against bare skin was real.
Grass between bare toes was real.
Movement between dappled shadows was real.
More real than naps on thin plastic maps
or playground jeers or letters or
even thoughts.

I asked the trees what this poem wanted to be.
Alive, in the forest.
I asked the creek, thin shadow of the Canadian River,
what this poem wanted to be.
Laughing toward the ocean.
I asked the grass what this poem wants to be.
Growing to the sun.
I asked my ghostly dappled flesh
what this poem wants to be.
Alive, alive, alive.
Ignorant of history, forgetful of self,
lost, lost, lost.

Lost at woods' edge.
The poem as it appears in my Moleskine Notebook. Two bits unrelated to the poem have been whited out: my last name, and a friend's contact information.
This poem is a companion to other "memory" poems such as "The 34th Street Flood"

Magnetic Fib

Be
a
birthday
masterpiece:
always bloom, woman,
flower like love's summer season
[Photo taken Friday morning, April 14, the second day of Passover]

(Belated) Friday Five: Faves

[From RevGalBlogPals' esteemed Songbird.

1. fruit
   Strawberry
2. song
   Holly Cole's recording of "I Can See Clearly Now"
3. beverage
   Green Tea
4. shoes
   my faux Birkenstocks
5. flower
   Compass Rose

Jonah's "Fib"

I
was
swallowed
by a fish
this big — then I was
spit out three days later. Honest!

"Fib" is the name for a poetic form based on the Fibonacci sequence.

Quote d'jour

We must refuse to let [the OKC bombing] make sense – here, or anywhere else. We must steel ourselves against rationalizations and learned political analysis. We must hang on, as long as possible, to our sense of astonishment. Be astonished that ideology can make murder understandable. Be astonished that hatred can go unchecked until bodies burn. Let us not be misled by labels, as if calling someone a terrorist gives sense to madness.
— excerpt from a sermon by Rabbi Dan Shevitz of Emanuel Synagogue in Oklahoma City on the final day of Passover, three days after the bombing of the Alfred Murrah Federal Building on April 19, 1995 [from the A Little Joy, A Little Oy calendar, © 2005 Andrews McMeel]

Recommended Reading

Dr. Omed's Flower War, a poem on the Aztec concept & practice. Not for the faint of heart.

Spidey Girl's Peter, Part Three. I'd like to see more of Peter's story. I've always wondered about transition from the impetuous "block head" protrayed in the Gospels to the more reasonable person portrayed in the Book of Acts. Just a thought.

Late Add:
The Anagrammed Bible

---

Clearly, this "Recommended Reading" list is becoming a semi-regular feature. Not filler, just things I sincerely believe will be of interest for folk who regularly visit this space.

Idée d’jour

The politician is an acrobat. He keeps his balance by saying the opposite of what he does.
— Maurice Barres, novelist and politician (1862-1923)

Something About Two O'Clock

There's something about two o'clock.
Not sure what it is.
Somewhere, I have a quote from Scott Fitzgerald
to the effect that 4 a.m. is the dark night of the soul.
But this is 2.
Is this the hour God spoke to Samuel?
Should I rise from my bed
and say, "Speak Lord your servant is listening"?
I tried that.
Tried that at two a.m. Good Friday morning.
It was a chant: "I am listening, I am listening, I am listening."
Then, off course, I considered the fact
that I couldn't really be listening
while I was chanting.
The squirrel was lose in its cage.
What would God have with me?
No Samuel here.
I'm opinionated as hell, but surely no prophet.
So, hey God, what's up?

Maybe it's not God.
Maybe it's this intemperate April.
High hit 94° yesterday.
Record high, for the date.
But I've got the AC on (reluctantly).
I sleep atop the covers.

Maybe it's all my little ego dreams of fame & romance.
Like, I don't know, some editor will discover my blog
and ask me to write a book.
Maybe someone will hear me sing,
and offer me a recording contract.
Maybe the new girl at church
is the companion I seek.
Stuff like that.
I'm used to these ego dreams.
Sometimes I amuse myself by letting them play out,
like little movies projected on the inside of my forehead.
Other times, I look elsewhere.
Seek the Inner Light.
The thin place where my spirit meets the divine spirit.

Don't know what it is.
Try wearing myself out.
Try pushing myself right to ten.
Try not to —
Try to —
Doesn't matter.
I'm awake sometime between two and three.

So, God, if it is you, I'm ready for the message.
Heck, I'll probably do whatever it is you're asking of me.
Odds are pretty good.
I'm just tired of waking up at this hour.
I'm ready to sleep now.
Just tell me, in small words,
get it over with,
and let me sleep through through the night.

Idée d’jour

The question why there is evil in existence is the same as why there is imperfection... But this is the real question we ought to ask: Is this imperfection the final truth, is evil absolute and ultimate?
— Rabindranath Tagore, poet, philosopher, author, songwriter, painter, educator, composer, Nobel laureate (1861-1941)

Idée d’jour

What do you mean, you "don't believe in homosexuality"? It's not like the Easter Bunny; your belief isn't necessary.
— Lea Delaria

More Recommended Reading

[Two religious, two political; it's what I call balanced]

Part Two of Spidey Girl's Peter series. This is one reader hoping for a part three!

The Lost Gospel of Judas. Read for yourself what all the fuss is about. It's only seven pages long, and you can down-load an Adobe version of the document for free.

This next link comes courtesy of Brother Dave. Chickenhawks is a list compiled by the brave folk at the New Hampshire Gazette. There's much else worthy of note in their on-line edition. For example, their editorial Progress in the Wrong Direction reignited some depression in my spirit. Worthy of special note is "Ports, the Sequel", about 3/4ths down the page.

Finally, if you have not already read it, here's Seymour Hersch's article about administration plans to bomb or invade Iraq. This is what El Presidente was talking about when he referred to wild speculation this time a week ago.

Two things are scary about this. First, B*sh said efforts to prevent Iran from gaining nuclear capability did not mean the use of force - necessarily. If not for his choice of modifier, and his tone of voice when saying it, I might have given him the benefit of the doubt. One should be kind to children and the mentally deficient.

The second scary thing is that Hersch wrote an article very much like this some time before the invasion of Iraq. Got to ask yourself: who you going to believe? The respected journalist, or the guy who has been caught in at least two major lies that I'm aware of.

One last thing - unscientific poll:
Is B*sh stupid, a moron, an imbecile, certifiably insane, or just plain pure evil? Evil, that is, like the pure evil at the end of Time Bandits. Evil even more profound than Richard Nixon's evil. Evil which has a special circle of the Inferno reserved - right next to Brutus and our friend Judas.
Vote in the comments.

Definition d'jour

ChriEaster (n)[KREE-ster]

people who only attend church on Christmas and Easter

Easter Vigil

I had predicted that the Easter Vigil service Saturday evening would be about two hours long. As it turned out, it started around 7:30 pm, and we got out around 9:15 or so.

Not too far off.

I was serving as Lay Reader (which means I read the Epistle, Rom 6:3-11; and was on of four who served the wine during communion), so I wanted to get to the Cathedral early. I got there a few minutes after 7. Somehow, I was able to be of service to a couple of people before service began.

Also gathering early were people to be baptized, confirmed, reaffirmed, or received (from other denominations). A mother and her three sons were gathered in the courtyard. The mother, Shelly, was being confirmed. She asked me to take their picture. Which I was happy to do. After that, she asked for advice twice before service. Guess I earned some brownie points by helping her.

I kept looking for June, who was reaffirming. Reaffirmation is often a way to acknowledge a spiritual renewal within oneself. There are other reasons, and I'm not sure what June's reason was. I'd had the chance to visit with her a few times before, and enjoy her company. Not necessarily looking for or expecting romance, but I can always use another friend.

In any case, June got there about ten minutes before the service began. She was dressed in scrubs. June is an RN in a Palliative Care unit at a local hospital, so I assumed she was rushing in from her shift. I gave her a sideways hug, and mentioned my assumption. No, she said. Her cat had bitten her hard enough to require a tetanus shot. She had actually dressed in her Easter best, but it had been spoiled by blood. She'd gone to the ER for the tetanus shot, and borrowed the scrubs from the ER nurse.

"Thanks for the hug," she said, "I really needed that." Then she asked me to remove the plastic ID tag around her wrist. I've never been able to break one with my bare hands, so I went to the vesting room to get some scissors or a knife.

She followed me. The door was closed, so I knocked and asked for scissors. At which point, June started crying. Luke, one of the ministers, took her in his arms, and she retold her tale through her tears.

She went to the ladies' room to compose herself.

Then the ministers and acolytes and choir were off.

The Easter Vigil is one of my favorite services. On Maundy Thursday, all the lights had been extinguished and the sanctuary candle had been removed. So, the church is dark. The ministers proceed in silence. The officiant recites a prayer over a bed of coals, which are ignited; the Paschal Candle is lit from this. That bier of flames in the dark church is quite impressive.

The officiant, who was Luke, sings the Exultet, which begins "Rejoice now, heavenly hosts and choirs of angels."

This song is followed by the Holy History. A number of lessons are possible, primarily from the Old Testament, recounting God's relationship with God's people. Only two lessons were read at our service - the story of Israel crossing the Red Sea, and Ezkiel's vision of the dry bones returning to life.

The Epistle follows. I'm told I read it well.

Then came the baptisms, and so on. Three people were baptized. Twenty-six were confirmed. Three reaffirmed, and four were received.

The Bishop has a lovely tradition for confirmations, reaffirmations, and receptions. He invites people from the congregation who have a close relationship with those being confirmed (etc) to lay hands on these people at the same time he does. I laid my hand on a number of people, including Shelly. And June.

Now I had tears in my eyes. I'm moved when people choose this way of life. If you're serious about it, it isn't easy. It's the most challenging decision a person can make.

It's easy to be a TV Christian. It may be almost as easy to be a fundamentalist Christian, who often defines himself by how much better he is than all those sinners. It's harder to be a Christian who is neither of these, but who is judged by the worst of both camps. It's harder to seek to be Christ-like in a world that judges by standards 180° opposite of Jesus' standards.

Idée d’jour

I guess my whole story is about wanting men to love women as much as women love men.
— Diane Wakoski (1937 – ), from her poetry collection Jason the Sailor (1993)

Recommended Reading

From the Dark of Saturday by the lovely lady I call "Spidey Girl", but who calls herself Samwise Gamgee (among other things). Read it before going to service, if you can.