Thursday, 12th o May 2005
Why oh why is the world like this? I was listening to the bizarre account of the two little girls who where stabbed in Illinois. The suspect/culprit is the father of one of the two. How could it be? How could a person become so enraged that they would kill their own child. Obviously the answer is that this person is broken, a broken human, aberrated and twisted by a lifetime of apathy, violence, and despair.
What is it about our society that crafts these wackos? They are works of beautiful twisted art, perfectly shaped from babes to fulfill their seeming lifelong purpose to go out in a blaze of violence and destruction.
Remember the runaway bride? It was so long ago now, and I don't give crap what her name is, I don't even remember much about her particular case. It is lost to me lo these many days. What I do remember of the incident was that I'm sure she was mad at somebody. There was anger, displaced resentment against, I can only imagine, her parents and their relentless pressure for her wedding to be perfect, her husband to be perfect, for her to be perfect. She had been arrested and convicted twice for shoplifting. Her family was wealthy, upstanding, but they'd demoralized her, belittled her, drove her insane with their control, her church's control, her community's control. "LEAVE ME ALONE!" She acted out in the only way she didn't know how. She flailed and writhed to cause them pain in the way that gave her control. I want to hurt them, she screamed to herself. She didn't care about consequences. She was not thinking. She just wanted to hurt them because it was the only thing that she felt she could do.
Fight or flight. Let's do both, shall we?
So back to Zion, Illinois. Let's paint a picture of this guy Mr. Hobbs and his life. He was born into poverty, possibly lower middle class. His parents struggled all their lives. Dad was an abusive type. He worked long hours at a menial job. He resented his lot in life... these damn kids, this damn job, and his meager life of anonymity. So he drank. The alcohol helped him not care. When he'd smack his son around, he didn't feel a thing. Damn kids, clean up your goddamned room! Pick this shit up! Your mother's too soft on you. And he'd whack 'em, whack 'em good. When he wasn't hitting his kids he was just gone.
Sooner or later, Jerry started getting into trouble in school. First he'd just pick on those littler than himself. He was the classic troubled bully. As he got older, he got into more and more trouble with the authorities, both school and otherwise. He dropped out of school.
You should be able to figure out the rest from here. When he got into a dispute with anyone or anything, he lost it. He'd start lashing out with whatever was handy. He didn't care. His rage flooded his senses, brought back his powerlessness. Somewhere deep down he remembered the lessons of his father.
They are bringing it on themselves. Bitch doesn't listen to me. She's a fucked up bitch, telling me what to fucking do.
She screams that she'll kick him out, or she'll leave him, or call the police. She used that threat a lot. She used it like a blunt object. I'll call the fucking police, she screamed. She doesn't deserve to be treated this way, she'd say.
Goddamnit... treat HER this way. What about how you're sucking the life out of me. You - you're doing this to ME, fuck you, bitch, I don't give a fuck how you feel you deserve to be treated. You're a whore and bitch, and - and.
He was cooling down in county lockup. He wasn't so enraged now. The bruises from his tussle with the cops who responded to the domestic disturbance were starting to throb. Four of them had piled on. They seemed to take pleasure is roughing him up. "Hit a woman, didcha, tough guy. You're a big fucking tough guy, hittin' a woman. You hit kids too?" He rubbed his shoulder where they'd wrenched his arm high up on his back in a chicken wing. They'd clubbed him in the kidneys too. Damn, that hurt. He couldn't sit comfortably. Was he still mad? He hurt, but he'd calmed down. It was out of his hands now. Remorse started to creep in. Damn it, he didn't mean to lose control. She was just - doin' it again. A twinge of rage lit off like a spark plug.
He was sentenced to 18 months in state prison. This was the final straw. The judge could see where this was going. This guy needed to know that society was serious and that he'd done wrong. Justice decided that he spend some time outside of the boundaries of society, an adult time out, so to speak.
Jerry, fully intended to change his ways. He thought about it every day. He wrote crudely spelled sentiments to his wife. He loved her and looked forward to turning it around. He saw all the good in his life. It was modest, but they had a little house, a beautiful daughter, and he could always get some work. It's not like they needed much.
The day came that Jerry had waited for. Here was his big chance to start over, to take control of his life and live it. His wife accepted him with open arms. She'd fallen in love all over again, mostly. Jerry, it seemed, was a new man with a new outlook.
Mother's Day 2005
"Jerry, don't worry about it. It's okay. It's Mother's Day. I don't want to fight about this. I'll punish her tomorrow. Can't we just have a special day without yelling?"
"No, she took that money, she's got to answer for it. I won't have any daughter of mine growing up a thief."
"Look, can we just drop it?"
Little Laura pranced out the front door with a nahnahnah to greet her friend and scamper off to play. There it was again. His blood began to boil. She'd sassed him. They'd all sassed him, made him feel powerless., revealed his impotence. Nahnahnah, there's nothing you can do, you stupid son-of-a-bitch with your limp dick and ugly face, they seemed to say. His face twisted up almost unrecognizably and he charged out after her. I'm going to drag her back to the house by her hair if I have to. She's not going to get away with this. I'm the man around here. She's the kid. She's got to listen to me. He flew down onto the path where the two girls were laughing and giggling. "Come here," he yelled. "You're going home."
"Mom, said I could go out," she retorted.
"I say you can't, now get over here."
"I'm not coming and you can't make me. Mom said I could stay out. Leave us alone." and the girls turned to leave.
First he slapped her, then grabbed her hair and threw her down. Her friend had a small pocket knife and stabbed at Jerry to protect her friend. She didn't know any better. She thought she was protecting her like on TV. A knife?! raged Jerry's mind. You'd try to stick me with a knife you little bitch. What the fuck kind of parents do you have. And he grabbed her wrist twisting it unnaturally. She yelped in pain as Jerry snatched the knife and stabbed it back at her. Stick me, will you! He slashed and slashed and slashed. His daughter's horrified face looked to him like contempt. SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP!! He silenced her disdain. That'll teach her.
As soon as it was over, the rage left him and the weight of what he'd done came down. It was only a matter of time, but he was strangely calm. It was all out of his hands now. He was free.
Friday, 6th o May 2005
I wrote this after one of my Confirmation classes. I think it's about the best contemplation on the Eucharist that I've ever heard, that is, I like it and it sums it up for me. I always try to look at the rituals of Catholism through the eyes of an outsider. Are they silly? Where did they come from? Why do we do them? What does it mean to believe? And what is belief? They may be silly, but there is a wisdom that can be grokked if you know how to get in there, separate yourself from your preconceptions, supersititions, magic, and just see and know a thing for what it is. Life isn't any deeper than what we are. That is, it's plenty deep enough, thank you. You just have to look and listen and ponder. It's all there, the spirits, the magic, the flavor - all there right in front of you. It's not weeping concrete stains in the shape of the Virgin Mary. It's not miracle medical cures.
It may not even be eternal life in heaven.
And with that I begin my meandering through the true nature of the Holy Eucharist.
The next week we talked about spirits. First we talked about the spirit of a tomato? They all looked at me quizzically. Eh? Tomato? I explained where the tomato comes from, where it is grown, how it is cared for, who picks it, how it arrives at the supermarket etc. The tomato becomes more than what it would first appear. The tomato, the more you know about it, its journey, the more it becomes a symbol of something deeper, and the deeper you go, the more it becomes an icon – it actually becomes that thing it represents.
Take the beef cow for example. “Ew!” they all chorused. “We don't want to know about our food being alive at some point.” They all shuddered, thinking about the slaughterhouse, the death of the cow as it arrives at their plate, all ground up and cooked. How can knowing the path of the cow make our enjoyment of the burger any better?
Ah, I said, but you miss out on a great opportunity to imbibe more than just a burger. Take, for example, my experience in the Basque Country of Spain. We lived near a rural community called Oiartzun in the north of Spain. In the town, the country folk each raised and slaughtered their own cow. They would raise the cow for a year or so, and then they would kill it. They fed their cow the best of things, alfalfa, cabbage, beets, turnips, the best of things. They would grow and cultivate an entire plot of land just for the cow.
We were visiting the Aristizabals house one Sunday afternoon. The family wanted to show off their prize cow. The mother, Maria de los Angeles, took us to the stall where the healthy looking young cow stood munching on some nice fresh greens. The cow raised her head and glanced our way, half-curious as to who were these intruders to her space. She couldn't be bothered to turn around and give us her attention, head down munching on her lunch. Maria de los Angeles, anxious to show off her cow, grabbed a pitch fork and poked the cow, yelling, “Yeha yeha.” The cow did not budge an inch. She poked harder but the cow did not move.
Mikel, the father and cabinet maker, gently clucked to the cow and patted it on the rump. She turned as easily as if on a trivet. Beautiful she was, healthy strong, and big. Everyone in the family beamed with pride for their cow.
Some time later, we heard that Beltza had been slaughtered, the meat packed into two large freezers in the family's farm house. Ekiñe, the youngest daughter, excitedly told us they had bought a new young calf. She laughed as she told us they had named it Beltza.
Later, during the Christmas season, Laura and I were invited over for a holiday season dinner, on the menu, Beltza. I knew her, I thought.
We shared with the Aristizabals the finest cut of meat from Beltza, a cut from which there was only enough for one meal. I remember that meal, the communion, the shared experience, the newness, the realness, the depth of experience, appreciation for the life that we had taken as well as the life that we were living, the sacrifice, the brotherhood, and community. Beef had never been more alive to me, on my taste buds, but more importantly in my heart.
I had used that story to illustrate to my class how knowing more about reality around you leads you to deeper satisfaction. Sometimes it's not pleasant. Sometimes there is pain, even death, but by closing yourself off to it, you close yourself off to the richness of life, the beauty of living. Without awareness, consciousness, life becomes unseasoned and bland.
Monday, 18th o April 2005
Laura's Reflections on Her Son
Jaimito cracks me up... what an artisitic sensibility
"Mama I'm like a butterfly," he says as he swings his arms upward and downward clapping his castanets, walking in circles.
"Mama I'm like a leaf," as he puts his arms up reaches to the sky and then contorts his body downward, falling to the ground.
"Mama I'm like a birdie," he says as he flaps his arms faster clicking the castanets faster.
Our artistic and musically gifted percussion boy likes his castanets!
He brings them to my ear so I may appreciate their wonderful snappety click click. Then his attention turns to Olaia who is using the piano to make the sound of ants and instructs him to do the castanets like ants.
Thursday, 7th o April 2005
RIP, my old TV
I know it's a TV, but what a TV it was. That TV was over 15 years old. I bought it my sophomore year of college and proceeded to haul it with me literally all over the world for the next fifteen years. That JVC television went through a lot, but alas, all of this earth is mortal and it was handed off to the city disposal last week. It actually hurts a little bit. I'm a dork, I know, but bear with me as I recount our tale of adventure and perseverance.
The TV started its life off in St. Louis Missouri, at Washington University where it endured three years in a Fraternity house, beer, room fire, smoke, and things unmentionable. It hung in there because it was young and full of life.
After college it traveled cross country in a U-haul to Boston, Massachusetts. It hung out with me for six months while I worked at a new job. We were single and loving it. I was then transferred to San Francisco in December of 1993 and my faithful TV tagged along as it was lofted up to the dizzying heights of Noe Valley, even putting up with my crazy rollerblade antics around town. We were still young and stupid, but we had fun.
Then Laura and I got married and moved to Oakland. She didn't just get a husband, she got a TV, and what a TV it was. As she will tell you, she has some kind of jinxing field that follows her wherever she goes. Any home electronics equipment found within ten feet of her sphere of influence has a drastically shortened lifespan. I don't know how, but the TV seemed to take to her, and like her tough husband, seemed none the worse for wear. Experience had made us tough, and we lapped it up.
After a few years, the time to move had come again. This time, we were to head to the Basque country of Spain to complete Laura's doctoral research in Anthropology. Our NTSC buddy tagged along, never mind he did not speak PAL. It's all PAL to me, he said, besides they don't even have my kind of 110/120 V 60 Hz food. But like a trooper, with a weird pinched screen, strained to play VHS tapes of shows sent to us from various family members. Like seasoned competitors we pushed through and survived.
So after a couple of years, we moved to Puerto Rico to start a new life. Laura was pregnant with Olaia, and we moved into a little seaside apartment in the Condado. Our trusty TV was there with us, happy to be back on native soil, but cursing the sea air.
We were comfortable and safe, until that fall when Georges decided to pay a visit, a category 3-4 hurricane that knocked out electricity, water, cable for the better part of three weeks. Mr. TV was wobbly, but like us, pulled through, and we began to think we would live forever. You hit us with everything, and I'm still here.
Fast forward to our new house in 1999, and on into 2000. Olaia, ever our little helper, decided to dump Windex onto the screen of Mr. TV and with her trusty paper towel "clean" it. Mr. TV had had enough, and it was the first time we had indications he might leave us.
Two days, of patient waiting, hair dryer blowing, and sighing (or cursing), and Mr. TV came reluctantly back to life. Why do you molest an old man, he asked. Let me die in peace.
Sometime between 2000 and 2004, after staggering on creaking joints, he stopped responding to our calls for entertainment from time to time. Crotchety he had become, a withered old man who didn't give a damn anymore. Make me care, he said to us. I could still smile and admire his spirit, but it was getting more annoying by the month. Make me miss one single Buffy episode and I will heave you into the trash.
Next came the trial by fire. Desperate to light a barbecue and without lighter fluid, I pulled out the only flammable liquid I could on short notice, 180 proof rum. Hmmm, rum flavored charcoal for barbecuing steak. In a Tim Allen moment while dumping alcohol onto the open fire, flames entered the neck of the bottle, ignited the vapor and shot fireballs across the patio, through the open door up the side of the TV, and up the side of the house. Airplane pilots mistook it for an SOS call. I quickly smothered what I could but let the rest burn itself out. "Guess what I just did?" I said to Laura laughing nervously. You married folks know the sigh, right?
So fire, flood – we just need plague and pestilence and this would be a complete Biblical tale.
Tropical Storm Jean paid a visit in late 2004, and Mr. TV finally gave up the ghost. I'm done, I've had a full life, let one who is young and strong and brave take on this family now. I have given you all my best, and he ceased to function for ever more.
There he lay in state for several months as I contemplated a fitting end. Should he be dumped into a landfill or be properly recycled with his heavy metals? Does Puerto Rico care that TV's are being dumped into landfills? Well, I'll keep you around for a little while longer until I figure out how to dispose of you.
And the day finally came. Friday, April 1st 2005, you finally made your way to your final resting place. I know not where, only the City of San Juan knows for sure, but good-bye faithful servant. They don't make 'em like you anymore.
Saturday, 2nd o April 2005
"Man, I am so sick of this love affair with the Pope. Sheesh, everyone wants to just bow down and worship this guy like he's done so much or something. What has he done?"
Laura, who is a fan of the Pope, answers, "He's reached out to other religions, healed some long suffering wounds inflicted long ago. He's reached out to the peoples all around the globe, and held firm on moral conviction."
"Yeah," I agreed, "He denounced apartheid, and it is said is partly responsible for its fall by applying political pressure. They like to give him partial credit for helping end communism in the world too with his intervention in Poland. So I guess he's stood up for equality and justice during his papacy."
"Yes," she agreed.
"So how come he doesn't foster equality in his own organization? Over fifty percent of his flock is considered a second class citizen. Women are excluded from virtually every facet of Church leadership, from local to national to international levels. Woman serve a subservient roll to priests, bishops, and are non-existent in the official Vatican power structure. The Pope pointed out the speck in his neighbor's eye, but failed to see the timber in his own. Now I can't necessarily blame him for all this, after all he's just following Church doctrine handed down to him for centuries, and he's human. In effect, he's just going with the flow, following the tried and the true. You can't blame someone for that, I guess. He implemented faithfully the tenants of the Catholic Church handed down for centuries."
Laura nodded, knowing I was setting her up for another round of ranting.
"Let's recap, shall we? Under the Pope we have the following issues:
Falling western church population, with growth in Africa and other third world regions.
Falling membership in the religious orders, 40,000 Jesuits 20 years ago has fallen to 20,000 today, all during the Pope John Paul's reign. Why? An increasing number of parishes no longer have full time priests. There is a critical shortage of ordained religious servants.
Church closings throughout the western world: my hometown of St. Louis is currently going through some ugly infighting concerning assets, closings, and consolidation.
Church sex scandals: one of the most horrific and damaging scandals to ever break anywhere anytime. You think the Spanish Inquisition was bad? Try inflicting the same torment on children and remaining quiet about for decades. How long has the Pope been Pope? - Long enough for him take some responsibility for sure. I didn't know or I wasn't involved have never been nor will they ever be excuses.
You name it, and the Church has stumbled on it or is doing it poorly. Don't blame the parishioners, blame the leadership. It's always the leadership's fault.
So if you were the board of directors of, hmmm, let's say, Hewlett Packard, and say Carly Fiorina had a strategy to increase profits over a 6-10 year period, and say she didn't increase them fast enough or lost a little bit of share. Well, you'd take a hard look at her, and you might fire her, right? Guess what? When you see your share fall, and when corporate scandal reigns, and the company does poorly, you fire management. A lot of the time, you hold them criminally responsible. And I don't know about you, but I've never heard a CEO claim that he was just doing what his predecessor was doing. 'Um, I thought using my personal secretary as a sexual perk was okay. I mean, hell, all the other CEO's did it. Lots of low interest personal loans to myself? Well, we've done that for decades.'
Well, guess what, Mr. CEO, the 1980's and the 1990's where great. Profits were up, people were getting rich. Hell, the board got rich on the stock. But Mr. CEO, it's the 2000's and we ain't in Kansas anymore. You have to be able to react. You have to be able to adapt to a changing landscape. You've got to make hard decisions. What the hell do we pay you for, huh?
So I say the same thing to the Pope. What the hell have you been doing over there in your walled city while the Roman Catholic Church has been falling apart? You've been issuing decrees on birth control, abortion, secularism and burying your head in the "if it ain't broke, don't fix it" mentality oblivious to the creaky rusty corrupt bucket of bolts that is shedding it's shit all over the road. You issue a memo, take a drive in your Pope-mobile, or make a trip to have throngs of poor Catholics in third world countries come in droves to weep and feint at the site of your holiness? Bah! You're an idiot, and you got the basic stuff wrong, very wrong. You've been denying half your flock the possibility of renewing the face of the Earth, simply because they don't have a penis. What kind of shit is that? I would have said, grow a pair, but at this point, it ain't gonna happen.
The Pope should've spent eighty percent of his time with the problem children of the worldwide Church, eighty percent of his time on the tough issues, eighty percent of the time going after the lost sheep. He can then spend twenty percent of the time tending to his flock of believers. Wasn't that Jesus's message? - The sheepherder, upon losing one of his flock leaves the rest to go and search for it. The prodigal son? Wasn't this the lesson? I understand the Pope is beloved by those that are with him, but what of the lost sheep, the disillusioned Catholics, those for whom this bloated bureaucracy has ceased to be relevant? It's easy to preach to those who love you. This Pope's challenge was to preach to those that had gone astray, the fallen away Catholics, the disillusioned, the angry, the hurt, and the lost.
Mr. Pope, I will grant that you've done more than your cowardly predecessors. You've perhaps done a satisfactory job these 27 years, but I don't expect a satisfactory job from "Jesus's representative on Earth." I expect an extraordinary job. Mr. Pope, this is one Catholic that won't miss you a bit. I wish we could have fired you a long time ago, but Pope for life is the way it goes. Ain't tenure a bitch? You can't fire the incompetent, and they hang on long after they've ceased to be even moderately productive. History seems to be whitewashing your papacy for political reasons (especially those shills at Fox News), but I know what you did not do. Shame on you for your inaction and blindness.
I'm a bit scared for who's coming next though. Might we go from
bad to worse?
Be afraid, be very afraid.