So yesterday morning I was just hanging out on the planet, not bothering anybody, when I got a phone call from a lady in Virginia. She said she represented Lyndon LaRouche, former democratic candidate for president, that from Virginia she could smell roasting lame duck, and that we need to seize the assets of General Motors as it circles the drain.

Of course, I made all the appropriate noises connoting comprehension, but the truth is that I’ve had other things on my mind that the seaworthiness of GM. I knew that American automakers are in the doldrums, but I had no idea how bad. Frankly, reading the financial news lately is even more depressing than the runaway bride and the farking Jackson trial.

So after talking to this lady — who has worked for LaRouche since 1971 — I went to the computer and checked it out. Ay carumba. How the heck did they let GM get in debt to the tune of 10 times it’s market cap? Boneheads.

It gets even more entertaining last night, when along comes Kirk Kerkorian with a bid to increase his GM holdings to 9%, then today’s S&P downgrades of GM and Ford’s credit ratings to junk.

It’s all a little weird to be coincidence, don’t you think? This lady just happens to call me about LaRouche’s opinion about GM, hours before the news breaks about Kerkorian, and a day before the downgrades. Is somebody trying to tell me I should’ve bought an American truck? If so, I’ll ask the cosmos to kindly leave me out of this.

Dad was slipping into diabetic shock. Cool story, with a happy ending.

That’s a strange word, isn’t it? Overcast. It’s cast over with clouds this morning. The cover is holding down all the sounds. Lawnmowers. Freeway.

I had lunch yesterday with an old friend from childhood. It was good. We grew up together in this small town, and the last time I remember having such a substantial coversation with him was about 1971 or 72. But I was just thinking that, no matter how different are the paths our lives take, we will keep our common ground. Our lives since high school have been pretty different. He’s been a cop, gotten married, moved to Oklahoma and works in IT now, while I’ve stayed close to home and lived a life of quiet desperation. But I can still see those two little kids; darned if we’re not still them.

So then last night, pretty late, I went out on the balcony to look at the view from here. I was approached by an alien from innerspace, who demanded I explain the epitath on the grave of John Keats. “Here lies One Whose Name was writ in Water.” I was at a loss, and he went away disappointed. You want to give it a shot?

Yes, the child is dead. Let us pray for the soldier, who is risking his life to make us not safe, but safer.

I like to dream of my grandparents’ house. It stood at the top of a long grassy slope which drifted down to the lake. In summer, we would fly down the hill on whatever we could find to serve as a sled. Grandpa helped us make kites. We would lie on our backs on the grass, and let them flutter out over the water. In winter, there was no snow. But the breeze came just as cold off the lake. We had the guest room at the top, under the peak of the roof. We left the windows open and snuggled under our blankets and comforters, pretending we were Eskimos. We’d wake to find the window closed and the room warming from below.

Now I dream of that house, that room, and I find hope against my bedtime fears: the job, the bills, and death. I like to wake up in the morning, and before I open my eyes, picture that good old house around me. I take my waking slow, and I can almost hear the wood creaking, the water in the pipes and the happy breathing of children.

That’s where I was this morning, and I was happy. Grandpa was on his couch watching the Dodgers. Grandma was washing the dishes after lunch, glowing in the light from the window over the sink. I stood watching them, remembering how he watched the game with the sound turned off; he didn’t need the announcers’ idle chat. I tried to keep the scene in my mind as I showered, but it was gone by the time I brushed my hair and teeth.

I was tying my necktie when I looked out into my small back yard and saw the bird on the ground, flapping and struggling, dragging one wing. I felt bad. It was just a little sparrow, one of countless nondescript brown birds that flitted in and out of the hedges of countless homes like mine. I wished it didn’t have to suffer, but I had a meeting. Besides, I thought the lingering death of a bird was God’s business. His alone.

When I got home, the bird was gone. I searched yard from fence to fence, but there was nothing. I thought maybe a cat heard the flapping and came, but there was not even a feather. It wasn’t something so much sad as strange, and I thought about it as I ate dinner and watched TV. When I kicked off my socks at bedtime, I had the question firmly in his mind: where are all the dead birds?

*note: to the extent you may believe there’s any such thing, this is fiction.

John, Tom, and James

JOHN was a bad boy, and beat a poor cat;
Tom put a stone in a blind man’s hat;
James was the boy who neglected his prayers;
They’ve all grown up ugly, and nobody cares.

— Charles Henry Ross

It was a beautiful celebration of Pascha in our little church. The place was packed, and it brought back many good memories to hear the bells ring at midnight as we made our procession through the dark, and into the light joyful to all Christians.

The Paschal sermon of St John Chrysostom

If any man be devout and loveth God,
Let him enjoy this fair and radiant triumphal feast!
If any man be a wise servant,
Let him rejoicing enter into the joy of his Lord.
If any have laboured long in fasting,
Let him how receive his recompense.
If any have wrought from the first hour,
Let him today receive his just reward.
If any have come at the third hour,
Let him with thankfulness keep the feast.
If any have arrived at the sixth hour,
Let him have no misgivings;
Because he shall in nowise be deprived therefore.
If any have delayed until the ninth hour,
Let him draw near, fearing nothing.
And if any have tarried even until the eleventh hour,
Let him, also, be not alarmed at his tardiness.

For the Lord, who is jealous of his honour,
Will accept the last even as the first.
He giveth rest unto him who cometh at the eleventh hour,
Even as unto him who hath wrought from the first hour.
And He showeth mercy upon the last,
And careth for the first;
And to the one He giveth,
And upon the other He bestoweth gifts.
And He both accepteth the deeds,
And welcometh the intention,
And honoureth the acts and praises the offering.

Wherefore, enter ye all into the joy of your Lord;
Receive your reward,
Both the first, and likewise the second.
You rich and poor together, hold high festival!
You sober and you heedless, honour the day!
Rejoice today, both you who have fasted
And you who have disregarded the fast.
The table is full-laden; feast ye all sumptuously.
The calf is fatted; let no one go hungry away.
Enjoy ye all the feast of faith:
Receive ye all the riches of loving-kindness.

Let no one bewail his poverty,
For the universal Kingdom has been revealed.
Let no one weep for his iniquities,
For pardon has shown forth from the grave.
Let no one fear death,
For the Saviour’s death has set us free.
He that was held prisoner of it has annihilated it.
By descending into Hell, He made Hell captive.
He embittered it when it tasted of His flesh.
And Isaiah, foretelling this, did cry:
Hell, said he, was embittered
When it encountered Thee in the lower regions.

It was embittered, for it was abolished.
It was embittered, for it was mocked.
It was embittered, for it was slain.
It was embittered, for it was overthrown.
It was embittered, for it was fettered in chains.
It took a body, and met God face to face.
It took earth, and encountered Heaven.
It took that which was seen, and fell upon the unseen.

O Death, where is thy sting?
O Hell, where is thy victory?

Christ is risen, and thou art overthrown!
Christ is risen, and the demons are fallen!
Christ is risen, and the angels rejoice!
Christ is risen, and life reigns!
Christ is risen, and not one dead remains in the grave.
For Christ, being risen from the dead,
Is become the first-fruits of those who have fallen asleep.

To Him be glory and dominion
Unto ages of ages.
Amen.

Here’s a brilliant short essay by Noman Corwin, passed along with thanks to CW. He tells us that, if we care to begin, we can spread compassion. I clicked the Listen button and enjoyed listening to this very wise 94-year-old gentleman scholar read his work. Thank God we still have such people to learn from.

NPR : Good Can Be as Communicable as Evil

The Whim of a Hat: “On general strategery, the President said, ‘The best way to find these terrorists who hide in holes is to get people coming forward to describe the location of the holes, is to give clues and data.’ And he uttered these profound words of wisdom: ‘Free societies are hopeful societies. And free societies will be allies against these hateful few who have no conscience, who kill at the whim of a hat.’ “

A fun Molly Ivins column.

“Writing is a failure. Writing is not only useless, it’s spoiled paper. It’s perfectly good white paper that you mess up with and you spoil it and you fail. I learned to write predicating everything on failure.”

— Padgett Powell

So I was hanging out with my Dad on Saturday, waiting for this world to show me what gray and grievous mysteries might abide in such a day of rain withheld, when the day itself decided to show me its true colors.

click to enlarge

Ok, so the phone didn’t ring but I was still alive another afternoon to not answer it. And its true that I have loved people and pets and lost them, which I definitely think about too much. And apparently I need to be reminded that they did their time, long or short, and had the right to move on. So I need to shut up and count my blessings.

It’s like she said, “This is what we have: The faith of little things, God’s mercy hour by hour, and the hope that nothing goes too bad another day.”

God is with us.

“The Lifetime Achievement Foundation will present its highest award to Ray Bradbury, great American novelist, short story writer, essayist, playwright, screenwriter and poet.Bradbury will receive the Lifetime Achievement Award: at the Great American Pitchfest for his outstanding body of work that spans over six decades.”