Standing in the shadows

at the end of my bed.

Rite Time

An ice cream truck near the end of September
conceivably draws out summer, yet will only
pack it away. The town swimming pool is drained
and sunflowers disparately hover - huge and bent.

Attenuation and extension mildly meet
in a public convalescence of old heat.
The canned ragtime puttering down streets
has megaphone rust in it, tintinnabulating

on repeat. Between the mealtime trees
in the crucible light, a flying messenger
severely hushes the asphalt whenever
some kid is learning the trumpet.

Morning glory in the chain link
is a wind-struck party field, in all directions
a scattered array of white pavilions.
A shirtless man with a gut on a corner

is trying to start a go-cart. Shoulders of the roads
have a new surety of bone, violet marrow.
Leaves lying in a bird bath are no
impediment - nor the the seed-spent

fence-impinging grass - to this cleaning
rite of the new. A spider waits in every gap
and pavement cools with a sky's semblance.
A skein of honks descends on us like hats.

About Jim Carrey

I watched this short film on Jim Carrey's art, his painting and sculpting.






I heard about his cartoons, but didn't follow any of that; never bothered to view the cartoons that had conservatives calling him deranged. Earlier I had heard about some graffiti antics he got up to, and about the tragedy in his life, and the lines between acting and his self being blurred.

Seeing his art puts to rest any notion that he may be a bored rich guy doing vanity projects. Not only does he have great talent, but there is a depth to his thoughts on art. I did not know he has been drawing and painting since his childhood. He is also clearly working something out. Something has touched him.

I was struck of course by his painting of the face of Jesus, as well as his comments regarding his painting it:

"I don't know if Jesus is real. I don't know if he lived. I don't know what he means. But the paintings of Jesus are really my desire to convey Christ-consciousness. I wanted you to have the feeling when you looked in his eyes that he was accepting of who you are. I wanted him to be able to stare at you and heal you from the painting. You can find every race in the face of Jesus. And I think that's how every race imagines Jesus; they imagine him as their own."

Both his painting and the drawing of the face of Jesus are exquisite.

Searching out his work, I inevitably came across a plethora of his political cartoons, which I couldn't care less about. I went to his twitter page, and one of his from late August is indeed sick.

Further down, on last Good Friday, he posted a drawing of Christ crucified - in earnest and without irony - with this comment:

"The story of Jesus is a perfect example of the journey toward salvation through honesty and courage in the face of suffering, the surrender of the ego (thy will not my will), and forgiveness. How will you bear your cross?"

I don't know, but I think we just really need to stop being ideologized. Politicizing the Church, which is the result of angelizing and absolutizing the Culture War. It prevents us from making impact, from bringing Christ into people's lives. We sideline them according to our absolutized categories.

Rich and poor, people are searching. Everyone is fighting a fierce battle. This is why kindness and gentleness can make the difference between making or breaking. Especially with so much darkness and wounds, a small act of kindness can be huge. I desire mercy and not sacrifice.

I'm reminded of what Martin Sheen said about his son Charlie, back when he was making all those rants. He said his son was seeking transcendence.

Deep down it's true. People are given things to give - gifts that are part and parcel with their dignity. Even if strident vanity, or seeking attention, or whatever may apply, deep down there's a reason, even if it's not an excuse.

Why does the stony conservative right sneer at the word compassion? At the Pope's talk about proximity and journeying with people?

Compassion: it is com-passion, co-suffering. To suffer with.

If that is not the veritable sign of a follower of Christ, then I don't know what is.

People should be ashamed for sinning against the Church, for committing grave evil against the Holy Father.

Question

Am I a horrible person for loving so much to watch trained minks get all the rats?






What dexterous, diligent, obedient, powerful little creatures; taking care of business and working overtime. Heart minks so much.






And what a nifty little team they make with the dogs.





Here's all dogs bred for catching and killing rats. Twenty nine minutes of non-stop epic rat massacre. What good little dogs.

Music I used to listen to

Discovering T-Rex in my teen years had something about it of finding dinosaur bones in your backyard. Alternative/grunge was mainstream, so you had to dig further in a way. Not that I was trying. I didn't like Stone Temple Pilots, Smashing Pumpkins, SoundGarden, Green Day, etc. Or anyways, I may have listened to them from time to time, but I never bought their albums. I bought Radiohead. I bought John Lee Hooker. And I bought T-Rex.

Then there was discovering that T-Rex used to be the flower child, Tyrannosaurus Rex, in what would seem to be a vindication of the cliche about every rock band's ultra-naive folk period as depicted in This is Spinal Tap. But I listened to T-Rex from the start because of their simple hooks - their lean freshness sustained by the odd. Bolan was always about the hooks. And he carried a melody very, very well.

Listening to Tyrannosaurus Rex, that sense of returning to the melodic and uncluttered was even greater. And I think it was so because Marc Bolan's duo with Steve Peregrin Took (!) had a depth that was lacking as Bolan's drive towards glam rock, and hence his split with Took, showed up his hook-based songs too often in a glaring, vapid light. I think Took was that necessary provider of the weird and the odd, the suspensions and inversions and all the musical terms I don't know about because I'm not Rick Beato; the counterpoint that was more than counterpoint because it was a deepness, it matched the hooks and grooves so well. I remember some of their pure, simple tunes haunting me for several days in the high school hallways one rainy autumn.

Like this one:






I mean, that's a Hobbit song. Not an Elvish song. But a Hobbit song that was picked up way back when, before any Hobbit can recall its origins, as a Took or Baggins was wandering along some forest edge or field and overheard Elves singing, and so adopted it. Or the part of it he could remember. You can picture four or so Hobbits humming and singing it among themselves as they make their long trek on foot.

And I know. The hippy faux Lord of the Rings fantasy poetic lyrics (and sometime album art), dedicating one of their albums to Kahlil Gibran, etc. And to repeat: the full name of his back-up vocalist percussionist and general other instruments player was Steve Peregrin Took. I love that. He was a genius. So was Marc Bolan. I hope they are both making music in heaven.

And you know what? There are worse things. Far worse things.

The Wait

Fireworks, father, father, fireworks.
Vancouver is hippodrome to them in the west.
Sonorous over the high-rise front, they
clap the summer slate and bring a silence
out, that's ever pending in the vast cement.

They bereave the room, champagne pouncing,
dazzling crowds that have flocked to the bay
to be dazzled. Each crane splay, willow-spring
star blow you could not care less about.
Inlet's view has emptied the streets.

Shortly on the show's expiring
people will overwhelm them and flow
back through. Traffic will be gummed, so to stay
until wending ways are cleared would be wise,
or I could try and leave before they come - father,

they're just around the window frame, father,
fireworks, fireworks. Loneliest things
to take up air, like the fiercer art
between us here, taking space,
hollowing. Ancient clay

having no words comes up from
years of a youth, unknown until now.
Pressed to the flesh of it, I bow,
and you are pressed past the living hours,
as each minute poorer, you gain the door,

as up past the ceiling tiles are no more floors.

Brick by brick

I didn't know about this huge icon triptych that was commissioned for the World Meeting of Families in Ireland. With the title Amoris Laetitia under the central image of the Holy Family, it is outstanding; luminous and quietly monumental.

The icon(s), painted by Mihai Cucu, was venerated at the pontifical Mass. Also the altar cross used for the Mass is a beautiful penal cross dating from 1763. It is probably a second-class relic. Who knows.

"The wind blows wherever it pleases. You hear its sound, but you cannot tell where it comes from or where it is going. So it is with everyone born of the Spirit."

Who would have known about these wonderful liturgical contributions under the consensus of the faithful, when people are jumping the gun to declaim their condemnation of some mildly newfangled vestments, which in situ - on the wearers in an outdoor environment - don't actually look half as bad as the critics claim?

Oh well.

"Jesus, in fact, wants to shake the Scribes and the Pharisees from the error in which they have fallen, and, what is this error? It is that of distorting the Will of God, neglecting His Commandments to observe human traditions. Jesus’ reaction is severe because much is at stake: it’s about the truth of the relationship between man and God, the authenticity of religious life. A hypocrite is a liar; he isn’t genuine.

"Also today, the Lord invites us to flee from this danger of giving more importance to form than to substance. He calls us to recognize ever anew what is the true center of the experience of faith, namely, love of God and love of neighbor, purifying it from the hypocrisy of legalism and ritualism." --Pope Francis, September 2 Angelus Address