Most of my life has been devoted to the idea that I am different. I have to think of something off the wall to say. After a lifetime of this activity, I got to be good at it. I had mastered the odd ball persona.

I had taken the parental admonition against conforming to the group values and behavior to its logical end. “Ain’t nobody gonna be conforming to what I do.”

Finally I realized I was lost in my characters. Who am I? I took all the positives about myself the sober, funny, reverent/irreverent, intelligent spiritual athlete and finally embraced the. I added in my erotic imagination (aka dirty mind).

I am now approaching life as someone comfortable with who I am. I no longer have to burst out singing Frosty The Snowman in July to break the conversational logjam. Although I am certain I will always have to fight that urge.

In the Don Bass region of Eastern Ukraine is the monastery of Sviatagorsk Lavra. I can’t recall whether they are loyal to the Patriarchate of Moscow or not. Eastern Ukraine has a significant population of ethnic Russians.

This part of the world is an ongoing tragedy, where the politics and/or the religion serves to put merely a veneer on the killing. The Ukrainians and the Russians find reasons to kill each other.

It is more like a coat of paint really. In the name of The Revolution, Stalin starved a million Ukrainians to death. One Million. Genocide is difficult to forget. After that came the Great Patriotic War (WW Two). Some Ukrainians sided with the Nazis until the Nazis began killing these Slavic Untermenschen Ukrainians with the same gusto with which they killed Russians, Communists of all nationalities, and Jews.

Then Communism wore off. A new identity is applied. The mistrust, refined over centuries, survived. In this maelstrom of power struggles, it is easier for a politician to steal some government’s money (Ukrainian or American) and offer loyalty to the highest bidder. It is a pastime for cynics.

But here at the monastery, the people come and worship and celebrate the birth of the Christ Child. They do this celebrating thirteen days later than we do (The pesky old Julian Calendar). They offer gifts of cakes to Metropolitan Arseneyem ( Арсением). And they sing. The liturgical music is sung a capella. There is no instrumental music, like organs, in their liturgies. The children sing, led by a bearded monk dressed all in black, from head to toe.

It is ironic to see the same clear polystyrene cake protector domes here in Ukraine that you would see in Richmond or Denver or The Bronx.

What do the machinations of the politicians in Kiev, Moscow, or Washington have to do with the beliefs, values and aspirations of these simple people?

More to the point, what do the politicians’ machinations have to do with your beliefs, values and aspirations?

Maybe I am tired. Maybe I’m old. Maybe I’m the worst kind of lonely, married and lonely. As I write this J is upstairs sleeping. She spent yesterday and today worrying about the water main break. As if her worrying would miraculously energize the work crew and replace the broken pipes. I believe she loves me, without question. Still catastrophizing sucks the energy out of a person quicker than an anemic vampire sucks blood from the jugular.

I am now watching a YouTube video on Russian Black Sea resorts, beautiful places, the beaches perhaps too rocky for American tastes, but lovely nonetheless. The people at these beaches having fun look like the crowd at the Outer Banks, except they are entirely European.

This is a world I want to share with J. I ask her to watch shows like this with me. She declines. Hallmark Christmas movies, The Bachelor, and Law And Order SVU, are more to her liking. These simple lovely videos offer so much, an escape to an innocence thought lost in this world of supercomputera, hydrogen bombs or love stories and true crime dramas.

I’ve written about this before, bored you all with it before. Perhaps I need to fix her lunch for tomorrow, go back to bed and get back to fiction.

Later.

The New Year has not lent itself to getting back on track and resuming the smooth operation I fancy my life to be.

Sloth, depression, arthritis, and then the Great Water Saga. On the plus side, I am writing. I am completely burned out on the major American spectator sports (baseball, football). I rediscovered opera.

I have not been swimming yet this year. I have been medicating feelings with food.

So the plain truth is that our expectations always exceed our capabilities at any given point. What is important is to NOT QUIT.

End of Post.

Back By Popular Demand!

Water, Wasser, H2O.

It took nearly 30 hours for this bit of magic to happen.

But it is working.

Henrico County. Where the Third World comes to you.

Moral: Don’t take anything for granted.

When the main breaks, what can one do? How much water should be stored? I remember, from my childhood, fallout shelters.

Families would have a fallout shelter in a basement or outside of the house, where the, uh, nuclear family would sit and chill in true fifties and sixties style, until the radiation levels dropped sufficiently enough to offer some modicum of safety.

We never really learned how well they would work. But having a lot of stored water on hand seems like a good idea, be it for post-apocalyptic hygiene, cooking and drinking, or merely enduring water main breaks that happen with at least annual frequency around my particular county.

Henrico County was an original shire, formed in 1611. It is one of the first political subdivisions of the Virginia colony. So our water system could be 409 years old. I wouldn’t rule it out.

I’ve been watching movies, most of the night, fof the stories, tbe acting, tbe cinematography.

Fados, a film about fado. And Portugal.

Now Dona Flor And Her Two Husbands. Yes Brasil. It is a great story. It features food, beautiful food. It addition to some nudity, it is an epic food porn movie. Food porn to rival Babette’s Feast, the all time best food porn movie of all.

Tonight I am watching the other actors besides Sonia Braga, who is a great actress, but her beauty is almost a distraction. The actor, José Wilker,   who plays Vadinho, the first husband, plays the a**hole that perfectly. I believe he is a real person. This is one of those movies where I think the camera is recording real life.

Since my sleep schedule is all askew, I thought giving up all plans for going to bed early might help. Right now it is 11:15 PM. Eastern Time, North America.  I might watch another movie.

No I am not crazy.

I will not get a tattoo.

No, I won’t go to New York by myself,

I love you.

Even though I want to feel the prick of the needle as the bluebird, the azulao, takes form on my pectoral.

And the heart on my bicep proclaims my love of Mom, even as I admit the times she didn’t deserve it.

And I don’t mean that I would run away, grown-ass man that I am, and let the diesel breath of Manhattan fill my nostrils alone.

Sometimes the Rebel simply plots.