Trolling For Misery

16 Monday Dec 2019

Posted by in Existential Despair, History

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It is a fundamental element of the “news” formula. Report the wars and riots, the political scandals and machinations, the celebrity sexual permutations (who did what to whom), the cute animal and/or baby story, and the disasters, natural or man made. The goal is to attract followers of the stories.

Who decides what is news? I love that bit of dialogue from A Christmas Story, where The Old Man (Darren McGavin) remarks on the “clodhopper in Griffith, Indiana who swallowed a yo-yo.” He declares, “That’s real news, not this politics slop!” I have agreed so many times,

We should think of news anchors as storytellers, like some bard in an ancient Mycaenean court, telling a story to satisfy the king. For me, the greatest of the modern news bards (storytellers) were Edward R Murrow and Walter Cronkite.

Murrow, reporting from London during The Blitz, was telling a story of epic, existential proportions. The British had to win. They were, in the Autumn of 1940, all that stood between survival and oblivion for Judaeo-Christian Civilization. That is not hyperbole.

Cronkite reported on the great human adventure of the Twentieth Century, the space program and the lunar landings. It was his signature story. The World has been searching for stories of epic dimensions ever since.

By necessity, we have to make stories melodramas, to attract and retain viewers or followers . Except the old formulas are no longer working. The ratings of the cable news channels are tanking. We don’t believe, or outright ignore, the contemporary bards. Each story demands a new sort of hook. If climate change fails to attract interest, find a new angle, a new champion. We’ve gone from Al Gore to Leonardo DiCaprio to Greta Thunberg, all in the course of a few short years. And if she fails, Pope Francis can stick his Argentinian schnozola into the story, as if anybody takes him seriously. The sex abuse and financisl malfeasance scandals in The Church have made him a symbolic castrato. Deal with those outrages, Holy Father, then circle back to deal with climate change.

So that’s enough. I am tired and satisfied with myself for presenting this post off the top of my head, as it were.

Night all. I love you.

Sleepy Silver Sunday.

15 Sunday Dec 2019

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After a typical early morning wakeup, I went back to sleep and slept til nearly noon. Guilt free, because we went to The Vigil Mass last night. And a lovely Mass it was too, with a thoughtful homily from Father John David.

I awoke, made coffee, read a highly erotic blog post from Olivia at Olivia Submits, then painful memoir from Jadescastle at The Chrysanthemum And The Sword.

Now I watch newsreels on YouTube. I am waiting for J to return. We are celebrating the 25th Anniversary of our first date. That night, we were to buy a Christmas tree at a big box hardware chain, now defunct, Hechinger’s.

But first we had dinner at The Robin Inn. If you read Patricia Cornwell mysteries, set in Richmond, she mentions the place. The cops do eat there. That night, she had manicotti, I think I had spaghetti. We enjoyed each other’s company. i would call her the next day at her office. There was a second date. And sex. And plans for a life togetber. We were married after seven years of courtship.

And now, on this beautiful Sunday, I am eager for her return.

Clearance, Clarence?

14 Saturday Dec 2019

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The joke from Airplane! comes to mind as I just cleared the books, magazines, trash, catalogs and obsolete electronic devices from a chair in my den.

BUT WAIT!!!! There’s More!!!!.

As in a whole house. The idea of doing trash triage is daunting. That somewhere, amidst this crap, is a Very Important Paper  (VIP). I could simply get a bag and start tossing stuff in. Maybe I will.

There are closets of things to give away. Clothes. We have my late father-in-law’s 37″ inch HD television still sitting in the carton in which we repacked it when we emptied his house.

In many ways, this is a classic rant. I have posted on this before. Right now, as I sit, I know there is more to do. The enormity frightens me. The fear is that I will dispose of something meaningful, that I will miss only after I have shredded it or sent it to the recyclers, or the landfill.

I know. This is a High Class Problem.

Sport, So Pure

14 Saturday Dec 2019

Posted by in Cricket

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If one watches sports, one notices athletes. Some have beautiful toned sculpted bodies, both men and women. To see them move represents complete grace and beauty. Watching cricket is to observe these beautiful, extraordinary people.

Stand out in the heat 100+° F. Then at a moment’s notice, make that a millisecond, off a fielder runs at a break neck sprint to stop a ball before it reaches the boundary rope and a four run boundary. The bowler makes a delivery after another such sprint.

The batsman will position himself (herself) at the crease and with their wrists, arms, and upper body, bat that pitch where the fielders aren’t.

The game looks so simple. But we know better. So deuce difficult, made to look simple, by these athletic prodigies.

Reconciliation

14 Saturday Dec 2019

Posted by in Catholic Life, Uncategorized

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It had been three months. Every week there are two chances, Thursday and Saturday. All I have to do is wait on line for a while, then when it’s my turn to go in and sit down. Or kneel at the Vatican II mandated partition. And on 12 December, the Feast of Our Lady of Guadalupe, I didn’t put it off any longer.

I sit, facing Father. I told him if he is acting in persona Christi, that he is acting for Jesus. And if I had something to tell Jesus, I would not kneel behind a partition, but look right at Jesus as I shared the things I wanted no one to know.

So I confess. What I confess is less important than that I do. “You’re as sick as your secrets.” , is the 12 Step Recovery aphorism. What keeps me away is my commitment to looking good, no matter how uneasy with myself I can be. That’s called Pride, worse than Lust or Avarice or Acedia (that is the particular type of sloth called spiritual laziness).

I open my heart. Tell Father (Father, young enough to be my son). My sins are a reprise of that last confession’s sins. He gives me as a penance to ask the Blessed Mother to be my spiritual mother when I pray the last Glorious Mystery, Mary’s Coronation. And I do.

Sceptics will scratch their heads in wonderment. Cynics will be relentless in their scorn for my naïveté. But I don’t care.

I’m there in that room, with that priest, with Jesus, metaphysically present, because my experience with evil on this side of eternity compels me to trust God in all His Triune Majesty. And Love.

People talk about Cafeteria Catholics, those who pick and choose rites, doctrines, dogmas that make them comfortable; Christmas Midnight Mass, Ashes on Ash Wednesday, (If you are a celebrity or a politician, get your picture taken with that black smudge on your forehead.) Palms on Palm Sunday, and Easter, when happy Church returns.

But there are what I call Cookbook Catholics, who follow a recipe for Salvation, that they trust will keep them from damnation, formulaic believers, whom I cannot fault. Then there are those who have peered into the abyss where Evil awaits at the bottom. I have seen the addicts, the tortured, the brutalized, the raped. I ask God to fill my heart with His redeeming Love, so I can spread that Love in my little way.

The Sun Is Shining Somewhere

12 Thursday Dec 2019

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I awoke after about four hours sleep around 4:00 AM. I thought I would fall back asleep, but no.

I thought I would see if #98 would be passing through Ashland any time soon, but no. The Silver Meteor (NB#98) is running late. Going downstairs, I grind some coffee beans, brew a pot.

Turning on Willow, I see where New Zealand and Australia are playing a test match in Perth. It is day time in Perth, late afternoon, and hot 40°C (104°F), while it is still dark in Richmond and -5°C (23°F). Dusk was approaching in Perth as dawn was breaking here. The little glimpse of Summer with a tenacious New Zealand squad facing the prolific Aussie batsmen of Warner, Smith and Labuschagne did wonders for my spirits. Play was called after 90 overs with Australia 248/4. Labushagne over 100 and not out.

Now, I am sleepy again. Back to bed.

And Now, This…

11 Wednesday Dec 2019

Posted by in Exercise/ Fitness, memoir, recovery, Uncategorized

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I was up at 2:30 AM, stayed awake til 5:30. I wanted to see J off to work around 4:20. Then I went back to bed. I slept til around 9:30. I went to AA, and shared a traumatic moment from my childhood, that I rarely talk about. I must have been 8. It was summer, August. Mother was in a particularly angry(?) or emotionally distraught mood. I was not good at psychological assessment at that age. She was upset, and was about ready to drink a bottle of Dickinson’s Witch Hazel until I knocked it out of her hand. It was a glass bottle and it shattered. Nothing was ever said about this ever again. I thought she was going to kill herself. I knew that was a bad idea.

Now I know that this was an event of childhood trauma for me. And since, sixty-one years later, it still haunts me, this might be PTSD.

Having shared that, I went about my day. I did some shopping, found a nice beef eye round. I felt like taking a nap, but changed my mind and went swimming at the Y, first time this month. I did 1750 meters. And shaved afterwards. I used all the grooming products that make me feel masculine. As we say, if you want to gain self-esteem do estimable things. I slew one dragon from my past, bought a nice roast, and went swimming.

Now we are waiting to go get $1 tacos. I am working my way up out of the pit I fell in.

Train Horns

10 Tuesday Dec 2019

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I sit, dealing with my arthritic hip, drinking my coffee and writing this post.

A train horn sounds, then a fast moving freight passes before the Virtual Railfan LLC camera in Ashland. There are lots of empty freight cars, which might explain its speed. Lots of freight cars.

It passes. Auto traffic resumes. I sit here, contemplating my tiredness. i have yet to hear back from either mental health practice I emailed last night about working with me around my issues. I am about to tell tbem to sod off.

To say why we love people who abuse us is a mystery. A mother, an ex-wife, the who of it doesn’t seem to matter in the jungle of the brain.

The tired is working its way back into my body.

J wore a very flattering pair of dress trousers today. It was easy to tell how the physical work at Target has toned her lower body. I must tell her that.

Later.

10 XII. 2019

10 Tuesday Dec 2019

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It was around 515 when I woke up. I lay in bed, thinking I should try and sleep a little longer, Then I said “What the Hell, I’ll just get up.” So I got up. In examining the World of AMTRAK, I discovered that there is a service disruption with #98 Northbound Siver Meteor. According to the app, she arrived in Petersburg @ 422 AM, departed Petersburg @ 422 AM.Her arrival in Richmond has been continually postponed for about 2 h ours now. I love a good mystery (sarcasm). She’s like Wagner’s Der Fliegende Holländer, condemned to wander the Earth.

I should go back to bed.