An Unexpected Blessing within an Expected One(s)

As you who read these pages know, I began to attend Mass more frequently after the chapter of a "regular job" closed, allowing me a freedom of schedule. As several servers came and went, at least one to become a seminarian, my nascent skills in that arena have been used more frequently as I share the role with a couple of others. Often I find myself the only server, and after a number of mistakes, I think I am becoming more efficient in carrying out this serious role and not losing a sense of reverence as I do so. Our current pastor has physical impairments that make turning the pages of the altar missal difficult, so I often remain kneeling behind the altar as he speaks the words of Transubstantiation to be close to the book at the critical times. On more than one occasion, as I considered the Moment of the Moment, when Christ Himself persists in Body, Blood, Soul and Divinity under the appearance of bread, I have found myself teary eyed back there. But it is hard for a mere human to sustain the enormity of the Event for more than a fraction of time itself. I am grateful for my moment of real faith even if I return to that vague one which characterizes my practice.

Today, something else was added. We have visiting priests because of the overall shortage, but also because of the need to spell our current Monsignor, who drives himself in a holy but wearing manner. They have all been, in the brief acquaintance I have made of them, sincere ministers of the Catholic faith. Rarely, there is someone who blows you out of religious complacency. And today, I met such a man, and served the Mass he celebrated feeling that I had observed in persona Christi in a way I rarely have.

I had been expecting our Monsignor, who was returning from another celebration of Mass for the benefit of some nuns in nearby Hollywood. I was sitting in a pew in the altar area, and I saw a tall, lean priest walking toward me, a strong, young man. He wore a large Cross, the type worn by Eastern Rite Catholics and he bore the skull cap of a bishop.




The idea that a bishop I had never seen before had been called to substitute was not congruent and so I did not want to assume what my eyes were telling me, that this indeed as some bishop here to celebrate the 12:10 Mass attended usually by no more than 20-40 people a day. He had a strong face and a pleasant humble manner. He was here in the U.S. from Peru for a two week period on some form of missionary work he did not specify. I stumbled over his name Kay something-hausen, which seemed German, not Peruvian. I did not wish him to be uncomfortable so I stopped prying. As it turns out his mother is Peruvian and  his father German.

He told us his English was not good. It was, to me, pristine, every word spoken with clarity and intent, whether it was his homily or the words of the Eucharistic Prayer. Every move on the altar spoke an understanding of the awe we should hold for God, the God who sent His Son to repair our broken race and its relationship with Him. There was none of the rushing through that I have seen since I was a child. I understood nearly for the first time the importance of every part of the Mass and the words we usually repeat without thought.

His life, this young (he is still in his forties) priest, and bishop, is nothing like that of us in the United States. I looked up his prelature. It is a place of hard work on the earth, in the earth.






      

And this day, he was in a little Church in West Hollywood, humbly celebrating the Mass that is the same always and everywhere.

There truly are no accidents with God, Our Father.

The Bishop and the sometime server, Catholics together no matter how far apart the lands of our birth! Thank you, Lord. And thanks for Most Reverend Kay Martin Schmalhassen Panizo.

They're Going to Have to Carry Me Out!

Those of you who know me live and up close and through this blog, know that I do not much like change. This is a foolish rebellion in that change is in the very nature of life and often is a door toward growth. Oh, yes, change has been thrust upon me in some things, the death of my mother and other relatives and friends, at far too young ages, the loss of my job in the last 18 or plus months, and the like. But volitional change, I have avoided assiduously, no doubt my effort at controlling the uncontrollable universe.

Forced into change, I cope. That's a good thing as I have seen many of those with whom I am acquainted not able to do so readily. The last major change I initiated, though, was probably my move to California, which was 31 years ago. And for all that time, very nearly, I lived in the same apartment. It was only the third place I ever lived, the other two being in New York, as I grew awkwardly to adulthood.

Pretty much the consensus was, and I include myself in the consensus, that I would be in that apartment near the Grove and Fairfax Avene until I kicked the proverbial bucket. There were many who felt, and said, to me, and to one another (I speculate) that it was a shame I did not buy a big house commensurate with my professional status as an attorney. I thought about it. I even looked at a place or two over the years, but I was comfortable where I was, in a broken down (for most of the years until my new landlord did work on the place and I did some of my own) apartment building, with its often seedy back yard (the neighbors and I improved it some over the years; for me it became a garden of paradise; anyone who comes back there probably thinks I am delusional). If I had a big house, I'd still cozy up in a room or two. I am at heart a New York bedsitter dweller.

Looking back, I am glad I did what I did as I did. My job was always precarious, for the whole 25 years I navigated the tides and eddies of changing administrations and inadequate understanding of what an ethics prosecutor actally did, but having survived for so long, a little like the fake imbecilic Claudius avoided the family political massacres of ancient Rome into old age, I was still a little stunned and surprised that it was not my idea to cease public service. (Claudius ultimately met his end from poison mushrooms provided by his loving wife). My not expanding my life turned out to give me the wherewithal to survive and begin to do those things I had always wanted to--those creative things that don't usually bring in an income unless one hits it big. It also made possible the expense to renovate the bathroom and kitchen of the condo in which my father lived and which I inherited, a condo I couldn't sell after the crash of 2008 (just when my father died).

Losing my job severed the last thread to the life I had been leading for 31 years. The page was partially turned for me, and it was now mine to turn the rest of the way.  Oh, not crazy big, admittedly, like those among my friends who have moved from state to state, have bought many a house and sold them again, who travel with ease and delight (I like being places, not the transport to them, which I find almost intolerable),  t for me, a self propelled and big enough change. I decided to move into the condo once the renovation was done rather than to try to sell again. While my property is now chock full of amenities, the building itself is 1957 crusty, with concomitant problems of roof and plumbing in the common areas, and a too low reserve; I 'd likely still have trouble selling. 

The anticipated 10 week or so renovation took five months, with various glitches popping up and driving me to distraction and near regret that I had even tried to effect any change of my own accord.

I had wonderful movers in Starving Students, taking a piano up two stories with sharp turns on the stairwells. My old apartment still has remnants of my old life, and it has been heavy and dusty work in bringing "stuff" over here and paring other stuff (putting much of it by the "magic tree" as I call it, where people come and make my old treasures their new ones). I am cleaning things up, the refrigerator, the bathroom, the carpet, which I'd do even if my cousin weren't moving in there to be closer to her ailing father and caretaking mother. Yes, the old place will be staying in the family thanks to a negotiation with my kind erstwhile landlords.

As for me, they really are going to have to carry me out of here. But I'll tell you, I find this an amiable place to focus on the writing that I have always claimed is my dream--so I have the opportunity to put my money where my mouth is.

I might even do some travelling, despite my wish they could beam me there rather than make me take a plane and wait at airports and go through security and worry about my containers. I see all this as Chapter III, Reinvention.

E.T. Skywalks and a Paramount Tribute in Which We Find that Lalo Schifrin is Happily Still Among Us

My friends and I closed out the Hollywood Bowl season 2012 this weekend, with two concerts.  On Friday, John Williams played his many scores amid many scores of fans interested only in the compositions of one movie series, Star Wars.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jHO_Hgavfrw&feature=player_detailpage

On Friday it was a 100th anniversary celebration of Paramount Studios featuring music from 1927 (Wings) to date, meaning Star Trek 2009 and Transformers. David Newman, of the musical composing and conducting family, Lionel et al. was the maestro at the podium for the Sunday night show, sloppy, but intent and talented.  Mr. Williams in his turn was reliably pleasing, although he tended to feature music from his lesser known works--his right as a bona fide pop culture icon. And he was
a master of milking applause from the audience, with flourishes of the hand to his heart and the most effective Hollywood Bowl Orchestra (really mostly the LA Philharmonic, summer class).
There was a special clip of the last reel of E.T., celebrating its 30th anniversary, the one where Elliot and his friends help a dying E.T.escape from minute scientific inspection to get to the woods to meet his spaceship and "go home" instead of phoning home. I hadn't seen the film for a long time and I found myself as teary eyed this time when E.T. says goodbye to his human teenager patron, as I was in some Westchester theatre in New York when I saw it all those years ago, I mean, yes, those very 30 years ago. I was sitting in one of the most mesmerizing locales in Los Angeles watching the composer of this very movie direct his music in time to the events on the screen.  Not for one second when I was whizzing around the Bronx and its environs did I EVER consider that I'd be watching the creator of this music. How could you not cry at this!


Which brings us to Sunday's concert. After all the traditional music of the traditional movies and a few cutting edge ones of their time (e.g. the Godfather), one of the films was introduced that I had not seen, an adaptation of a television series I had watched assiduously every Saturday (I think) night, Mission: Impossible. It was one of those rare shows that both child and parent loved. A group of highly skilled operatives go out on dangerous tasks in every fictitious Eastern European nation (this was the Cold War period), with the admonition that IF they fail, "The director will disavow any knowledge of (their) actions."  Luckily they never actually fail, although there were always lots of cliffhangers mid way into the hour show. I always loved that two of the actors, Martin Landau and Barbara Bain (aka Rollin Hand, master of disguise and Cinnamon Carter, temptress extraordinaire) were actually married at the time (after Space 1999, remember that one? they divorced; oh, on the only in Hollywood track, I saw Ms. Bain a year or two ago lurking glamorously--which was quite a feat since she is up there chronologically beyond even me- at the Arclight Theatre on the Strip). If I were in my bedroom the music da, da, dada, began with the sound of the strike and swoosh of a match on a dynamite wick, and I flew into the living room. Iconic. Yep.

And there, introducing the film score, written by a much younger composer, but integrating the original music, was Lalo Schifin himself!



 He and the young composer engaged in pleasantries and mutual compliments, and I thought, "How far away, almost in a magical way, am I from that 11 year old who ran into the living room, never dreaming that I'd be living in Los Angeles more years than I ever lived in New York and seeing the creative movie and television world as part of my every day life." And I had thought Mr. Schfrin had long gone to his great reward. I was happy he had not, in fact. That was Bruce Geller, the producer, alas.

So, another season ends, and I just consider that in a way I am a traveller in a fascinating alien world, called Hollywood. And I am so glad.