The Holy Spirit (formerly known as "Ghost") Knows What He's Doing

About a month or two ago, I was rummaging around my apartment in search for my original "St. Joseph's Missal" from when I was a kid. It was a pre-Vatican II publication, and I was hoping to follow along using it at my church, which was going to celebrate a Latin, aka Tridentine Mass. I couldn't find it, and I forgot about going the night of the Mass. I hoped that another would occur one day soon. In the meantime, I was at Mr. Anonymous' of the Deluxe Barbara Judith Apartments apartment, and out of what seemed left field, he handed me my 1961 missal. Some time in the dim dark past I had loaned it to him, chock full of the old Latin rite and the little funeral cards of loved ones, for a story he was writing. Another thing I had forgotten. I perused it before going to bed, and read over the order of the Mass as it was done up till I was about 11 years old. And hankered for the good ole days.

About a week ago, another opportunity to attend such a Mass was announced. And tonight, I was there. It was an uncharacteristically packed house, the likes of which I don't see except at Christmas or Easter Sunday. The crowd was overwhelmingly younger and largely members of the entertainment community--a media group being among the sponsors for the "event". Perhaps that was the most enheartening thing about the evening, that althought it may often appear that religion has been cast onto the garbage heap in favor of an overwhelming humanism and positivism, even an anti-sectarian boom, quietly He is working his Divine power on the hearts and minds of the next generation.

Except for maybe ten people, I did not recognize most of the attendees.

There was a kind of program, with the Latin prayers followed by translation in English. I really wanted to follow along with my old missal, hoping that instead of my vague memory of Sundays at Christ the King services, I'd access the past in full mental color. This was the high/solemn Mass celebrated tonight, the Feast of the Sacred Heart, and even as a child I attended few if any of those.

There was chant. The priests, there were several, sang the prayers. I had forgotten, if I ever remembered, how little the people participated, in addition to having the backs of the priests to them, rather than what we have become used to for some 40 plus years. What I have become used to. We were more spectators of the ritual than participants in it. Was that how it had been? I wanted to say the prayers, even in Latin, rather than only to hear them intoned. I did not remember that, as one of the Norbertine priests who did a little preface of what we would see and hear, said, that the consecration was done in near total silence, except for the bells. And with his back still to us, I could not see the Host very well as it was raised becoming Him, really and truly present.

I was truly amazed that not one of the people who went to rail, including me, to receive Communion put out our hands in the modern way. We all received Him on the tongue. I forgot my "Amen" while I worried that having not receive in that way for so long, I would cause the priest to miss. Shades of the old days indeed.

Ninety minutes later, it was over and I was surprised by my mixed feelings. Perhaps it was that even the youngish priests (except for one) were themselves not particularly comfortable with the old rite and their discomfort radiated to us, to me. But mostly I thought, the things that had changed from former days, most of them, had been changes which brought, at least me, closer to what was happening on the altar, and really, closer to God. If I ever were, I would not be among the ones who would say, "Bring back the Latin rite Mass." I do think there is a place for it, not as a relic, but as a progenitor and a reminder of the amazing continuity of our faith that draws all generations. As what went before and merges into what is today and what brings us to that Sacred Heart. And really, except for the Latin and making it more accessible to the people in the pews who are part of the Church Militant, it IS the same now as it ever was. When I went to look for the readings for today in the Missal, they were what was printed on the program. Things really had not changed. Certainly not the Essence. We used to call Him, in the Third Person, "The Holy Ghost", and now we say, "The Holy Spirit". Somehow the Spirit sounds friendlier than the Ghost, and I guess I like that, but whatever we call Him, He is the same always and everywhere, and He knows what He is doing. And the changes He inspired, they were and are and always will be Good.

Dominus vobiscum. The Lord be with you.

Encounters of a Glassy Kind

I had one last thing to do for the condo that was once my father's residence. It is in an old, 50s building, and some of the windows are louvres. The rectangular panes easily crack, and a few had during the clean up of the apartment after dad died. Not a big fix, nor an expensive one, but I had to find a place that made/cut glass. Like everything in renovation or fix up, there are a million tradespeople and not all of them are necessarily equally legitimate. But for something I knew would be so relatively simple, I did not worry. I found a place in Los Angeles, and was on my way to it, when I saw another, closer by. I parked, ran across the wide street without a crosswalk available, and ran in. I gave the young man at the counter a sample pane. He measured it. I wanted threem exactly the same length and width. He said it would be only a few minutes, for this was an easy job. Great! Another tick off the list of things to do. I was exhilarated, if buying a pane of glass could rightly be called that. He came back with the original and the newly cloned panes all wrapped in newspaper. They were heavy, together. I paid a small 26 dollars and ran to the condo to place the original back in its spot and the fresh ones where cracked had been.

But the original was somehow, shorter than what I had brought in. "How can this be" I exclaimed along with a pithy favorite expletive. Although I knew that the others were exactly the same as the somehow three inch shorter original, I tried them anyway. Nothing could stretch the glass other than my hope.

I went home and called the place, and got a gentleman who spoke only Spanish but managed to communicate that he was only the "answering service". I did not believe it for a minute, and I told the "answering service" exactly what I thought in rapid English. Then I reported the business to the Better Business Bureau. It wasn't the mistake that enraged me. It was that the craftsman, using the word loosely, could not have failed to realize that he cut the original short. Instead of simply telling me, which would have resulted only in my disappointment, but not rage, he wrapped them up together hoping, correctly, that I would not immediately notice the change in length. I have thought and thought how I could cut the man a break, but the original was simply longer when it went in than when it came out with all the copies.

That'll teach me to give a small business owner a chance, thought I huffily.

I managed to find another place closer to my neighborhood, and I am slightly ashamed to say, but not entirely, given what happened, in a better one, although for some reason I noticed glass companies are in seedy places. (What's that about?). The place was open early and closed early so I made my way one morning as I headed to work. A sole older lady let me in, as did her two cute dogs. Already, I was feeling better, animal lover that I am, particularly as I made my request, the English Boxer had brought me his pull toy and we were playing tug while he growled with delight. The other, a pedigree I could not identify, barked a request for my attention. I was happy as the proverbial clam. And the next day, when I came back to pick up my now original plus five copies, I was greeted by the lady, the dogs, and the proper size glass, each solidly ensconced now in their slots in the windows at the condo. I wish I had some immediate reason to go back there, if only to visit with the dogs and chat amiably with the mother of the owner who had assisted me. What is the lesson in all of this? No lesson. For a bit I was walking around, like Dr. House, yelling "Everybody lies". But I had a reparative experience with my encounter with the second glass store and so, maybe there is still hope for the human race.

Peeves of the Day and A "Conversation" with God

The "conversation" probably occurred before the peeves. I suppose, in a way, the emotional impact of those peevish moments means that I did not learn enough from my interaction with Him. Had I better absorbed the lesson, the things which followed would have rolled off my back, as if I had a touch of the saint imprinted upon me.

I'll start with the things that annoyed me, and track back to the Lord's maybe revelation to me in hopes that I will act upon His Touch.

I call in my prescriptions. The idea is that by doing so, you relieve the staff from having you stand in line to submit them, and ultimately get your meds quicker and without fuss and frustration. Now my pharmacy has been taken over by a different corporation from the one with which I had heretofore been familiar, and, of late, the call in system has not meaningfully reduced frustration or increased convenience and expedience. I called in yesterday but did not arrive until evening today. There was a line. Things were not going well for other customers. I requested mine. Having written my name, the pharmacist aide still could not locate it in the alphabetical cubby holes. I tried to tell her she was in the wrong locale, but she was persistent in her reluctance to take the advice of the person who knew her name best. When she finally did retrieve, it was not with all of them. She looked at me and said, "It hasn't been processed." She did not wish or expect further conversation and offered no alternatives. "I don't understand" I said aiming at calm though my irritation was cooking. "When did you submit it?" "Yesterday, by the express telephone line." She still offered no solution. "I thought that if I called it in, there would be no problem." She told me that sometimes the machinery was not accurate. She still offered no solution. I had called it in because that is both the preferable and allegedly the most effective means, but I would end up doing precisely that which the process was created to avoid, wait, and stand in line to pick it up. Again. They'd process it in about 10 or 15 minutes.

All right, cut it out, Djinn, it's not that long. I went to a favorite gourmet supermarket next door to find something for tonight. It was more crowded than I had ever seen it in the nighttime. As I waited on the long line to check out my few items, I saw a little girl pick off a squeeze container of sun block. She flipped the cap and her nose went all too close to the opening for a sniff. Once. Twice. Three times. She closed it and set it back among the multiple other containers. I was suddenly preoccupied by the idea that at some point in my shopping history I had taken one in a line of creamy, dreamy products that had likely not only been handled by another, but graced by the touch of a naturally unsanitary nose to its open tip. Has a study ever been conducted on the frequency of such events? IKKKK.

There was a third thing, but now I cannot remember it. Good. Perhaps it has been superseded by the glorious moment in which I was driving along a surface street from downtown LA. I shut off my radio because I just wanted to talk to God. I have heard that prayer really is a form of talking, although ideally it should include, or be primarily, an opportunity to praise Him and to, well, yes, express one's worship of Him. I was chatting with him about how again I had failed to be kind in one way or another at the workplace and how often I fail in this and so much else. I said something about how likely my prayer was generally more complaint than directed at Him. I was doing all the talking, but it wasn't entirely my fault, because I could not, literally, hear Him, let alone listen. I mean, He isn't the usual conversation partner. Usually I can look into the eyes of the one to whom I speak. I might not. But I can. There was the glimmer of the question that if I cannot hear Him, how do I know He is there? I wasn't really thinking it, but maybe I was sort of thinking that it would be nice if there was something to signal there were two of us in the conversation. The sky had been gray all day. But then I looked at the upper horizon and saw something I have rarely, except in photographs--you know, breaking through a cumbersome, curly overcast multiple long and wide rays of sun, golden strokes. I AM here.

"No license, no problem"

Saw that line on the store front of some mid LA insurance company. Given personal events today, something about that promise really got under my skin as I drove home, somebody tailgating me who has rights, but no responsibility. Because if it were me with no license, there dern well WOULD be a problem. But there are two universes. The one where people who follow rules are held to them, and the one where those who don't follow them, aren't. And it has really gotten worse than that. The ones who don't follow them; they're putting the rest of us in straightjackets with even more rules they won't follow but they don't have to. Think Al Gore's wish that your carbon footprint be limited, while his house is congenially expending many a kilowatt. Think Obama taking a romantic trip to NY with his wife at public expense and wonder what would have happened if W did it during his term.

Who was it that said that the first casualty is truth? Not merely a casualty, but after its demise , cut into bloody little pieces, as a reminder to anyone who might want to utter some defense of it.

It was a nice little experiment, Democracy, but those with endless agendas and power will soon end it. We'll need a modern version of Rick Blaine to get us exit visas, but to where? There will be no where where we won't be enslaved. Imagine. And no religion too, the people sing, hypnotized by well spoken lies. Peace? Is that what you think it will be? I suppose there is a form of peace in slavery. Goodnight, Citizens.

Break a Vow, Change Denomination

As I road the elevator to my office floor, my eye could not help but wander, as always it does, to the Captivate media screen that inflicts headlines and other tidbits about the culture. There are no exceptions to the electronic intrusions, but that is another spoke on the blogging wheel not to be taken up today. What I saw in the brief moments before the doors opened made provided a dark chuckle.

Father Cutie, the handsome, entertainment savvy Catholic priest who got caught canoodling with a woman by the Enquirer and such other pillars of journalistic writing, announced today that he was becoming an Episcopalian so that he could be "with the woman he loved." One might think, initially, that this was a principled decision. In interviews, he has said he struggled with celibacy (folks, celibacy means not marrying; chastity means no sex) and that he had no intent to cause scandal to the Church, and his spiritual community. If I had read that he had made a choice to ask to be released from his vows, but remaining a Catholic, I wouldn't likely have been jarred. But given this particular solution, one wonders whether he would have continued being a Catholic priest pretending to maintain the vow of chastity, while actually not maintaining it, except for being caught by a telephoto lense. My cynical thoughts tend in that direction. Having BEEN caught, he wants, pardon the expression, to "have his cake and eat it too". He wants to stay a priest, and keep the woman. Vows schmows.

Now, I know a vow is hard to keep. And I have many a sin on my own conscience. But something about the ease with which Fr. Cutie has adjusted his theological loyalty rankles me. This purported model for the rank and file Catholic not merely disappoints, but is rather, at least from my admitted outside looking in (I cannot know the man's heart), cavalier about what one would have thought was his faith, notwithstanding the protestation of struggle. While the Catholic and Episcopal faiths are very close, they have meaningful differences, related to the idea of the fullness of truth, and where say a Cardinal Newman made the switch to Catholicism from the Anglican Church because of an article of dogma, the True Presence, young Fr. Cutie seems to have made the switch for convenience sake. Again, I don't know what is in the man's heart. But I am unaware that even the Episcopals allow their priests unmarried sex, so I assume he plans on taking another vow of "unto death do us part" with the woman and continuing with his entertainment presentations for the High Church. Good luck to them.

But I do finally wonder whether if some requirement of Fr. Cutie's new found faith conflicts with another need of his, what he will become then? It's a good thing that there's an assortment of other faiths and philosophies at his disposal.

The End is Near and other Dire Warnings

I guess there are no other dire warnings. I mean, the "end" is the THE END. It can't get worse than that. On the other hand, one might say, I might even say as a practicing Christian, that the end is something we look forward to. Mind you, we're not in a rush. But we understand what is the gift to be received at the end of the world, that is the Judgment of God, and hopefully, a "Well Done Good and Faithful Servant". No guarantees of course that this will be the result---unless I/we set our footsteps on that righteous path. I know I'm trying. Most people I know are trying.

What brings up this cheery-ish line of blogging? Well, last night I was with my cronies, Len Speaks and Mr. Anonymous of the Deluxe Furnished Barbara Judith Aparments seeing a really interesting movie called "The Boys", the story of Richard and Robert Sherman, the men behind pretty much every famous Disney song there ever was and a couple of others you'd be surprised about ("You're Sixteen" by Ringo Starr). It being about Disney guys, it was screened at the El Capitain, literally, in the heart of Hollywood. It is across the street from Grauman's Chinese Theatre, where we would learn in watching the film, these brothers screened a film or two back in the heyday. After the show, we walked a few blocks east toward another renovated movie house of days gone by, the Egyptian, and dined at the Pig and Whistle next door. The walk to and fro felt like it might be what running from Sodom and Gommorah might have been before God wreaked his destruction. A cacophany of sound and sights, the tourist, the streetwalker, the panhandler, the locals, the sleezy. Crowded. Loud. On the way back to our car, where Hollywood crosses Highland, outside the Guiness Book of World Records store (I don't know what else to call it), was a religious Don Quixote and his equally religious Sancho Panza, the man on the box reading from the Bible and suggesting in very strong terms that we, me, were not likely to be saved. As we stood on the corner waiting for the light to change, I found myself alternately angry at the chutzpah of these individuals to assume that I was not as religious as they were, as concerned for my soul, as they were, and wondering what the hey I was doing there in the middle of that babble, or was it babel? And maybe, just maybe, I needed to do a little more soul searching about the saving thereof.

Hollywood Boulevard on a Saturday night is a crucible of good and evil. The movie houses. The people taking pictures of the stars on the walk. The mothers taking pictures of their kid next to Mickey Mouse in front of the El Captain. The short man with the greasy hair smoking a cigarette and looking like he is stalking the resit of us. The gang bangers with their backward hats and falling trousers and bling kissing their girlfriends amid the mother F--- intonations for emphasis. And the three of us on the gum strewn gray brick road that is the illusion factory completely gone Quentin Tarantino.

And whether I am saved? I'll have to pray in the quiet of my backyard, amid the jasmine and the hummingbirds, where I can think, and beg for Grace. Maybe I'll pray for that annoying guy on the corner of Hollywood and Highland and is sidekick, even though he made me very mad with what seemed to be a smugness that seems to me to be a bigger danger than the obvious evil around us. We are all a second from falling into the fiery pit. Equally.

These are swizzle sticks. Actual ones, from actual places in New York and Montreal, Canada. The Cattleman, the Riverboat (used to be at the bottom of the Empire State Building), Ruby Foo's, Hthe one that looks like a branch in the appended photo., the Hotel Frontenac. I have something like 50 or more of them, these my parents actually acquired sipping various adult beverages when they were on the town. The Canadian trip, I am told, resulted in. . . .me, nine months down the road. Every time they'd show the photographs of that trip, I'd hear how I'd been conceived in French Montreal. Mais oui!

I have very specific memories of some New York restaurant hopping, as we kids, me, my and my cousins, were often brought along. We'd have cokes and peanuts and dinner, listen to violins, or guitars, and the hubbub of grownups at play. The Rainbow Room. Cave Henri IV. Top of the Sixes. Manhattan at my young feet. A particular memory is seeing Alan King leaving El Morrocco. I was the 14 year old sitting in a zebra themed booth. It was hard on my first boyfriend when he tried to impress me with the Rainbow Room. Been there I said, now a well travelled (gastronomically speaking) college kid. But one could not get enough of the Rainbow Room. I think about those days and marvel at my tolerance for things well beyond my emotional ken. No regrets, for it wasn't a typical part of the usual Bronx kid's growing experience. It not only did not hurt me, but it forms a fond memory for its uniqueness. My parents danced like Fred and Ginger, with an ease I have never acquired, but always admired. There was many a dance floor in these restaurants. And I heard the music of rumbas, cha-cha's, mambos, fox trots and swing from an early age, appreciating something old that just never gets old.

There was a bit of an incongruity that we lived in a one bedroom fifty dollar apartment but managed, fairly often, frequently with the largess of my uncle next door, to sample so many restaurants and, yes, bars. Interestingly, I never had the urge to drink and when I had my first one, I was of legal age, and at my high school prom (those days you could drink at 18), and it was, at the then still in existence, Riverboat, now long gone.

I like having those swizzle sticks. They touch a time and a place, and in a way I cannot quite explain, an innocence of my parents, then still young and full of possibility. They connect me to them.