Thursday, April 5, 2012

Gethsemane (music for Good Friday)




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Gethsemane (meditations on Good Friday and the true meaning of Easter)





so I was always being told I was getting too much into it. or not being told at all it was just the way all the nice church ladies with their date squares were waiting for that pesky easter Friday service to be over so they could move in with their coffee urns. while this strange sort of bird is sitting at the back of the church like one of the poor churchmice of old, weeping not so quietly as symbols are being brought to the front of the church


what they are, are symbols of a man slowly dying in agony hanging from a tree, his flesh bared and bleeding, spat on and reviled and – His mother kneels in the dust. Dear jesusgod, how can people put God to death, but here it is and even his most dearest companions, his most trusted allies cannot be counted upon to

















(this strange lady who sits at the back of the church. She has provided some music for the end of the service and the minister now regrets the fact that she has entrusted her with this small task for it is a tape of the end of Prokofiev’s Romeo and Juliet, the horror of the two lovers discovering one another dead DEAD DEAD)


There is something very strange about this woman because she doesn’t seem to be here for the date squares. It makes everyone very uncomfortable. She has been told for years to attend Bible study and she has done so. She has been told for years to learn all about the gospels and she has done so. She has been taught all the hymns. Why is she crying? Why does she feel she is dead and not quite reborn?


Why does she know she is alone?

It is embarrassing and soon the embarrassment and shame will roll over her like a stone and crush her. Will none of you keep watch with me? pray with me? Simon Peter, not even you? On this rock I will build my church. Some rock, he denies me three times and then the rooster crows just like in the legend.


It makes good story. Like good TV, the Bible is good story. But she only realizes that now. Now that the stone has crushed all the religion out of her. It was too much UCW and gabby socials and funerals where everyone smiled and clapped their hands and celebrated the person’s life even if he just dropped dead at 50 and SHE was in the washroom sobbing her guts out



alone.



But then, she has always been the weird one.




Judas, will you pray with me? That one, over there. Yes. It is as you suspected, it’s this one, this one here making all the trouble. Talking crazy, redeeming. People say he walks on water. Psssccccchawwwww!




Water into wine, tears into saltmines, the brain into a tornado of grief borne alone, alone after years of service and trying hard to belong. A pathetic endeavour. True Christians sacrifice, don’t they? Then why don’t I know any? Why do the best Christians never bear the name of Christ? Has the name become so tainted? Why are we all so artificial? Should I be Catholic and bear stigmata and ask for the demons to be driven out?

(No. Instead she is the recipient of pitied murmurings overheard in the ladies’ washroom which is somehow always full of dirty diapers. Well you know dear. She isn’t right. Poor thing can’t help it, mental illness blah blah blah. Ohhhh, is that why she’s always crying? What is wrong with her?)


Then the one who radiates the most pity approaches her, grabs her hand and squeezes it and won't let go. She has been nominated to do the job by the Committee of Deep Concern. "I just wanted to tell you, dear, that we're all praying for you." "Oh. OK."  She looks straight into the woman's crinkled, evasive eyes. "I'm praying for you too, then." The woman shifts in her shoes a little. "I'm sorry, dear, I'm afraid you misunderstood me."


They allow her to stay, which is big of them. Most generous of them, Christian, to take her in, refugee. but it is damned uncomfortable and just inappropriate, what she always does on Good Friday. When she feels the lash, when welts rise on her back. when she dies and gasps to be reborn and can only be reborn through her children and their children When the core is dead, the core of herself dead and they all witnessed that death and did nothing about it because it wasn’t supposed to be happening because you are not supposed to




Prokofiev plays on in her head. The final notes. Mary wails by the cross. What was her real name? Was there a Mary? jesus may just have been a collection of myths. a book came out a few years ago called the pagan christ which basically said jesus never existed, and her church couldn’t wait to set up a book study to analyze it for its basic truth. It was the book to read, everyone was reading it, it was



Well, yes, I can see where



I think he makes a lot of sense when



JESUS! PEOPLE! This is your REDEEMER! Your personal Saviour, the Being upon which your entire life should be based! Why are you so deaf? Why are you whispering in the washroom? Why did that lady get up at the front at prayer time and say “poor thing she’s in the hospital but on medication now so we know why she”. When she never gave her permission to say anything.




Shallow people, old biddies, well-meaning but perhaps not well-meaning, full of nasty viper words. To be abandoned is not so nice: will none of you pray with me, Peter,  John, James? Take this poison cup away from me, abba, blessed beloved father. But not my will be done.




Were you there when they crucified. . . ? Sometimes it causes me to tremble tremble tremble. Sob and sob while sitting crouched on a pew in the back row.  Is there anything the matter, dear? Are you all right? Can I get you something? A date square, perhaps. Sackcloth and ashes. A stone that rolls away. Take this stone off my back, take it out of my brain, this stone that was supposed to redeem me. Will no one wait with me, keep vigil with me?  Peter, John, James.

 


Dear Sir or Madam, will you read my book
    It took me years to write, will you take a look



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Weird sounds in the night



It was one of them-thar hot, HOT summers in Chatham, in the heel of Southwestern Ontario, when it felt like someone was holding something to your nose and mouth so you could not breathe. Sweat accumulted in layers on your skin, but if it evaporated at all, it provided no relief from the relentless, doggy heat.

 We didn't take showers then, because you just didn't - women washed their hair in the sink and wrapped a towel around their head, turban-style (God knows why, or how they ever dried it). If you were so hot you were turning into melted rubber, you lay in a bath tub full of tepid water, drained it, and felt more moist and clammy than ever. As far as I know, people didn't bathe every day, nor were clothes washed as often, but perhaps the predominance of natural fibres kept us from keeling over from each other's stench.


The humidity devil did not let up often. But on certain nights the sky suddenly cracked open, and floods of lukewarm rain caused some of us (mostly kids, or a few heat-crazed adults) to strip down to our bare essentials and go out in it, dancing around, hair streaming, mouth open. The cracks of livid electricity almost made my hair stand on end, and sometimes I felt it zip up my arms as if it wanted me for some awful unknown purpose.

 But the buckets of rain did not help. Soon everything was just steaming, the air more choked with water than before.




Cicadas buzzed their long, almost sexual-sounding arches of sound on those summer afternoons in which time seemed to hang suspended. We didn't like finding the adults - "June bugs", they were usually called, big fat things with wings - but the cast-off shells of the nymphs were magical. They appeared all over the bark of the elm trees that would all-too-soon be felled due to disease, never to be seen again.

 But at night, there was this - this sound! A night bird, one that I called "the Skeezix bird" because that's what it sounded like. On damp, hollow, star-filled Chatham nights, the Skeezix would begin to swoop in the sky, the sound swinging near and far so that you couldn't tell exactly where it was. I don't think I ever saw one.  It had to be some kind of hawk or falcon. But nobody ever referred to it or talked about it. It was just there, like the sexy drawn-out tambourine-hiss of the cicadas. All part of summer in the city.




But when I heard the Skeezix bird, every so often I also heard the strangest sound, halfway between a burp and a groan. Short, hollow, and - stupid really, because obviously it had nothing to do with the bird, yet there it was, persistent. I even asked other people about it once, and no one had ever heard it. It seemed like nobody really wanted to talk about it. At least they looked at me strangely, though I suppose by then I should have been used to that.

 Then one time, my older brother said, "You know that booming noise? It's sound waves from the hawk bouncing off buildings."




It wasn't. In fact, until this very moment I didn't know what the hell it was or how it could be related to the Skeezix bird.

 Then came this answer, this beautiful, golden Answer. Simply laid out. Not even any video, just a clear audio explanation with pictures. There WAS a Skeezix bird, even if it was called something else. If it was creating that groany boom out in nature, obviously it had nothing to do with sound waves and buildings.




The real explanation is exotic and a little far-fetched, but it must be true. It just took me fifty years to find it. Play the video above, and be enlightened.


Visit Margaret's Amazon Author Page!



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Behold, the lamb of Easter!




I always thought knitted stuffed animals looked like those crocheted toilet-roll poodles in my grandmother's bathroom. Then I started to find some better patterns on the net.

It's not as hard as you think: but there are a lot of little fluffy white knitted pieces to piece together and sew. That's the tedious part.






The little pink angora bunny was made from a square. You knit a square, then fold it up like origami, sew and stuff, then add details. The folding part was so frustating, this little cuss was in the garbage a couple of times before I got it right. The chick was, well, a chick!




Another shot.






But these guys are my pride and joy. Though the boucle yarn is hard to work with, it produced a gratifying nubby-wool result. Have you ever tried to sew the leg on a lamb?


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