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Thursday, April 5, 2012
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."
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.
Amazon
http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B001K7NGDA
Thistledown Press
Dear Sir or Madam, will you read my book
It took me years to write, will you take a look
Order The Glass Character from:
http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B001K7NGDA
Barnes & Noble
Thistledown Press
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!
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!
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Another shot.
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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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Sunday, April 1, 2012
The church at the corner of Gloria and Lloyd
I have a relationship with the unknown.
I mean the unknown unknown. I mean the what-the-hell-is-this, why am I experiencing all these strange coincidences (also known as "God's way of remaining anonymous"), all these strange happenings and feelings that make me wonder if there is indeed an Other Side.
My most laden experience, the one producing the richest vibrations, has been with Harold Lloyd. Since I began to research his life for my novel The Glass Character (just lately accepted for publication, to my delight), or even before that, I felt a weird sort of resonance with him. It reminded me of one of his funniest early films, Haunted Spooks, in which his thick black hair stands on end (a running gag created with electric current - I don't know how he survived it) when he sees a flour-covered little black kid running around like a baby ghost.
I suppose I should start at the beginning and recount the whole thing, all my experiences from early childhood, but I'd be here all day so I can only talk about last week., or at least the last few years. And that feeling, that feeling that "someone" is there, almost always on my left side, outside my body, in a sort of person-shaped bubble. Does he say anything? Not really, but I feel his presence or vibes or whatever-it-is I feel about people before I even see them.
In these visitations, he's always the older Harold, the never-mellowed Harold who remained fiercely interested in life, in women, and in a thousand different activities, some charitable, some just plain weird (such as taking something like half a millon 3D photos of naked women and paying them $50 each, which often included sex). But when I feel a presence like this - and believe me, I realize that this could be my imagination - it's pure essence, as if I am sipping the person through a straw.
So what was/is Harold like? Hard to explain. A complex man who seemed simple, even thought of himself as simple. Was he interested in this sort of thing, in the other world? He was too practical for that, a Midwestern boy raised and baptised in fundamentalist Christianity in the Bible belt. And yet, and yet.
I don't know much about masonic orders or Shriners or any of that stuff, except that it involves funny hats and go-carts. It's mainly, as I see it, benevolent, but there are always rumors. Not only was Harold involved: he rose through the ranks of masonry (if that's what it's called) all the way to Imperial Potentate of the Shriners: and he looked decidedly un-silly in that hat.
But there are other things apart from Harold Lloyd, lots of things, hard to describe. Not just knowing when the phone will ring, but who is on the other end and (this is the signifcant part) what they are going to say. "Guessing" the name of my newborn niece before anyone told me. I'm not a psychic, don't get me wrong, and most people who call themselves psychics vastly overestimate their abilities (or are outright frauds, like that sickening, grating Long Island Medium on TLC, the biggest display of phony producer-driven "magic" I've ever had the misfortune to half-see before I bailed).
There's another part of it however. Though we're out of touch now, I was once close friends with a professional spiritualist medium, a university professor with two masters' degrees and a PhD in anthropology. I saw him perform his mediumship in a spiritualist church, a rapid blur of connected images that, to be honest, didn't make much sense to me, though the audience was quick to pick up meanings that may or may not have been there.
Then there was my violin teacher, a psychic healer steeped in the ancient, spooky traditions of Eastern European mysticism. This is strange territory and seems to tap in to things like werewolves and homunculi. He did healing on me, and it felt good, but I wonder now if it was really as transformative as it was supposed to be. He was a loving figure however, benevolent and eager to help people, so I was never afraid of him or of his unusual ministrations. And yet, and yet, when I experienced a huge personal crisis in 2005, he wasn't there for me, and later on he accused me of abandoning him. This hurt me more than I can say.
I ran into a bulwark of belief that has always confounded me. Everything has to be a "lesson", everything has to happen for a reason, even if in truth things are just one big appalling blob of adversity. This is a subtle way, I can't help but feel, of saying "it's your fault", or, at very least, "you needed the lesson." I won't even go into how inhuman this belief system is for people who have lost a child or otherwise experienced nearly-unbearable grief.
Are psychics and mediums and the like really in touch with some other dimension? Am *I* sometimes in touch, or is my imagination making my scalp prickle like Harold? I've seen auras, or certainly sensed them. No matter how phony someone's public act, I see through it in two seconds. This may just be the human sense that gives us a nose for these things, a survival skill.
And yet.
They say there are no coincidences, but the Lloyd synchronicity, which at one point was so thick I was getting four or five examples a day, seemed to be smearing butter all over my skepticism. I watched a little movie, a British comedy called The Wrong Box, and saw four examples of Lloyd - maybe five - in the credits, the names of the actors, the Tontine list which was the backbone of the whole thing. Face it, Lloyd is just not that common a name. Another time we were driving along the highway to somewhere and bisecting it was a road called Lloyd Avenue.
"That's stupid," I said to my husband. "There can't be a road just sitting there in the middle of nowhere. And especially not a Lloyd Avenue."
But then came the topper. I turned my head to the right and saw a huge brick building, also just sitting there, butted right up against the busy highway, totally out of place. I looked at the sign and "kvelled": it said Gloria Evangelical Temple.
Gloria was the name of Harold's first child. And there was her temple, right at the corner of Gloria and Lloyd.
Another time I was watching an old Twilight Zone episode and looked at the credits and saw the name Suzanne Lloyd. That's the name of Harold's granddaughter, now CEO of Harold Lloyd Entertainment. It wasn't her, of course, but it was someone with the same name.
Just a coincidence? I! Don't! Think! So!
Things don't levitate by themselves or rise in the air, at least not so far, but reality is sometimes a weird mobius strip playing endlessly and curving back on itself. Harold was an accomplished professional magician from boyhood (made money off it as a kid), even after he lost half his right hand in an accident. He could make things disappear, then reappear with an enigmatic smile.
There were the three gold beads. A stupid story, really, but I've come this far, so I'll tell it anyway. I had a necklace made of tiny figures that were meant to represent my four grandchildren, and the beads were used as spacers. I had never owned anything like them. When I decided to mount the figures on a gold hoop earring and put it on a chain, something happened. One of the beads was missing. It just vanished. I don't remember dropping it. I got down on my hands and knees - it was doubtful I'd be able to match these, so I needed it back badly - and stayed down there a long time, going over every fibre of the rug.
Then I vacuumed the entire surface of the bedroom, sifting through all the dirt and fibres, then vacuumed again. Nothing.
I had to give up and try to find something else to use as spacers, but as so often happens in cases like this, I forgot about it and put the whole thing away.
Months went by, and though I was still pretty obsessed with Harold, I was shifting a bit, starting to move on. I was in my walk-in closet at the far end of the bedroom, as far from my jewellery case as possible. I felt something on the bottom of my foot.
It was the gold bead!
Seemed weird. Yes, weird, but. . .OK, somehow it got transported over there, on my foot? But wouldn't I feel it?
I went to put the bead back with all the other necklace material.
Wait a minute.
There was only one gold bead.
Even including the newly-found bead, I still had only two. I felt this phantom laughter, this twitting of my seriousness, this slightly nasty magician's satisfaction (for I have a theory that magicians are a little nasty, which is why I don't enjoy watching them perform) that seemed to say Harold was toying with me.
Fine then! I did it again! I put the bead back! I forgot about it! It was over, as far as I was concerned, and I could forget about the whole thing.
Months went by. The carpet was vacuumed several more times, and I obsessively checked in all the globs of filthy fluff for the lost bead. Nothing.
Then one day, getting dressed, just minding my own business, I saw something in the middle of the room, on the other side of the bed from my jewel case.
It shone a little. Jesus, no, it couldn't be!
I thought to myself: if I have only one bead in that case I will throw this sucker out the window, even get rid of the whole necklace. I opened the case and sighed to find there were two. My set of three was now restored.
Months went by. . . no, weeks I guess, when I was changing the lightbulb on a lamp in the other corner of the bedroom (I don't need to tell you how far away from the case). Then I felt something small and cold and hard under my foot.
For some obscure reason Harold wanted me to have four. A good trick on me. Things can't materialize out of nowhere, can they? But what about the loaves and fishes? Were they merely prestidigitation, or something infinitely more mysterious and profound?
I have a relationship with the unknown. I do not understand it and don't even want to go there, most of the time. Like a mirage, it can disappear if you pursue it. You see it in your peripheral vision, but when you turn your head. . .
When you turn your head, those three gold beads might just dematerialize, un-be, as they surely once were. As we surely all were, before we "were". And wherever that strange place is, there is no stopping us: we are all heading back there. Who knows when.
Dear Sir or Madam, will you read my book
It took me years to write, will you take a look
Order The Glass Character from:
http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B001K7NGDA
Barnes & Noble
Thistledown Press
Thursday, March 29, 2012
I was all right for a while
I was all right for a while
I could smile for a while
I could smile for a while
But I saw you last night
You held my hand so tight
As you stopped to say, "Hello"
Oh, you wished me well
You couldn't tell
That I'd been crying over you
Crying over you
When you said, "So long"
Left me standing all alone
Alone and crying, crying
Crying, crying
It's hard to understand
But the touch of your hand
Can start me crying
I thought that I was over you
But it's true, so true
I love you even more
Than I did before
But, darling, what can I do?
For you don't love me
And I'll always be crying over you
Crying over you
Yes, now you're gone
And, from this moment on
I'll be crying, crying
Crying, crying
Yeah, crying, crying
Over you
And, from this moment on
I'll be crying, crying
Crying, crying
Yeah, crying, crying
Over you
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