There's a crow the size of a very large crow outside the door. I know you're thinking Doesn't he mean a crow the size of a _____ outside the door? And yes, that's what I mean. But, since the largest crow I've ever seen happens to be a crow and not a _____, it stands to reason. I can't say it's the size of a dog because there are very small breeds of dogs. I can't say it's the size of a '54 Plymouth because that would be silly. Have you ever known me to be silly?

Well, I tried tape measuring the creature but it wouldn't keep still.

I was sitting on my stoop, not bothering to venture further out, when the crow alighted. Alighted is an odd word to use in the case of something so obviously heavy. On my right butt cheek I sat, placing one leg over the other. Touching my elbows and hunching my back, I realized it was an uncomfortable way to sit on a stoop. It must have seemed to the crow that I was shrinking up into a little fist, or withdrawing into an invisible shell. So I made an effort to loosen up and enlarge myself for the crow's benefit, but I really longed to be in here writing the first thing that came to my mind. And I seem to have awoken with a contempt for hyperbole.

So it was Thursday I heard a man describing how he endured the cookie-cutter stories of nominal Catholics and their private school experiences, which were always identical. It came to the point where he would roll his eyes and realize they really weren't genuine. We've all seen the movies. They are like looking at a man in a bedsheet pretending to be a ghost. When all of the stories you hear are the same story you know they're out of new ideas. Everybody who is mystical must be Black, of course. Morgan Freeman is always available. Whether it's The Oracle who is called for, or God Himself, all Black people are apparently charged with mystical powers according to the Hollywood mind. It is a mass mind reduced by fear to the lowest order, incapable of creative thought and obsessed with repetition.

Well, I knew what the fellow was talking about. Long have I heard the stories of the nuns beating up the angelic little boys. What they fail to mention is that in 1960-whatever, which is the era of their (and my) formation, corporal punishment was practiced in the so-called public schools as well. I was in KW's 5th Grade class. His brother, Mr. SW, had the class across the hall. But K's class was for the 'cool' kids because K was cool; he had The Paddle, the legendary paddle. It was taped up and signed by all who had felt it on their bottoms. I held the record that glorious year - eight times I endured the sting of that board. I was so proud. That was public school.

Don't comment. I'm not done yet.

My experience of Catholic school bears little resemblance to the Hollywood version which many men - why always men? - repeat with Stepford Wife uniformity in meetings, during talks, and around bar rooms. The nuns were Sisters of St. Joseph, an order whose mission was primarily education. We were no more or less likely to have our knuckles rapped by them than by any public school teacher in those days. It is not that aspect which I remember. The main thing which set them apart from other people was the Joy that radiated from their teaching vocation; they were more than just people doing a job, they were committed to it as a calling. It was their life. That's what I remember.

In High School we had the Franciscans, another order dedicated to schooling young Christian gentlemen such as ourselves. That was a bit different. Certainly it was a different approach to the one they use today. There was no effort to hide the facts from us, or to present an interpretation of what it all meant. Human history was laid before us like a great big book. We had to keep up.

So, we had forms, but we didn't have uniforms. Ties were required, of course.

We had to know Latin and Greek because a person cannot honestly be expected to read properly without it. They presented the facts. There were so many facts. Here is what this worldly philosopher has to say; there is the other one who says something quite different. Existentialism was very popular amongst us teenagers - which stands to reason, I suppose. We learned all about Gnosticism and that silly DaVinci Code story was on our rebellious little lips. Many of us wanted to believe in it so much, and Monty Python and The Holy Grail had just come out. We wrote scholarly-sounding critiques of the film as history - for giggles - plugging the French Grail legend into its weird horseless world of of coconuts and cow catapults.

Fetchez la vache!

Anyhoooo, we read quite a lot. Brother Peter told me: Never whistle while you're pissing. I don't know why.

Sometimes it seemed like the Brothers were on a mission to teach us in particular every denial of our Faith that they could teach us. Utilitarianism, Atheism, Communism, Pantheism - on and on, down the line. There wasn't a heresy we didn't study in minute detail, but I remember very little commentary being offered on any of it. It was as though they were saying "Here is the world you have inherited" rather than "Here is the world we would rather have." They weren't trying to live vicariously through us; they weren't trying to shape us, form us into little versions of whatever they hadn't the courage in their time to become.

I think that's the biggest difference between the education I received and the versions of learning that are offered today. We were taught how to think, how to use our reason, how to argue, debate. We were never told what to think. And there was just so much to learn. There is an infinite amount to learn. There are things that are impossible, and that one single fact opens up a universe of infinite possibilities.

Crows the size of - I can't say what. It's just a bloody big crow, that's all it is.

There was nothing in my experience of Catholic school that resembles the Hollywood version. We were just too busy to think of finding it in any way odd. I don't have another way to describe that. I don't have the words for it.

OK - I think I'm done now. The darn thing's flown away. You should have seen the wing span on that big bird. The size of ____.   

I was in the middle of something and music came up in the conversation. I was thinking about a girl who became a Pentecostal and stopped listening to any kind of music that didn't fall into the "praise" category. And she would say, "They have every different style. There's no need to listen to worldly music anymore." I was thinking, baloney, you know? Have you listened to some of that stuff? It's a pale imitation of popular music; it's very corporate cookie-cutter, like boy bands. "Jesus, my Boyfriend..." And nothing if not completely worldly. But I dig liturgical music a lot. I guess most people think that falls under the category Classical. It drives me nuts sometimes not being able to share my appreciation of music with people - fully. I think most people when they listen to music only hear sound; they don't get it. It's not about sound. Otherwise, birds singing and trucks going down the highway would be all the music we would ever need. But I think my friend was like that. It was no real sacrifice for her to give up secular-themed music because she never heard the music in the first place; just the words, maybe.

Oh, there's a gorgeous piece of music - Prokofiev, you know? He lived as a prisoner of the Soviet Empire. Creative expression of any kind was a sure ticket to the gulag. He was very daring at times. Fascinating biography, if you're into that kinda thing. But he was commissioned to write this orchestra and choral piece in tribute to Lenin. And if you know Russian liturgical music you know the best liturgical music - and that's really and truly what it was. Of course, the people were forced to worship Lenin. The State was their God, but never really. You see, the Russians endured - they're good at that. They abide and they endure. It comes out in their music. And if you don't understand the language of music you'll never know that. You'll never hear the spirit in it. So, Prokofiev has this incredible and beautiful piece with the chorus singing all praise to the murderer of millions. OK, so at a very low level of consciousness - say the TV level - one may see only irony in that. But it's beautiful, baby. The music came from God.

And music is the way God follows us into the darkest places, and even when we willfully turn away from Him music keeps the connection real; He doesn't let us completely go, no matter what silly thing we may think. Kids today, huh? It's just like that. We're the children. We go off in strange and wonderful, and horrific and horrible, directions. But that creativity of ours - that spark of God in the mind - is our birthright that never completely goes away. And I'm sorry, but a guy could be singing about all kinds of evil schmack but if it's good music it's good music. I think it doesn't come from the human mind; I think it comes from the God mind. Or, it's a gift that never stops giving. And even when you try to use it for nefarious purposes it never really loses what it is. You can't explain a Mozart any other way.

The Cramps, however... well, that's a different kettle of fish. We'll have a fish fry later. Come on over. I got some new records yesterday.

Who could not love a band called The Cramps whose big album was called "Smell of Female?" I ask you...



"Bikini Girls With Machine Guns" was a big hit for these twisted rockabilly nutjobs. My favorite is "What's Inside A Girl?" which is here included. There's a story to that song. I was "pitting" for a friend who was doing the big 70-mile canoe race on my river here a few years ago. I was dating a young lady at the time who was very... I might say liberal, but that doesn't really do her justice. She was definately interested in feminist ideas. So - she came with me in my friend's truck. No - I tell an untruth. That's right - she followed me in her own car, but it felt like she was riding with me because she gave me her Cramps cassettes to listen to. So, there I am following my friend in the canoe in a strange truck down the river, whilst being pursued by a feminist girlfriend, and listening to "What's Inside A Girl?" It was very... I would say unforgettable, but it's really quite forgettable so I won't say that.



Yes, she dug The Cramps a lot. I had caught one of their shows years ago - I think with my cousin. Or was that Ministry? Now, there's one I can do - next week, maybe. They don't know how to make a sparkle tag for that stuff... Well, so I knew The Cramps from back then. I think I was her pet misogynist or something. She gave me Nick Cave with The Birthday Party - you know, "Release the Bats?" Of course you do. (Try to keep up.) And the thing is, I love women - I really do, especially from the back. It's funny the style with the word or words splashed across the southbound side of a northbound girl. You know what I mean, right? It's the name of a sporting goods company, or maybe it says "Juicy" or "Bad Girl," or whatever. I saw just such a pair of very small shorts yesterday on a young lady, and when she turned to go I happened to notice the word on the back was "Navy." And I'm an Army fan, so I knew it wouldn't work between us. Are these the shorts that launched a thousand ships?

Anyhooooo, I was buying records today. I got the Jan Hammer - Jerry Goodman album. I never had that one. A John Maclaughlin greatest hits, though I was after "Inner Mounting Flame." And a Nice album I never had, or don't remember having. Oh - tons of incense too, and a new casket. I was torn between open and closed. End of life decisions can be very difficult.

I was in my favorite place yesterday. Rhubarb Valley, "Where There Really IS Something In The Water."

I meant to post last night; didn't. Mrs. Uppington is here over night. My 4th of July post is quite clear in my mind. It's a matter of time. Nothing is coming in-between. I have some old Daw paperbacks to read. For some reason my village are having their fireworks tonight. Last year, or the year before, they blew a hole in the dock. Stand back, folks - these are volunteer firemen with explosives. Goody. Of course, every Thursday a local youth sports camp has a display. My paying guests that would be. I need to think of music, and find a song controller that will play it. I tried SongHere, which seems to be a Beta version of Song2Play, but the silly thing won't play once I embed it. Typical Beta. And I see how John has come up with another site. Nothing ventured...

Any ideas? What would you most like me to write about? Give me something, I'll run with it. I got one suggestion recently that was pretty good. It was outside of my experience, though. I suppose I could write about all the things I don't know. The number of things I don't know is imaginary, infinite. I do enjoy making up tidbits of arcane knowledge - stuff that sounds plausible, and therefore absurd. We used to do that in High School. One of us would provide the setting for the effects of rhombus radiation from Schplorn's 100 year-long war with Abdtadt on the human appetite. Everyone would suddenly develop a powerful craving for baklava and wonder why.

Oh we loved that stuff! We used to get stoned quite a lot. It was our "munchies" food. Take the bus from Amityville to Huntington, and there were several Greek places there. Just summer, the sun, the marina. Later, the bars. At midnight, a bottle of retsina... And thou... Of course we couldn't buy a girl. It was just us guys, as it had been. But we were only half there. Life was calling and we were saying, "Oh c'mon! Let us have one more summer... Please, Mom?" And that really was it, the end. And we knew it was coming. We would have to suffer. We would have to care. We would have to start collecting things and people to take care of, things and people that we knew were going to hurt us just as we had hurt our parents in our time.

Anyhooo...

OK, let's just jump in. How's the water today?

It's better to be God-actualized than self-actualized. What the hell did these people know, anyway? Here I was, knowing more than anybody else, and then bang - empty in the head, nothing in there. I knew nothing. It's a funny thing.

So, I think we think more when we're driving than we do at any other time. Am I wrong about that? The most dangerous thing we're likely to do all day and a million thoughts come into the mind having nothing to do with hurtling through space and time in a metal and plastic can at 65 miles per hour, seconds away from unimaginable catastrophe. That's really rather funny. I write whole posts whilst driving. I write more posts whilst driving than I write whilst writing. Trouble is, I forget them. Believe in telepathy. Yes, one day we'll figure it out.

Well, since I was actually the sole member of a comparative religion I knew more about God than anyone else in the room. In other words, I knew absolutely nothing. And to know absolutely nothing is the same as knowing less than nothing. I had a whole lot of less than nothing in my mind, and that's why I lost it. And that's why a piece of wood does a better job than my mind did.

A fellow came into an AA meeting one night - a fellow from up north. He introduced himself by saying "God is directing my life very well today." He had a big smile on his face, and he had the simplest things to say. There I was, in my complexity, not yet understanding a piece of wood had replaced what used to be my mind. That fellow from up north sounded really good to me. Wood is good.

It's nice to get praised, that's true. All those hosannas, right? Then what happened? Well, we all know the story. Or do we? Try to keep up.

You know the squirrel feeder's gone, right? Well, it's put away while I figure out where to put it where it might become a bird feeder, because where it was it was a squirrel feeder. Ooh - that's one of those sentences! I've been getting those lately. Sunspots?

Anyhoooo, I'm buying a canoe. A Canooooooooooooe perhaps. No, it'll be a short one. When I'm driving a car I think so much, but when I'm paddling a canoe I don't seem to think at all. It's all about balance. It's all about being as hopelessly mediocre as possible. No, maybe not. I think it's about water.

See, I'm way out-of-balance. I don't balance what I know to be true with an equal number of falsehoods - just to be fair. When it comes to loving Jesus I'm way out-of-balance. When it comes to loving you I'm way out-of-balance. You know what I mean? Some of the things I write may seem out-of-balance, maybe even extreme. Driving's no time to be wishy-washy. The wood tells me things.

I'm in a very good mood tonight. Can you tell? I'll bet a few of you even know why. Look, things happen on the surface of the river that are kind of important. The trick is always to remember that even when they are good things they will ultimately float on downstream, out of sight, like youth.

If there's one thing I really don't understand it's pessimism. The wood tells me different. We all like to say we're realists. I'm a realist. I see myphets and I have doorways to other dimensions in my house and I'm a realist. OK, so maybe I'm really an unrealist. Same thing. Universe of good, either way. Where some see wretchedness I see opportunity for service. Where some see limitation I see abundance. I'm no threat; it's the mind.

I'll take my canoe on the river - that'll be good.

What else? What else did I have to say today? Oh, many things. Many many many many things. With nothing but time, none of it really important. It's simple, really: The source of courage isn't your own heart. And your own mind wants to kill you. And people try to wrap their minds around such simplicity until it is murky with answers, all of them wrong. It is better to have wood for a mind than the old mush.

Wood does float, right? Just checking.