Day 3-You Want me to Wash What?

 Don't worry--it's not what it sounds like. Dig this:

On Holy Thursday, my thoughts turn to some very specific things: the smell of burnt beeswax from making pysanky, the anticipation of Easter Candy (even then, as today :), and foot washing. Yes, foot washing.

Why foot washing? Did Jesus have a foot fetish perhaps? Who knew?!

Well, not exaaactly--the account goes something like this:

If I channel my Chatechismal indoctrination, and my later intellectual religious study, I interpret a passage that describes the essence of the New Kingdom, humility. It relies on inversion, echoing the Sermon on the Mount: The weak become strong, the poor wealthy, and the King humbles himself before his Servants.

The account appears only in the Gospel of John--which makes sense because his audience of persecuted, insecure early Christians would have responded well to a touching underdog-turnaround story. Like The Mighty Ducks for the Messianic faithful.

How does my experi-lent relate to this passage, you ask? Well, you see, back in the day a very special event in the Ukrainian Catholic Community in Philadelphia occurred every Holy Thursday.

Listen to this: All of the Ukrainian Catholic parish priests would get together at the Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception on Franklin Street. They would conduct a three or four hour mass--no idea how they could stretch it out so long, but these guys somehow found a way. Then, at the end, they would re-enact the story of Jesus washing everyone's feet. As a student of Ukrainian descent attending St. Josaphat's Ukrainian Catholic School, I had the distinct pleasure of attending this bit of liturgical theater. Oh yes, I was there.

But I never endured it alone. My brothers, cousins, and classmates who happened to be born into a family with a -sky, -ski, or a silent j at the end of their last names shared that distinct pleasure along with me. Hell, I think they even lumped the Polish kids in with us. "Close enough," they probably thought to themselves.

And yes, this event was as weird as it seems. The entire Church was empty save for us Ukrainian-American kids who would rather be playing Nintendo, some priests, and a bunch of nuns who did not hesitate to put the fear of God into you for even the most minor infraction.

So we would mostly-stand for the duration of this mega mass, feeling nauseous and lightheaded from all the God-scented incense floating around, elbowing each other to keep from dosing in view of the watchful eyes of the "penguins" as we used to call them. All of the priests took turns saying different parts of the mass. Like a divinely-ordained rap battle. Finally, we all sensed the end was near when the Fathers took their places in the luxe upholstered chairs lined up in front of the iconostasis.

As I watched them unlace their black, priest-issue Aerosole shoes, I imagined how sweaty their feet must have been from standing for so long and and walking all around waving crosses and censers and gilded holybooks. My speculation was confirmed when they peeled clingy socks away from toes, wriggling their feet to loosen the fabric. Why am I watching this?

At long last, the Bishop shows up. He has removed his cape and under-cape, and wears only the white under-robe. Guess it's a priestly type of slip. (I probably did not use the correct terminology for the vestments.) He's got his towel tied around his waste, his bowl of holy water, and without another word he gets down to it.

 As much talking as these guys did all morning, suddenly an awkward silence hushes the entire space. Nary a crinkling cough drop wrapper, nor a cough. Each foot gets a nice shellacking, a little mini-pedi-baptism, and that was it. We got up, boarded the cheese bus and went home. I suppose the priests all put their shoes back on, and then they did the same. After all, they had a lot of work to do in the next couple of days, what with the defining Holy Day of the religion just 72 hours away...

Day 8- Turn, Turn, Turn

It's hard to believe that nearly 6 weeks have come and gone. The relentless passage of time. But I have had the soft pleasure of watching my tomato seedlings cautiously peek through the soil surface in the starter sets standing atop the radiator in Hannah's bedroom. Now, they upright themselves more bravely, growing bigger with each passing day.

Just two weeks ago, I walked over to the Ace Hardware on Fairmount Avenue and selected a variety of tomato seeds; my purchase was dictated by interesting-sounding names, however, as I know very little about different breeds of tomato. There were Rainbow Heirloom Tomatoes, Marsglobe tommys and something called "Mortgage Lifters," which I take to mean that they grow so big that you can feed an entire family with just one tomato, and you will save so much money on groceries that you can effectively reduce the cost of your mortgage. I'll let you know how they turn out :)

And next came the planting. I love this process--so elemental, so human. A visceral link to the past, and to family members passed. It's important to plant with intention, and awareness.

The spreading of the soil: a soft, earthen bed. The poking of holes for each seed: the fertile penetration ritual mirrored in the reproductive act. Implanting the delicate, dormant, defenseless seed is a rite of protection--or in my morbid mind a reflection of the burial of the dead, resulting in life anew.

At this point in the contemplation my thoughts turned once again to our rituals regarding death. When we bury, the body decomposes to its elemental essence, returning each individual to the cycle of life that sometimes feels so far removed from our technologized existence.

I struggle daily to accept that death is a part of nature; we distance ourselves from the rhythms of life, but the universal ebb and flow reclaims us in the end. The planting process demonstrates a microcosm of these forces, right in my two bedroom apartment!

We are "planted" into the earth when we die, but do we ever experience the "rebirth" promised to us by countless religions, suggested to us by the habits of the natural world? We cannot remember what we did before these lifetimes, and we certainly will not remember comes after. I suppose these ideas consume my thoughts each night, as I cautiously creep along the edge of the Bardo.

How do other religious worldviews address this all-too-human concern? Have we truly lived, and continue living infinite lifetimes as the Buddhists and the Hindus suggest? The natural rhythm of life invoked in agrarian articulation--is this the cycle of Samsara that the Eastern Philosophies purport to help us overcome? At this powerful springtime moment, I feel captivated by this cycle, comforted by its predictability. So does this signify my attachment to earthly things, and thus my eternal bondage?

If I had to name anything as a bonding force for me, it is love--needing it and needing to give it. Companionship. I am, as I have noted, acutely aware of the isolation and loneliness that accompanies the process of death; I watched Бабця endure it during her final year with us.

Honestly, I just want to feel a loving presence in my life for as long as I can, before I experience that inevitable detachment. That is my crutch, my hurdle. Is it so wrong? That dark, tingling emptiness that pinches the crown of my head as I lay awake at night just breeds such anxiety...

Ha! Let me flee to the simple comfort of soil, seeds and sun! Gently cover the fragments of life with soil. Warm them, water them and wait. We will face the beyond soon enough, but for right now I'd rather think about tomatoes... You know, I heard someone say once that there's two things money can't buy: love and homegrown tomatoes.

Day 13: Seven Months Until 11/11/11!

I have a confession to make: J and I broke the fast. We fell off the wagon. Seemed kinda inevitable in a way. In our defense, we did it with intention. No? Not buying it?

We developed a pretty good excuse I think: Baseball Season.

That's how it happened--falling off I mean. It was game two of the 2011 season, the Phillies versus the Astros on a Saturday night. Nothing crazy. Just some bbq, some beers, and some baseball. Is that so wrong? I mean, would you try to tell me if the big JC were around today that he would not be a baseball fan? Please!

Other than that, we have resumed Quizzo attendance (a great way to flex brain cells by simultaneously depleting them. If you do it right, the activities cancel each other out!). And we have had the occasional beers here and there on the weekend. So this begs the question, "Have I failed at what I set out to do?"

I like to think of it along the lines of acknowledging my limitations. I understand the whole bit about depriving oneself of something that brings pleasure in order to gain perspective. However, I would argue that sometimes the benefit lies in not achieving.

Especially for someone like me, who feels compelled to perform tasks at an inhuman level at times, not perfectionistically but intensely. Does this derive from unwavering expectations set forth in my developmental years? The only girl out of my two sibings, and thus the "show-piece" of the family? Most likely.

Another perspectival vantage I can attest to from the fasting process pertains to the disagreements between J and I. Not to say that we have not argued at all since the fast began. Of course we argue about the mundane, daily things just like any other red-blooded American couple just trying to make it work. Fire and Ice we sometimes call ourselves.

It is to say, however, that our tiffs do not adopt an alcohol-fueled life of their own, which spares us the extraneous "drunk guilt." What I am getting at is, while our current disagreements touch on division of household responsibilities, or, say, emotional misunderstandings, the drunken equivalents reside in absolute ridiculousness!

Looking back, I would say that our biggest, blow out fight evolved out of a disagreement over pop musicians' influences and the state of the music industry today. Neither of us have a truly vivid recollection of this argument. The best reconstruction we've arrived at is, while throwing a few back at Fox and Hound in center city on a Saturday night, we saw a Lady Gaga video on the giant screen TV. Disco Stick I think it was. Might have been Bad Romance...I don't know.



It's all your fault, bitch!

  In any event, J commented that everyone lauds the Lady for her originality, but she is really just repeating what Madonna did twenty some-odd years ago. Now, I am not a rabid Lady Gaga fan, nor did I seek to defend her, but I had to point out that artists "ripping off" fellow artists has been happening long before the 21st century.

"Christ, if it weren't for Bo Diddley, the Rolling Stones would have never had a career!"

We don't remember why it escalated, but I do remember thinking at the time "Why is he talking to me this way?"--it wasn't the content, but the tone. That line of thinking, I might add, is first-cousins with "I LOVE you, maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaan!" not to mention a step-sibling of "What? You think you're BETTER than ME?"

Somehow, words became shots, and beers became tears (both in the bathroom, and at the bar), which turned to storming in and out of the place, an inebriated migration across the street to McGlinchey's for last call, all leading up to the climax, and drunken-denoument:


Ah, McGlinchey's: dark, smoky, and you can buy a boiled hot dog for only 75 cents!

  J dramatically rising to his feet from across the booth at McGlinchey's, flinging his cigarette lighter onto the floor (which several vulturous drunks scrambled to claim as their own), shouting, "I'M LEAVING YOU!" and proceeding to drive home without me.

Which, in turn, inspired me to take a cab to Kelliann's, stay there until about 3am, stumble into the apartment, and awaken the sleeping J by sitting on him repeatedly, proceeding to curse him in Ukrainian at the top of my voice and, finally, spittting in his face. Needless to say, our neighbors aren't quite fond of our drunken arguments either.

Of course, the following morning was all achey-hazey-vaguely-painful. We were still angry at each other, but not quite sure why. We still can't agree on the cause of the dispute. We just treated each other like assholes. Alcohol at times contorts confrontations into cantakerous creatures, and sullies the senses of otherwise sensible people. Stepping back this Lent has allowed me to embrace that perspective.

So, at the end of it all I don't feel bad about J and I having some beers and watching some baseball. As long as he doesn't start talking trash about Wilson Valdez. So what he can't play the game like Chase Utley--no one can play the game like Chase Utley! I mean, give the guy a chance, he's new to the majors, let him find his feet! You know he was player of the game on Friday? Yeah just wait till he gets comfortable... I bet by the end of the season J will be rockin' a Valdez jersey, like, "Utley WHO?".... 



It's only a matter of time...


Heh heh... Why don't I just quit while I'm ahead? 



 

Day 35- 8:32pm, Erie-Torresdale El platform

Got a belly fulla nothin'
Well, air perhaps...
Aches like a muted void permeating my midsection
Muscles contract, contract again, cramp
Little bubbles pop inside my abdomen
Where in the hell did they come from?!
Gastric activity compensating for the lack of food?

Man, I wish I had some pizza.
Deep dish style like Lou Manalti's on Wrightwood Ave. in Chi-town?

 Nah-
I'm a thin-crust kinda gal :)

Like that Mexican pizza we had delivered to Carlos' apartment when we paid him a visit in downtown Cancun, 1989. I was seven years old; that pizza was damn delicious.

In any case, Carlos' live-in girlfriend sure was not pleased when my mom showed up, three kids in tow, to drop in on her former lover.

The tension was palpable--but of little concern to children in the midst of American sitcoms dubbed into Spanish (Mexican ALF!), and the hammocks hanging in the kitchen (which we took turns using as swings).

Mom warned us not to play in those hammocks: "It's like getting into someone else's bed."

People should heed their own advice sometimes (ah, see, now I'm just being overly dramatic ;)

But anyway, that pizza. Was. So. Good.

Came from Dominoes Pizza as a matter of fact. See, I LOVE me some thin crust, and this Mexican Dominoes Pizza from 22 years ago was by far THE best thin-crust pizza I ever had.

They must have concocted a special recipe--It seemed like the cook used a tortilla rather than dough. So light, so crispy. The perfectly delicate, yet sturdy enough to withstand the toppings. Saborocissimo, mofo!

Maybe just one more taste of this fantasy thin-crust pizza could satiate the hunger-void?
Oh, maybe it's just gas...

Day 34-Where'd You Get Your Information From, Fool?

Okay, I admit it. As much as I may have derided it or denied it in the past, it's true: I am a total npr junkie. (Maybe I should have given that up for Lent).

But it's not what you think! You see, I took a quiz in last month's Cosmo magazine that tells you what kind of stimulation you respond to the most, and it turns out I love the auditory. Which explains why I constantly have music on, why I prefer to listen to the Phils on 1210 am radio rather than watch the games on TV, why I date musicians (wink wink ;), and why I tune in to npr.

That being said, I must note that every denizen of the twenty-first century knows how difficult it is to obtain objective information. Someone finances the news transmission somewhere along the line, no matter the agenda of the producer. The American media generator is particularly sanitized, in my opinion, and npr bears no exception.

Just this afternoon, I listened anxiously to a "special report" addressing recent developments in the Libya confrontation, including journalist accounts and expert testimonies. A peculiar thing occurred to me: How could I, as an individual, ever prove or disprove whether this is really happening?

Please don't misinterpret my question--I do not promote denial a la Ahmadinejad. Instead, I wonder about the individual's position in the face of the media corporaglomoration.

The report I heard pertained to a foriegn land which I have never seen (Lybia), embroiled in a conflict between parties which I am not affiliated with (Gaddafi supporters and Libyan rebels), and a military intervention led by an organization I do not belong to (the United Nations), using weapons technology that I haven't the faintest bit of knowledge about. In this case, do I simply accept these premises as fact because I cannot dispute them?

He could use some "me"-time

(Side note-when did Khaddafi become Gaddafi? Feels like it happened sometime shortly after the Cairo uprising. Is there a reason why the news media subtly alter the names of foriegn leaders when these figures receive international attention?)

Even a story as trivial (and irresistible) as the Charlie Sheen drama succumbs to this type of questioning. In fact, the influence external media forces in this story may be more apparent than in the realm of international conflict.

He's Liutenant Topper Harley from Hot Shots!, he's the Wild Thing Ricky Vaughn from Major League, and Daniel Saxon from Beyond the Law, of straight to video fame.

Lovable bad boy Charlie Sheen is currently being portrayed as a mentally unstable, impulsive, violent, porn-star loving drug addict who commits morally reprehensible acts on the reg.

Could it be that Sheen's verbal tirade directed at his powerful, Hollywood boss with all sorts of media connections ignited a vast mechanism that shapes public perception [of Charlie]? Have the airwaves been inundated with carefully-edited footage promoting the ideas and feelings that media producers want us plebes to subscribe to?

I am by no means defending the Sheenster, nor do I have "Sheenis Envy" (his term, not mine). Personally, I view Sheen as a spoiled rich kid with no internalized boundaries for his behavior, and an alarming inability to conduct genuine human relationships, especially with women.

Having said all this, is the individual impotent to create a sincere persona in the face of the media monstrosity? (I picture the "media monstrosity" as a Truck-a-saurus type of creature)

Unfortunately, Truckasaurus was not as cool in person as one would expect

Essentially, I wonder if 2011 is really 1984.

Day 38- Blame it on the A-a-a-a-a-alcohol

Biking home tonight from work: the air was a balmy 72 degrees, a welcome sign of relief after this desolate winter. The evening sky was "dusky"--a subtle trace of daylight still lingered when I exited the building around 7pm...

Riding through the streets, I watched as people emerged from their wintertime cocoons, blinking and sniffing the air, which, it should be noted, bore the fragrance of fast food, cigarette smoke and refuse.

Laughter and joviality (and bagpipes?) echoed down the narrow corridor of Sansom street, as I pedaled along, navigating potholes and pedestrians. Throngs of people in green t-shirts, adorned with tacky plastic accessories, clustered around the entrances of bars and pubs, some kissing passionately, others woo-ing, flicking cigarette butts into the street, stumbling off of curbs, animatedly hailing cabs...

"What a mob scene..."

The sun-deprived masses did give off a palpable electric energy, an Electric Feel if you will (sorry, had to squeeze that in there).

I rode on home, a bit wistfully, as I would not be partaking of this communion.

Of course Saint Patrick's Day has developed a reputation as a novelty holiday, an early-spring excuse for people to get together and...drink heavily. It's a decidedly American Irish Catholic celebration (do people in Ireland even observe it?).

Yet knowing these things, and being aware of the sham, I still feel compelled to don my "Everyone is Irish on Saint Patrick's Day" novelty vest sponsored by Jameson Irish Whiskey, double fist a few green colored Girls' Lights, get my groove on and toast the fact that my mother's maiden name is O'Neill.

sorry hombre, maybe next year

But, I won't. I am abstaining from the "al-ky-hawl" these days, and it ain't always easy.

Okay time for a side note: J and I recently watched The Wild and Wonderful Whites of West Virginia... It's a documentary about this legendary clan of people residing in Boone County who make the TV show Intervention look like Sunday school.

It's one of those movies you watch and say, "Well, at least we're not those people." Hank III even wrote a song about 'em. Here's a clip of the feature:

So anyway, during the film makers' interviews, the members of the White family keep referring to booze as "al-ky-hawl." I immediately took a liking to the West Virginian pronunciation, so "al-ky-hawl" it is!

Well, I guess in my case, al-ky-hawl it's not. See, the food restrictions don't bother me in the least; I don't always have the best diet, but I periodically go on these ascetic tangents where I eat only raw vegetables and drink herbal tea, things of that nature. As a good friend of mine says, "I can survive on a handful of rice."

Giving up drinking is different. Part of it is habit, another aspect is relaxation, and a third is social. It feels like several facets of my life have been interrupted simultaneously. It sure is difficult to maintain willpower when I'm not even sure what the purpose of this "sacrifice" is.

I have made it this far (one week and three days) mostly because I want to see if I can do it--and I am curious about the outcome, if there is one. Can you tell it's been a long day and I could use a glass of wine right about now?

In any case, this reveals the reason that my blog posts appear in countdown format--as soon as Lent is over, I am havin' a drink! Time and place TBA ;)

Day 41-Mortality or Morbidity?

This little critter ate it, Frankford Avenue just north of Linden

When I came across this pitiful sight, my reaction was alarm, closely followed by nausea. But I subject you readers to this only as a reminder of the inevitable.

Truth be told, most of my internal reflection revolves around the moment of death--and I would venture to say that I'm in good company when it comes to this type of contemplation. It's the everlasting mystery and there's only one way to find out the truth...

Sometimes I envy those who are able to make the leap of faith, to place it all in God's hands and believe that they'll be reunited with their loved ones and childhood pets at some great heavenly bar-b-que in the sky.

And for the record, I think that the heaven scene in Bill and Ted's Bogus Journey is a pretty awesome conception of the afterlife.

But the absolute, observable, substantiated terrestrial truth of the matter is that we simply don't know!

The idea haunts me, preoccupies me to no end. I would not say that it's a morbid fascination. For those who don't know me personally, I should probably mention that I cared for my grandmother during the last year of her life. She passed away in September, 2010, shortly after her 85th birthday.

Little Бабця admiring the summertime garden, July 2010

My grandmother was a tremendous influence in my life, and her passing was like the loss of a mother. Her agrarian, superstitious wisdom guided me through my own life, and at her deathbed I absorbed a portion of her spirit.

See, everyone gets a little religious when death hits close to home!

Since my grandmother's passing, I feel like I peer into the future: watching my body age, my significant other's too. I witness his daughter experiencing adolescent rebellion, learning how to drive, graduating high school. I stand at my father's bedside when he is too old to care for himself... It goes on and on. I feel like I am running out of time.