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...
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
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 ;)
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.
So, what type of pseudo-ascetic prescriptions does one follow during Lent as a Uke? I wasn't entirely sure so I had to consult with my dad, whom we all affectionately refer to as Rohi.
People who know Rohi casually may not be aware that he is a pretty sensitive, spiritual guy. In some ways, his outward appearance conceals these tendencies from the general public.
Rohi, circa 1988, East Chatham, NY
That's one of my favorite pics of my dad: creepin' through the cemetery at Вовча Тропа. Supposedly that's the grave of a murdered woman whose spirit haunts a Ukrainian recreational area in upstate New York. Anyway, you can see what I mean about the persona. Or how about this:
Somewhere in the Gulf of Mexico (Fishers of Men?)
Nevertheless, I sought out Rohi's advice in this matter. We spoke on Monday, which was the beginning of our Lent. Yes, apparently Ukrainian Catholics need those two extra days of holiness--maybe to make up for the rest of the year? Our conversation went like this here:
Rohi- "You know that піст (the fast) begins today..."
Me- "Yeah I know... So what are we supposed to do?"
Rohi- "Well, we don't eat any meat, eggs, milk, butter or any kind of dairy on Monday,
Wednesday and Friday."
(no butter?! what about these words of wisdom, "butter makes it better, brother"? i loooove me some butter!)
"But it's not just about what you eat. Try to reflect a little bit, go to Church every once in awhile, say a prayer."
(let's not go that far, Rohi. baby steps!)
He also noted that children and the elderly are exempt from fasting. Funny, but I recall eating a whole lot of tuna fish on Fridays growing up...
What do other sources say about fasting? The website for St. Nicholas Ukrainian Catholic Church in Canada provides a fasting Q&A. This page states that the Ukrainian Synod following the Second Vatican Council reduced the obligatory fast days to the first day of Lent and Good Friday.
I'm of the feeling that if you're going to do something, do it right; so, Monday, Wednesday and Friday it is. And that means no more of this:
That's Rohi devouring a "fart fuel quesadilla" on a camping trip in 2006. No mas!
The page also mentions Orthodox restrictions on oil, fish and wine. However, this self-denial is geared towards people with a Mediterranean diet, and does not apply to Ukrainian Catholics. Thank god--if that were the case, I would be surviving off of soy milk and peanut butter for the next six weeks!
Being in this reflective type of mood, I recalled a passage in the Bible that mentioned guidelines for fasting...What was it again?
I distinctly remember Sister Neonilia quoting it during Lent at St. Josaphat's Ukrainian Catholic School. What a trip she was--made us keep nails in the pockets of our school uniforms for the entire duration of Lent to remind us of "His Suffering." (Hope all you eight year olds had your tetanus shots!)
I hadn't cracked a Bible open since 2008 or 2009 when i kept seeing certain numbers repeated all around me in my daily life, and i had a numerological textual exploration trying to make sense of it all... I could have just played the lottery...
After a quick internet search (so much easier than thinking...) I came across the passage:
My immediate response, of course, was "Oops!" Seems like the entire premise of blogging about this experience contradicts the purpose of spiritual fasting. Maybe I'm just in it to shed some winter-weight after all ;)
i’ve been entertaining the idea for quite some time now, to revisit the fasting traditions associated with the spiritual heritage into which i was born--Ukrainian Catholicism. At the ripe old age of 29, my identity is shifting and i must contend with this aspect of my upbringing, as with all the rest.
A part of me believes it is narcissistic to think that anyone has any interest in my ramblings. Yet the impulse to document is there--it’s what i do--and i figure it’s better served to share this with people rather than keeping it cloistered in some old spiral-bound notebook tucked away in a secret corner of my bedroom.
Now, i would not consider myself a wayward catholic... In fact, i vividly recall my childhood devotion to holy things. a mixture of fascination, curiosity, obligation, and being scared shitless of going to hell!
As i grew older, and my childhood belief structures lost their totality, i reacted to faith with retaliatory rejection, mostly because i felt that it was forced upon me. i recall questions of “why” being met with responses of “because that’s the way it is,” or better yet, “because I said so.”
My dramatic, red-blooded rebellion against the religion of my ancestors coincided with an ideological conversion to good ol’ American liberal secularism, which i still partially-subscribe to today.
In a way, we experience social pressures to minimize matters of the spirit due to consumerism, political correctness, fear of judgment or ridicule, or not wanting to appear as a Bible Beater (which i assure you i am not!). As a result, a certain hollowness permeates interactions, some type of denial.
During my early adulthood it was precisely this type of absence, a spiritual vacuum, that led me on a quest to create my own spiritual identity. There was the Wiccan Bible, The Celestine Prophecy, the works of Carlos Castaneda which i recovered from my brothers’ old bedroom in my abandoned childhood home on Comly Street, and a lot of hallucinogenic experimentation.
check this guy out
The early days of my celebrated, 7 year college career witnessed an intellectual exploration of the god-concept. i enrolled in a litany of courses offered by Temple University’s religion department, starting with Religion and Psychology, conducted by Dr. Lucy Bregman.
She introduced my fledgling spirituality to Viktor Frankl, Abraham Maslow, old friends Sigmund Freud and C.G. Jung. These predominantly Jewish old dead white men (Maslow might still be alive, no?) made it okay to think of religion in terms of early twentieth century psychological symbolism. Goodbye Catechismal, dualistic view of the Judeo-Christian faith!
At times i pondered the religion of my birthright, which seemed so banal and familiar. i compared it to the exotic philosophies of Hinduism and Buddhism (my secret favorite!). i suppose my attraction to these traditions stemmed from a selective westernized conceptualization--the ever-popular religious pluralism residing one small step above, “I’m not religious, I’m spiritual.”
Although these faiths entice me, especially Buddhism’s enlightened aloofness, i had enough sense to realize that i could never contextualize my life within the experience of the followers of these philosophies. (Unless i could somehow develop a way to be reincarnated into another society, perhaps in another century.)
My quest came full circle when, on the verge of earning a respectable but decidedly unmarketable religion minor from Temple, i satisfied my upper level religion requirement by enrolling in the course Jesus in the Gospels. i had to suspend certain prejudices when starting this course; being a well-educated secularized woman, i had often railed against the Judeo-Christian faith as being too patriarchal, glorifying this anthropomorphized version of “the Man.” And I still feel that way a little--it’s one of my biggest spiritual conflicts.
In any case, i approached the course with a Catholic-school familiarity with the Bible and my own brand of heretical prejudice. Yet on the first day, when Dr. Limberis humbly revealed that she was fluent in Hebrew, Greek, and Aramaic, i thought to myself, “This lady’s got some Jeez-cred!” Preconceived notions and heresy were duly suspended.
The course revealed to us the historical dimension accompanying the creation of the four Gospels. We
read this book!
discussed Messianic liberation theology, the Gospel of Thomas, the influence of Paul on modern Christianity. We analyzed The Last Temptation of Christ by Nikos Kazantzakis--a book that every Westerner should read at least once before they die. At the conclusion of the course, i discovered a renewed perception of the faith I was born into, but I still kept it at arm’s length.
Then, a powerful revelation regarding the purpose of religious occurred under tragic circumstances. It happened that a family member passed away suddenly at the young age of 57, the victim of a massive heart attack.
I recall the moment of insight, standing in St. Nicholas Church at 24th and Poplar at uncleTony’s funeral mass, singing the ancient Ukrainian funeral dirge “Вічная Пам’ять”--Eternal Remembrance.
It was then that I understood ritualized activity provides a framework for the bereaved, a support structure that guides social interaction at a time when intense emotion interferes with protocol. The ritual is a rite of passage pertaining to my heritage; one day the bereaved will sing Вічная Пам’ять at my own funeral. I also understand that acute awareness of mortality shapes faith at a fundamental level. These ideas, and others perhaps not so noble, guide me in the task at hand: the Lenten Fast. This online journal of sorts will document the process.
