Indecencies Confronted While Riding My Bike

 

Not a photo of me, but I like her.

Rode my bike on the RailTrail today, mild and sunny, good day for exercise – which meant more people were out to enjoy the weather. I passed an old maskless man sitting on a low wall near the train tracks, withered beard, wind-battered mountain of a face, shoes repaired with duct tape. He was leafing through a stained newspaper as I rode by him, and his presence loomed large -- it seemed I’d unwittingly entered his force field, disturbed some serious afternoon equilibrium. It’s okay, I said to him without words. I’ll be gone in a second.

“Wicked butt,” he muttered in my wake.

Really? I giggled quietly to myself. And, savoring the sweet breeze on my face, I let the comment go.

“Wicked butt!” he claimed again, louder. 

I kept pedaling. 

“WICKED BUTT! WICKED BUTT! WICKED BUTT!!!” He was yelling now.

I then had to pause at an intersection and wait for the light to turn green. He was quite a distance away by then, and I couldn’t help myself--I turned around. Was he still sitting down? Or was he heading in my direction?

He was standing, not leaving his post. But he held one hand in the air to emphasize the salient point of his sermon: “WICKED BUTT! WIIIIIICKED BUUUTTTT!!! WIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIICCCKED!!! BUUUUTTTT!!! Roaring. Howling. Not smiling. 

A couple of pedestrians crossed to the other side the street to avoid walking near him. Though startled and angry at being yelled at – after all, my butt is quite ordinary and decent and no one had asked his opinion anyway -- I also felt a little worried about him and about others who might disturb his space. Lord, what’s up with that guy? Alone on the tracks, shoes falling apart, battling who knows what demons? Hope nobody gets hurt.

The light turned green. I continued on, nearing home. 

At the last stoplight before my street, a disheveled sandy-haired woman looked me up and down. She was unmasked and a bit unsteady, maybe intoxicated, as she reached for the “walk” button. Then her gaze rested directly on my mask. “You know, this ain’t no church here, honey!” Her voice was a harsh squawk. 

What the hell is with people today? I asked the birds in the sky. Either my butt is wicked or I’m holier than thou? Look, I don’t want to get mad at homeless people struggling to survive the day. But can’t a bitch just enjoy a sunny bike ride in peace? 

At my front door, dismounting my bike, I noticed that my so-called stretch jeans had slid far down below my T-shirt & jacket….which possibly meant that part of my bottom had been exposed – like the classic “plumber’s butt” – during my ride on the Rail Trail. For all I know, that roaring old man was a modern St. Pantaleon, aka San Pantalone (patron saint of trousers and lotteries) who was attempting, in his uniquely frenzied way, to warn me of a regrettable breach of propriety.

So, um .... What have I (re)learned today? Wear a belt. Pray. Let shit go. Keep moving.

When God is a Cat...

 From @cloudcat28 on Twitter:

"Took a pic of the cat lookin out the window and accidentally turned him into some sort of god."

LOL Herecatz

Apparently this blog o' mine would fit in either way!

"We Acted From Our Hearts"

Jessica Reznicek and Ruby Montoya

Meet the two Catholic Worker activists who secretly sabotaged the Dakota Access Pipeline. In late July, 2017, they came forward publicly about their actions.  

Excerpt from Amy Goodman's interview:

AMY GOODMAN: So, the investigation into the damage to the pipeline has been ongoing. But, apparently, the authorities did not have leads into who committed these acts of sabotage. So, Jessica, why did you decide, you and Ruby decide, to come forward on Monday?

JESSICA REZNICEK: Well, I guess one of the main reasons is Ruby and I felt very disheartened by the fact that oil is now flowing through the pipeline. Obviously, we cannot pierce through empty valves anymore. They are not empty. We halted construction up and down the line for several weeks, turning into months. And we’re now at the phase where we have to deal with the reality that this pipeline—that we failed, as resistance here in Iowa goes. And now oil is flowing through it, and there’s really nothing more to do now than come forward and let the public know that—and continue this public discourse about what that means, where we’re heading, and the consequences of it.

Click here to read the complete interview / see the Democracy Now video about Jessica Reznicek and Ruby Montoya, who were inspired by the Plowshares movement to use nonviolent direct action in an attempt to stop construction of the Dakota Access Pipeline in Iowa.  

Oh, To Live Beautifully

In the aftermath of a dear friend's death, decades-old memories have re-emerged. My friend, a gifted writer and a deeply compassionate woman, once asked in a poem: "What if happiness traveled like light from the stars? What if that happiness emitted toward me so long ago finally reached me? Small particles of spontaneous luminosity settled into my very being. I begin to give off light, am clothed in color. What if not only the world is beautiful (so beautiful that the scent of a small piece of sage can save you), but what if, at last, my life achieved a kind of beauty?"

At my friend's memorial, her husband and children explained how she began to "talk to angels" in the months before her death from brain cancer. They believed this to be due the effects of medicines and changes in her brain chemistry. But they had no explanation for the glow, the golden aura that she radiated during her final week of life. She was in a coma, but became more beautiful with each passing day. On her dying day, she was at her most radiant.

In a spell of grieving, I recalled some lines from a song sung in grade school choir. I'd hoped to find the actual song from an internet search -- it had such an exquisite, but melancholy, melody. What I found instead was the poem on which the song was based:

Oh, to live beautifully
For my brief hour
As does a wayside flower,
Unperturbed by the strange brevity
Of time allotted me;
Undisturbed by the overshadowing shine
Of tree and climbing vine;
Bravely stemming the wind and the beating rain.
Bowing and lifting again;
Within me some strong inner force as bright
As a poppy filled with light;
My feet firm-rooted in the earth’s good sod.
My face turned toward God
Yielding some fragrance down the paths I know
A little while . . . then go
As a flower goes, its petals seeking the ground
Without a cry or sound.
But leaving behind some gold seed lightly thinned
To blow upon the wind.

—Grace Noll Crowell

May the wind catch and spread the gold of our grace-infused lives.

On Grabbing Pussy

"I'm glad this was the final straw for a lot of people. Really. I am. Let's face it, most of us knew Trump said stuff like this, and acted like this well before this video was leaked. Some of us even know about him raping a 13-year old girl, and believe the 13-year old girl, because we know men like this all too well.

But here's the thing too many people DON'T know.

Grabbing pussy is not only what 'business men' do. It's what capitalist economies do, it's what, I'm sorry, human beings have been doing for too long to the earth. It's why species are going extinct every day. It's why there is almost no more top soil left on the planet. It's why the oceans are dying.

Land grabs, gold grabs, forest grabs. The rape and pillage of our Mother, Our Lady, the earth.

If you are disgusted by Trump, think about all the pussy grabbing you see every day. Think about all the pussy grabbing our very modern lives depend upon. Think about all the people in the Dakotas trying to stop yet another pussy grabbing. Think about all the very polite well spoken chivalrous men who are nevertheless involved in pussy grabbing.

I'm glad everyone's offended by this. Really, I am. But let's start naming it whenever we see it. Let's not get all ruffled just by the words, let's get ruffled by rape culture and ecocide because that's the real problem.

The rights of women and the rights of the earth are one."

~Perdita Finn (who posted this on Facebook)

Pulse

Place your hand just there on my heart can you feel it can you feel hot crimson blood thump-thumping through me hot crimson blood vouchsafing to me the holy knowledge that I am Alive here where lights are neon and audacious here where my lover can kiss me without fear without hesitation

yes I know I am Alive here because I tell you I saw the best bodies of my generation aglow on the dancefloor clutching liberation in one hand and ecstasy in the other reaching for other bodies out of their minds because minds have become prisons of self-doubt and manic depression erected by well-meaning love-scared family and friends and judgment-eyed parishioners

saw them holding each other defending each other against slurs against prayers against stonewall cannonades breaching hulls breaching confidence wooden ships on the water very free and easy and silver people on the shoreline won’t you let them be won’t you let us Be

saw bodies drowning tamped down under pressure knee-deep in pools of dying years stolen on streets of Castro and Greenwich and Chelsea and Boystown streets slick with useless blood and derision because they’re just a bunch of queers right

saw prayers offered four-on-the-floor and everybody form a line when they gunned Harvey down blood on the streets blood on the streets when they billy-clubbed Miss Major blood in the gutter blood in the gutter when they bound Matt to that roadside cross blood in the fields blood in the fields but not here not where they told us we’d be Safe

saw them reviled on street corners for Your sake O God called dirty fags by fifth-graders who didn’t even know what the word meant just knew it was the worst epithet you could hurl at another human being called trannies monsters abominations in courtroom halls gay panic defense families abandoned in tears and judgment

saw them cavorting with David and Jonathan through the Temple scarred bodies radiating Light breaking through the Ark into the Tabernacle because this is the great tablet-stoned commandment to love kindness to do mercy to dance unashamed with your God

saw them burning with angel-holy love on rooftops and cabaret stages and screens silver and glittering Freddie fabulous unafraid making rent making love making music to rescue us all from birdcages of our own design

saw them curled on couches watching Netflix hand in hand hanging from flagpoles and balconies chanting we’re here we’re queer get used to it even when we refused to listen running fingertips along toes and necks and lips face to face love to love birthing Newness and Hope in gushing torrents of Glory

saw them riddled with bullets like politicians’ teeth smiling and thumbs aloft bullets like tears I cried when I learned I didn’t have a little sister after all bullets like pills falling through empty gunshot-wound holes in fragile hearts bullets like hands laid on to pray the gay away

saw them strobe-lit and magnificent in death for nothing can take away the beauty of living as God made you of loving as God made you of loving Who God Made You

saw them all and went down to the spot between Fell Street and Oak where I feel the backbeat of Eternity strongest in this world to be with the street people and the freaks the ones who came here because they knew that they would be safe here to dance and to cry and to howl We Can Be Together and I believe we can

and in reply I heard them singing Love’s such an old-fashioned word and Love dares us to change our way of caring about ourselves yes this is our last dance this is Ourselves under but they did not finish the line because the pressure valves have burst yes Time is now fulfilled yes the Kingdom is at hand blood on the dancefloor blood on the dancefloor

and I placed my hand on my breast to feel my own healthy straight heart beat seventy times per healthy straight minute reminding me I am here I am Alive charging me to make every beat an act of penitence an appeal to God a blood-rushing prayer that this pulse this pulse this pulse at least might not beat in vain—

~Tom Emanuel, MDiv program, Pacific School of Religion