May 15, 2003

• shaken not stirred

   

  Cue the music.  You’ll hear the pluck of a banjo, mandolin and the sweet vocal strains of soprano and country baritone.  They’ll weave a bittersweet, day-ending harmony.  The sky is a canvas, smeared with beguiling shades of citrus.  In the Midwest, corn is planted in long, straight rows that mesmerize sleepy Heartland teamsters.  People park accordingly.

   

  The cars are battered and weatherworn – reds, blues and browns, dull and faded according to mileage.  In rows, they’re parked nicely in a small gravel lot and as the sun begins its trip downward, the shadows bend and stretch graceful with orange-yellow shading.  Latecomers hear the muted sounds of music and spiritual ecstasy spilling from thick double doors.  When the roll is called up yonder, I’ll be there.

   

  A latter day Edwards: American sinners in the hands of a friendly American god. And we’ve all managed to piss Him off.  So, his delivery is charming but the meat of it is something scary.  Rapt at attention lest they miss the words of a frowning Maker, they listen and tremble in crumpled work clothes – stained overalls and wrinkled polyester suits from the Sears catalogue.  It’s an open door and all are welcome.

   

  The back row let’s you sit and listen without church eyes boring holes into your sweaty, heathen back.  You’ve heard it all before, in less dramatic variations of course.  But there’s a sincerity here in this sanctuary and the wildness in his eyes is actually pretty charismatic.  So, you’ll stay and listen.

   

  You’ll drive on home come midnight because you’re tired and it’s been a long day.  Maybe you’ll think about the message.  At the least, you’ll wonder about purpose and meaning.  You’ll remember Sunday school and then you’ll think of all those renegade thoughts that make you sneer and shake your head when you sleep at night.

   

  He’ll go home and watch the last few minutes of Johnny Carson.  He’ll hit the light switch and offer up a prayer of thanks.  He might feel a little empty or maybe the word is confused.  He’ll wonder if he shook hands too hard or if he messed up the Sinner’s invitation.  Maybe he’s too smart for all this.  They’ll have to fix the church organ; the upper chords play flat.  Perhaps it’s what he’s made for.

   

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  Weathered Pews

   

  A tenuous beast of disparate voices

  Lifting songs of the abstract

  And long off –

  A way’s away.

   

  From number crunchers swallowed

  By ledgers and firm formulae.

   

  Chalkboard pedagogy, red pens

  Marking come and go

  Mapping the future per diem.

   

  Vaudeville dappers with their

  Silk Road cravats,

  Sealing the deal last week.

   

  To candy stripers slaving away

  Wiping wounds, ogled by

  Sickly men.

   

  They come with the learned sway of

  Reeds that bend and

  Quite the contrary,

  Sometimes break.

   

  Their voices rising, thoughts everywhere

  Floating or waiting

  For the Beautiful Bludgeon to

  Bludgeon, bludgeon, bludgeon

  Bludgeon, bludgeon

  Beautifully.

   

  ——————-

   

  Read Anne Lamott’s Traveling Mercies.  It’s pretty refreshing.

   

  

   

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  Here’s a fun article from LA Weekly.  About a Vietnamese Poker Don.  Worth a read.

   

  ———————-

   

  Californians kick butt.  Giguere is on a roll and it’s purdy.  Kariya scores two! 

   

  

   

   

  for your break: Matt11:28

  • 9:29 am
  • 9 Comments