NRFU

It's official: I have been sworn in as a Dept of Commerce census worker - Non-responsive Follow-Up - doesn't that just beg ridicule - FU, Census. I found myself on a raft of unemployed misfits adrift in a sea of bureaucracy - perfect fit, I might add. In its wisdom, or more likely a computer snafu, most of us are from Palmer Lake, where no one received a census form in the mail. Motivation: fresh air and a weekly check, in that order (it being Colorado and all).

Here, Kitty Kitty

I'm thinking this blog might be a little like Schroeder's cat - not unlike the old conundrum regarding the tree that falls unheard in the forest. Does the blog exist if I don't write it? Or don't think about it - well, I do think about it, so there's that. Is it existing and not existing at the same time since no one reads it? Or does it only exist in the past when there are no recent entries? Is it less real if it doesn't fulfill its purpose for existing? I didn't do that well in physics, no surprise there - so quantum mechanics might well be beyond me. But since I did so well in algebra, I do understand the cat, its existence being an abstraction.

Nonetheless, a zwischeraum by definition is another Schroeder's cat - the intersice, the space between rooms or whatever- exists and doesn't exist at the same time, since time itself has to determine when it's real.

The Post-Lenten Resurrection Rag

Lent this year was less than satisfying, although as Fr Jeff stated, we have a propensity for embracing the concept of hair shirts and ashes and eschew the joys of salvation - maybe he didn't state it just that way, but point being - it's easier for us to suffer than rejoice and when we (I) don't suffer enough, Lent has not been successful. At any rate, toward the end of the meditative mea culpas and half-hearted deprivations, I had a really bad cold while reading As I Lay Dying and maybe made up for my lackluster Lent. Maybe. And I thought about to what extent we participate in our own deaths - we do, of course, but how consciously? And maybe Voltaire was correct in his perception of Christ's sacrifice as a form of suicide - condoned by The Big Guy, but nonetheless. When we buy into fate, into our destiny, into doing what's expected that sort of self-abnegation is a little death. A small death, and maybe not so important, but certainly more in the realm of suffering than rejoicing, no? And when, really, did Jesus decide Daddy wasn't coming to save him and game was on with the Roman soldiers? Was he hoping right up until the end that he wasn't going to have to die up there, or at the very least, not an ignominious death - maybe something really spectacular and immediate - more compelling than darkening sky and rending curtains in the tabernacle? Like The Mother Ship. http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2010/04/11/AR2010041103996.html?hpid=artslot

the moon is crossing uranus

http://www.soulgardencollective.tv/

I lost track

of the rest of March, no doubt due to Daylight Savings Time descending upon us at an obscenely early date, the Ides of March no less. Or thereabouts - I have lost track - days traveling across New Mexico and Arizona, the Petrified Forest (another moving adventure), various and sundry snowstorms - three after aforementioned Ides. And a truly debilitating head cold. But I'm so much better now...really.