Sunday, May 31, 2020
Conversations with An Echo by Constantine Gochis
Here we all are in the middle of purported or real pandemics and the quiet and civilized outrage of people protesting real, and imagined, evils, both, and looters who likely claim no particular allegiance except themselves. It is all very discouraging, to be certain. And it might even engender considerations of the meaning of life, when meaning seems horribly elusive, as it does right now, as it has for eons before. My late father, gone from this earth over twelve years, would probably be locked and loaded in this very apartment, were he still here. And he might be writing another short story like this one as he tried to deal with another series of life's tragedies. I post this entry full of my own sense of despair at the actions of a depraved, probably sociopathic police officer, who was no doubt protected by his union, and watch the well prepared idle young breaking into stores and taking essential items like digital screens, and cool shoes, and sporting goods--all of this, in my unimportant opinion, orchestrated by those powerful people hiding in the shadows looking for complete and utter control over your life and mine.
⧪⧪⧪⧪⧪⧪⧪⧪⧪⧪⧪⧪⧪⧪⧪⧪⧪⧪⧪⧪⧪⧪⧪⧪⧪⧪⧪⧪⧪⧪⧪⧪⧪⧪⧪⧪⧪⧪⧪⧪⧪⧪⧪⧪⧪⧪⧪⧪⧪
"Tell me a riddle," you said.
"Life's a riddle."
"That's a platitude. Life is predictable, repetitious. One has only to look backward to see the future. How's that for an echo?"
"Those are words. Give me evidence, from life, from literature, from anyplace. Don't continue to be a redundant sound."
"To begin with, there are no insoluable riddles. Oedipus did it in a trice. 'What is it,' she asked, as she straddled the road, 'that crawls on all fours in the morning, two in the afternoon, and three in the evening?''
"Who said that and what is the answer? Before you reply, what's black and white and read all over?"
"Very funny. Laugh this off. The Sphinx, the 'throttler'--that is the meaning of her title, killed herself when the simplicity of her query was solved."
"It is the inevitability of every man. He crawls in the morning of his birth, walks upright at noon, in the illusion that he has something to do, or say, then in the evening of his stay leans wearily on a cane. Afterwards it is night, forever."
"It is more complex than that. There is a spirit, a mind that can say no to Divinity, though many varieties of hell are threateed as consequence, or kneel in the simplicity of a need to believe."
"An ancient stole Fire from the gods. Though chained to a rock for arrogance, he suffered an Eagle to gnaw at his entrails with great patience. Such was his faith. Such was the love of another, who allowed His eternal Substance to be nailed to a tree. Bounce that off the cavern walls."
"There are no 'Eternal substances' Another literary fiction. This is the arrogance of the species which cannot abide his non-meaning. He did take the original Fire and used it to make tools. Of course he was 'created' and by an Infinite Power, therefore he too is divine, uniq"ue, in a universe of lifeless masses and congealed atoms. Even his God needs him. Who else is there to gather in the holy edifices, the pantheons and bring him tribute and obeisance. The temples of mutual adoration."
"Pure cynicism. You know the origin of that word--dog like, contemptuous. It is the dinner conversation of a deposed Lucifer, a Devil of make-believe urbanity, of denial of life. Man has made tools that can propel him into the beginning of time, and immortality, yes, perhaps to fifteen billion years ago, when it was, "In the beginning.'"
"And back into an eternity of nothingness. He has thirty thousand tools each of which can obliterate a world. Man has a flaw, a gene that bars his entry into the Eden of his creation. He is not only a
creator but a destroyer."
"Yes, this is so. He has made and will again make pyres against his fellows. He has been seared, consumed, in that stolen Promethean but it is out of the ashes that he is fated to arise a Phoenix."
"But the fire that burns in his soul is in the music of Bach, and the Pietas of Michaelangelo, of creations out of stone that cry out for just a little spark to make them animate, a life force inherent in that little blade of grass that seeks the sun out of that little crack in an unwary concrete sidewalk.
And a gene is only a gene."
Saturday, May 23, 2020
Grocery Bag Bingo in the Time of Corona Virus
Once upon a time, in the early part of the second decade of the 21st Century, a debate ensued among the Lords and Ladies of the local governments of California. Los Angeles County and the little kingdom of Weho were in the forefront of serious discussion about the hazards of plastic bags used provided by the grocery stores for the convenience of the serfs and their harmful impact on the oceans and sea life. Their concerns were truly laudable. I for one love all form of non-human creatures, including the ones of the deep.
The complexities were enormous. Not only were plastic bags bad for the ocean, but other possibilities, like the paper bag, had their own deficiencies. Most ended up in landfills and failed to biodegrade for far too long a period. There being no perfection in human existence, a proclamation was made, although for the life of me, I still do not understand exactly what changed, except that bags were deemed "reusable", many were still plastic, only thicker than those that had previously been used, and all bags now came with a price tag of 10 cents, unless. . . .you brought your own tote, or bought for prices ranging from 99 cents to nearly 5 dollars, a tote with the logo of the stores of your choice. Since the dawn of the time of the reusable bag, I have bought them, like the lovely thick burlap-ish material of the Trader Joe bag (which I often use for laundry), and forgotten to bring them back down to my car for my next foray into the grocery aisles. I thus have a collection hidden behind an easel in my living room. As I use the reusable plastic bags for disposing of trash and used cat litter, I conceded that I simply would be paying the extra 10 cents per bag for up to about 5 bags a shopping trip. How ocean life was preserved by the reusable plastic bag I could not fathom. But I didn't make these rules, and, like all of us in the land I made do with the reality--which seemed to me to be a highly questionable one, but questionable governmental decisions are the rule, and accepted that there was a new tax, though not called a tax, on plastic bags, denominated as reusable. I could not figure how they would be better for the fish or the turtle, but that was beyond my pay grade. And while bags like the Trader Joe one above, variations to be had at every store, Gelson's, or Bristol Farms, or Ralphs, seemed to me to be fertile for all sorts of bacteria (as if people really would wash their bags), since I hardly ever used mine anyway, I just took the 10 cent plastic and accepted another aspect of my modern fate.
And then came the Coronavirus. It was decreed by the very same authorities who had created the grocery bag bingo through the second decade of the 2000's that the reusable non-plastic bags were no longer acceptable. In fact, they appear to have become death traps along with other people and every physical item that a human being could possibly touch. In a moment of absent mindedness I actually took the Trader Joe bag above, which had somehow managed to escape from behind my easel barrier, to one of my grocery stores to contain my groceries. The horror! "No, we cannot use those!"
I breathed back my hot exhale trapped behind my cloth mask, and conceded my foolishness, although the incongruity of suddenly denominating something unsafe that was always unsafe, did cross my mind.
I purchased the reusuable plastic bag. Since then, the bags are no longer, well, at least until this first phase of shutdown is over (to be replaced I am personally certain by other shutdowns as viruses and stray diseases are the lot of humans), provided with a charge.
I am saving about 50 cents a shopping trip. I just don't know how this is helping the sea life.
Saturday, May 16, 2020
They Shall Not Grow Old: Would We Be Capable of Their Sacrifices?
In my quest to find interesting documentaries to watch to stimulate mind and soul, I ran across this memorial produced by Peter Jackson of Lord of The Rings fame, for the one hundredeth anniversary of the end of World War I. In some ways it is very basic, the recordings of now dead veterans previously preserved, over the film of boys as young as 16 in the British Services in the trenches, facing, quite frankly, a likely death as they "Fix Bayonets" and go "Over the Top" to be cut in half by all manner of artillery then available. In other ways, that I noticed were criticized some in the reviews of elite magazines, it was a bit of restorative magic. After a black and white introduction, the hue in which these recordings were made and are stored in the Imperial War Museum, the film becomes colorized (looking to me much like the tone and tenor of the movie "1917") and, at first surprisingly to me, the voices of officers and men from the screen spoke and seemed to match the movement before me. It turns out that lip readers were used to match what was said by these long dead boys, where it was possible. Again, it seems that reviewers found this objectionable as somehow being misrepresenting of the truth of the time and place. For me, it was like seeing real ghosts and it penetrated my heart and mind in a way I could not have previously imagined.
The picture above which attends a You Tube Link I highly recommend was one that really affected me. Remember that cameras were still a new thing during the first part of the 20th Century. These boys were having recorded their smiles of curiousity, but mostly, their bewilderment and fear and to me, in the case of the boy pictured here, their profound sadness. Not everyone who speaks in the voiceovers went because of a sense of mission; as was true of those days and days before, young men had a Romantic idea of war, for reasons that to my modern mind, seem irrationhal. It was true of Francis of Assisi when he went off to war against Perugia, only to be imprisioned for one year and to discover upon his return, the complete disorder of man and the need for God.
But some had a real sense that there was something to be defended, a way of life, perhaps, one where some men did not exert the authority of pure power and coercion against his fellow man. The cost was 1 million British servicemen. Even then, some would say that it was a waste, as they might say World War II's fight against Hitlerian totalitarianism and the culling of those considered imperfect was a waste. But then, and probably up to these enlightened times, most would have agreed that there was a mission to preserve freedom.
There they are in the muck of the labyrinth of trenches, wearing the same uniform perhaps for the whole of their services. There they are propped up and lined on long logs over a ditch with their pants down. No porto potties in those days. It was not infrequent that one of them would fall off and into the excrement. Many the picture of the dead soldier on the battlefield in this documentary. They would not grow old because they were gutted bloody on the battlefield.
If they be called foolish automatons for the cause of freedom, what might we be called today? Freedom does not have quite the cache that once it did. One might even say that we are automatons for promised safety and security that no government run by human beings will ever provide as the nature of humanity is first to suggest, then to command, and finally to compel. You don't think so? That's ok. It doesn't matter what I think as I am in no position to influence the world. In time, as is true on social media platforms, any opinion found inconsistent with prevailing propaganda will be simply mocked, then dismissed, and finally, excised. As I said, freedom doesn't have the cache it once did.
Even I, as I watched the documentary said to myself, "Why would anyone ever fight for his country?" And given the mere lip service we give to the people who lie under white crosses and
Jewish Stars in lonely fields, that boy above seems a bit of a fool to have believed that his sacrifice would matter 102 years later. But he was just a boy. He probably wasn't thinking that far ahead. He just wanted to go home to his mother, or to his girl.
Anyway, the peoples of nations say they will never forget the sacrifices of these kids, not only the ones who died, but the ones who return with their minds and souls in shreds from what they have seen. Christians say, the blood of the martyrs is the seed of the Church. Church and Country seem to me, as I look around and compare this time of my little life to other times of my little life, pale versions of what they were even 60 years ago. I know, many think that because it was imperfect back "in the day" it has no merit ab initio. That is what comes of man thinking he can create a Utopia, or build a Tower to Heaven all by his lonesome. Here we are, modern men and women, knowing so much more than Socrates, or Pericles, or Plato, or Aristotle, or Augustine, or Jerome, or Thomas More, or Bonhoeffer, or Stein, or well, anyone who had anything to do with the Declaration of Independence.
I think I need to find a more cheery documentary. Let me go and look right now. But first, I probably should say a prayer to the God so thoroughly pushed out of the public square that we don't know up from down.
Tuesday, May 12, 2020
If I Had More Time. . . . By Constantine Gochis
It is time for another Constantine story. As I go through them, always a bit of delightful discovery of a person I knew, but didn't. Isn't that always the case with those closest to us? This particular entry somehow also seems apropos to the period through which we are living. And so, I leave my father to posit the question
IF I HAD MORE TIME?
There is no shortage of attributions, and a multiplicity of aphorisms on the subject of Time. It stands still. It flies. It waits for no man. It inspires the musing of poets. It is like an ominous weather system that hovers in the sky above your town. It waxes and wanes. It is of the essence. Witness:
"Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
Until the last syllable of recorded time. . ."
It is precious for some and a matter of indifference to others. The former have reason to mistrust the idiosyncrasies of Time. Who knew this better than Napoleon who addressed his conquering soldiers in Egypt in the beginning days of his glory with this epiphany:
"Go sir, gallop, and don't forget that the world
was made in six days. You can ask me for anything
you like, except time."
Besides, he said to his assembled horde:
"Soldiers, from the summit of yonder pyramids
forty centuries look down upon you."
That's a lot of yesterdays.
And you ask me, "What if you had more time?"
If this is a genuine offer, and indeed you are the One who can shape the infinite, I beseech you listen to my confession.
I look with sadness in the "recycle bin" of my life. Do not judge quickly. It is no better nor worse than the lot of most of us. Perhaps it is a little less worthy, somewhat short of the "Image" in which we are made.
And in the matter of Time, great gaps of nothing done, little of any marked consequence. The great challenges that have crossed my path are still undone. It is the nature of Time to expand to meet the needs of one's procrastination. Nevertheless, I beseech all who are wont to judge. We are cast into this infinity of candy stores, like children with varying amounts of small change. The things you want to buy are always just a little more than the coins you have to offer.
Still there is some sweetness in whatever we choose so a little more of the same cannot hurt. It is definitely in order to tarry a little longer. Hence, if I had more time. . ..
I am prone, for better of for worse, to persist in the ruts I have made already in the road of life--essentially, whatever I have done before. I am a fallible, weak vessel. Time is precious even if one does nothing with it except loll in the glory of Creation and reflect on the celestial brightness of the sun caught in a dew drop on a leaf. The poet T.S. Eliot, however, laments:
"Where is the life we have lost in living?
Were is the wisdom we have lost in knowledge?
Where is the knowledge we have lost in information?
The cycles of Heaven in twenty centuries
bring us farther from God and nearer to the Dust."
Lighten up, Thomas. Omar the tent maker said it best. "Take the cash and let the credit go."
Monday, May 11, 2020
Coronavirus California: Monday during Phase Two
I have to say that Phase Two looked pretty much like Phase One as I did some errands in my West Hollywood area. Well, it looked the same outside. As for me, I have made a change. I was finding it really hard to breathe in any of the usual masks folks are wearing. Taking back in my old air really unnerved me, who knows why. A while back I had ordered an alternative on line, but it took forever to receive it. Until this past weekend. My new face shield. It may not look any better, and in fact, when I see this picture, I think it looks worse, but it surely feels better. And it is easily cleaned.
Thus, newly, though ghastly attired, with my eye makeup smearing by virtue of sweat, off I went to get quarters for the washing machine I use in my building. (Yes, I do disinfect it before I drop in the clothes.) In ordinary times to which we may never return, change appears as I go about purchasing lunch or sundries in restaurants or retail stores, but in the last two months I haven't used any cash, or rarely used it, and so no quarters have accumulated. The last time I had to go to the bank, there was no wait, but this time, there was a line as is customary for the grocery store, though there were maybe a total of less than 10 people inside the bank.
It was the kind of day that has kept me in California despite its near destruction by our one party system, blue skied sunny with just the right level of wafting breeze. I noticed a pet store across the street, pretty new, it seemed to me, though how long it will last during this economic downturn I couldn't say. But its signage was certainly of the kind that one has come to expect from our society unencumbered by basic beauty and civility. Billboards and store fronts are now the sites of ugly announcements of the entertainment or accessories enticing the 21st Century generation.
Technically, indeed, a female dog is properly categorized as on the window here. But for me, raised in unenlightened times when propriety ruled, the no doubt intended to be cute advertisement, was just another example of an oppressive period in human history. There was another humane pet store down on Fairfax for a while. I only went into it once or twice, it's signage, "Barks n 'B--ches" having always put me off. And humane as it was, it smelled like a zoo. But they went out of business before the current crisis. Lucky for this new place that the word was available for creative use.
Waiting my turn to go into the bank I considered how my father had often predicted apocalyptic events that would occur in my lifetime, after his passing. Somehow, it is still a surprise that I am among a masked population standing on blue or green tape to assure that I my fellow citizens and I are safely separated from each other. At some points, walking on the street, or looking out my bedroom window, the streets eerily empty and some leaflet attached to a pole flapping the only sound, I have thought I was in the opening of an episode of one of those prophetic, black and white television science fiction shows. People have mentioned the "Twilight Zone" as one. And that surely is regrettably applicable. I try not to think that our permanent future will feature variations of this current crisis. A man in a mask comes by to ask a question of the guard. I can't understand what he is saying because his mask muffles the sound.
I receive my dispensation to enter the bank, and the teller is wonderfully accommodating. Then off to Bristol Farms to see what I can buy. Here there is no line and I get right in with my newly sanitized shopping cart. I buy stuff I probably would not ordinarily, just in case. This is a very small grocery store and for all the "wait here" signs on the floor, you pass well less than within six feet of the person in the same aisle as you.
Fortified by my purchases, I begin my walk back to my apartment. I noted that the Griddle Cafe, a usually highly frequented and celebrated spot for young people, weekends with long lines of waiting customers, hasn't been open even for take out for over a couple of weeks. Then on the corner, the Indian Restaurant that also had been open for take-out is closed. They had been starting to pick up before the shutdown. I wish them well, but my sense is that time has run out for them. Does a livelihood have anything to do with life? Facebook discussions would indicate that the answers are very different and highly charged.
As I hit my block, I walked past a building--the place where Sheila Graham used to live in Old Hollywood Days, and where her boyfriend, who actually lived on Laurel Avenue, the world renowned writer F. Scott Fitzgerald died of a heart attack in 1940, eighty years ago. There was a mother on the grounds, her Gerber like baby crawling excitedly on a patch of grass. She didn't have a mask on. In that small picture, life looked entirely normal. I stopped to watch the baby. For a moment, all the stresses of the last two plus months dissipated for a moment. I tried to say something to the mother in praise of her beautiful child. She didn't hear me. She pulled out her ear buds. She picked the child up until I passed on. The child shrieked with the plea to be put back onto the grass.
Thus, newly, though ghastly attired, with my eye makeup smearing by virtue of sweat, off I went to get quarters for the washing machine I use in my building. (Yes, I do disinfect it before I drop in the clothes.) In ordinary times to which we may never return, change appears as I go about purchasing lunch or sundries in restaurants or retail stores, but in the last two months I haven't used any cash, or rarely used it, and so no quarters have accumulated. The last time I had to go to the bank, there was no wait, but this time, there was a line as is customary for the grocery store, though there were maybe a total of less than 10 people inside the bank.
It was the kind of day that has kept me in California despite its near destruction by our one party system, blue skied sunny with just the right level of wafting breeze. I noticed a pet store across the street, pretty new, it seemed to me, though how long it will last during this economic downturn I couldn't say. But its signage was certainly of the kind that one has come to expect from our society unencumbered by basic beauty and civility. Billboards and store fronts are now the sites of ugly announcements of the entertainment or accessories enticing the 21st Century generation.
Technically, indeed, a female dog is properly categorized as on the window here. But for me, raised in unenlightened times when propriety ruled, the no doubt intended to be cute advertisement, was just another example of an oppressive period in human history. There was another humane pet store down on Fairfax for a while. I only went into it once or twice, it's signage, "Barks n 'B--ches" having always put me off. And humane as it was, it smelled like a zoo. But they went out of business before the current crisis. Lucky for this new place that the word was available for creative use.
Waiting my turn to go into the bank I considered how my father had often predicted apocalyptic events that would occur in my lifetime, after his passing. Somehow, it is still a surprise that I am among a masked population standing on blue or green tape to assure that I my fellow citizens and I are safely separated from each other. At some points, walking on the street, or looking out my bedroom window, the streets eerily empty and some leaflet attached to a pole flapping the only sound, I have thought I was in the opening of an episode of one of those prophetic, black and white television science fiction shows. People have mentioned the "Twilight Zone" as one. And that surely is regrettably applicable. I try not to think that our permanent future will feature variations of this current crisis. A man in a mask comes by to ask a question of the guard. I can't understand what he is saying because his mask muffles the sound.
I receive my dispensation to enter the bank, and the teller is wonderfully accommodating. Then off to Bristol Farms to see what I can buy. Here there is no line and I get right in with my newly sanitized shopping cart. I buy stuff I probably would not ordinarily, just in case. This is a very small grocery store and for all the "wait here" signs on the floor, you pass well less than within six feet of the person in the same aisle as you.
Fortified by my purchases, I begin my walk back to my apartment. I noted that the Griddle Cafe, a usually highly frequented and celebrated spot for young people, weekends with long lines of waiting customers, hasn't been open even for take out for over a couple of weeks. Then on the corner, the Indian Restaurant that also had been open for take-out is closed. They had been starting to pick up before the shutdown. I wish them well, but my sense is that time has run out for them. Does a livelihood have anything to do with life? Facebook discussions would indicate that the answers are very different and highly charged.
As I hit my block, I walked past a building--the place where Sheila Graham used to live in Old Hollywood Days, and where her boyfriend, who actually lived on Laurel Avenue, the world renowned writer F. Scott Fitzgerald died of a heart attack in 1940, eighty years ago. There was a mother on the grounds, her Gerber like baby crawling excitedly on a patch of grass. She didn't have a mask on. In that small picture, life looked entirely normal. I stopped to watch the baby. For a moment, all the stresses of the last two plus months dissipated for a moment. I tried to say something to the mother in praise of her beautiful child. She didn't hear me. She pulled out her ear buds. She picked the child up until I passed on. The child shrieked with the plea to be put back onto the grass.
Saturday, May 9, 2020
Fun with Podcasting!
Sheldon had his flags. I might have just latched onto podcasting, in addition to this blog. We shall see what we shall see.
Some of you probably know if you read this blog that though I became an attorney and practiced for about 30 years, my heart was always in the less confrontational (sometimes) and more creative arts. I got sidetracked, nearly, from the law when I worked in college radio, and interned here and there in the media, and when I did some speculation script writing. Since my retirement I have boomeranged into some, if not all of my old interests. Whether they "go" anywhere, which is the province of the young and ambitious, is, in my dotage, less of an interest--though I would be lying if I said I had no ambition. But primarily, and particularly during these dark days of our history, it is about that psychological stage of life Erik Erikson called "generativity".
Back in the day, when I was at WFUV, to do a radio show you needed a whole room and a lot of help. Today, you can get a mike and headphones and plug a show into your computer and download it onto a site that makes it pretty easy for you. That isn't to say that it is easy. There is learning how to handle the software and figuring out what you want to "talk" about.
There were two things that if I could go back, and if I hadn't been risk averse and well, had some money to indulge in, that I would have focused my attention on--writing, and well, radio. Well, it may not be a career, but it is a darn terrific avocation. And, since I am a little bit on the lazy side, isn't it nice that I don't have to make a living with either.
But it would be nice, that, since I share my blog with you, and it does seem to get read, more of late when people are home, that I could share my new effort with you. Now, I know not everyone is a Catholic and this podcast is about being an ordinary Catholic in a crazy world, but I hope that there will be some things that will pique interest in all of you. We all struggle with the same big questions.
So, here, I hope is a picture of my podcast page. I have all of two "programs" and each is pretty short. Baby steps.
https://djinnfromthebronx.podbean.com/
Some of you probably know if you read this blog that though I became an attorney and practiced for about 30 years, my heart was always in the less confrontational (sometimes) and more creative arts. I got sidetracked, nearly, from the law when I worked in college radio, and interned here and there in the media, and when I did some speculation script writing. Since my retirement I have boomeranged into some, if not all of my old interests. Whether they "go" anywhere, which is the province of the young and ambitious, is, in my dotage, less of an interest--though I would be lying if I said I had no ambition. But primarily, and particularly during these dark days of our history, it is about that psychological stage of life Erik Erikson called "generativity".
Back in the day, when I was at WFUV, to do a radio show you needed a whole room and a lot of help. Today, you can get a mike and headphones and plug a show into your computer and download it onto a site that makes it pretty easy for you. That isn't to say that it is easy. There is learning how to handle the software and figuring out what you want to "talk" about.
There were two things that if I could go back, and if I hadn't been risk averse and well, had some money to indulge in, that I would have focused my attention on--writing, and well, radio. Well, it may not be a career, but it is a darn terrific avocation. And, since I am a little bit on the lazy side, isn't it nice that I don't have to make a living with either.
But it would be nice, that, since I share my blog with you, and it does seem to get read, more of late when people are home, that I could share my new effort with you. Now, I know not everyone is a Catholic and this podcast is about being an ordinary Catholic in a crazy world, but I hope that there will be some things that will pique interest in all of you. We all struggle with the same big questions.
So, here, I hope is a picture of my podcast page. I have all of two "programs" and each is pretty short. Baby steps.
https://djinnfromthebronx.podbean.com/
Ordinary Old Catholic Me
There are lots of Catholic me’s out there. We are lifelong practitioners of a certain age, folks who maybe remember Pre-Vatican Two and were thrown into the deep end of Post-Vatican Two where we still swim. We are maybe well read, but we are not theologians. We need to stick together so that we can navigate the tides of modern life which are probably just as choppy as they were 2000 years ago. Ordinary Old Catholic Me is Ordinary Old Catholic You. Let’s walk together!
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- Posts
Introducing Catholic Me to Catholic You
May 5th, 2020 by Jinn
Beginnings. This is a beginning for me in a different forum. I have been blogging for some years--DjinnfromtheBronxChapterThree.blogspot and I will continue to do that. But something about this time in our mutual histories, the world wide quarantine because of the Coronavirus, just tweaked my longstanding interest in establishing a podcast on a subject that occupies much of my world, and sharing it with others for whom that is also true, my Catholic Faith. It won't be anything fancy. I am no Teresa of Avila, though we might be talking about her down the road. You can call me Jinn for the purposes of this. . .what I hope to be a weekly gathering. I hope you'll let me know how it's going.
Should I Stay Or Should I Leave
May 10th, 2020 by Jinn
A long ago question becomes relevant today, and the answer is. . . .Stay.
-
Friday, May 8, 2020
Harry Potter and the Ominous Shadow and Joseph's Seven Fat and Seven Lean Cows by Constantine Gochis
Dad's Story:
I cannot say that I do not believe in ghosts. I will not walk under a ladder, and when a black cat crosses my path, I worry considerably. I am troubled especially when my left eye twitches. It is all part of my heritage, of my childhood, in a big house, gas lit with flickering jets that cast playful shadows on spacious walls; where the cellar staircase creaked at the lightest footstep. Eye twitching was serious business.
Papa expressed it in his own idiom. Papa was a Greek immigrant. He used to say, "my eye shakes" and his tone reflected foreboding.
I did not have to ask "Which eye?" Everyone knows the left is the sinister side of things. Everyone, certainly, that is of Mediterranean derivation. Similarly, it is common knowledge that when your left palm itches, you are in danger of losing money. I do not know if the converse is true. In any case itching of the right palm was never, to my recollection, reported.
Papa's left palm always itched and he frequently lost money.
Still, he searched patiently within the lore which was thousands of years old when he was born,
Divination, a practice still popular in the small Aegean village from which he came. Divination, from wic he sought some augury of good fortune.
On occasions such as Easter, or Christmas, or Thanksgiving, when the traditional large bird is sacrificed, Papa would make one of his traditional prophecies. He would examine, with critical attention, the carcass of the now denuded offering, with stern expression, certainly consonant with that worn by some ancient oracular priest in some Orphic Temple. He would announce: "We are going to have a good year!"
We generally did not.
Mama, whose ancestry stemmed from the sunny Italian south, was concerned with the Malocchio, The Evil Eye.
This was not peculiar to Italians. The Greeks call it Ta Matia, which simply means "the eyes". Among the Hebrews, the phenomenon is called Kenohoras for which I have no literal translation. But it is said to be an equally troublesome force in any language.
In any case, Mother thought of this phenomenon as sinister. She maintained, volubly, to Papa's great discomfiture, that the greatest potential source of danger from this malevolence resided in the machinations of her two sisters-in-law.
These ladies were, as Mama phrased it, "imports from Greece". Both my uncles married natives from their village of origin. Mama asserted further that the boys were inexpert in their choices. She said, that "they picked lemons from the Garden of Eden."
I was present, as a child, when the great ship docked in New York with my arriving aunts. Mother allowed me to go to greet them with great reluctance. "Il Malocchio", she expostulated.
The cry was reminiscent of the cry of the hunchback courtier of the Opera Rigoletto, "La Maledizzione" in Act One. Mama uttered her imprecation as dramatically as any opera star.
Papa was obdurate. His son would accompany him to greet the arriving bridegrooms and brides. Mama's objections to my attendance had made his eye shake.
I must admit I was protected with appropriate amulets. Mama put salt in my pockets and a necklace of garlic around my neck. These are powerful deterrents to the Malocchio she was certain.
They were not.
I developed Scarlet Fever.
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