July 2007

With the toasts I did not give, I had to come up with something great to read at my brother’s wedding. This ends perfectly for raising a glass, and it’s from a book not unfamiliar to a lot of people.

When love beckons to you, follow him,
Though his ways are hard and steep.
And when his wings enfold you yield to him,
Though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you.
And when he speaks to you believe in him,
Though his voice may shatter your dreams as the north wind lays waste the garden..

For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you. Even as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning.
Even as he ascends to your height and caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun,
So shall he descend to your roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth.

Like sheaves of corn he gathers you unto himself.
He threshes you to make you naked.
He sifts you to free you from your husks.
He grinds you to whiteness.
He kneads you until you are pliant;
And then he assigns you to his sacred fire, that you may become sacred bread for God’s sacred feast.

All these things shall love do unto you that you may know the secrets of your heart, and in that knowledge become a fragment of Life’s heart.

But if in your fear you would seek only love’s peace and love’s pleasure,
Then it is better for you that you cover your nakedness and pass out of love’s threshing-floor,
Into the seasonless world where you shall laugh, but not all of your laughter, and weep, but not all of your tears.

Love gives naught but itself and takes naught but from itself.
Love possesses not nor would it be possessed;
For love is sufficient unto love.

When you love you should not say, “God is in my heart,” but rather, “I am in the heart of God.”
And think not you can direct the course of love, for love, if it finds you worthy, directs your course.

Love has no other desire but to fulfil itself.
But if you love and must needs have desires, let these be your desires:
To melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody to the night.
To know the pain of too much tenderness.
To be wounded by your own under­standing of love;
And to bleed willingly and joyfully.
To wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving;
To rest at the noon hour and meditate love’s ecstacy;
To return home at eventide with gratitude;
And then to sleep with a prayer for the beloved in your heart and a song of praise upon your lips.

From The Prophet, by Kahlil Gibran.

If you’ve read or own the book, you can read it and see why I did not read the speech on marriage, but the one on love. I like this passage very much.

There is supposed to be something special about the number seven. Seven days of creation for a [cough] perfect creation. Etc. Well, I went to Catholic school long enough (12 years and 2 years of grad school) that seven is my lucky number, too.

Nonetheless, I hate to tell you this, especially if you insulted family members and otherwise drove yourself and other people crazy to get married today. But, you know, the world didn’t end on 06/06/06, and nothing is going to happy today, either. Not with the biggest prayer vigil ever. If you waited until July 7th to pray, well, it’s going to take more than the coincidence of the arbitrary numbers of the “common era” date to change you or the world.

That is all.

P.S. Look at the way this number works out:)

[Larger.]

I was going to just take a photo of myself these days for Photo Friday: Busy. But that’s just me whining. My brother got home from his honeymoon, appeared in a parade and then had to leave for Delaware for some performances. That’s busy. All I have to do is write a dissertation, get meaningful employment before I run out of money, and throw my cousin a 40th birthday bash tomorrow. Zeke’s out the wazzoo helps, let me tell ya.

Why don’t you celebrate being free by joining up with the people fighting to keep it that way? I know, you’re going to say that it’s “the troops” who defend my freedom, while I sit here and drink expensive coffee — those for whom I have infinite love, being the offspring of a soldier.

But last time I checked, the US Constitution makes me free. And, forgive me, but I don’t recall anyone in Iraq trying to take little freedoms away from me, or other US citizens that are guaranteed by the Constitution. What? Oh, yeah? Huh? Yeah. It’s your President who’s trying to do that. And to whom we’ve already given some away by electing him again. I know, “the terrorists” want us to be afraid and thereby less free. Well, that’s a choice no one can make for us, despite our current administration trying to scare the shit out of us more than the baddies.

I’m quite tired of the stupid emails written by semi-literate morons about how Osama wants to take away all our freedom and how the war is fighting that. I’m tired of hearing about how modern soldiers defend my free speech, and I’m tired of hearing people who say that go on to complain about how I use it. First, no! No man with a gun fights for our free speech overseas. And if so, why fight for something like that unless you’re totally cool with any way that we would use it? Indeed, all those who would take away our free speech are here, and we can’t fight them with guns.

Yeah, it’s…distasteful to bitch like this on the 4th when so many of my fellow Americans have to celebrate in foxholes. It’s worse to have put them there, though, no? Or to have voted for the bastard that did it a second time? Yeah, I’m talking to you, America. Rather than the magnetic ribbons on your SUVs and the false mass emails with poor grammar, the best thing you could have done to support the troops would have been not to support their being where they are. When you voted for Stupid Monkey Face again, well, isn’t that a little hypocritical if you say you support the troops? And then you blame “liberals” and the ACLU for how messed up things are and how split we are as a nation.

Where am I going with this? I don’t know. I suppose I demand the right to consider myself patriotic, despite not supporting our President or most of the people who call this country home. I don’t like the implication that I don’t love my country because I see a lot of things wrong with it. Indeed, if I did not love it, I would not be bothered by its flaws. I hate when people imply that I don’t support the troops because I don’t support the war. You know what? You can’t support the troops if you support the war! Unless you think being over there is fun for anyone, how can you say you support people that you have supported being there? Like the constant photos of it demonstrate, I love Fort McHenry. It reminds me of the America that’s worth fighting for. And that means fighting the right people, though I of course don’t mean to storm Washington with guns. They have bigger guns. That would be stupid.

[Oh, yeah. Would-be anonymous comment-trolls: save your time and mine.]

So, at my brother’s wedding, my youngest brother and I were co-best-men. As such, we had to give a toast. Neither of us are good public speakers, so I went in search of a reading. I nearly read a passage which begins with these lines, which I have quoted here before:

Women conceive more readily, if taken
As animals are, breasts underneath, loins high,
So that the seed reaches the proper parts
More readily. Wives have no need at all
For loose and limber motions, pelvic stunts,
Abdominal gyrations.

But my wife said it was too dirty. And, really, the end of it implied that the bride was ugly. And I didn’t want to say that at all.

Another toast I thought of involved a prop. I was going to use my mother’s father’s old marble bag, which is round and brown. I was going to put two heavy rocks in it. Hold it up. Say, “Don’t worry, Tom! I’ll never let her have them!” He thought that was funny when I rejected it and told him about it.

Still another potential toast I carried around in my pocket that day as a joke. It read (and pardon the language):

Tom:
It sucks to be you.
Cheers.
Fuckers.

It’s obvious why I didn’t give that one. I did lose that index card. I hope whoever found it realized it was a joke.

But I settled on a long but beautiful quotation, which I will share when I find it.

[Larger.]

Reflected, that is, not wearing. At Lake Roland last weekend. If you wonder if Maryland is a Southern state, the park is named after Robert E. Lee. Yeah.

And it’s full of dog poop. Poopheads. Chris stepped in poop while we were behind a family with a dog. It was not them or anything, but he loudly shouted about yuppies who can’t clean up their dog’s poop. (And he is 100% right.) Then, ten minutes later, the big ole mom let their dog lay some wet turds right next to the lake’s edge. And left it there. No wonder they had to close the park some years back, and no wonder it smells like dog poop whenever I go there.

I went to Druid Hill this weekend instead. Screw all those whities at Lee. Had more fun over on the feared West Side. Druid Hill Park is so nice these days, and it’s in (not merely run by) THE CITY. Yeah, I know. I’m a bigot. Seriously, though, the poop at Robert E. Lee park nearly ruins it. And I like dogs.

And poop.