And to dust we shall return

A co-worker was killed in a car accident one week ago tonight. She was unmarried and was a wonderful, happy, fun-loving person. (Coincidence? I think not).

Services were tonight: the only "funeral" being her wake followed by a prayer service.

We all crowded into a long, narrow room. For some reason the only chairs were along each of the long walls, facing to the center of the room, so almost everybody simply stood in the center of the room, those in the back seeing only the people standing in front of them. Her family, a sister, brother, elderly mother, and a niece, sat at the front of the room in that odd line of chairs against the wall.

Margaret in her coffin was alone in the room behind that, apparently having to eavesdrop on her own funeral.

The service begins:

"Good evening. I am Father.....

.......

.......

.....Michael......

..............

......[last name].

Margaret must have not belonged to a church and the family, from out of town, apparently requested a priest and were assigned Father Michael S-.

Father Michael explained that he DID know his own name, but that he had a......

..................

.......speech........

.......impediment......

and that it was going to be a long night.

He said that he felt sorry for Margaret's family, being from a different state and knowing no one here, and being assigned this priest with a speech impediment. He'd apologized to them and Margaret's sister told him it was all right, that Margaret had a sense of humor and would have laughed about it.

I was appalled that this lovely woman's funeral was going to be spoken by this severely impeded priest who never even knew her and tears sprang to my eyes. It was crushing.

"If God be for us, who can be....

.......................................

.......................................

......................................

against us."

It was like he was waiting for us to complete his sentences.

"He who believes in.......in.......... ...............

................

ME. ME! Say ME, for the love of God!

"And God so loved his only begotten.......

...........

...........

And then this fountain of joy sprang up inside me as I could see Margaret laughing, saying "SON." SON. Say "SON" right NOW. Say it. SAY. IT.

It was wonderful and humorous. To his credit, Father Michael had done his job well with the family - he had learned a lot about Margaret, even correctly remembering the names of all her beloved dogs (she was involved with rescue with the humane society). Once he started reciting the liturgy, his words came more smoothly and it was a nice prayer service. I thought that for humor value alone, if I WAS going to have a wake, I'd pick this guy.

Sileo in pacis, Margaret.

You are missed.

I thought this was illegal

"Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer"

Rackety got out this evening. I came outside a little later to find placed on my doorstep the head, and only the head, of a tiny baby bunny.

I knew she didn't like that new cat food, but that's no reason to go all Godfather on me.

Later on I caught her ordering this:

I Knew This Day Would Come

My phone beeps this morning. It's a message from Chad.

I click it open and it's a photograph of Emily holding an adorable young beagle. The caption is " I dont want to die :-( "

I figure Chad means the beagle because as far as Emily's concerned, she can take care of herself and I'd be more likely to get a photo of Chad begging for mercy. Anyhow, the beagle (and Emily) is adorable and although I COULD have typed back "Well, we all have to go sometime" what I did reply with was "put him in the truck and I'll see you this weekend."

So. Say hello to A2187.

And don't ask me what happened to A's 1 through 2186. My heart can't take it.

Heavy Metal in Baghdad

In my not-humble-at-all opinion very few bands calling themselves heavy metal should. Even most of the ones that are HM ring into these old ears with the sounds of manufactured angst & nihilism, the Sturm und Drang of pretend metal, and have none of the poetry, beauty, and awesomeness (in the true meaning of "awesome") of the real deal.

These guys are win:
http://heavymetalinbaghdad.com/

Overview article at:
http://edition.cnn.com/2008/SHOWBIZ/Movies/03/17/metal.baghdad/index.html?iref=intlOnlyonCNN

They even have the utter self-centeredness requirement. Quote: "Nobody could live under the same circumstances that an Iraqi could live in," says bassist Firas. "You have to deal with death and fear every day," adds singer Faisal."

Nobody? I definitely admit I probably wouldn't survive in their environment, but unlike others who have, I don't think I would've survived as a WWII French resistance fighter, nor would I have made it through a concentration camp, the Bataan death march, a European soccer tournament (hooligans or boredom - a toss-up as to which would kill me first), the Salem witch hunts (most definitely the end of the road for me) or life in China, Palestine, Cambodia, or Bangladesh in any time period.

When I find an article on a heavy metal band from Darfur, I'll post their thoughts on survival.

Meanwhile, hats off to Acrassicauda, and somebody please send them t-shirts so they don't have to embarrass themselves by wearing Metallica any longer.

Tchaikovsky

You just can't beat that 1812 Overture.

This is what happens to you when you hear it.

First of all, it starts with Russian church music, and NOBODY does church music like the Russkies. Nobody.

I can feel the dark church with the glow from the iconostasis. I smell the incense, I see the robes of cloth of gold. There are the small, stooped, strong women in their babushkas. Where are they now? Do they wear those babushkas in heaven? Are their hands not so arthritically knotted there?

The scene shifts to the wide outdoors. When the horns start I can see the arched necks of the army horses and hear the jangle as they mouth their bits and that wonderful solid sound of horses' hooves hitting earth. There are the triumphant horns of the army, but La Marseillaise tells me that it's the FRENCH army!

The musical scene moves on. The little peasant dance music making you feel your deep love for your land. Those few bars make me see the land as clearly as Tolstoy makes me see it.

And then, ha! winter is upon those damned French. The violins perfectly portray the swirling snow, the bitter, brittle cold, the long black nights full of ice-chip stars and too-small fires. The long, starving march home. How the hell can violins be swirling snow on dark nights? Who invented the violin anyway? Why aren't there 50-foot statues of this person all over the world?

Next is heard Russian cannon kicking Napoleonic ass and when those violins come tumbling down like water over a cliff, like the tumbling of a defeated, broken enemy, and the church bells tumble, too, but in joy, and the music and your spirit, foe vanquished, climbs back UP....and La Marseillaise is replaced by the Russian national anthem...well!

Oh, yeah, and cannons. How great is that? Church bells, cannons, and swirling snow violins. Can't beat it.

I love people with a passion

I'm on a listserve where an off-topic conversation resulted in my favorite post of 2008:

"My PhD was in plant parasitology.

Specifically, in the sex pheromones of the two nematode parasites of potato plants, ...This is a lot less interesting than it sounds"

No, bless your heart. It isn't.