the bothell catholic church experience

I, ilvs strauss, went to church last sunday. the weather, I will have you note, is particularly absent of lightning thunder brimstone and locust plagues. perhaps I still have some credit on my tab from all those years at catholic school.

for the record, I am not opposed to church on a whole. in fact, I have been a recent, willing attendee at the center for spiritual living, st mary magdalene (er, sp? so much for my credit. . .), and 'word church' (2^nd sunday's at hidmo. its like writing group meets meditation spirit group. with snacks.). but catholic mass, father it has been way way a long time. years+. so why go back? my gramma and great aunt were in town specifically to attend mass in support of some padres they know. it worked out that I had sunday morning free of obligations and the means with which to drive myself 35 minutes north of my cap hill bubble to BOTHELL. need I point out the coincidence that is the aitch ee double hockey stick that takes up slightly more than half the spelling of this picturesque suburb? didn't think so.

I got there early to try and catch my gramma coming in. suzy was running exactly just shy of late which left me time to pace the lobby and try my hand at inconspicuocity. not the easiest feat in stripped pants and a gray fedora. for a time I watched two alter boys adjusting their outfits. they wore short green ponchos (oh I'm sure there's a proper term for that. . . there's a few more points down the drain) over their white robes and one kid was having a particularly difficult time getting his to sit right. with his buddy offering help in the form of agitated directives, the kid gave up the struggle and took off the green poncho altogether to start fresh. this left him standing in his sneakers, shaking the poncho out like a bullfighting cape, all the while the pointy white hood of his robe was pulled up over his head. now, I have seen a few alter boy outfits in my day and never had I seen one with a hood. a tall pointy white one. it looked a little too grand wizardy to me. but little. so like, baby grand wizard. i directed the thought 'put your hood down' over and over for as long was my stare length did not dip into creepy.

my great aunt showed up eventually, joining me in the back row where I had parked myself, my raincoat, scribbling notes on scratch paper. maggie sat with me while suzy parked the car and in the few minutes before mass got going, busied herself with fixing my appearance as best she could. 'don't cross your legs we are not at a saloon!' (ok, saloon's a rough translation.) but it's comfortable! 'take your hat off!' it's keeping my hair in place! 'your hair! it's sticking up all over!' that's what the hat was for! I quietly, respectfully obliged. location and timing and more so the fact that the source of these jabs originated from a well intentioned 5 foot tall woman in her 70's who loves me to pieces kinda shelved my defensiveness and irritation. also, I think it was at that moment I looked up at the alter for the first time to see the crucifix, a sight that made me chuckle out loud. jesus was not affixed to the cross as is the norm. instead, the life sized wooden figurine was slightly to the left of middle of cross, his disproportionately small arms lifted skyward, a long ankle length cape flowing behind him in what looked like mid-soar. super. I spent much of mass trying to decide if he was in a big rush to get somewhere or just to get out of there.

basically, mass was boring. the fashion sported by the general populace was boring. the songs were droned in one part harmony. service was as sombre as ever, but with out any of the incense or stained glass that made the churches of my youth a little gothic, therefore cool.

post mass, both my aunt and my gramma in their own time, each with an iron grip on my wrist, had a priest give me a blessing. now, I have no objection to being prayed for. it feels nice, actually. but to try an save a kid from drowning when she is nowhere near a body of water feels a touch, oh I don't know, suffocating. and slightly annoying. my great aunt's greatest wish it seems is for me to to go church. catholic church. 'please mijita, go to church. jesus is waiting for you.' I straight up lie to her face and say, 'Yes, OK.' the priest is watching this exchange.

one of these days I will have to tell her, in the nicest way possible, that she might as well stop asking and realize that I'm not gonna walk thru those same doors she values so much. no matter what she says or does or how hard she prays. besides, I found a secret squirrel door round back that gets me in just the same. they let me dress how I want, there's healthy snacks, and it connects to a cool trail thru the woods to boot. so long liturgy, I got a sunrise to kiss.

is this a face you can say 'we reject your proposal' to? I don't think so.

oh, for the love of all things furry, cute and feline.

that's it. that is the nail in the friggin coffin. I mean, I knew these people had it all funny, their priorities, what with their love of all things singularly auto and their overt disdain for the real -as in not that glossy mag pretty- life creature of motion that is public transportation. and just when I thought they were to redeem themselves with the construction of what is to be the hopefully oh so useful cap hill light rail station, the rug is unceremoniously yanked out from under me.
what am i talking about? well, I answered their sirens call for artists to transform their work space into a thing of beauty by submitting a beautiful, eloquent proposal for a giant banner of BABYSEAL (in a spoof of the Chloe apartment advertisements) and it was summarily REJECTED. I, BABYSEAL, have been rejected. nobody puts BABYSEAL on the corner of john and broadway. and that person is SDOT.
it is time to implement. . . PLAN B. (as in BABYSEAL).
stay tuned.

does it kill the funny? explaining it?

last weekend, on my way out the door to work (folklife2010), I tried to lock my apartment with my festival key. ha! wait'll I tell my coworkers, i chuckle to myself. fast forward a few hours, we, me my coworker, are sitting around in our makeshift break room/hide out and I relay the morning's hilarity. he blurts out his reply, book-ended by laughter: 'I did the same thing! and then,' he adds, 'I tried to radio it in to tell everyone.' our shared laughter was cut short by a radio call of someone needing a key assist in the next room. ah, festivals. . .

for reals, the above incident is in fact ridiculously funny when you work 12+hour days back to back to back to back with a radio strapped to your shoulder, squawking in your ear like an orphaned parrot. trust me words on it.

the pull of PUSH

thru the magic that was my 6 month enrollment at Bent Arts writing institute, I was exposed to many an unfamiliar author. one poet in particular who generally left me slightly slack jawed, the words 'what the f***' falling from my mouth like ripe fruit off a tree was Saphirre, of PUSH the book/Precious the movie fame.

I saw the ads for Precious in the paper when it came out but never heard anything about it. nor did I know anyone who had seen it. the book, I just got a 'yeah it's really intense' heads up. if it was anything like her poems, I was in for it. but not purely satisfied with knowing of its very existence, curiosity and the library colluded together and I found myself with a bright shiny paperback copy of it.

and it's been a while since a BOOK REPORT so here we go:

AHHHHHGGGGG DON'T READ THIS BOOK!!!!!!!!!!! and I'm not trying to reverse psychology you. ok, actually, do what you want, fellow americans. read it, dont read it. you want my opinion, keep reading: holy moses that book is, well, just as I was warned, so very much intense! yeah and I guess the back cover does a little heads up, but a banal promotional paragraph breezing over a plot about incest, abuse, poorest of poor education and some kind of unforgettable journey doesn't even begin to scratch the surface of the emotional raking over hot coals that is reading an entire book dedicated to the topic, the set up, the play by play, the consequences of it all. jesus. h. christ. granted/thank you universe, it is FICTION. but non writers, here's a little secret: all fiction is based on, ahem, TRUTH. uh, yikes.

brings up the little issue of what is the value of bringing into this already difficult at many times such an intense wrecking ball of a book. why bring the people down? what is the point? how does this further the people/world towards a better future?

answers I do not know. or rather, I have not the time left at work where I am writing this (dance belt teaches 20 people of the world to dance thriller) to delve into so deep a philosophical convo.

but I do know/have time to say that it did serve as a sort of existential point of reference. it had kinda a HOTZONE effect. in that, no matter how bad things are for me right now (I was feeling a little emotionally wrecked before i started it. maybs not the best time to read it. (kinda like the time I watched DANCER IN THE DARK whilst deep in the throws of depression. file under I've had better ideas.) I forced it finish in two days while at work. lucky for me, it was folk life and I had the healing powers of several hundred hurdy gurdies (sp?), fiddlers, scottish dancers, balkan singers and crusty jug bands at my disposal.), it's really not all THAT bad. in fact, in comparison, my life is a walk on a flat trail in a beautiful nature preserve. my feet are dry and cozy, my lighter than air backpack is full of nourishing snacks. i am a lucky son of a gun.

thanks saphirre, for the friendly, albeit slightly traumatic reminder.