Neilbymouth

Pete Townshend referred to him as *The Legend*. The bloggers referred to him as Neilbymouth. It is with the heaviest of hearts that I post the passing of Neil Emery, whose wit, talent, and sweetness was the essence of what the bloggers connections during TBHWM was all about.

RIP dear friend. We shall all miss you.

My Friend Summer

Has a blog now! Visit her and tell her I sent ya.

All in a Summer's Day

Hmmm..

.. last post was Jan. I guess it's time for a new posting.

This is it.

So there.

:P

My Nephew just left for Iraq

And so this soldier's music touched me..

On a Red Couch

Softly she strums, head bent
juggling the words
black scribbled on white
in the heat of the day
she wishes for night

Softly she hums, head bent
as twilight descends
and covers the bed
she chases the tunes
rolling inside her head

Softly she sings, head bent
the mists of her past
cloud the moon from it's light
and she sighs twice as deep
as the dark of her night

Softly she cries, head bent
the whistle of tea
in the kettle refrains
along with her muse
alone in her pain

But then softly she smiles, head bent
for the presence of he
in the heart of her she
trades her past with her present
instead

For Rachel, thank you for all you've shared with us this week in Kew.
xoxox
~Lace~

Rachel is a Kew-tie

Rachel Fuller has moved bags and baggage to the village of Kew, 2 miles from her home, to work on a concept album. What a Kew-l idea.. ;)

Rachel the kewtie of Kew

Elizabeth Solaka

Check out her photographs. Beautiful.

~Lace~

Connie Talbot 'I Have A Dream' ~ 'Over The Rainbow' album

Connie Talbot I Will Always Love You ~album Over The Rainbow

This child's talent is unbelievable.

Double Cross

Boyfriend John Lewis is now once again playing with his pal Scooter, after linking up with the brand spankin' new Double Cross Band. I'm wishing the very best of luck to a great bunch of talented guys!!

(OK, now can I come sit in with yas?? :P)

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum

Rachel's forum that is..... several posts below I described the awesome invitation I received from one Mr Delbut of Wales to contribute a cover song from Rachel Fuller/Pete Townshend's *In the Attic/Who collection* for a compilation album. The album was a gift presented to Rachel, Pete, Mikey and Simon to thank them for their generosity to their fans (especially we bloggers!), and as a tribute to their internet show *In the Attic*. I chose to cover Behind Blue Eyes and was given premission from Rachel for BBE to appear at my Myspace and also International Artists Company (IAC). For all these things alone I was completely thrilled. If nothing more, this was enough.

But then a funny thing happened, something that so completely astounded me I am still pinching myself to see if I am dreaming. After posting BBE at IAC on a Sunday night, I awoke Monday morning to see that somehow Cashbox Magazine had heard the song, and placed it on their Top Ten Pop Picks chart!!!! I had no clue something like this could/would ever happen since I had no clue Cashbox had any connection to IAC! I watched BBE climb the chart, entering at # 10 the last week of November, to it's peak today at # 1!!!!! Holy Shades of Knock Me Over with a Feather Batman!! You can listen to it by clicking the following link.

Cashbox Magazine Top Ten Pop Picks

And so for this shameless announcement please forgive me, as I gush, know that I am completely humbled and indebted to Delbut for asking me to contribute to the album in the first place, for Jim Reynolds Sr for arranging and performing the ambient guitar parts that make the song so much more than I was alone, to Jim Reynolds Jr for his expertise with sound recording and engineering, to Rachel for giving her permission for the song to appear publically, and finally to Pete for writing such a classic that 37 years after it first grabbed the hearts of a generation it still has to power to reach # 1 status. I will always consider my remake a gift to you and to Rachel, that just happened to give some small thing back to me in return.

Connie Talbot melts Simon Cowell

Every once in awhile an angel lights on earth. And this little girl is one of them.

Michael Israel.. worth the watch....

::Waves from Blogation::

Hellllooooo all. Since I've been on blogation (blog vacation) I've:

Stopped by here, here and there :P

Got spyware on Myspace.

Got rid of spyware on Myspace (Clean as a whistle now).

Attended a Halloween Party.

Went to The Office Convention in Scranton PA where it seems all went well despite the rain!! 13 cast members attended and a great time was had by all!! Check it out:

The Associated Press: Scranton Hosts an Office Party
More than 3,000 tickets were sold for the inaugural "Office Convention," the brainchild of local fans who wanted to showcase the city of about 75,000 residents. With several cast members making appearances, the convention drew fans from as far away as Australia, Ireland and Canada. While most events were held on the university campus, executive producer Greg Daniels and his writing staff tooled around the city in a minivan, seeking inspiration and story ideas. They wound up at Nay Aug Park, where they marveled at a gigantic handicapped-accessible treehouse built by the city. (Look for it in a future episode.)

The Associated Press: 'Office' fans Converge on Scranton PA
The first "Office" convention kicked off Friday morning with an appearance by NBC "Today" show weatherman Al Roker and the University of Scranton cheerleaders.

The Baltimore Sun: 'Office' Fanatics Flock to Show's First Convention
Part of the convention was washed out by soaking rains, though fans hardly cared.

USA Today: Scranton So Rocks 'The Office Party'
Executive producer Greg Daniels said the convention wasn't just for the fans; it was also a learning experience for the cast and crew. "It's as if we had been reading the Oz books and then actually visited the Emerald City," he said, adding, "It's so much more beautiful here than in Van Nuys (Calif.) where we film the show."

"Ain't no party like a Scranton party"

(and they weren't even here at St Pattys Day)

Here's looking to The Office Convention in 2008!!

Forgive Me

If I don't post for awhile, or make it around to visit anytime soon. Life is out there beckoning, and I spend too much time missing it......

The Song You've Been Requesting...

As a companion post to the one directly below, and to honor the request of many (well 2 of you anyway) may I present the song which shall be played at my funeral. It is as I say, an Irish classic!

http://www.gutenberg.org/files/10301/10301-m/10301-m-001.mp3

Author: Edward M. Favor

Mistress Murphy gave a party

Just about a week ago,

Everything was plentiful,

The Murphys, they're not slow.

They treated us like gentlemen;

We tried to act the same

And only for what happened,

Well it was an awful shame.

When Mrs. Murphy dished the chowder out

She fainted on the spot;

She found a pair of overalls

At the bottom of the pot.

Tim Nolan he got ripping mad,

His eyes were bulging out,

He jumped upon the piano

And loudly he did shout.

"Who threw the overalls in Mistress Murphy's chowder?"

Nobody spoke so he shouted all the louder.

It's an Irish trick that's true, but I can lick the Mick that threw

The overalls in Mistress Murphy's chowder.

They dragged the pants from out the soup

And laid them on the floor;

Each man swore upon his life,

He'd ne'er seen them before.

They were plastered up with mortar

And were worn out at the knee,

They had their many ups and downs

As we could plainly see.

And when Mrs. Murphy she came-to

She 'gan to cry and pout,

She had them in the wash that day

And forgot to take them out.

Tim Nolan, he excused himself

For what he said that night,

So we put music to the words

And sang with all our might.

"Who threw the overalls in Mistress Murphy's chowder?"

Nobody spoke so he shouted all the louder.

It's an Irish trick that's true, but I can lick the Mick that threw

The overalls in Mistress Murphy's chowderrrrrrr.

And Just in Time for Halloween...

Tagged by Gypsy.. I'm forced to answer the following.. well not forced per se.. but you know what I mean.. :P

SURVEY ABOUT DEATH AND BEING A GHOST

1. How old do you think you'll be when you die?
I'm older than dirt NOW.. so I guess older than older than dirt.

2. How will you die?
Hopefully quick enuff to only have time for 3 last werds.

3. What will your last words be?
Jesus save me!

4. What will your epitaph read?
He did.

5. Any parts of your body you wouldn't donate?
Yes, all of them, how else will I explain my left eye belonging to some other woman from New Jersey at the ressurection?!?

6. What song will be played at your funeral?
Who Threw the Overalls in Mrs Murphys Chowder. It's an Irish classic.

7. Cremated, buried or "other"?
Personally I'd rather skip the 6 feet under thing and just get raptured. Hey, it worked for Elijah didn't it?!?

8. If you could take one thing with you to the "next life", what would it be?
Everyone I know. As a collective unit this counts as one *thing*, rite?

9. If you could take one person with you, whether they like it or not, who would it be?
My husband, and at the rate he drives, this might actually be quite feasible...

10. Supposing they existed, do you think you'd end up in heaven or hell?
Heaven, somebody already paid my deposit!

11. If you could haunt any one place, where would it be?
Uhm.. I do that now.....

12. If you could haunt any one person, who would it be?
Uhm I do that now too.....

13. What type of ghost would you be?
A holy ghost. NO not THE holy ghost, just a holy ghost.

14. You've been given the chance to send one message back to the land of the living. What does it say?
Everything the bible said? It was true.

So whoever is reading this has been ghost tagged.. so get to it then!

Crashing the Attic

Well, color me thrilled! I was asked awhile back by Delbut (thanks Del!) to contribute a song for a tribute CD to present to Rachel Fuller, Pete Townshend, Simon Townshend and Mikey Cuthbert, of In the Attic fame. I chose to cover Behind Blue Eyes by The Who and asked my guitarist from Leather & Lace, Jim Reynolds now with Cameron Avenue band, to put his hand to the electric guitar parts. He accepted and made the song so much more than I was alone (thanks Jim!). His son Jim Jr engineered and mastered it (thanks Jim Jr!) and off it went to Rance Nakamura in Canada for the final mixdown onto the CD (thanks Rance!). Rance also did the cover/back/insert artwork (thanks again Rance!!)

Well, today Rachel reviewed and announced the CD on her blog. Thanks Rachel!!! She was gracious and kind and again, I thank her for her comments. Pete will be reviewing it next (thanks in advance Pete!). If you'd like to see the CD review and track listings, and later possibly hear the songs themselves, visit Rachel at the link below:

Look for the 9/12/07 blog entry titled Crashing the Attic

(Addendum: I've been given permission to post my contribution to CTA, a reprise of Behind Blue Eyes, at My Musicians MySpace as well as at Independent Artists Company IAC).

Tagged!?!?!

Well, I've been tagged twice, once by TOWHM and once by Sully. THANKS GUYS! So I guess I'll *play by the rules* and give this a whirl. The directions are as follows:

1) Post rules before you give your facts 2) List 8 random facts about yourself 3) At the end of your post, choose (tag) 8 people and list their names, linking to them 4) Leave a comment on their blog, letting them know they've been tagged then the facts:

Facto one: I once ran approximately 16 red traffic lights at 2:30 am, fleeing from what I thought was a mad killer. Said *killer* began his chase when I sailed through a red light (nothing was coming) and blew a puff of smoke from a cigarette (I had attached to a long straw covered with silver tin foil) out of my window at him as he sat facing me across the light, waiting for it to turn green.

Facto two: I was dressed in my mother's dress from the 50s and a curly wig, in the *fleeing from a mad killer* incident (heretofore known simply as *the incident*).

Facto three: Four of my girlfriends were with me (the driver) during *the incident*. They too thought we were fleeing a mad killer (because that is what I told them). That's why they were screaming (it couldn't have been my driving).

Facto four: They too were dressed in their mother's dresses from the 50s. Two of them were also wearing wigs. One wore a wide brimmed hat and carried a large alligator purse.

Facto five: Before fleeing the *mad killer* through 16 red lights, our group had been clubhopping several favorite haunts (incognito).

Facto six: The five of us were not recognized by any of our friends/bartenders during the clubhopping, indeed one owner threw us out for insisting the eldest of us (we called her *Marge*) was 65 (we were in our 20s at the time) and needed a birthday cake with candles to celebrate properly.

Facto seven: When a second car with whirling red lights and a siren joined the parade, we discovered that it was not a *mad killer* but rather the chief of police (in an unmarked car) who had been chasing us (and quite quickly I might add) through 16 red lights.

Facto eight: I had forgotten to take my drivers license with me during *the incident*. I had to bring it to the station the next day. The policeman at the desk knew my dad because he was the Fire Chief and Grand Poobah of everything in town (remember? ::points below::). When I arrived (with 2 of my friends from *the incident*, they went for *moral support* but were laughing the whole time and almost got me in alot of trouble) the desk cop picked up a phone and said, "She's here". We were taken to a room where I was forced to sit in front of the chief while he gave me a very harsh lecture (he might not have been a killer but he sure was mad) on the dangers of running 16 red lights in a row. I had to bite my lip hard because my friends were on the other side of the room still laughing. The Chief waved a handfull of summons the whole time. They flapped back and forth while he yelled. Then he tore them in 1/2 and threw them in the garbage can and told us to go home.

It's a good thing. With all of those fines and points, I prolly wouldn't have my license back yet.

The end.

And I'm tagging:

Rachel Fuller
Bex Fuller
Gypsy Noir
Delbut
AndyfromSpiny
Gary Stockton
BallerinaGurl
Dale

INFJ

I took the Myers-Briggs (again after taking it about 30 years ago). I wonder what my profile looked like then? Whatever the case, here is what it looks like now. If you'd like to take it, click on the description below the box.



INFJs, making up an estimated 1% of all people, are the most rare type (males even more so). They are introspective, caring, sensitive, gentle and complex people that strive for peace and derive satisfaction from helping others. INFJs are highly intuitive, empathetic and dedicated listeners. These traits tend to act as a "tell me what's wrong" sign on their forehead, hence the nicknames Confidant, Counselor or Empath. INFJs are intensely private and deeply committed to their beliefs.

Ponce a Wanna Time..

.. there was a woman in the bathtub and no one knew who she was. Mony came home after school and thought she was alone. She'd breezed through the living room into the dining room with mom not in sight. She dropped her books and slammed body first into the bathroom door when the doorknob didn't budge. She blinked. Surprised at the locked door, she knocked. Instead of the familiar voice she expected, came a low bellow she did not recognize, "Who's there?!"

Who's there!? Mony glanced around quickly, stepped back from the door, and shot a quick retort, "You mean who's THERE?!"

Once again the mysterious low voice bellowed, louder this time, "Who's there?!?!?" At 14 one does not stick around long to take chances so Mony picked up a hammer from the table (there were always such things as hammers on tables there) and beat a hasty retreat to the neighbor's next door.

"Helen!! Helen are you home?? Open up!!" Mony's shriek sent 80 year old Helen rushing for the door. As Mony tumbled in waving her hammer, she quickly told the story of the stranger in her house, in her bathroom no less! Helen grabbed Mony by one hand, a high-heeled shoe by the other and started out the door.

"Where are we going?"

"To your house, to catch a culprit!", Helen raised the red shoe.

Back in the dining room Helen pounded on the bathroom door, holding the shoe aloft, "Open up!" With an ear cocked, Mony looked at Helen who looked back. Silence. "I said open up!" Silence.

"Try the door", Mony whispered.

Helen grabbed the knob but it refused to twist. Still locked. Fueled by the presence of an 80 year old protectoress Mony banged on the door this time, yelling at the top of her lungs, "Who's in thereeeeeeeeee!!!!!!!"

With palms floating lazily on the surface of the warm water, the woman reclined back in the tub, eyes closed, enjoying the moment. She sat up as the sound of thudding moved the waters more than her eardrums. Chuckling to herself at the banging and the hollering just outside the door, she lay back into the water, again letting it cover her ears, "Go away!"

Helen's mouth set a grim line, "We have to call the police".

While Mony paced in Helen's apartment, the woman gave the information and address to 911. A short time later a squad car pulled up in front of Fire Chief Harv's home. Mony and Helen, armed with a hammer and a shoe, met the nice patrolmen as they stepped from the car.

"Ma'am? Open the door", the policeman rapped on the bathroom door sharply.

Ears still submerged, the woman heard a voice. Concluding it was Mony's, she suppressed a laugh, and bellowed, "Go away, I'm taking a bath". A BATH? The cop blinked and ran a hand over his face. Oh, life in a small town. "Radio the station, Joe, I think we've got Iris Hammond in there. She's off her meds again and has been breaking into houses lately."

As Joe sat in the patrol car and explained the situation going on in Harv's, the Fire Chief and Grand Pooba of everything in town, bathroom, Mony and Helen exchanged baffled glances. Officer Bill looked around outside for the bathroom window located 12 feet in the air. He scouted up a ladder leaning against the house (there were always such things as ladders leaning against the house there) and climbed it high enough to rap on the glass.

"Ma'am? IRIS? OPEN THE BATHROOM DOOR."

Depsite the submersion, this time the woman heard the voice clearly. And it wasn't Monys. As she sat bolt upright in the tub, the water splashing about her, she began to realize her position. Grabbing for the shower curtain to draw across her, she stared at the silouette of the man on the other side of the frosted bathroom window.

"Mony, what's going on out there??" Mony's mouth dropped as she stepped to the door towards the voice that was no longer a full octave below it's usual range.

"Mom?"

Well to make a longer story shorter, it was mom. My mom. Playing a practical joke that backfired on her. Yes, my mom that chased that firecracker throwing kid through the parking lot several posts below. It took my dad, being the Fire Chief and Grand Pooba of everything in town, several months to live that particular incident down. (There were others, but this one is the tale of the moment). Don't forget his fire chasing buddies with a scanner, all of them to be exact, heard the tale.

"I hear your wife likes taking a bath, Harv."

"I hear Iris Hammond moved into your bathroom, Harv."

He was razzed for a long while. And we 5 girls still live to tell the story of the woman in the bathtub and no one knew who she was.

(The names of the living have been changed to protect the guilty) :P

New Post

I am making a new post because Gypsy told me to (this time).
The End.

:P

~Lace~

PS I need to spruce up this blog with some color....

TODAY *IS* A NATIONAL HOLIDAY

As today is the birthday of my oldest (not literally!) and dearest friend.. Mary Beth. Every year we'd gather for her bday party and eat spaghetti with those squirrely corkscrew noodles, served with gold flatware. We had a fine time, pinning tails on donkeys, wearing festive party hats, and running around the dining room table chasing Pierre (the dog). Yes, just as she always thought, it was a *national holiday* as back then, to me, our now 48 year friendship had encompassed my whole lil world.

Happy BDay Oldest Best Friend :)

What's So Good...

....about Good Friday? Especially considering it started with a brutal flogging and ended in the crucifixion death of a man who had spent his public life giving sight to the blind, taking pity on the poor, and raising the dead. So if those events transpired, and I now believe they did, why do we call the day of His death Good Friday? What *is* so good about it? The fact that He was finally dead? What had he done? He'd never sinned against anyone, never hurt a living soul, never lied, never cheated, never committed a single crime. So.. what did they kill Him for? The answer my friend lies buried in a book that most of us never study in any depth. A book we disparage without ever having opened it's cover. And I was no different.

I was born and raised a churched Roman Catholic. I blew out of the Church in 1999; I was 44 years old and furious. Truth be told, for all the rosaries, novenas, masses, and parochial academia I'd attended, I was never much of a believer to begin with. As many times as I'd heard it said that *Jesus died for my sins* I'd no clue who that man was or what He had done for me. I didn't believe He had actually existed really, but was rather a fable. A nice moral tale to keep those of us in the pews in controlled line. I didn't know if there was a heaven or hell, but sure hoped that in the event there was either, my good deeds might outweigh my bad, so that I would ultimately end up strumming a harp on a cloud somewhere. Oh joy, oh rapture, oh brother.

Then something happened to me in 1999. Perhaps it was the immanent coming of Y2K. The end of an age. The end of the world? Perhaps it was just my time to be quickened. In any event, I blew out of the Church and within 6 months began to roil about in guilt. *What if there is a God.. what if there is a hell.. what if I didn't make 'purgatory'.. what if I roasted in eternal flames forever.. what if.. what if*.. it tortured me. I couldn't go back to religion, with it's rules and hypocrisy, that made no sense. But I could find nowhere forward to go. That's when I looked at all of my choices (other philosophies/religions, atheism/satanism). I chose from among them (well I'd never actually considered satanism as a choice but hey.. it's out there.. with a surprising message I'd never known about) to start studying scripture and found out something I had missed all those years I had sat around with my moral Catholic i's dotted and t's crossed. It wasn't about *being good enough to make it into the angels in the clouds club*. If heaven truly is a place of perfection where there are no tears, I came to see that even if it was my daily transgressions would inevitably nix that possibility anyway. I wreak havoc; I cause tears, even when I don't mean to. So then, this was about something far more pertinent than *right and wrong/good and bad* to Him.. no.. He wanted more than compliance from me. He wanted all of me. He wanted my heart.

The first time I read Ephesians 2:8-10 I reacted like everyone I've ever shared it with. Salvation is a matter of faith and not works. WHAT? If I just *believe* I get to go to heaven, well what if I *believe* and steal a car, do I get to go there then?? What if I commit a murder, do I still get to go there then? And what about all the *good people* that didn't *believe* (my own present company I included), how could they not go to heaven? What about the pygmies in the deepest forest of Africa. WHAT.. ABOUT.. THE HINDUS!?!?!

What I didn't realize at the time was that I was looking at this through human eyes. Not God's eyes. I was equating human goodness with godly holiness, I didn't know He doesn't. I was falling flat when it came to object constancy, I didn't know He wasn't. Humans let go when others hurt them deeply enough. God waits in the wings no matter what. So all the while I was looking at Him through the child-like concept of religious checks and balances, He was looking at me through the eyes of a father. My father. I expected earned reward and due punishment for all of my behavior, and all the while He was loving me. Me. No matter what. This before I gave Him the time of day. What had I done to deserve that? Truthfully nothing. He just loved me for no other reason than simply because I was the me He had created. So how did I get to be with Him? I didn't. He leaned down and made His way to me. Which brings us back to Good Friday.

As Roman soldiers drove spikes through Christ's wrists to fasten Him to the cross, He pleaded with His father: Luke 23:33 When they came to the place called the Skull, there they crucified him, along with the criminals—one on his right, the other on his left. 34Jesus said, "Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing." Wait. He is praying for the enemy? The guys who wielded the hammers that pounded the nails through His flesh into the hard, dry wood of a cross? What kind of grace is this? What kind of love? And why were they nailing Him to a cross anyway? What was the significance of His actions that entire passover night?

(Post under construction)

Book Tag Too

Went to Gypsy's blog and saw the book tag, guess I'll join the crew.

1. Find the nearest book: Romans, Vol 1

2. Name the author: Dr David Jeremiah

3. Turn to page 123. Go to the 5th sentence on the page and then copy the next 3 sentences on your blog: "Of works? No, but by the law of faith. Therefore we conclude that a man is justified by faith apart from the deeds of the law."

To Delbut

Del,

I did!!! I did answer your email!! Aren't they getting thru to you????? I AM interested!! Where can I go to find the songlist to pick my 2 songs????!!!!

~Lace~

He's At It Again

Pete Townshend is bloggin' once again folks. Last time he garnered feedback for his novella The Boy Who Heard Music, this time it's his biography. Click the links below to access his new blog. Hope he let's us comment once again!

http://www.petetownshendwhohe.blogspot.com/ (<~He does! :)

http://petetownshend-whohe.blogspot.com/

Ghosts of Christmas Future

How often do we think of them? What we will be? What we won't?

If I had a dream to fulfill it would be to pass a hand over the suffering I encounter everywhere and soothe it well. Including mine.

MY space

Well, I've constructed a Myspace but have no clue how to direct you to it by link. You can get there if you click on the title of this post, but otherwise ::shrugs::.

I've had it since May of '06 but had no clue how to post to it till now. Cyberspace challenged I am. Of course my sisters all laffed at me. But *they* don't officially have James Taylor as *their* new best friend.....

PS I told him how Kia stole his portrait!

:P

Palms.. PDAs..

PITIFUL!!!

Yup, poor poor pitiful me. I've owned my Tungsten E2 for less than 24 hours and in the 1st step process of *charging it* have already had to call tech support. For an abstract thinker, I can be concrete as... concrete... (just ask about the time my husband and I were asked to go up a flight of stairs *one at a time*). When I followed the directions for dummies (pics and all) it said to let the device charge for 3 hours. Now, have YOU ever seen a device that didn't have a bar or screen that indicated it was charging? No. I didn't think so. Well my Palm doesn't have one! So before it charged, I clicked *next* and well, you guess the rest. Punching a few hundred buttons doesn't help. Lost in a flurry of menu screens I threw in the towel and called the nice girl at tech support whose accent was indiscernable to a yankee like me. I GUESS it's charging now!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I Wish you Merry Christmas..

...happy New Year too..

Remember when Karen Carpenter sang those words? I think I sang them some 20 Christmasses running, for private parties, in clubs, or just in the car headed for the mall crammed with shoppers. Hard to believe she's gone and another year is almost through. I spent the Christmas before last in bed sick, and last Christmas barely over it. You'd think now that I'm finally up and around, I'd be thrilled to pull everything from under the stairs that has sat there for three years running.

I've not decorated a thing except for a strand of obnoxious blinking lights drapped all over my dying bushes outside. I've always loved this holiday. Something magical stirred in my soul sitting quietly before a lit tree on Christmas Eve. Snuggled in a blanket, warmed, watching it's lights twinkle off windows that overlook a snowy yard. Somehow, this year, it all runs together. One day to the next.

Perhaps I'll wish upon a falling Christmas star. Perhaps I'll hear the tinkle of a bell and know an angel has gained her wings. Perhaps I'll catch a glimpse of a raindeer hoof planted squarely in the middle of my roof. Perhaps.

I hope. Perhaps.

Now that I have read..

..the entire internet, I do have to say, with DSL, it is so much quicker! :P

DSL

I am going to attempt to connect into my new DSL today. One of two things may happen. I will be zipping around the internet like a whiz.. OR.. I will mess up my computer so bad you will never see me again.......

Clouds

Bows and flows of angel hair

and

ice cream castles in the air

And feather canyons

everywhere

I've looked at clouds

that way.

Joni Mitchell

Ponce a wanna time, I once looked at clouds that way. Hidden deep in the tall grass in a meadow by the lake I'd lay in the sun. Lazy summer afternoons, one arm crooked behind my head, squinting, watching clouds roll by. There goes a rabbit. There goes a clown. There goes a rabbit chasing a clown. Maybe the clown would chase the rabbit. They were just clouds, puffs of white. Curious shapes drifting across the most gorgeous blue of the sky. They meant nothing more than that.

I spent the better part of my adulthood and all of my childhood wishing for the faith of my best friend, Mary Beth. We met when I was 4 turning 5, so that made her 3. I remember our first encounter. We met at the end of her driveway, located exactly five houses up the street from mine. I was sent to the store for bread or some other daily necessity and there she was. Standing at the end of the gravel, an only child. Did I want to play dolls with her? Are you kidding? Sure!! The only other friend I had was a boy, Jerry, who lived behind me. He and I played cowboys and Indians, or threw rocks into the woods. But Mary Beth wanted to play dolls! And so began one of the deepest and longest relationships I've had with anyone outside of my family.

We dressed up in our mother's old clothes. We played spies and Barbies and mud pies. We'd visit the neighbor and play her piano. Ocassionally we'd even lay in the grass and watch clouds together. Later when we'd play school, I found out something about Mary Beth that both drew me and left me empty. During *class* I'd write things like, *See Dick. See Jane. See Dick and Jane and Spot*. While she would write things like, *God loves me*. Over and over and over again. Coming the eldest from a brood of five I always wondered who that God was and why He didn't seem to love me. I was positive He certainly did love her. She said so.

Sometime around the end of middle school Mary Beth moved away. Four blocks! It was tragic! No more running a few feet at midnight to watch the stars in her backyard! No more tailgate sleepovers on the back of my parents beat up green station wagon! Who am I kidding. That's a lie. We adjusted to the move in a week and went on like there was no separation whatsoever. Except for one thing. She always seemed to know everything, everything, was going to be ok. Because God loved her. No matter what. While I used to lay in bed at night, afraid. Of everything. The night. The future. The silence of the present, there in bed, watching clouds float past the window and cover the face of the moon.

Looking back I can recall the faith of her father. His head bent in prayer, fingers entwined with rosary beads, kneeling at the side of his bed. I thought for years she had inherited it from him, much like the color of her hair. This faith that wasn't for me. Separated from it like candies displayed behind the thin glass pane of a candy shop. My hands and nose pressed to it's cold, eyeing all the goodies there. Just beyond my reach. I longed for the security it seemed to bring them, but eluded me. We'd all grown up Catholic, and Lord knows I'd been churched enough, schooled enough, lectured enough to have had some semblance of belief. But the truth was, I simply did not. And no matter how hard I *tried* to believe, I just didn't. I couldn't. I might have wondered and did alot of pretending, but I did not have the core conviction that there was a Man who had walked the earth, died and rose from the dead. Much as it might have been explained to me, I had no clue what the purpose of the whole fable was about to begin with.

Then one day, at 44, sitting in a lawn chair in my back yard, one leg dangling over the side as I watched the same clouds that had amused me as a child roll past, a thought occured to me. A simple thought really, but one I'd never had before. It was this. It rains when it needs to, and it stops when it's time. It never rains so much as to wipe us out. And the sky never withholds until we are in real trouble. It does this day by day, season in and season out. The balance is delicate and perfect. It works together with all the rest of nature. And that is when I knew like Mary Beth knows, it's too perfect to be random. This is no accident; it's not by chance. It cannot be. To float steadily in space, slightly askew, without a deluge to drown us as we mosey on our ways, there must be Someone responsible to see that the clouds do what they properly do to keep this old world spinning in it's fragile perfection.

And so suddenly clouds that were merely white wisps a few seconds ago weren't just rabbits and clowns anymore. Sitting up slowly from my comfortable slouch I saw them through new eyes. Glancing here and there, I saw also the perfection of my bearded iris, and the bizillion blades of grass that covered my lawn in a way I'd never noticed before. A breeze that lifted my hair wasn't just a casual happening. It was part of what keeps this place in perfect balance, along with the gravitational pull of the entire universe, to keep me from spinning off it. How did I miss what Mary Beth had known all along; had tried to tell me so many years ago, her brows knit with intent, bent writing in crayon over that old yellow lined paper?

Later that night, flipping through the bible I'd bought, a secret of the ages was revealed to me. On the pages of Romans it is written:

20 For since the creation of the world His invisible attributes, His eternal power and divine nature, have been clearly seen, being understood through what has been made, so that they are without excuse.

There it was in black and white. God reveals Himself through nature. I'd been studying clouds all my life and had almost missed the most important thing they had to say to me. What a fool I'd been to not see it. My only excuse was that I eventually had fancied myself too sophisticated and educated to *buy it*. The fable. I had dismissed the miracles as ridiculous while watching them happen before my very eyes, day by day. It is a miracle when a baby is born. When a drop of rain feeds a plant that blooms a petal, that yields a fruit that feeds a child. Miracles that are so ordinary we fail to appreciate their brilliant significance. I can only say this in being humbled. Mary Beth was right. God loves her. And He does love me.. too.

Gypsy's Gethsemane

For those who don't know, Gypsy sent me a copy of the Al Stewart song and I have to admit at first I wasn't quite sure what to make of it. Having made a jump from from Agnotic to Evangelical Christian several years ago, my first knee-jerk was to stiffen. Was it a ridicule? No, she wouldn't hurt me that way. A statement then? A tribute? A Lament? Let me tell you a story as I ponder what the song means not only to me, but to Stewart and to Gypsy as well.

Ponce a wanna time I flounced my way to school dressed in a pleated wool skirt, resplendent with crisp white oxford shirt and smart navy blue weskit. Yes, there were saddle shoez and bobbie sox to complete *the look*, not to mention the pale yellow golf jacket. The stitching on a small emblem (a Sacred Heart of Jesus patch) sewn just over my own heart was cut neatly open at the top, the perfect *Lace-made* pocket to store loose change for lunch. (Money shielding my heart from Christs.. hmm..). I was glad, no ecstatic, for the uniform. The oldest of five girls raised by devout, albeit poor, Roman Catholic parents, it provided me a hiding place from the fashion show of the public school from which I had transferred in 7th grade. I was the only one in the *new school* that knew without it, my social status would have ranked somewhere between last and nonexistent amidst the public school's Bobbie Brooks. The pain of 6th grade's repetitive two or three outfits and one pair of shoes, noticed by girls dressed in fashionista splendor, can still embarrass me. To this day.

Once captured by Catholic acacemia, I seemed bound to it from high school through graduate school. To top things off, I found myself joining the professional work force of Catholic Social Services and a Jesuit University following graduation, in that order. But for all those religious affiliations, nevermind instructions, here is the curious part. I didn't *believe in Jesus*. I'm not talking about not believing that He was the Son of God, or that He performed miracles; rose from dead. I mean I didn't believe He existed at all. I thought He, like Adam and Eve, Noah, Moses, Abraham, all of them, were fictitious characters cast in a novel of superstitious Neanderathal proportions. Nice moral *figures* the Church used as examples, or threats depending on your viewpoint, to keep control of its masses.

The effect of this was a deep internalization of existential emptiness. Fear. Fear beyond fear. Fear beyond loneliness. The kind of fearliness that leaves you laying awake at 3 am with nothing but the ache of oblivion and the ringing of an ocean in your ears. Like listening into a large conch shell, with no soothing waves to lull you rolling in and out from the shore. (I prolly have tinnitus from piping all that blasting music directly into my eardrums, hence the ringing- to me it always sounded like an ocean nevertheless).

Study the *lives of the saints* at the feet of priests and nuns who paint themselves as superior and you'll understand how insignificant, inconsequentional and inadequate a soul can feel. Before I left the Church I made my way through the motions of Mass and Catholic life feeling like a part of the waking dead. Not quite *bad enough* to warrant eternal fires, not quite *good enough* to merit the heavenly realms Mother Teresa surely would. My soul just suspended on a thread, hovering over hell, with God tossing about the idea of cutting the string just as I was performing one sin of conseqence or another. Empty, frightened, alone, with a seashell's ring wafting through my soul on long sleepless nights.

Then Gypsy posted awhile back and I thought I recognized a flicker of my own pain. Awake at 4 am. The ticking of a clock. The silence of the night. Afraid to give in to death, afraid to keep on living to postpone the inevitable. I realized how long it had been since I felt that fearliness. And then I contemplated the reason it's gone. Gethsemane. Gethsemane and the Man who'd knelt there sweating blood as He prepared to sacrifice Himself for me had healed it. Soothed it like warm tea sliding down a sore throat. A soft blanket wrapped about me in a snuggly bed. A mother's arm around sobbing shoulders. And my heart ached not for me, but for Gypsy. The thought of her padding about her house, looking out black windows into a blacker night, wrenched me. *Gutted* as Neil says, I wanted to save her from it. What difference did it make that I've never met her face to face? That our lives have never touched physically and that I don't really *know* her? She is a person on this planet, with an angst I can vaguely remember. And that is enough. It wasn't until then I realized that the same Man who'd begged forehead to the ground at Gethsemane for a different outcome before dawn that night, knew how I'd felt staring at the ceiling in the darkness wondering where God was. And when He bled out on a cross with arms stretched wide before the next sunset, He felt the same way about me. About the soldiers that had nailed Him to it. About Gypsy. He wanted to pull me into Him and take away my pain. Her pain. I looked at Stewart's song again and saw it. The message. Stewart hated *religion* as much as I when I fled the Church to join the church. But he didn't lump Jesus into the hypocrites equation. He saw Him as standing apart, watching the circus.

So who is this Jesus? Apparently unlike what I'd been taught as a child. He's not accessible only through His mother. He's not judgmental like the two Christians I visited with last week. He does not stand on ceremony, is not impressed by fame, not foiled by evil, not touched by the death that used to send that cold existential sweep down my bed-ridden spine. When He wept it was in the context of relationship; grieved over the pain etched on the face of a friend, over the downfall of a city overcome by religion. He ate with sinners and loved the worst of the lot. He forgave me for not believing He could... love even me... that He would.

Perhaps it was Stewart who, escaping *Church*, described Him best. I wonder what it is that Gypsy sees in the words?

Oh I dodged the collection box choirboy and out
To the streets where the wind shook my hair with a shout
And the dusty-faced daisies were blowing about So freely
And Christ in the ruins was wandering again
As he walked with the beggars and talked to the lame
And danced with the children and sailors who came

ok.. oK... OKKKKK

I'll post, but only because I have been pressed to contort my brain to think of sumethin' to say. Let's see. Ok, first..

I'm pretty excited as our fledgling duo is teetering on the edge of becoming a trio. I won't say more, so as not to jinx it, but I got a call from a stellar guitar player asking to join us and so I'm crossing my fingers and toes that he will have the time to work with Raven and me. More on that as things unfolds.

::Thinks:: Ok, second..

I've pulled out all of my old synth programming and for the life of me cannot get my Alesis drum machine to drive my Ensoniq keyboard. I've switched the midi cords every which way and looked at all of the internal controls; all seems to be in order. I've even switched one keyboard with another but to no avail. When I kick on the drummer it plays but does not drive the keyboard, hence *I got drums but no music*. If ANYone reading this knows WHAT I'm talking about and can help me.. PLEASE COMMENT!!

::Thinks:: Ok, third..

I'd like to thank Gypsy for sending me Al Stewart's Gethsemane. I reflected a long time on that song. The more I reflect, the more I'm inclined to put those thoughts in another post. GAH.. after all this time maybe TWO POSTS in one week!! :P

::Thinks:: Ok, fourth and last..

I've been published! Yes it may be for a scholarly rather than poetic work, but such is the way these things do happen!