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CORE on the stairs (Choreography by Ligia)
CORE on the couch (Direction and Costumes by Ligia)
COPE (club of player extraordinaire) conference on the couch. (Dubbing and Inventory by Auntie) | | |
| Long time ago Jordan and I created the CORE (club of reading extraordinaire). We would plop on the couch wrapped in fluffy blankets and get lost in novels for hours. This morning we created another tradition. Five-minute poem writing Saturday. (PWS) Here's her poem.
A poem called: Dad (by Jo)
Dad, oh Dad, you are very bad
You do not want a dog (nor desire a hog)
You don't like thugs but like some bugs
You like maths and you like baths
You are not a geezer, but you are a sneezer
Dad, oh Dad, you are very bad. | | |
| "And yet, and yet: the Christian good news of victory over death is not about survival. The very function of Easter Saturday is to prevent the rubbing of Friday and its grievous memories by the instant and overwhelming exuberance of Sunday. Easter Saturday says that Jesus was gone and finished, subjected to death power for a season. So Christ himself did not -- despite centuries of popular theological and homiletical deceit -- survive the grave! He succumbed to death and was swallowed by the grave -- his Sabbath rest in the sepulcher a dramatized insistence that his termination was realistic and complete, a proper subject of grief and valediction. This was departure -- painful, ugly, uncurtailed; no docetic illusion, no serene transcendence of the spirit high-floating over purely physical distress, no momentary, insignificant hiccup in Christ's unstoppable surge to glory. God's victory over death, as the Christian gospel tells it, is not a matter of smooth, ensured survival but a new existence after nonsurvival -- a quite different reality, for us as well as God." (Alan E. Lewis, 428) | | |
| He turns water into wine in Cana. In the next episode, he overturns the tables of the moneychangers in the Temple. (It’s telling that John places the clearing of the Temple at the beginning of Jesus‘ ministry, while the synoptics place it in the Passion week) In far-flung northern Israel, among sickbodied and sickminded Gentiles, he unleashes merriment and dancing. He pulls out the whip at the epicenter, among religious busybodies and scholars. In the north, a sacred alchemy. Unraveling Noah, the angry waters turn into a deluge of drunken joy for the healing of the pagans. In the south, he clubs the dark side of sobriety. Unraveling Noah, he ransacks the ark, he claims to sink it and rebuild it faster than it took Theseus to resurrect his ship, he thumps the old time religion and he sobers up the old boys, drunken as they are on profits and on hermeneutics. He laughs with Jon Stewart in NYC. He tips and scourges all the sacred cows in Jerry’s den, at Liberty.
John reports his disciples believe in him in the north. But in the south, they're perplexed and confused. Place and time matters crucially to faith. Faith is geography and history. And so it is John says that after resurrection they remembered, and then they believed. I wonder what it was that they remembered? Was it his whip thrashing the skin of sheep and cows? Was it the clink of metal coins on temple floors? Was it that enigmatic claim that the temple, the ark is his body? Run with that. Is his body still an ambulatory place of healing and drunken joy in nordic far-flung places, among dead caribous, white bears, baby daddies and molested children? And is his zeal for his father’s house still so intense? Will he attack his body, his church, ransack it, thump it, give it a good thrashing on good Friday? Will the shrill and darkness sober up the old boys, drunken as they are on profits and on hermeneutics? Or, like in the days of John, does he still travel practically alone from all our norths to all our souths, from joy to judgement in one long stretch (with a quick pitstop in Capernaum, his childhood stomping grounds)? And in our centers, does his naked body still fall under the whip, does he still drink the bitter cup, does the stabbed ark still sink into the dust? | | |
|  | Currently
In Bruges
By Colin Farrell, Brendan Gleeson, Ralph Fiennes, Clemence Poesy, Jeremie Renier
see related |
This is the child who throws herself into my arms. Her arms, locked around my neck and caught in mantric dance, always spin joy out of nothing. His blessings and her arms. They’re new every morning.
But not this morning. This morning she tiptoes around the kitchen. She gauges, she evades, she disappears in the cluttered living room. Circumspection is the enemy of joy. A day ago she asked if she could get a yearbook for third grade. "Only if you put it in writing that you will not ask for one next year." Was I curbing her seeming intemperate self-infatuation? Was I really instilling reflection on her desires? Was I breeding circumspection? Put it in writing, put it in writing, put it in writing, I kept saying to her on the way to the bus. Codify it! Stupefy me! Codification is the stupid enemy of love. No wonder she gives me the cold shoulder. No wonder she keeps me at arm’s length.
This is the child who tomorrow will write a letter. The shell will have on one side a pair of big circumspect eyes, a tiny, sly, smily face painted on the the other. The inscription on the shell will read: “To DAD! P.S. For Dad’s and mom’s eyes only. P.P.S. And I mean only!”. This is the father who will tear the scotch tape seal, who will read her azure marker writing: “Dear Dad, I would like to inform you that I would not like a year book this year; I would like one next year. With lots of love, Jordan.”
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