The following post is by MYRLN, a non-blogger who is Kalilily Time’s guest writer every Monday.
COUNTING BACKWARDS FROM TEN TO NEGATIVE TERRITORY
So here we are, the last day of the year. My goodness, the LAST day of the YEAR? Yup, last DAY of the year — Idiots Day! Why Idiots? What else can you honestly call any day on which all sense, common or otherwise, is discarded in favor of total disregard for anything but deliberate madness? For counting backwards from 10? Spend only a few minutes to reflect on it, to let yourself picture the numbers of people worldwide who will participate in tonight’s madness — while calling it a celebration. A celebration of what? Of Idiocy, that’s what. Of a total, absolute waste of time, people, and materials.
Imagine instead, every last bit of this day’s energy and resources — human and otherwise — every iota of it expended toward some positive, worthwhile end. What might be achieved? For example, imagine if every smidgen of human energy were directed toward some need instead of wasted, if every penny expended on decorations, drinking, fireworks, confetti, security — all that plus a $10. donation by every single one of the hundreds and hundreds of millions of people who instead will tonight toss their cookies in a gutter (or whatever). What might we be able to achieve with such an effort of that caliber instead of idiot games? That one night’s effort alone could probably finance a total solution to an entire country’s problems.
But we won’t do that. Hell no. Idiots Day is too important. It accomplishes nothing. To which much of the human race is passionately devoted. Feh.
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Hopefully everyone took time Sunday night to watch “Jesus Camp” on A & E television to see how future warriors can be trained early to fight them Muslims. If the camp were a Muslim one, Homeland Security would’ve been all over it to arrest those involved.
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Another entry for the “Our Country” or “Get Yours Today” category. Might wanna sleep out in line to be first to get’em. A veterinarian in California is selling “Neuticles.” What are they? Prosthetic testicles. Why? To replace the missing ones of neutered dogs whose owners either miss the originals or feel guilty cuz their pets can’t deliver any more. And how could we know for sure they’d originate in California?

I blogged about it more than a year ago, with the title “fanatics by any other name are still fanatics.” The documentary film on the Jesus Camp is on A&E tonight at 10 p.m.
The documentary is about the “Kids on Fire” Ministry, which apparently has been closed down after much public protest. It has reopened as the Kids in Ministry International.
As I said in the post I made about this terrifying project last year:
Fanatics, whether religious or political (and they’re even more dangerous when they’re both) control their followers by only telling them what they want them to believe, leaving out all kinds of information that might shake their belief. That’s what indoctrination is, what brainwashing is.
And when you start the brainwashing when the individuals are young children — as the Jesuits supposedly say, “Give me the child before the age of seven, and I will give you the man” — you can easily mold fanatics in any way you want.
Are you scared yet? Hah. Watch this. And this.
And be afraid. Be very afraid.
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NOTE: One or more of the links in the above are no longer valid.
However, go and read this piece about what was reported about British religious schools a few years ago. If that’s not brainwashing children, I don’t know what is.
And for contemporary twist on things, check out The GodMen and what ABC news showed about this movement’s efforts to make Christianity and Jesus’ legacy more “macho.”
Didn’t Robert Bly and his Iron John movement try this years ago?

Jim Culleny’s daily poetry email (see below) brought back the memory of my grandmother pouring the hot wax from a melted blessed candle, through strands of blessed straw, into a bowl of cold holy water and then placing the bowl under my toddler brother’s crib. The image that congealed when the wax hardened would tell my mother what was causing my brother’s nightmares.
In the morning, when we looked at the image, it was as close to the face of Mr. Bluster (of Howdy Doody fame} as a blob of hard wax could look. Sure enough, and strangely enough, my brother was afraid of the blustery Mr. Bluster.
That same grandmother saved my life, once, with her old wives’ ways, and I wrote a poem about that experience, which I blogged here.
And now, here’s the poem — actually Suzanne Vega lyrics — that prompted this post today:

After blogging my post about what I had kept that belonged to my father, I started thinking about what I would want to keep in remembrance of my mother after she is gone.
Not any of her clothes, certainly. Our styles are about as different as generations can be.
Not her jewelry, certainly. The only jewelry I wear are those few rings that have meaning for me. And lots of cheap earrings that I put on according to my mood. She has nothing special that she has worn for years, except my father’s grade school graduation ring, which my brother probably will want. She lost her engagement ring years ago.
Not the large professional and original oil portrait of her painted by a friend when my mom was in her 30s. I’m sure my brother will want it.
None of her furniture — although I might consider her electric-powered recliner even though I hate the fabric and color But that wouldn’t be in the same category as my father’s hat.
Not even the crewel image of Jesus she made when she was a teenager (of which she is still very proud) and which has always hung on her wall. I would never hang it on any of my walls. I suppose I could just keep it in a drawer, but I don’t know why I would do that.
I think that the only thing of my mother’s that I really want to keep is a lustrous porcelain statue of the Virgin Mary that came from Lourdes sometime in the 1920s, and it has the number 168 carved into the back of the base. It was my grandmother’s before it was my mother’s. It is also something my mother continues to treasure, but for reasons much different from mine.

Actually, I already have kept one other thing associated with my father. It’s from the home in which I lived as a young child, which was also my Dad’s funeral home/place of business.
When he took over the business from his predecessor in the early forties, one of the objects left behind was a ceramic bowl planter and matching pedestal, each of which is covered with glazed stands of lush bull rushes. These decorative pieces survived 40 years of funerals and another 25 of my hauling them around through countless moves. They both are still in perfect condition.
I think my father filled the planter with sand and used it as a place smokers could put their cigarette butts. I have filled the planter with various trailing plants. There is something calming about its colors and forms, and I just like being in the same room with it.

I am wondering what possessions of mine will have value to my own children. Maybe it will just be this weblog.

It was the morning of Christmas Eve. I had just thrown out some seeds for the birds, and I was getting ready to make that Polish dried mushroom soup that my family of origin always had before their pierogi at the Christmas “Vigilia” dinner.
As I piled all of the ingredients on the table, I stopped to look out the kitchen window, expecting to see the usual bluejays bullying the mourning doves, who bullied the titmice and junkos, and all of them being bullied by the squirrels. Instead:

If the window had been open, I could have petted the deer. Of course she wouldn’t have stayed long enough for me to do that, but I couldn’t help wondering how it might feel.
I quietly walked around to the breezeway, where I could get a head-on look at her and peeked out through the closed drapes. She looked right into my eyes, unsure, I’m sure, of what she was seeing at first.
But then it must have registered: human. danger. run.
And with her white tail flipped up, she turned around and took off into the woods.
I know a woman who puts grain out for the deer all winter. If I lived here alone, I would probably do that. But this is not my property. And I don’t make the rules.
I only enjoy watching how nature ignores all of those rules that humans devise.

The following post is by MYRLN, a non-blogger who is Kalilily Time’s guest writer every Monday.
THIS IS OUR COUNTRY…
…to paraphrase a patriotic song. And two recent news items symbolize exactly what our country now IS.
The first was photo from a wedding, an event quite fundamental to any culture. The photo showed the happy, if overweight, couple smooching while they danced at their wedding. Nearby, some mylar balloons floated on floor-bound tethers next to a couple of onlookers in smiling bear costumes, while several other onlookers wore baseball caps and uniform-like scarfs or vests. The floor was littered with what seemed to be flower petals.
Although from Kentucky, the newlyweds chose to marry in New York City. And the bride’s gown was an original creation “fashioned from glue, tape, and Charmin Ultra Soft and Charmin Ultra Strong toilet tissues.” The ceremony was held in Times Square at Charmin’s temporary, free public restrooms.
Maybe they weren’t flower petals after all.
The second item demonstrating the state of our culture also comes out of NYC as part of the holiday or Xmas (whichever you are brainwashed to) season.
At a magic shop called Abracadabra, instead of a Santa Claus, there will be a Mrs. Claus. One of the store’s owners said it was their answer to Macy’s traditional St. Nick. The magic shop’s approach is to provide an opportunity for naughty adults to get spanked for being so. Serving up the punishment is the aforementioned Mrs. Claus. But the owners also noted she will be actually a man dressed in a clingy red and white outfit and long black boots.
Happy holidays or Xmas (whichever you are brainwashed to) to all in OUR COUNTRY.

Just a little bit of Christian history some might not know about:
The book, The Sun in the Church reveals that many medieval Catholic churches were also built as solar observatories. The church, once again reinforcing the close ties between religious celebration and seasonal passages, needed astronomy to predict the date of Easter. And so observatories were built into cathedrals and churches throughout Europe. Typically, a small hole in the roof admitted a beam of sunlight, which would trace a path along the floor. The path, called the meridian line, was often marked by inlays and zodiacal motifs. The position at noon throughout the year, including the extremes of the solstices, was also carefully marked.
also
Holy Blood, Holy Grail discusses the pragmatic political motives of the fourth-century Roman emperor Constantine, who first moved the celebration of Christmas to December 25. The authors claim that Constantine followed the cult of Sol Invictus, a monotheistic form of sun worship that originated in Syria and was imposed by Roman emperors on their subjects a century earlier.
In the interests of unity, Constantine deliberately chose to blur the distinctions among Christianity, Mithraism [another Sun cult of the time] and Sol Invictus. This is the reason why Constantine decreed that Sunday — “the venerable day of the sun” would be the official day of rest. Early Christians before that time celebrated their holy day on the Jewish Sabbath, Saturday. That’s also why, by his edict, the book further claims, the celebration of Jesus’ birthday was moved from January 6th (Epiphany today) to December 25, celebrated by the cult of Sol Invictus as Natilis Invictus, the rebirth of the sun. The cult of Sol Invictus (Unconquered Sun) was a comparatively late (3rd century BCE) arrival from the East (Syria). It became the chief imperial cult of the Roman Empire, until it was replaced by Christianity. In the old calendar the winter solstice (Bruma = shortest [day]) fell on Dec. 25, so this was the day on which Sol proved Himself to be yet unconquered.
The 12 Days of Christmas — The midwinter festival of the ancient Egyptians celebrated the birth of Horus – son of Isis (the divine mother-goddess). The celebration was 12 days long, reflecting their 12-month calendar. 12 Around 1 The Alchemy of Time
This concept took firm root in many other cultures. In 567 AD, Christians adopted it. Church leaders proclaimed the 12 days from December 25 to Epiphany as a sacred, festive season.
This winter holiday/holyday season is rooted in almost every culture. It’s too bad that some religions insist on taking credit for it all.

There was something odd about the view out our kitchen windows this morning. It’s funny what you notice even when you don’t think you’re noticing anything. I look out that window several times a day, but I didn’t think I was ever really seeing what was there.
Apparently I was, because this morning I eventually realized that there were large mounds where there weren’t any yesterday — various sizes, the color of winter earth, still as stone, embedded in the glistening snow.
And then one moved.
And then another.
Eight in all, the herd of deer rose, one by one, and slowly left our property, stopping still in unison every now and then to listen.
Three miles down the road is hunters’ territory, but the deer know that they won’t be hurt here. After all, didn’t I let them eat from my meager garden all summer?
If had a young child here, maybe I would have said, “Look, Santa’s reindeer are going to meet him and Rudolph at the North Pole. Look there are all eight of them.”
If the child were my five-year old grandson, no doubt he would have said, “But they don’t have any antlers.”
And I might have said, “Well, maybe they put them on when they get to Santa’s.”
Or maybe I would have just said, “Look at the herd of deer — a whole family, with fathers and mothers and children. They are looking for a safe place, and they stopped here for a while because they know it’s safe and we won’t hurt them. Now let’s go put out some food for the birds.”
And when the deer were finally out of sight, I put out some food for the birds.

The following post is by MYRLN, a non-blogger who is Kalilily Time’s guest writer every Monday.
PETS (3)
Finally, after Biscuit 1 and Biscuit 2, there came Saffron. “Saffron?” you say. “What kinda name is that for a dog?” And you’d be right. It’s lousy for a dog, but it perfectly fit a yellow-furred cat. And that’s what Saffron was.
For someone whose only pets had been of the canine variety, the sudden presence of this spice-named feline (long before the Spice Girls came along) was disconcerting and puzzling. How do you relate to a cat? “Here Saffron,” got no response, not even a fleeting glance. Whistling got even less than nothing (oh, maybe an occasional minor ear perk). He had no interest in anything its human family wanted of him. His was a wholly imperious manner. But when it wanted, then a yowling, meowing, or scratching made clear the “King” wanted what he wanted. No canine give and take at all. You had to wonder who was the dependent pet. This distant yellow entity certainly wasn’t.
Until…some time later, after a kind of mutual disregard was established. Then the Saffron King changed his tune. Say you’re lying on the floor, maybe watching t.v., or better yet, taking a snooze. There then comes a light poking at the side of your chest, and at first you ignore it, thinking it’s one of the kids having fun. But the touch persists, so light as to be almost tentative, like an uncertain inquiry. So you peek and discover the imperious one standing there, one paw softly on you. His gaze fixes on yours, and when you raise a hand, scratch between his ears, he blinks and climbs fully onto your chest, settles himself there — face to face — kneads your chest lightly with both paws and begins to purr. And you feel it over your heart, the barest vibration, and you watch as his eyes slowly, slowly close and you feel yours follow suit until all becomes a grey ease directed by the steady purring. And you know a wholly new relationship has been created. And you find y ou like it. You’ve been made a cat-lover.
So it becomes a kind of ritual. Lie on the floor and Saffron is there: a gentle poke always used by him. He never just climbs aboard. He has acknowledged the territory is yours and requires permission to enter. And every occurence becomes a period of total and peaceful relaxation. As if cat has become an entity of quietude.
Until…FREAKOUT!
It doesn’t always occur at ritual time. It erupts at any time. With no forewarning, the cat becomes a furry flurry of mad action. Up he leaps, stretching upward on tip-toes, then off he goes — racing wildly and without objective in any and all directions. He races living room to kitchen to dining room, back to the starting point, then wildly up the six stairs to the bedroom hall at breakneck speed and abandon, spinning back with a yowl and leaping down the stairs. He repeats the pointless journey 2 or 3 more times then stops abruptly and sits quietly at ease near the fireplace, preening himself before settling and curling into a long nap.
In their most extreme moments, neither pet of old — the 2 Biscuits — ever produced any such display. It’s as if cat — this Saffron — sends out a message with his mad romp: I can get crazy, too.
No kidding.
Good Saffron.