The Lord becomes man to journey with us in our everyday lives.— Pope Francis (@Pontifex) December 23, 2016
and then bit my tongue. I may prefer that Jorge Mario Bergoglio had more stature, but to behave like a sophist in the manner of Hebdo Charlie, being so close to the end of my self reliance, has more remorse than reward. It recalled a study I glanced at briefly, about Cervantes needing exile to still be Catholic. During my brother's funeral, I glared at the priest. His homily was dry, circumspect, hasty summary of a turbulent monster boy's life, and I glared at this shepherd, his run of the mill tone. It wasn't personal. Any priest I've ever confessed to is dead, but that day, all things being equal, an exorcist might have had suspicions that a cripple might have needed a cleansing.
When it comes to Donald Trump, we're in another territory, namely, the diminished dignity of his office. I despise the man, and the issue isn't getting myself under surveillance for a vitriolic potty mouth, so much as it might be the price of these libertarian seismic waves: it would cost me nothing to tell Trump to go fuck himself, and no one else has that distinction. Bill Clinton might come close, not that gradations are of any use. It isn't a simple matter of decline, of turning into butt head bitch. Trump is a celebrity jackass whose carnivalesque antipodes have already worn threadbare. The world is undoubtedly at an end, with the bile of repugnance in my throat.
Don your civility, bless the Pontiff, who made due with the modern theatrical circus of godspel in the larnyx of Aretha Franklin. Kick it up, dare to be inappropriate. Go to Christmas mass, be gracious to Philadelphia's lanky shuffling in their pews. Wear the sneakers the dead pig from the Bronx gave you for a present. Go.
No comments:
Post a Comment