The Little Friar

In 2018, I told my wife that I was convinced then-president Donnie Trump was engaging in behavior and language reminiscent of any number of totalitarian "leaders" throughout history.  I knew then he would never relinquish the Office of the President of the United States of America peacefully.  He would use any means available -- including military -- in order to remain in power.  My wife -- and everyone else who heard me make that claim -- insisted I was being reactionary.  "That can never happen here", they retorted. Then the 6th of January, 2021, happened.   Liz Cheney's new memoir, Oath and Honor , recounts the aftermath of the 2020 Presidental Election.   On January 6th a mob of Trump supporters stormed the Capitol.  As the rioters attempted to break down the doors to the House chamber, members were told they needed to prepare to hide under their chairs. "We need to get the ladies off the aisle", announced Trump loyalist ringleader Ohio R...

As we approach Christmas, we enter one of the two (the other is Easter) periods of the year in which large numbers of people claim that all popular Christian things are really pagan things.  Some of this is perhaps Puritan hangover; some early Protestants refused to celebrate Christmas because they read the symbolism as Catholics acting like pagans.  If you have a religion of almost pure text and moral discipline, you naturally read any substantive symbolism as a sort of heathenry.  Some of it is out-of-date anthropology still floating around.  It's this that gives us the entirely unsubstantiated notion that the eggs and bunnies of Easter trace back to pagan fertility celebrations.  And some of it is just an irrational taste for pissing on other people's customs; one often recognizes these people by the fact that the insist so vehemently that this or that custom is really some other prior custom, even if it is quite clear that the current custom is not practiced...

In December's hush, where frost-kissed leaves descend, A symphony of rain, a soft refrain, The heavens weep, a melancholy blend, As silver droplets dance on windowpane. Each tear that falls, a tale untold, unseen, Whispers of winter's wistful serenade, A sonnet penned upon the misted sheen, On rooftops, gardens, in the silent glade. The world in slumber, wrapped in a cold embrace, Yet, in the rain, a promise to renew, A cleansing balm, a gentle touch of grace, To wash away the old, embrace the new. December rain, a sonnet to the earth, A poignant verse of nature's constant rebirth. -- 12/10/23