Flexidoxy, Reasoning Together and Flaming Idiots

After church today, LaElu needed to do a touch of shopping, so I snatched a couple of pamphlets from the narthex (no kidding, it's really the name of a room - it's like we're in the Middle Ages or something) to see what the denomination tells others it believes. I didn't have a book with me, and one of the more boring things is waiting in the parking lot while LaElu shops in her curiously contemplative fashion. (Men are from Mars; Women are from Venus; I'm from 61 Cygni.) In any event, the minister isn't bullshitting when he describes the situation as Christian Flexidoxy. One is free to read and interpret the Bible as s/he will, there is darn little dogma, few magic words, no expectation that praying for stupid stuff (magical cures, etc.) will work, and there is no need for an intercessor, 'cause plain folks can talk to God and get a message as validly as one who has been in seminary. I'm pretty comfortable there. (I recognize that there may be some apparent inconsistency with any-doxy on my part and my cynical and curmudgeonly nature. But see post on God some months ago.) This whole thing of everyone having some sort of ministry (1) is consistent with my anti-clerical beliefs and (2) finally makes sense of something my Dad was trying to tell me in the last month of his life. To each his/her own. Moreover, this is all very consistent with Masonic teaching, which also makes sense to me.

Speaking of Masonic teaching, Friend Dacey in Baltimore was telling me that she'd seen some sort of documentary or docu-drama about the Freemasons' evil plots, and described a purportedly accurate recreated ceremony. Darn, the thing was pretty close. That still doesn't bother me a bit. It's not the input that's important, it's how you process it and whether you get the point. Not that everyone gets the point, even the Grand Whatevers.

Had a pleasant talk with my former partner on Friday, mainly catching up on family, etc. When we talk, there's not an elephant in the room, there's a whole fucking zoo. I still do care for her and care what happens to her, and perhaps we are moving toward detente. Life is too short to harbor bitterness. (We still own a building together, and have not resolved that.)

Well, I keep telling myself that, but the (insane) brother is still an ultra-brooding topic to me.

My (sane) brother is coming in from Indiana tomorrow (plus his wife, a very sweet lady). He has sincerely tried to spread oil on the turbulent water plus provided a lot of gentle and effective support to our mother. The boy's got a touch that I don't have. He's a seminary guy (I don't know if he ever got the decoder ring, but he has a Masters of Divinity, I think) so that fits his background. Well, that's excellent. I have told him, though, not to bother with the oil-on-the-water thing with me, because I must consider the relationship with the (insane) brother terminated. That's a sadness, but life is too short to volunteer to take abuse.

Yes, I realize that brooding and termination are somewhat mutually exclusive. "A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of small minds." (Emerson) (I like to quote Emerson. I quote from his poem Brahma a lot -- it's extraordinarily in-your-face.)

I'm bringing up a blog for No. 3, to have yet another place to spread my heresies, only this one known and available. I'm wondering how edgy I'll be willing to write there.

Last Thursday's sentencing -- I'm still wondering how much a role I played in the great result. I stretched as far as I could, farther than I usually think is credible, in order to ask for a home-confinement sentence. For the past year, I had been honestly working my ass off on this case. This is a great judge we had - smart, appointed by Bush I, so conservative, human, and the way she runs her courtroom permits (or even invites) people to put aside advocating ridiculous things and "come and reason together." Mind you, if you go into her court and act like an asshole, she'll cut your heart out. I just finished a book (that I'm going to review for the state bar journal) called The Curmudgeon's Guide to Practicing Law. In some respects, the author does not accurately depict practice as it is done in West Virginia. (Were I a curmudgeon myself, I would say that in some respects the author is full of shit.) (Oops, I guess I've already admitted that status.) In any event, he does talk about how cases percolate (my word) in a lawyer's mind, and you just live with it 24/7. I cannot turn that sort of thing off and, indeed, I'm a little sad to close this file, too. But Friday, yet another lady crack client came in, to talk about HER sentencing which is in March. From each of these three women, I've learned (or relearned?) something. From Tina, I saw how deep the pit is, and how daunting that mountain you gotta climb looks from the bottom. From the lady last week, Toni, I learned that being on top of that mountain looking down at what you just did is pretty thrilling. And from the third lady, Tonya, I'm seeing confirmation that there are a lot of evil animals who are willing and anxioius to shove otherwise decent people down into the pit. That's yet another case that is churning in me.

I'm looking forward to attempting coffee with Brother Dave in the morning - to see us together, you would wonder what in the hell we have in common. He is a small man, super-athletic, and a really snappy dresser. I'm just, well, me. But he's my best friend, and I'm very glad of that.

I'm running the decision tree for how to adjust to Amy's prolonged absence. Family has to come first. But we do important work that must get done, or lots of people are in a world of shit.

I'm going to a book-club-group sort of thing tomorrow night - first time I've done that in DECADES. A different part of the brain is involved in turning learning and reactions to a book into spoken language.

Ruminating about an "ideal" life - and there is no consistent vision, at different times I want different things. Tonight, there is a high wind, cold temps and some snow (nothing like what they got north, west and east of us), and I would like to be at the farm, in a cabin of some sort, in the darkness and silence of a winter's night. Inside, of course. I was thinking tonight as I walked from my car to the house, jeez, I used to enjoy going camping in this shit, what was I thinking? Brother Pete, does this mean that I'm getting old or soft or something like that?

The bar Christmas thing is at No. 3 Thursday night. I'm a touch miffed - Amy's absence will be a problem. Last week, I made it clear that I'm not hosting the fucking thing, I'm not a host kind of guy, so another sociable lady lawyer is taking up the slack. I promise that I'll wear a coat & tie and smile now and then as I lurk and drink my coffee, but that's it.

My week is packed, and I hope that Friday night thru Wednesday will be an interlude of down time.

Mizpah. Pippa passes.

R