july 25, 2002.

We got home and our monitor died. This is really not good. Besides all of the dumb things I do - rewriting my résumé although I have a job, looking up the re-run schedule of The West Wing, keeping tabs on the LJ flame and fluff wars - I actually need the fucker to finish the church website. Not to mention the fact that I can't transcribe any of this stuff. [whew! - relieved, post-monitor authoress] Fuck. I just got my StanFest pictures back from the chemist and I'm dying to scan them...but no dice. I am a humbled, humbled woman. I mean, I spent a good 18 years without doing anything on the PC other than typing up book reports and playing that DOS explorer game where deer would appear whenever your supplies got low. How on earth did I ever work myself into such a lather?

I'm not particularly proud of myself. I thought I was okay because I could go without for 2 weeks while I was on vacation. But doing without a computer on vacation is one thing - everyone and everything is different, so who notices a little less time suckage? Here it's making me crazy. The longer I go, the more irritable I get, although I spent much less time today thinking about it than I did only yesterday. Yesterday it was like a sore tooth that I couldn't stop licking. Today it's just a steadily-increasing hum of desire.

Like I said, I am very humbled, very chastened right now. I thought I was better than this.

"True joy is a victory, one which cannot be attained without a long and difficult struggle."

- the pope's address to the assembled world youth.

We managed to catch some of the televised WYD program this afternoon. I found it fascinating - the obvious joy & fellowship wove those disparate pilgrims together like a blanket of cheerfulness. Even when the performers sang their happy-clappy Jesus-is-my-buddy-songs that normally make me cringe, I couldn't look away. I was, in fact, moved to wonder why I and other Christians of my ilk turn up our collective noses at simple chords and platitude-driven lyrics. Could it be - gasp! - a class thing? Never!

Upon reflection, I have to conclude that many of us hip urban Christians are unconsciously trying to be sophisticated in a practice that was never meant to be elegant or dignified. It's the dim buried hope of us sophisti-Christians that someone, somewhere might take us more seriously if we're seen enjoying Handel's Messiah rather than Hank Williams' "I Saw the Light." It's the 'I'm a Christian but...' syndrome. I'm sure that Satan gets quite a few of us in that particular pride snare.

We had the Avalanches over last night on the spur of the moment. Although the house was filthy when I made the call, both the Boy & myself suddenly found that we were suffering from Greater Gomorrah Withdrawal (which is the fear of an empty social calendar). Together with the Avalanches we watched The Man Who Wasn't There (wonderful) and talked about conducting (even better). When I told them about my monitor going to the Great Contrast Adjustment in the Sky, Mr. Avalanche became visibly agitated. I decided to test the waters.

"So, can I borrow your monitor?"

"No." The twitch in his leg increased.

"Aw, come on! I have to finish the church website! This is, objectively, a really good thing to do for me!"

"No! I won't be able to look for jobs!"

"You can come over here and look."

"No! You can't have it. I'm getting twitchy just thinking about it!" I let the matter drop for a little while. Then, as they were leaving:

"Please! I need to borrow your monitor!"

"No!" And they disappeared into the night.

I really like them.

Our move is starting to go flaky around the edges. The premature death of Mustang Scotty has really put a crimp in our plan to offer succour to various gypsies. Still, no point in really worrying until I'm told, flat out, that our cuckoo eggs will not be welcome. We'll see.

Oh man. I love living without Ceilidh. I can walk into room without worrying about shutting the door and keeping her out - I don't have to watch where I step - our storage room smells so much better. The Boy & I have been getting along so well since we got back home that it's almost led me to conclude that the absence of cat has something to do with it. Perhaps she was a evil little grey bundle, a source of anger and bad feeling. Which, occasionally, she was, although I never pictured it taking place on this scale.

Of course, the Boy's been sick and this may very well account for some of the good feeling swishing around the Rockethome. The Boy & I tend to be abstract people, living in a world of brain and only occasionally tethered to our bodies. When the Boy is sick, his desires radically shrink in scope. It's easy to meet his needs: antibiotics, juice, blankets, hugs, videos, grapes, smoothies & soup are the most vital. I read to him & tuck him into bed & open tins for him. He's in paradise.

EEEEE!

The Boy picked up our mail yesterday. In it was a postcard from the woman I had declared as my personal StanFest hero, my favourite accordion artist in the whole world, Ana Bon-Bon. Looking at the signature, my mind reeled. How - What - Had I signed up for a list? Did she look me up? She wrote about hugging me on the field...did she remember me? Wild!

I freaked.

And then I noticed the next postcard was from St. Stephen.

...As chance would have it, this booking agent who collaborated with Anselmo in rescuing me from Monastery has booked Ana for a night at the Railway Club....So here I am, applauding the talent I missed in Canso and ever so thankful that you convinced me that she was worth seeing.

I looked from one address to another. The handwriting matched. He must have given her a postcard to write and then sent it off later. Now that I think about it, he did tell me at the party that he'd sent us some postcards. Wow. That magnificent bastard.