Les said, the better II

Art

So I went to Nuit Blanche and I’ve had to spend the last few days thinking before I could post about it. I went to the fêtê part of it, which I think means party. And party it was. There were folks doing really really loud pop music drumming stuff and there were women in g-strings dancing to said drumming. I went first to Saint Eustache, where I caught a short part of the all-night-long series of organ concerts. The church has really hugely high celings and incredible reverberation. The organist gave a short talk before she played, which I couldn’t really understand and she had to speak very very very slowly because of the many-seconds long delay. It’s a great atmosphere for a pipe organ, though. Those churches are why pipe organ pieces are they way they are: big, long and slow. She played one piece by Tchaikovsky which I really liked. It had short dramatic bursts like the orchestra hits in Rite of Spring but they were getting eaten by the space and the effect was more or less in vain. It did build up a nice sound mass throughout and was big and dramatic by the end, which worked exceedingly in the space.

I went out and wandered around for a while. I walked by a gallery and somebody explained that a band was playing with video projection. It was a drummer / saxophonist, an orgasm singer / trumpet player, a guitar player / fx box wanker and another fx box wanker, as far as I can remember. The room was pretty dark anyway. The band seemed to be following the video, but not to the point where it was a score or anything. The video consisted of repeating images, many of them interesting: a monument in the middle of water, a woman standing in the same position in all her shots, across the street from the camera person, 50 meters to the left of where she was just standing, scooting down the street, a LOT of pictures of porn. The porn flashed by really fast, but the video editor had positioned them so that all the naked women were about the same size, facing the same way and engaged in the same act. So first was a bunch of maybe single or double frame stills of naked women, then anal sex, then, well, you get the idea. All of this was mixed in with footage of candle light vigils and what looked like home movies (with a really nice camera) of military presence around Ground Zero in NYC very shortly after the towers fell. The performance felt like it was over an hour long, but I wasn’t keeping track of the time. I don’t know what the images have to do with each other. Candle light vigils and 9/11 I get, but why the porn? They do realize that three thousand people fucking died in the wreckage that makes such nice background for wanking guitar fx and orgasm sounds, right? Maybe I just missed some very obvious point that everyone else in the room got about capitalism, culture and tragedy or something.
It was during the middle of that show that I remembered that I left my gas turned on. My stove has a gas valve on the back of it that I have to turn off after I cook. It seems weird, but the landlord made such a big deal about it in the rental contract and put in all caps and underlines NO BURNING CANDLES. TURN OFF GAS AFTER COOKING or something and there are no smoke alarms anywhere, that it must actually be important. A few nights ago I was watching the movie of the week and the main character’s house blew up because she forgot to turn off the gas. So, um, should I be really paranoid or keep wandering?
I went by the Pompidou Center, but the line had hundreds of people in it. The whole area around Des Halles and St Eustache and the Pompidou was mobbed with wall to wall people. It’s nice to see Parisians taking in their own city. I mean, like San Franciscans, they avoid tourist areas unless there’s something worthwhile going on there. Out by Les Halles, there was an odd installation that included a video projector, a sort of spaceship looking thing, women growling on it and what looked live somebody using it either for emergency medical treatment, or a doctor was examining his shoe. I didn’t want to stare in case it was the former. Ok, right . . .. That and thong dancers. I decided to go home and turn of the gas and then go on to the more serious-art looking listings closer to my house. But it was still kind of early and I had tons of energy, since I had prepared for the night by drinking coffee all day and sleeping in that morning. I’ll just check my email first. Ooh, big crowds. Maybe I’ll just set up podcasting before I go back out. When I finished configuring the server, five hours later, I leaned back from my computer and heard a thunder clap and rush of rain. So I went to bed.
I remembered the horrific lines from the free event at the Pompidou and didn’t even try to go to the Louvre.

Stuff

Yuri flew in Sunday night and we hung out yesterday and walked around. We went to the poetry reading at Shakespeare and company. We went there earlier in the day to pick up an english-language free magazine that lists events and stuff. I talked to the woman in charge of the poetry series. She seemed very interested when I described my stuff. Seemed to want to book me for next monday(!). I didn’t know my class schedule, but I dropped off a CD for her last night. Hopefully, she will email me about it soon.

First day of school

Class started late because of a metro strike. (Yay Paris!) The teacher told us to all introduce ourselves. John went first. I’m paraphrasing even thought I’m using double quotes (as always). “I have a MA in composition. I play tuba. I’m really into this stuff called Text Sound Poetry . . ..” Dood, that’s my line! Yeah, so neither of us brought a tuba, but both of us brought mouthpieces just in case. He plays a Sanders piggy CC tuba. If you’ve ever seen my tuba and you’re wondering that a Sanders CC Piggy looks like, well, that’s what I play. We play the exact same kind of horn. It’s creeping me out. Mine has five valves though and his doesn’t, since the thumb trigger on mine was a non-standard after-market thing. We don’t have the same kind of mouthpiece at least.
Yeah, so I have scarily a lot in common with one guy. The rest of the guys (and I do mean all guys) seem kind of young, but I dunno. I was too busy being tripped out by John.
the rest of the day, we got a lecture on how to use UPIC. For those of you who are wondering how to use UPIC: you can’t. Forget it. Or you could just fake it with wavetables in your language of choice. OR you could buy metasynth and be able to do everything UPIC does and a lot of things that it doesn’t do all on normal hardware (unlike UPIC). Or, eventually, there will be a 3d open source version of UPIC, after they find a PhD student willing to write a 3D display engine. (I want said student to work on JJiCalc.)
The teacher spent a LOT of time explaining what FM synthesis was. I’m all nervous now. Why am I taking a year long class in electronic music if I have a damn masters degree in it? I could have gone to Germany and studied art robots. Or taken the art robot money and gone to Berlin. Not that Paris is bad. and the class schedule is . . . sparse, so I have a lot of time for writing music / goofing off. And it’s all about the lab time.
I know more than I think I know and I’m more qualified than I think I am and I’m going to get a PhD soon and then I will teach at a place like this.
Ahem. UPIC is so weird and constrained and archaic that I’m sure being forced to use it will give me a million ideas which I could then code up in Supercollider for years after I leave this place and it’s dedicated UPIC hardware behind. Alas, nobody in the class has anymore connection to the Paris music scene than I do. I must befriend the tech guy (he’s cool anyway. I met him a couple of years ago, but I’m sure he doesn’t remember. (Eventually somebody is going to connect me with the ex . . .)) and maybe some of the Artists in Residence.
Anything that forces me to write music is good. Anything that gets me playing in Paris is good. This is all good. I’m always so nervous about new things.
Tags: Paris, Celesteh

From an article in the Chicago Sun Times called “Boy, girl or transmale?”

”I think the fluidity of gender is the next big wave in terms of adolescent development,” says Caitlin Ryan, a clinical social worker at San Francisco State University who is conducting a long-term sexual orientation and gender survey of youth and their families. “Gender has become part of the defining way that youth organize themselves and rebel against adults.”

To some youth, playing with gender identity and roles is as much about fun and self-expression as anything. “There’s a kind of tongue-in-cheek aspect to it,” Ryan says, “as well as a celebration of oneself.”

Yo, I’m down with the kids. Or, I’m immature.
That’s it, I’m totally getting a motorcycle when I get home.
I don’t know whether to be annoyed or maybe gender fluidity really IS the next big thing for teens. Hopefully.
Tags: Gender, Celesteh

I am now Podcasting. To subscribe via itunes, fire up the application. Under the Advanced menu, select Subscribe to Podcast. In the box, paste in: feed://www.berkeleynoise.com/celesteh/podcast/?feed=rss2 .

Never before seen on the internet mp3s of my Toy Piano Nonette (what you haven’t written a piece for 9 toy pianos?) and my Fred Phelps piece just added. More to come. Feedback welcome.
Edit: You may notice that I’ve got a bunch of categories. Well, say you’re only interested in music that I do that uses the program Supercollider. I’ve tagged all of that music with the tag “SuperCollider,” so you could use that tag to only subscribe to those pieces: http://www.berkeleynoise.com/celesteh/podcast/?feed=rss2&category_name=SuperCollider , you could also sort by year, since that’s a tag or by any category listed on the right. fun fun fun
Tags: Podcast, Celesteh

Yesterday, Cola got on the train to Spain in the rain. It’s been cold and wet here. She will be nice and warm in Spain. Yuri shows up tomorrow and my school starts Tuesday, so I should be able to hold overwhelming loneliness at bay. Also, I should clean the damn house. Today there was a trans march, but I didn’t see the article about it in Liberation until two hours after it started. ActUp lists a starting location but not a destination or anything. Oh well. Protesting during only my third weekend here would have been something. Maybe I should join a student movement or something.

(skip to the more interesting part)
My day so far: Woke up late. Read news. Made coffee (Cola has made coffee every morning so far *sniff*. And we’re nearly out of coffee filters!), 25% of chores. Looked at Berkeley’s extensive documentation requirement for application. Wondered where else I should apply to. Wondered how on earth to get Anthony Braxton to fill out UC Berkeley’s required forms since I can’t call him and email is sometimes hit or miss. Placed a phone call over the internet (yay skype. username: celesteh1 . I’m also on AIM and Gtalk, but I can’t do VOIP on Gtalk with everyone, only some people). Got a regular phone call from my ISP. As soon as people hear me say «Bonjour» on the phone, they say, “oh, you don’t speak French, do you?” Well, a little. Anyway, they’re calling me back in English on tuesday, which is good, because I don’t know if I signed up for the thing where I can make unlimited local calls on a DSL phone for not.
The DSL hardware I’m renting, by the way, it extremely annoying. The metal contacts on the DSL filters don’t actually touch any of the metal contacts in my phone jacks. I’ve been forced to jam a bunch of used metro tickets under one side of the adaptor and tape the whole thing in place with gaffing tape (a relative of duct tape). My piece of hardware has a warm pulsing glow of the France Telecom logo, which should make Yuri feel warm and cozy at night. When I unplug it at night for her, it will forget all of the settings, because the “save to flash memory” button on the gateway webpage is apparently some sort of prank. Switching to the english version of said web page crashes Safari. I can’t get it to change any of the settings at all, except somewhat randomly. I’ve failed to change the password, the name of the network, or the wireless channel it runs on. It does, however, change settings by itself in exciting and interesting ways. TV over DSL (huh?) is turned on. Now it’s turned off? I haven’t tried changing settings over an ethernet cable yet, as I don’t have one. I suspect that in order to change settings, I need to connect to it via USB, which entails installing a bunch of device drivers written by the same people who can’t make telephone connectors and whose web interface claims to work while not working at all. I’ll probably do it eventually. I wish I had an external hard drive to boot from or something. I like how stable my laptop is and I sense I may sacrifice that. Alas!
I’m drinking loads of coffee and I slept in late, so I will have energy for Nuit Blanche. There’s a bunch of art installations going up tonight from 7PM to 7AM and a bunch of bars and restaurants are staying open for it. I will take as many pictures as I can, which may not be very many on account of the darkness and a reluctance to use my flash since it annoys people. Now I must go make dinner in advance of going out. Wish I knew somebody to go with.
And, tomorrow is the free day at the Louvre.
Tags: Paris, Celesteh

the problem is that my landline doesn’t make outgoing calls. the landlord has thoughtfully restricted it so that i can’t make calls without a calling card. which is why cola’s cell phone can call it, but it can’t call cola’s cell phone. it only took me about 4 times hearing the recorded message before i understood what it said.

I hate the telephone. And I’m downloading skype right now.
Tag: Celesteh

Starting to get some survival skills. There are somethings that I can’t manage, though. When I’m walking straight towards someone, I step to the right, so we don’t crash into each other. This is clearly not what the French person expects. I get really uptight in crowded spaces because I don’t know how to go around people.

Yesterday, I went to put money in my new bank account. The nice woman at the bank spent like 20 minutes explaining that I should get cash out of the ATM, and then go talk to the teller next door to deposit it. After a few more explanations, and some pointing, this mission was finally accomplished. Then I went grocery shopping which has become easy enough to revert to being mundane. Then I went to buy a bike pump (as Cola has a flat tire) and decided that maybe I should just buy a helmet already. Simple questions and simple answers I can handle. “Which is the least expensive helmet?” “I have the head, she very small.”
Then we went to get Cola a cell phone. For this transaction, they needed to see my identity card. I guess that’s why the copier felt free to read it, since it seems like it’s public anyway. There’s hardly a thing you can do without it. I spouted off more barely comprehensible french. Then we went to dinner. This was our first dinner out since arriving. We went to a tiny vegetarian place in the 4th, very much a tourist area. The food was pretty good. They didn’t have carafes of house wine, so we were forced (forced, i tell you) to order a whole bottle. Anyway, afterwards we wandered into a church that was built in 1520 or something. I was surprised to see it open so late. There are informational signs inside, so tourists are definitely welcome. But then I saw they were doing an adoration of the Holy Eucharist, so we left.
In the very very old days, all Christian churches faced east. Between that and the stained glass windows, Christianity looks a lot like a cult of sun worshipping (that pun is English-only, alas). In the middle ages, there started to be a cult of relics, where pieces of dead saints were displayed as a holy objects whose proximity enhanced prayer and holy meditation. Tied up in this was the emergence of the idea of transubstantiation. The piece of bread used in the Mass actually becomes Jesus, according to catholic belief. Because the presence of relics (pieces of dead saints) in gold reliquaries (holders for said relics) enhanced prayer and meditation, a piece of Jesus would certainly have even greater potency. A special reliquary for the consecrated host (transubstantiated bread) was invented and was called a monstrance. It’s a round glass holder which holds the round host within it. Then, radiating outwards from the host like rays of the son, there are gold decorations. It strongly resembles a symbol of the sun, perhaps demonstrating a strong unconscious link with sun worship, even though the official symbology is that of a death cult. There is an uneasy mingling of solar symbols and death symbols, with vibrant stained glass windows and macabre crucifixes. Anyway, given that adoration of the blessed sacrament is extremely holy, when I saw the monstrance, I thought it would be disrespectful to try to take unobtrusive photos of the requisite Joan of Arc statue (in every Catholic church in France, afaik) and exit.
Then we went to an abandoned gay bar and then drunk biking home. Good thing I have a helmet.
Today, we have occupied ourselves trying to discover the mysteries of Cola’s new cell phone. Not since the Pharaoh’s tomb was first discovered have people scratched their heads so violently at mysterious hieroglyphics. For instance, what the heck is her phone number? I called the information code and pressed 0 for operator. (bracketed [] text is in english).
“What is the number telephone with we talk now?” Strangely the operator failed to catch my drift. “[Yesterday] I purchased cell phone. I’m not acquainted with number of telephone.” She told me to call another number, so I did. It read the number in fast french. I got all but two numbers. What was ‘swason set’ and ‘trant weet’? We covered numbers in my French class over the summer. Everything between 1 and 100 000 000 in about an hour or less. I saw the concierge outside and rushed down to ask her. “Hello, madam, please excuse me for disturbing you, but I’m having a problem. I buy telephone cellular and number ‘swason set.’ I don’t understand the number ‘swason set’? Write it please?” She was very helpful, perhaps impressed by my memorized introductory phrase. But I tried calling the phone number and it didn’t work. So I rushed back down with the phone. “I don’t understand number. Phone, she says number. I don’t understand.” The concierge went for her glasses. “no no. She says number!” The word ‘ecoutez’ escaped my brain. Finally I put the phone to my ear. She wrote down the same number as before. I thanked her profusely and then realized I had locked myself out of my building. “I forgot mine key!”
Maybe the phone needs to have cash put onto it? We went to an ATM but couldn’t figure out how to use it to charge the phone. (It is possible, according to the phone company’s web page (which is just a ton of fun in google translator, since about half the text is in image files).) Ok, so we went to a tabbac and bought a phone card and have spent the last hour or so trying to figure out which numbers to press. French is hard. Maybe the second most difficult spoken language (not as hard to read as German, but way harder to speak and understand spoken) and doubly difficult over the phone. finally the recorded voice said the phone card had already been used. Yay. But we still can’t call the phone. The web page for the phone company says no such number exists. (Inspiration strikes as I type this! no, alas, a false lead.)
MY school has not yet posted the schedule. Which is too bad, because I really need to know when I’ll have time for French classes. Maybe a cellphone class. I’m going to go get out a dictionary and figure out what I want to ask, write it down poorly, and then go back to happy phone and ask some questions.
Tags: Paris, Celesteh

I just went to Café Adonis. I’ve wanted to go there for years. So cheesy. So gay male. The kind of place that plays madonna and I Will Survive exclusively on the jukebox or whatever. Like the Castro, it’s in the swank part of town. Which means ancien. Old wood beam ceilings. Stone walls. Archways. Old. There was a candle burning on every table. And an ash tray with the official adonis book of matches. I swaggered in, having already finished off more than half a bottle of wine. I ordered two Hoegartens, mostly by pionting at the tap, my French already departed under the influence of alchohol. I needed a place to sit and drink until I sobored up enough to bike home. The bartender, in her low cut black dress, gestured towards an empty table. She didn’t want a non-francophone at the bar. Nicole and I shrugged and walked over to the table. She brought us our beers. We toasted each other. Nicole gave me a dour look. It might have been then that I noticed that there were exactly three people in the building counting Cola, me and the bartender.

We collected a copy of every gay publican, but not a gay map, which is what In hoped to find, especially given the 17 or so rainbow flag stickers dotting the doors and windows. We drank our beers after discussing life, madonna and everything. I got up to powder my nose. Then Nicole did. When she left, I became maudlin, which is often the case after I’ve been drinking. I perused the rack of free postcards, thinking who I might want to send one to. My mom, of course, but c’est impossible. Well, maybe I could send it c/o Gate of Heaven Cemetary . . .. That’s when I noticed the cigarettes on the table. I lit one to change my train of thought.
Nicole returned and flipped open her cigarette case, exactly like a socialite from the last century, if only her case didn’t have Donkey Kong on it. She confessed to attempting to ensnare me into smoking, rejoycing in her sucessful plot. It was then that two lesbians came into the bar. One of them started pounding on the bar. The bartender didn’t stir. She was passed out on top of the CD player, left skipping tracks to The Best of Madonna. Finally, the punding elsbian went around the bar and woke the bartender up and the had a long embrace. The bartender lit a cigarette and teetered over to a homeless-looking man who had wandered in and ordered him out. The she went to the door to smoke and came by my table and complained about the smell of our cigarettes, pausing only to take a drag off hers, as if she had studied the art of sultry smoking from black and white films starring Gretta Garbo and all the stars from previous generations. I apologized in French and she patted my shoulder and smiled. I asked for the bill.
When we finally left, she was outside, consoling the woman who woke her, who was crying in the doorway of a closed business next door. The butch woman who came in earlier was left minding the car. “Merci, avoir” I said to her as we passed this private scene of misery, drunkeness, drama and grief. She smiled and waved.
No part of this story is made up. I think I love this place. I want to go back.
Tag: Celesteh

Monday, 26 September 2005, 19:33

I have an identity card! Well, I have a temporary thingee. My landlord fedexed the gas bill to me and it came this morning. So I hopped on my bike and rode all the way out to the southern edge of the city. My route took me near up Montparnasse, sort of, but it was not much of a hill where I was, or it would have been too much for a heavy, single speed bike. I passed the Luxembourg Gardens and the Pantheon and all sorts of interesting diversions, but instead, I rode to the Prefecture de Police where I was finally allowed past the gate keeper of document inspection.
Forms were filled out (with essay questions! (which got remarkably short answers from me)). Lines were waited in. Functionaries were spoken with. It was whirlwind of sitting in uncomfortable plastic chairs, waiting to be called! Actually, the chairs were pretty good, especially in comparison to bearucratic situations in the US. So I have an ID thing that’s got stamps on it and is valid through most of October. On the 11th of October, I have to go have a medical exam. I think I will have to miss class for the morning. I don’t have a schedule yet. I hope it’s not the most important day or something. After I get certified as healthy (hopefully), I get to pay a tax and return to the Prefecture and get a longer term residency card.
I biked back home and felt so dern tired. I still have a cold (which I want to be over). So I took a nap. Travel colds suck. I wonder if they sell Sudafed here.
Last night, I felt pretty good, and so went out to see if I could purchase an eclair. Alas, I could not, but decided to walk to the Place Stalingrad. Since it was impromptu, neither of us were carrying a map. We made a wrong turn at a homeless encampment and ended up at the St Martin Canal. It’s pretty. In some spots I was looking up at the water from the street and wondering if they just open all the locks when it rains a lot or what. However, neither I nor Cola had any idea how to retrace our steps nor were we sure which side of the canal that we lived on. We walked past a bar that looked like it was a set from a movie. There was a guy inside actually wearing a beret. The window said it had performances inside sometimes. I could hear someone playing the piano and singing. I think it may have been called Che. I want to go back when I’m not lost and feeling cold-y. Fortunately, though, Paris has signs all over it directing wheeled traffic towards major destinations like the Place Stalingrad or the Place de Republique. We finally saw a sign for the later and walked there, purchased a crepe and then walked home.
When I locked up my bike today, the wind was blowing and chestnuts were raining down in the wind, striking everything around them. They’re so dark brown and shiny and perfect and look like they would smart if they hit your head. There are broken, smashed ones in the streets that have been ground under the tires of busses and taxis and cars. I wanted to pick the ones all around the bike racks and stuff them in my bags and take them home and cook them, but nobody else seems to be foraging beneath the trees and I lack the courage to break possible taboo, so they go to waste.
In language news, it turns out that the word for soy “soja” is not pronounced “soya” like it is in many other languages, but instead is called “so-ZHA.” And they say TV rots your brain. Soy yogurt is apparently huge here, there’s Danonne and Yoplait and a million other brands running TV ads. I also had some pronunciation help from the guy scheduling my medical appointment. “It’s by Metro baSTEE.”
me: “oh, basteel”
him: no, baSTEE
me: basTEE
him: baSTEEEEEE
me: baSTEEEEEE
I should have asked him how to say “plan”
I heard rumors a long time ago that Shakespeare and Co hosts English-language poetry events. As soon as I have my class schedule, I’m going to go by with a CD and talk to them about text sound.
Everything is much too exciting for me to have cold.

Tuesday 15:39

And I have a bank account! The first bank I walked into said they couldn’t help me until I have a permanent carte de sejour and that nobody would be able to help me without a permanent identity card. So I went to the bank down the block who seemed unaware of said restriction. Tomorrow, I get to go back to get the numbers I need to wire money and then I get to go online and perform said wiring.
Do they have bank insurance in France like the FDIC in the US? All I know about my NEW BANK (w00t!) (Credit Lyonnaise) is that they were part of a massive government bailout several years ago. And they have a branch across from my metro station.
This is nifty: When you get the address to something in France, they also tell you the nearest metro station. Since there’s one every two blocks or so, this is a great help in locating any address. Also, the last two digits of your Parisian postal code are the number of your arrondissment.
French people don’t smile automatically like some Americans (it’s hardly universal even in the US. Yankees don’t walk around grinning either). Sometimes it’s hard for me to remember not to smile, even though I tend towards not-smiley by California standards. Yesterday, I accidentally smiled at a woman in the bathroom. (I was nervous. I forgot. Anyway, she was kind of butch, which was validating for me.)
There is a guy down the street who has a photocopy place. He has an adorable brown dog tied up outside. The dog is super-friendly and will play with passersby such as myself. I went to get some photocopies made before going to the bank. The man is the opposite of the dog. I’ve been in his shop before and I think I may have accidentally been rude, trying to do self-copying rather than have him copy things. They have a self-service machine, but anyway . . .. Today I came in and he was dour as normal. I told him his dog was cute and he broke into a grin and started asking about my studies. “Electronic music? In France??” He also took the time to read all of my paperwork that I needed copied. It’s not exactly secret, but, um, I think this must also be a cultural difference.
On the weekend, I took a picture of the statue of Joan of Arc in the 1st, by the Louvre and wrote that I couldn’t remember why it was important (aside from La Pen’s misdirected admiration). I think now that it may be over, or at least very near, the spot where she was injured while attacking Paris. She got injured while attacking one of the gates of the city: Saint Honoré. I don’t know where that was, but the city wall used to be right next to where the Louvre is now. Tuileries was outside, the Louvre was inside. And the rue Saint Honoré comes closest to the Louvre where the statue is. Let’s Go Paris 2001 reports that she was injured in the 1st, but doesn’t say where, probably instead devoting space to snark about popular uprisings and the superiority of American Hegemony and how you can get in to see the Mona Lisa and back out of the museum within 15 minutes (no really, they have said paragraphs. God forbid you see any art or anything). I will look for confirmation of where she was injured and report back.
Every single shirt I brought with me is blue.

Wednesday 16:14

My internet modem is here, but is not here. The concierge has it. She takes a lunch break everyday until 4:00(!). It is 4:15. Why has she not returned to give me my wireless modem?
I got Nicole’s name added to my bank account. I have to put some money into the account or I sense it will cause some problems. When I get my internet set up, I can use it to wire money to my new bank account.
Today, like yesterday, I am dressed entirely in blue, including my socks, but not my back shoes. If I had the right sort of white hat, I would be a smurf. I seem to have accidentally adopted blue like Jean once adopted purple. I must make a note to avoid the blue man group, lest things get out of hand.

16:44

She’s still not there!
It’s making me feel blue . . ..
Obviously she doesn’t work 24/7. During which hours is it acceptable to ring her buzzer?

Tag: Celesteh

That gigantic baptismal font clashes with the stations of the cross and has got to go. Hello? The renaissance has been over for centuries.
I don’t have news articles, but I saw a tagline from the Chronicle’s RSS feed: “The Vatican may soon issue a document saying homosexuals should not be ordained as priests, but without clearly defining the term ‘homosexual’ or specifying how intrusively the church should look into the sexual background of seminary applicants, Vatican watchers and church officials said yesterday.”
‘Vatican watchers’ might recall that the previous pope made a similar proposal in late 2001 or early 2002, but fell under a mountain of criticism. One of New York’s firehouses was very close to the WTC and pretty much everyone there was killed on 9/11. Their chaplain was an openly gay catholic priest and was also killed. Firefighters were deeply moved by how heroic he was and at the time, they were pushing that he be considered for sainthood. Five years have to pass before a bishop can consider such claims. That gives people time to forget. And apparently they have forgotten, since the pope hasn’t been forced to drop it this time.
When the current pope was head of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith (formerly known as the Holy Inquisition), they authored a document that was the definitive church document on gay issues. In it, they said that gay was not something you do, but rather something you are. Any attempt to ban “gay” priests is stepping away from this stance. If they ban celibate gay priests, they are acknowledging gay as an identity rather than an action. Their anti-gay argument are approaching inconsistency and falling apart.
Anti-gay reasoning draws largely from Natural Law Theory. God created nature and we can figure out his divine laws by watching nature. Some nature. Grazing animals, mostly. God doesn’t want us to go around blindly killing for fun like some felines, nor eating our young, like rabbits when they’re frightened. And are there gay animals? No! Well, except that there are a lot (although I understand the gay penguins at NYC Zoo broke up and one of them has taken up with a girl. Social pressures finally got to him. He always seemed too much like Anne Heche anyway. ahem.).
Then again, it could be that sex is only for procreation. Except that the rhythm method’s explicit goal is non-procreative sex. And old and infertile people are allowed to get married and get busy. Furthermore, the Immaculate Conception (the conception of Mary without Original Sin) became a Holy Day of Obligation in order to help quell an anti-sex heresy creeping within the church. So, sex is good and it isn’t always for making babies and animals do it with same sex mates, so the reason same sex mating is a sin is because . . .?
God apparently disapproves of the majority of human behavior according to religious conservatives. In their world, he must sorely regret having made us. Heck, even a good chunk of his angels turned against him. The problem with being perfect and creating other beings is that if you make them perfect too, they become rivals to you. So you have to make them imperfect. And then it’s nothing but headaches as you’re forced to toss them into hell. Stay out of the creation racket, that’s my advice.Tag: Celesteh

chez moi!

Tag: Celesteh