What's for breakfast?

What’s for blogpost?

“Retired Episcopal priest writing and ruminating and musing lightly for self and friends as a therapy for recuperation after successful open heart surgery at Cleveland Clinic on Monday, January 24, 2011” reads the Profile on my web log where I post some sort of nonsense every morning come hell or high water. Not counting this morning’s post, and I suppose not counting the one post I deleted for some reason I can’t remember but probably it was some wild-hair political rant that I was ashamed of the next day, there have been 1,473 posts. Who reads this nonsense? I certainly do not.

Although if on later reflection something strikes me as having been incomplete, or as having missed an opportunity for theological reflection in some way, I may go back and change it, amend it. In fact, I did that this week with my post that took off on Anu Garg’s quotation from Haruki Murakami’s thought about our memories being the fuel we burn to stay alive, went back and fiddled with it until I realized “what the hell, Bozo, it’s over and done, give it up.”

But the notion of memories being the fuel we burn to stay alive seems uniquely human, and also with you, anamnesis, a reflection of what Holy Communion, the Eucharist, is to us catholic Christians, we do not forget. In writing, I missed that, later went back and edited. Retroactive editing usually does to writing what American car makers used to do with their annual automobile models: the car would start out simply beautiful (for tastes and styles of the day), then every fall for the next several years they would change the trim around and add chrome here and there until finally they had a total grotesquerie.

And if you think that one's ugly, you should see the tri-colored pink one.

Once, years ago, I read someone’s advice never to print one’s sermons, with the added caveat that if one insisted on printing them anyway, to make darn sure the print copy said what one meant to say or should have said as opposed to what one actually uttered. I used to print every sermon I preached, following that editing dictum, until about a year or two ago, when I quit printing them, and even started tossing in the trash my pulpit manuscript soon as I arrived home from church Sunday morning and poured my glass of dry red to sip while waiting for Sunday dinner. So what did I say? damned if I know, nor will I be held accountable for it. But what I posted on my +Time blog is there for all the world to see at will. I should be more careful: much of it is personal, sometimes the surface of deep emotions and/or memories, and none of your business. Once in a while someone reads between my lines or “takes my temperature” from them, an expression I like that hits the nail on the head.

So, what’s for blogpost the morning, then? Maybe something utterly simplistic. A friend was complaining again to Linda about the stupidity of the people who live in her apartment complex: they’re asking why the French are calling Jesus Charlie. No, the friend explained, it’s not English, it’s French. It has nothing to do with Jesus, it’s French, “je suis Charlie” means “I am Charlie,” that’s all. Okay, I understand, they said, but it makes me really angry that they're calling Jesus “Charlie.”

Holy ess-word.

Today is Wednesday. Monday I walked with Robert and wore myself out. Yesterday, Tuesday, I did fifty-five minutes of strenuous at Chuck’s cardio shop: treadmill, elliptical, that hand-crank gadget, and the weight machine. This morning is walk with Robert again, followed by our weekly treat of breakfast out, which we have not had breakfast out for weeks, maybe even since November: what will I have? eggs over medium, wheat toast unbuttered so it will soak up the egg yolk, black coffee, glass of ice water. Maybe a bite of pork, but never bacon. Tomorrow will be Thursday: my exercise sabbath unless I decide to go downstairs to the workout room. Friday back to Chuck’s. Is it doing me any good? damned if I know. I’d really rather sit here and look at my Bay. There's a low cloud miles off to the southeast that's seems to be lighted up by Mexico Beach.