Sit-Com

"Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner."

-- The "Jesus Prayer," ref. in Salinger's Franny and Zooey

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Sharon and I talked this morning about judgment, the Christian kind. I told her about the Huron catchphrases from this summer ("Don't judge me," "Judging that," "Face-check yourself," etc.) and the oddly enthusiastic ways actors bite each others' backs. We judge; we face that. We admit to judging and we laugh about it...not that it makes it okay, but hey, self-awareness is a virtue, too, and don't you forget it, you know? Christians, we bastions of humility, ironically cannot conceive of a world in which Christians judge other people. Having played the victim throughout history, we think we can keep wearing the badge without performing the duties.

My sister told of her recent missions trip. Our mother befriended another mother, who took upon herself the mantle of instructing Sharon in the way she should(n't) go. The woman sounds like a winner: snappy condemnations and rather invasive peerings ("We have to talk about some of those artists on your iPod," por ejemplo) ought to put her at the right hand--the gavel hand?--of the Father.

What bugs me about suburban Pharisees? The lack of self-admonition. No one is very impressive if you strip everyone down with gossip and judgment, so the only thing for it is to strip yourself down and say to a grayed world, "Here I am, take me or leave me."

Judge not, we were told. Judge not, we must remember.

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Having said that, I'm writing this in the dining room, and twenty feet behind me, some banal TBS sit-com keeps my sisters and mother company during their leftover lunch. I'm judging that. As laugh tracks punctuate and forks scraping plates syncopate, this mildewy midday music fills me with the urge to purge, Lord help me.

This gives me a bad taste in my mouth to say it, but I'm the kind of person for whom face-checking is good but hardly sufficient. I need mood-checks. Lord help me.

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Ajax, now a master of the "sit-come" routine, has learned to roll. His testicles may be gone, but he's made up for it in gusto: in an excited stupor, trying to grab my nose, he claweed my cheek and dribbled a little on my chest. It was nasty. He also shat in my room during the night, and I woke early (thinking I smelled awful) and showered before going back to doze. As I was re-turning in, I saw the happy little pile and laughed. And cleaned it up, of course.

Just goes to show that in rising as in falling, everyone's shit still stinks.

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New York's not my home, but sometimes I wish it was. Six states and three weeks... And the weeks shall be strong. My FB status no longer proclaims it, but my blog shall whisper: I thoroughly miss Miss Devereux. The wind can carry whispers, too; in fact, it may be easier.

In the back yard, my mother's flowers lean against the wood fence like beautiful bums, waiting for a bus of bees; the weeds have overgrown the grass, laughing in the breeze; the trees are full of themselves; and the clouds are too far away to touch.

I am gone, though I am here.