Parades

"Ah, brother, but a Balaam's ass like that thinks and thinks, and the devil knows where he gets to."

"He's storing up ideas," said Ivan, smiling.

"You see, I know he can't bear me, nor any one else, even you, though you fancy that he has a high opinion of you...But he doesn't steal, that's one thing, and he's not a gossip, he holds his tongue, and doesn't wash our dirty linen in public. He makes capital fish pasties too. But, damn him, is he worth talking about so much?"

"Of course he isn't."

"And as for the ideas he may be hatching, the Russian peasant, generally speaking, needs thrashing. That I've always maintained. Our peasants are swindlers, and don't deserve to be pitied, and it's a good thing they're flogged sometimes."

-- Dostoevski, in The Brothers Karamazov


--

This morning, I was on a float.

It was in the Opening Day Parade for the Cincinnati Reds, at slot #30. Last year, we got in at #130, so to move forward in the lineup a hundred spaces is something to celebrate in itself. When we finished our run, there was still a long line of decorated vehicles brimming with impatient people; they had yet to enter the parade proper. Must've sucked.

We rode back to the parade's source in the float, towed behind a truck, and enjoyed flying through downtown in the sunlight and the breeze. Floating on a float. All that was missing was a root beer float.

The thought occurred to me, as I stood watching crowds and trucks and signs in the parking lot that had been set aside as a staging area, that parades are very, very weird. In some ways, it's just a flea market on floats. (Or a flea circus on wheels.)

--

Waving one's arms for an hour will do several things. First, you realize how monotonous waving is. You try to wave in different ways--floating your hand, stretching your arms way above your head and flicking your wrist, fast waves to excite children, fist-pumps that burst into jazz hands, pointing at random strangers--to break the monotony and to give your muscles something else to do. Next, you start to think about working your triceps a little more; they seem a little flabby. You try to tense up those muscles, which turns the gesture of waving into an almost robotic movement, and your expression changes from one of joy (How sweet it is being on a float!) to one of concentration (Perhaps that guy just wet his pants). A third result is you start imitating unique waves returned to you from the crowd. A fourth is making eye contact in an effort to get more people to wave back. The game changes from physical challenge to emotional. You start feeling awkward or even offended when people sitting in their patriotic lawn chairs don't wave back.

The trick: Wave at the kids who are sitting on the sidewalk's edge. They're there to wave.

--

Was a part of a different kind of parade--in fact, a procession--at the Pascha service on Holy Saturday night. The procession occurred about two-thirds of the way through the four-hour ritual: we all had lit candles; the night was about as still and amazing as you could hope; we chanted the ancient melody--"Christ has risen from the dead, trampling down death by death / And upon those in the tombs bestowing life"--as the priest banged on the church's front doors, symbolizing the group of women who went to Christ's tomb to anoint his body, only to find He had risen; children held their candles closely and parents held them loosely and the elderly held them tenderly; I met a man named Nolan who gave me an idea of what to expect later in the night; grateful for the opportunity to celebrate Easter in a ritualized, mystical way, I found myself lost and lost myself in the finding (if that makes any sense). It was beautiful.

I also found myself manipulating the melted candle wax: a condition related to pyromania, I think.

After, I kissed the cross and the priest and received the blessed red egg. The feast proceeded; their fast had ended. At 4:00 in the morning, I finally went home, exhausted.

--

Could've done without the rest of today. Back at the office, I found out I had missed a workshop at a museum on Saturday, around the time I was prepping myself for an eastern overnight worship fest. I hate missing workshops, and part of the reason I hate it is that I accidentally do it so often. I think it's common to hate those sins and personal failings that are more frequent. If we weren't plagued, we wouldn't hate the plague.

My deadline approaches. I have to figure out my summer plans (parents renewing their vows, siblings meeting up in Seattle, me teaching at two summer camps for two theatres) as well as my future with this company, and I have to get it all down on paper by Thursday.

I wish life had a pause button. Maybe the closest you can get is to write it down, relive it for some moments, make sense of it if you can, and click on "Publish Post." Not necessarily in that order.