​ 
It began with the slaughtering of a pig, or at least the important stuff did.  For me, it started with helping my son buy a new/used car at the dealer’s, which cost us four hours along with thousands of dollars and endless links to the bank, insurance companies, home for SS ID pictures, credit checks – all that and the usual dickering which is all pantomime, because they have this down to a science.  They are going to get their cut, give or take a few hundred dollars, no matter what you do, and it’s just as well to walk out thinking you got a bargain even though you didn’t, because in the end all goes to dust, especially cars.
 
So, the pig.  Our neighbors, nearly two miles down the road but still neighbors in corn country, had invited us to a pig roast at 5 PM, but because of the car thing, I didn’t arrive until 7, and everyone except my wife and a few other neighbors were drunk as all get out.  The boys, many of them in their 60’s and 70’s, had stayed up all night smoking a whole pig, and everyone knows that to do so takes lots and lots of beer and no sleep.  They were wasted and looked and talked all the world like movie depictions of Appalachian low- lives.  The others had arrived two hours earlier, and, although not wasted, were still well-lubed.   I hoped to join them soon and so quickly took up a beer before the hunger set in.  I asked and was pointed out the way inside the shed to where heaps of shredded pig were steaming away in Sterno buffet warmers, next to beans, a few green and healthy things, and chips and what- not.  I took some beans onto a paper plate and then moseyed over to the warmers, removing both lids to reveal said pig, and was about to dig in when the girlfriend spoke up.
 
“We loaded the pig onto the trailer, but I didn’t know we were going to kill it, just drop it off.  It was awful.  They shot it with the deer rifle (which was still leaning against the shed, telescopic lens mounted as if the pig needed to be picked off a ridge) but it didn’t die.  So they tied it up with chains and hung it to death, twitching all the way.  That pig died in pain.”  The boyfriend, it turned out, was a farmer who could not get his stock to the stock yards for slaughter, since all those employees were quarantined with the dreaded virus, so he had donated the pig.  All they had to do was the killing and butchering.  The pig had been named Rex.  So it was all I could do to choke down one sandwich, considering the hideous screams of the dying Babe/Rex, but there had been a lot more happening in our neighborhood that week than a porcine execution.
 
It was, instead, the human executions that had taken most of our interest.  I had been up north painting the cabin the whole while, having returned to the news just the night before.  It was the first thing my wife mentioned after saying, “I have to be really careful about locking all the doors now.”  She told me what she had read in the paper, but the guy with the pig and a few others actually lived next to, or knew well, all the characters in the horror story.  As the eating was done and the mosquitoes quickened and the drinking slowed, this is what I learned at the pig roast about the farm on the next road over:
 
Dad had died earlier in the month, and the house and everything else was in probate.  There was the sister and two brothers left, although one brother was not mentally an adult, and the sister and her husband had gone over to the house to mow the lawn.  Maybe they were going to sell it soon, but we were told that they had been doing that for years after Mom had died and Dad had aged.  The next we know for certain was that 911 was called (by whom I forget – maybe the couple?), but by the time the policeman got there, there were two bodies lying in the driveway, that of the sister and brother-in-law.  Shortly after the policeman got out to inspect the bodies, which he probably did after calling an ambulance and back-up, shots began to buzz around his head.  He returned fire, got a look at the shooter, and then made another call to the fire department after the house burst into flames.  The murderer, the mentally adult brother, was then seen dashing from the house as it belched smoke and fire.  No one gave immediate chase, but the fire department was not allowed to put out the fire because of the possible presence of the shooter.  It was these charred ruins that we saw yesterday, the day after the pig roast when the street was clear, and all that remained besides the char were yellow police-line ribbons marking out the burnt remains. 
 
The brother/murderer is still on the run, which is astounding since he is in his sixties and the corn that dominates the landscape is only a foot or two tall, not nearly high or thick enough to hide even a child.  Still, there is a great swamp nearby and knots of trees here and there, and who knows?  One neighbor said she saw him from her car, shirtless and shoeless on a seldom-traveled road just up from us, by an old country cemetery.   Everyone has continued to take an interest in locking anything that can be locked.  One does not want to find a desperate murderer in the barn when one goes out to find a tool to fix the drape hangers. 
 
The best thing is, these no-sleep, pig-killing, way -over -drunk guys knew the murdering brother well.  He had not been quiet and polite, or a loner.  Rather, he had been married, had three kids, and had made an annoying racket all his life.  When the SWAT team showed up after the shooting to ask questions of the brother’s closest neighbor – who also happened to be the farmer who owned and helped smoke the pig – he told them, “Yeah, he’s always been crazy.  He shared a driveway with me, and he set up barricades so that no one could take that turn off the driveway to his house.  He patrolled his property line on his car or motorcycle, and yelled and screamed at anyone who stepped over it.  Really, the whole family is crazy.” 
 
The pig farmer told us more, detailing the classical signs of paranoid schizophrenia in the killer.   We might think that this explains why he killed his sister and bro-in-law, but the insane rarely kill people, even though they often give us the creeps when they start talking to us on the city sidewalk.  What was it that made this guy from farmland USA go so far beyond the pale?  
 
Take a class in criminology and you will find that even after a hundred years or more of scientific investigation of the criminal mind, no one is really sure exactly why people smash through this strongest of cultural restraints on behavior.   Another strong restraint is that on public sexual exposure, but we can understand that in a way, because for certain psychological reasons, this humiliation gives pleasure.  But to kill?  Some do enjoy it, but that is not often the case with the crazies, Baby Face Nelson perhaps being an exception.  They do it because they feel they have to.  They feel, I believe, as if it balances a world that for them has never been balanced.
 
That still does not explain why this man actually went through with this balancing act, because most with similar disabilities do not.  After all, what can upturn the world more than murder?  In the not-too-distant past, a crazed killer like this would be deemed possessed by an evil demon, or even Satan himself.  In a way we all still kind of believe this sort or thing, as such stories give us the creeps beyond the need for self-security.  Perhaps it is this feeling of the “creeps” that gives us a clue: that is, that we get an unconscious sense that we could do such deeds ourselves.  Cain was not crazy when he killed Abel, only jealous; and in old Inuit (Eskimo) society, a few killings were to be expected in a man’s life.  Rather, it was the number that eventually turned him into an outcaste who had to be killed.  It is possible, then, that we could all commit murder, and all it takes is the nudge of mental disease or jealousy or maybe just a three-day bender to get us to raise our fist or weapons.  Maybe.
 
The nature of man: as an animal, to kill is to be expected.  But as a human, although possible, it is not expected.  If we say it is the law that stops us, why do we first make the laws?  Obviously, it is because we want others and ourselves to not cross the line.  We are not, then, creatures of stimulus-response, but of s-r and conscience, a conscience that some say is a socio-biological and necessary adaptation, but that begs the question.  If we can analyze our responses, are we not then beyond mere instinct?  Few believe that the constraint of murder is merely an adaptation, but rather a moral certainty, which itself is beyond both analytical thought and animal instinct.
 
Which is a high-falootin’ way of saying that we have a built-in morality that is not based on reason or biology alone.  Something has to override this spiritual governor in our soul to get us to kill, whether we are crazy or not.  It is a mysterious thing, however - even in the New Testament, there is frequent talk of people being possessed by demons.  Are they free, then, of the sins they commit?  Or is there something in them still for which they are responsible? 
 
This question of willed morality figures into our society in a big way sometimes.   Given both a free will and an individual spiritual conscience, could there be family guilt “unto the seventh generation?”  Or could a race, say, deserve the curse of slavery for a digression in the past by another of its kind?  Or should another race be punished for enslaving that race because there is no such thing as a hereditary curse?  But if there is not, should not the others, too, be judged only on their individual actions? 
 
It seems so.  The crazy killer went beyond what most crazies would do; and even people who believe only in materialistic causation still blame individuals for their moral failures.  In the end, you can’t have it both ways.  We are individually responsible or we are not responsible at all.
 
Also in the end, I did not have another piece of Rex, I just couldn’t, and we are still locking our doors. 
   
 
 
 

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It’s been a tough few months, and this blog/essay format has reflected it.  As a site for the spiritual and unexplained, however, perhaps it has reflected the troubles too much.  There are so many quotes in the Bible about worldly troubles that they are hard to corral, but the first I came upon while randomly flipping through is this, by Jesus: “Peace is my farewell to you, my peace is my gift to you; I do not give it to you as the world gives peace.  Do not be distressed or fearful.” (John, 15:27)  The peace he gives is not as the world gives; rather, as the Bible notes tell me, he is talking about the peace of the Holy Spirit – that is, a spiritual peace.  This is eternal and everlasting peace, while the peace of the world is temporary and illusory.  As another quote from the Old Testament says, “Man is born to trouble as the sparks fly upward.”  Yes.  Regardless of the most sincere promises by anyone, whatever peace he or they or their causes might bring will be only temporary.  They may, in fact, bring even worse conflict.  History is so replete with bad choices made in the name of worldly peace that it is almost nauseating to recall them.     
 
So I will not go there for now at least not directly. Rather, I want to comment on other things of the world, or better said, on things of this world, because lately that has been my thing. 
 
I have been fixing things lately, especially those things that have called out to me and that, until now, I have turned a blind eye to.  I have avoided them because they require the kind of long-term commitment and/or hefty toil that I left behind after finishing the cabin up north some ten years ago.  I have aged after all, and am now officially able to say, with government approval, that I am legally retired, sucking down government funds that I may or may not deserve as body parts fail, ache, or need replacement.   But I am a miser, and to pay a guy hundreds or thousands for something that I can do myself for tens or twenties seems a sin.  Also, even if I were to replace certain things, throwing things away is no longer a simple task.  Where do you toss a decrepit lawn tractor, TV, or manure wagon? 
 
You don’t.  Those things that I cannot fix, such as the tractor and TV, go into storage areas, which makes me weep thinking about what must be done when we can no longer manage the stairs and have to sell the place.  But those others such as the manure wagon, yes-sir, these are the ones that have given me the glimmer in the eye, the rock in the sock, the jolt to the jowls.  Maybe this is because fixing these things has given me temporary peace in these tortured times, but whatever, to this my life has been dedicated. 
 
I suppose we could cut to the chase, call a spade a spade, and name it for what it really is, but we will not.  Instead, let me tell the story of my glorious adventures in the world of home improvement first.       
 
It began with the corona virus.  If we can recall way back in time when America was still innocent – about three months ago – there was a toilet paper crisis.  Our son has long wanted a bide, and so, with the impetuousness of youth, he actually bought one and installed it in our main bathroom.  It was like a breath, or spray, of fresh air.  Not only were our butts left smelling like daisies, but the toilet didn’t clog anymore and we could laugh at the empty shelves where toilet paper once abounded in happier, simpler times.  But there is always trouble in paradise.  The foreign implants were made for flat toilet seats, not the mod American ones that are curved, and so the seat – then seats, for I got a bide for the second toilet too - pushed on the device, confusing the direction of the water jet.  It was then that I came to the rescue with a jig saw and file, and in a matter of an hour or so, made space for the bide with beautiful, smooth cut-out arcs in the seats.  Beautiful.  I admire them to this day.
 
Next: this episode began when my wife did the classic American thing and had us spend money to save money.  It concerned the TV service that we had and how its cost had tripled in the past ten or so years, and how we could change to a cheaper service if we had a “smart” TV.  Thing is, the smart TV was bigger than our old TV, too big for our old bureau or cabinet or entertainment center or whatever those things were once called.  My son was for throwing the massive sucker out, but it was a solid piece of furniture with a nice maple veneer, and I saw its potential as two pieces of furniture, one as an open table for our other smaller TV, and the other as a large bookcase that was desperately needed.  I was laughed at, but soon got to work with the circular saw, and before one could say “stupid luck,” I had made the two pieces of furniture exactly as I had imagined them to be.  Stupendous.  Once again, I still marvel at both each and every day, scarcely able to take my eyes off my brilliant creations.
 
There have been several other triumphs of skill and brilliance, not too many to count but too many for anyone but me to care to hear about, and I have taken to admiring them as well (the manure wagon takes the cake with those others).   All could have been replaced for, oh, a thousand dollars or so and would have been at least as good or better than what I have done, but no matter – I must worship at the altar of my creations. 
 
Which we all do, and all have done in astounding excess in these last months. 
 
Yes, I am back to those current events, but they don’t even have to be mentioned by name.  Instead, let us step back from the hullabaloo, from our own creations of social engineering and political engagement, so that we might see that we are marveling – sucked in might be a better word – at our own solutions to world problems, as if we were truly in charge and could fix such massive things.  We cannot.  We can add a dollop here and take away a dollop there, but ultimately our hands can only do small work.  To admire such work, to worship at their feet, would be as laughable as my own narcissistic behavior towards my creations, except that the consequences are potentially so dire.  We, or many, have been behaving like the self-worshipers who were building the tower of Babel, and we can already see that the hand of God has come to confuse our language, so that we might be torn from the doomed path of self- idolatry. 
 
There is nothing wrong with doing a little carpentry, but we must admit that we did not make the wood or the iron for the tools, or even the cleverness of our fingers and the logic of our brain.  We have become increasingly ensnared by our own brilliance over the past centuries, and now seem on the verge of claiming to have reign over our very social and physical underpinnings, even unto every thought, and even unto death.  Michael Angelo understood that the marvel of his sculptures were already present in the block of marble, only awaiting his skill at finding them.  It seems to me that the world could do a better job at letting out what God has hidden within, rather than claiming that we have made everything from the inside out and so can control them with the skill of the gods.         
 
 
 
 
 

  

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A dream came to me early this morning of magicians and spirits, undoubtedly spurred by my watching of the Amazon series, “Britannia,” about the Roman invasion of Celtic Britain in the 1st century, but it was not of Druids alone.  Rather, I was drawn to another cinematic event, a movie called “Monty Python and the Holy Grail,” in which King Arthur must cross a tenuous rope bridge hung over a vast gorge separating life from death.  There he is confronted by a ghoulish sentry/wizard who asks him a question that he must answer correctly or be thrown into the emptiness for all eternity.  In this movie, the question is silly: “What is the velocity of a flying sparrow?”  To which King Arthur answers, “The English sparrow or the North African sparrow?”  The ghoul hesitates, stumped, and is then himself thrown into the bottomless pit, which King Arthur then crosses with ease. 
 
Good humor, but the Monty Python crew must have been aware that a challenge after death is believed by people in many countries and tribes throughout the world.  For Christians, one is judged by Christ at the end of times; for Catholic Christians, one is judged upon death and then sent to his just reward until the Last Judgment, which might be redundant.  In any case, it is made clear by all such beliefs that one cannot come into the presence of the Holy without either proof of a good and/or heroic life on earth, or without some sort of purgation that makes one worthy.  What is also made clear is that this holiness is not an easy thing to come by.  Most cannot pass the test.  The great blessing for Catholics is that most will be given mercy and sent into Purgatory, and THEN delivered into the presence of the Holy, for without the mercy of God none of us of purely humans – none –are worthy.  What this means is that it is almost universally understood that most of us harbor deep imperfections in our character, so much so that no Christian would ever admit to being without moral flaw.  
 
Such I was reminded not only by King Arthur, but also by another series we are watching about Jeffrey Epstein, which I believe is also on Amazon.  In this, we are brought into the truly evil machinations of Epstein, who made his fortune running a Ponzi scheme on Wall Street - primarily, it seems, so that he might pursue his sexual obsession with underage girls.  Not one, mind you, but hundreds and hundreds, most brought into his orbit by other girls who had been lured to him by others.  We find, in fact, that Epstein had created a Ponzi scheme for young flesh by paying each girl who came to him $200.00 to bring in their girlfriends, who, after sex, were also paid $200.00 for each girl, and so on and on.  Clever and cold and evil. 
We also find that others, such as fellow crooks in Wall Street, certain sexually fortified politicians, and kinky billionaires, were brought under degrees of control by him.  Says a Wall Street partner in crime with near reverence (paraphrase), ‘He had a gift.  He could bring you under his spell with remarkable ease.’    
 
The series makes you aware of this spell, but of something else as well: that there was a certain degree of complicity with almost all of them.  That might be unfair, and certainly not in the legal code, concerning underage girls, but consider this: the girls were lured in to give a “rich old man” a massage, for which they would be given $200.00 dollars.  Even at age fifteen, most girls understand that something like this is courting extreme weirdness if not danger.  And then afterward, most went back after being molested to bring their friends in for another $200.00 a head.  Certainly they weren’t adult, but most could not have been unaware of the wrongness of their actions.
 
And so it continued.  The Wall Street partner was a crook himself, a regretful manager at Bear Sterns kept Epstein on after caught in lying because he made money for them, a billionaire let himself be robbed of 40 plus million because, as some say, he was ‘in love’ with him, and so on.  With few exceptions, there was something in most of the victims that allowed them to become victims, and like Satan, Epstein was able to see that weakness and exploit it.   Clearly, few of the victims themselves would have been able to cross the bridge into holiness.  Their flaws were found and used with remarkably accurate and evil skill.
 
As the world has long known, so it is with all of us.  We all have fatal flaws, and it is in the hero’s mold to overcome them, often after first succumbing to them.  We have St Peter as the greatest example, as he denied Christ three times, only later to die for him on the cross himself, but the list of such heroes is endless.  It is likely that each of us comes across his (her) weaknesses some time in life, and then tries at some point to atone for them.  It is not always easy, though, to make up for a murder or some rotten deed from long ago, and so it is that Catholics have the sacrament of confession.  Here it is believed that their sorrow at their misdeeds is heard by Christ, who then, by virtue of his sacrifice, can forgive them and let them cross into heaven.  So it is that they still have to meet the ghoul or Holy Spirit on the bridge, but are given a pass, albeit usually only after further purgation.
 
Some refuse to carry guilt.  Some, like Epstein, have no regret and so earn the label “evil.”  Most, however, are not evil, even after they do evil things.  In the making of the documentary, many of the girls confessed to intense guilt for bringing their friends in.  The financier in the Ponzi scheme also confessed his feelings of guilt, and for all of them, going public was their form of redemption.  We should admit that we are no better.   We can be and have been lured into wrongful behavior not only because the one who lured us was so persuasive, but because something in ourselves wanted us to do it.  In my own case, I can recall doing stupid, even some bad things in my teen years, not for the things themselves but for the social status they might bring me.  I was complicit in wanting to be admired and so fell into the trap.  The seed for doing wrong is there for just about everyone.
 
This has relevance.  While I might read this a year from now with an attitude of “so what?,” right now we are suffering through the riots following the murder-by-cop of George Floyd and it seems like a big deal – just as it seemed during the riots after the Rodney King trial, and the Ferguson riots after the death of another black man who was not quite as innocent as Floyd.  We have all seen the video.  We all agree that what the cop did was wrong.  All the police involved are being prosecuted.  So why the marches? Why the smashing and looting?  What overall good is coming from it all?  What overall good came from the former riots? 
 
In retrospect, we might want to stop judging this event one way or the other to see clearly why what is happening is happening.  Is this phenomena, we should ask, ultimately the work of angels, or the work of demons taking advantage of our own weaknesses, including a lust for revenge and ego inflation?  If the latter, how can we expect a good outcome?  And if the latter, how can we come to terms with ourselves after this is all over and things are only worse?  History tells me that we can do so only by clearing our souls, if only for a moment, of the debris of our own insecurities and selfish desires.  Only then, it seems to me, can we cross the bridge separating us from self-delusion and truth.  In the end, this is the journey of the hero that all but the most evil are compelled to take.