In the style of William Carlos Williams

This is just to say

I have been
in the bathroom
and it stinks like

someone shit in
the trashcan.
Forgive me.

It was awful,
and there was piss
on the floor.

So let's say you sin on Tuesday and Confession is on Friday

So when you're not in the state of grace, after you committed a serious sin and before you've gone to Confession, you are cut off from sanctifying grace. But you can't be cut off from all grace, and I'll tell you why. Every good you do is prompted by grace, by actual grace. So, any time when you're not in the state of grace and you do something good (like go to Confession), it is because you are prompted by actual grace.

And you can pray for actual grace to help you go to Confession, or to reform in whichever way, whenever you want. And you can pray to the Saints for whatever intentions. God can't send grace that will get you into heaven, but you can still send good stuff his direction. And in the meantime, he will supply you with plenty of actual grace to get done what you need to get done.

Meanwhile, you can explore the possibilities of purely human discipline. No one can avoid sin completely without sanctifying grace (even with it, it's tough enough). But until you get to Confession, you can be like a good pagan (there's no salvation outside the Church; there's no salvation out of the state of grace). Be like a good pagan and discipline yourself better to avoid sin (using actual grace), and also get that actual grace you need to get to Confession. And then you're all better.

Autumn Doggerel

It always smells like smoke in fall,
the tired winds bring hints
of burning leaves, a cold brick wall,
and musty peppermints.

The gutters cover up with leaves,
the bottoms slick with slime,
which all the newly fallen sheaves
become in a short time.

Just like Ash Wednesday, dust to dust,
the trees return to earth.
So Nature's Lent and dying must
precede its spring rebirth.

I've always heard my friends declare
their favorite season's fall.
because of color, clean cold air,
or death stalking us all?

To see the death around us must
remind us we're alive,
that we've not yet returned to dust,
we've years till we arrive.

Remember then, that every year
you die a little more,
and still you have, not deathly fear,
but some time yet in store.

why is it cliche to discuss the weather?

Well-mannered people consider it cliche to the point of being trite to talk about the weather. Well, I cupcake that notion. If you have something interesting to say about the weather, then go ahead and say it. And if I like you, I will not make fun of you for being such a pathetic conversationalist. So try me. You boor.

Do you ever get text messages from numbers you don't recognize with embarrassingly pseudo-sexual overtones? It has led me to my first awkward moments with people that I cannot detect with any of my five senses. I suppose I must give out my phone number during my prolonged alcholic blackouts, which last hours, days, and weeks. (Once I had one that went a year and a half, but that's not very regular.) "Yo shortie, I'm not shitting around. You need a ride?" Uh, no thank you, sir. I will provide my own transportation. wtf? wtfay? (that's "who tf are you?") wtfayayay (who tf are you are you are you?) wtfayayay ay caramba (who tf are you are you are you are you? Can awkward requests also maybe be awesome?) I don't know, but I doubt it. And I'm not about to find out.

p.s. I watched a little bit of Dancing with the Stars last night. Stop snickering, you know you like it too. I said shut up. I would like to predict that Julianne Hough will repeat her championship (dancing this season with Helio Castroneves), and announce that shortly following the season finale, I will be stealing her away from her current flame and former dancing partner Apolo Anton Ono (who himself stole her away from her fiance, and I think from the Church of LDS-- yeah, that's right, and she has ten siblings) and we are going to get married on top of a mountain. No one is invited, so don't ask. Just butt out, and give my future darling and me our space.

Lastly, if you hit a little kid while driving, would you be more stressed out than if you hit an old person?

I was about to say I was feeling down when I realized it wasn't really true. I feel fine. I think I just thought that because I'm kind of tired. Plus I'm hungry, and that can sometimes be the EXACT same feeling as guilt. Which is, I guess, why some sad people can overeat, because they're trying to fill up their guilt, but let's not go there.

Anyway, that thought reminded me of other times I have felt down in the past. Sometimes, all it would take to snap out of a mood like that would be to go run or work out-- a lot of times actually. But other times, I could run and run, and still feel like I was slipping into the pit of the Sarlaac, and that was scary.

There's a big difference between feeling like you did something and knowing that you did something (and I mean "something" as ontologically substantive-- good=substance, evil=absence, so something=good). After you go running, you feel it in your whole body and it's good. It's good to use your body well, and it affects your soul. But endorphins are a lot of that. The feeling after running is still nothing like the feeling after keeping a very difficult resolution, or avoiding a particularly enticing temptation. When that happens, you know you did something.

And even it occasionally confuses me into thinking that I'm feeling down (which was really only a fleeting thing), I'd love to always be so tired from doing somethings that I can barely think for myself. That's the point of it all, right? I just don't do enough somethings very often.

I just found out

[redacted] Dooce-style.

Hi, my name is Fort Knocks

and I'm an alcoholic. So the Cubs didn't play last night, but the second-place Brewers lost to the Braves in Atlanta, increasing the Cubs lead in the NL Central to 1 1/2 games. And I was drinking about eight screwdrivers, watching TV with mother, and (when he got home) dad.

Roundabout 10, I'm getting pretty sleepy, and I'm trying to decide if I should have another drink. So I'm going to the kitchen with my glass, undecided whether to put it in the dishwasher or fill it full of delicious vodka, ice and OJ. When I get to the pantry, I discover that there are only about four, four and a half ounces of firewater left, so I go ahead and dump it all into my tall glass.

But, oh, footsteps! Dad is coming. I turn forty-five degrees to shield the drink, but it's too obvious, so I head to the freezer for a couple of ice cubes. Three splashes later, the glass is about two thirds full. I guess I must have miscalsulated, because I now have twelveish ounces of vodka and ice.

Ok, it's not a problem. I'll just take it upstairs, and slug it down first thing in the morning-- shave the hair off the dog, as they say. I've done it before, and it's the best cure for a hangover, bar none.

"Good night, good night," up the stairs, two more swallows, two tosses and two turns, and unconsciousness happens. End scene.

I woke up this morning at Six to the cheerful chirping of "Bell 3" on my phone. Nothing so aggravating when your tired and grumpy as an agressively cheerful device. or person for that matter. I reset my alarm for 6:30, rolled over, felt pangs of either acid stomach or guilt, and after thirty or so seconds of deliberation, kicked my legs off the side of the bed and got up. The tall glass of warm vodka stared at me from my nightstand.

But I did not go back to sleep. I did not drink the drink. I had a glass of water and ran two miles. I took a shower listening to music, I got in my car, and I got to work earlier than I ever had before. And then realized I had pulled a groin muscle while I was running.

If I had stayed in bed, or if I had drunk the drink and gone to work, I would be fine. Instead, it hurts when I walk fast. What does that tell you?

Actually, that tells you that you should have stretched. Nothing else. I feel great, I really do. But I am still looking forward to that glass of vodka waiting patiently for me on the nightstand.