resurrection

Easter is the cornerstone event in the Christian tradition. It celebrates resurrection; death and rebirth; or at least the possibility.

Easter validates Christmas. Although not quite the commercial success, without Easter, the Nazarene is just another precocious Jewish kid who
grows up to be just
"The Resurrection"
Carl Heinrich Bloch (May,1834 – Feb,1890)

another disenfranchised radical Rabbi.
But, throw in the miracle of the resurrection and Jesus the Nazarene becomes "The Christ".

"Christ", as you probably already know, is not a name
but a title.
As the man, Siddhārtha Gautama, became "The Buddah" (enlightened one) so the man, Jesus of Nazareth became
"The Christ" (anointed one)

Now whether or not we accept Jesus as an historical figure (which I'm honestly not sure I do) most of us embrace the somewhat comforting allegory.
And that's a good thing.
We live in a predominately Christian country and the parables, myths and sayings of the tradition serve to keep most of us living according to our better natures.

Still, the concept of resurrection and Christianity are not mutually exclusive. . .
There was Attis from Greece in 1201BC, Mithra from Persia in 1200 BC, Krishna from India in 900 BC and Dionysus, also from Greece, in 500BC; to name just a few.
All these personages, including the Christian Christ, had very similar lives and ministries that ended with sacrificial death, three days entombed and triumphant resurrection.
It's an old, old tradition adopted by one culture after another from the time of Horus in Predynastic Egypt, circa 6000 BC.

I could, I suppose, give you chapter and verse on the whys and wherefores of the story's astrological parallels and how such a set of circumstances have had such a recurring relevance throughout varied human civilizations but that's a tale for another time. (or not)

But the pure and simple business of resurrection offers hope. A hope in the possibility of something other. A hope in a life after death. A hope that there is much more to this plane of existence than many of us know.
And that, I suppose, is what Easter is all about; hope.

Happy Easter my friends.

SR939A

So, the past week and a half have been "taxing". (get it?)
I"ll admit, it takes a little doing for me to get my artistic mind around the annual Infernal Revenue issues but in the end, my girl Louise, the CPA, has seen me through once again. I've sent my checks by certified, rectified, bona fide mail and feel much better having "Rendered to Caesar the things that are Caesar’s. . ." (from Mark 12:17 and/or Luke 20:25) and getting the unconstitutional monkeys off my ass for yet another year.
Now I can get back to the business of living quietly under the radar in the Florida Keys.

Anyway. . .
Out on the long end of Sugarloaf Blvd., on Lower Sugarloaf Key, there's only one way you can go. It's a sharp right turn onto SR939A (a.k.a. Old State Rd.4A). I figure that stretch is just about 1/4 mile before it stops dead at a barricade behind which is a dirt trail into the mangroves. On my last visit up that way I took a little time to check it out.


I parked the convertible and set off on foot not knowing what to expect. That's the adventure on paths (spiritual or otherwise) with no end in sight.


Unfortunately, it was late in the day and while I walked and I walked for the better part of 2 hours eventually I realized the daylight was fading with still no end in sight. (2 hours ingress means 2 hours egress).


I knew if I'd pushed on any longer it would be dark before I got back to the car and I just wasn't prepared for that.


So I didn't get to the ultimate end of the trail (but that's not ever the point of any journey - is it?) but promised myself I'd be back earlier on another day with a dirt bike to revisit
the adventure.


And that will be a ton of fun.
Stay tuned. . .

maxine's 13th

This past Friday, April 1st, was my girl Maxine's 13th birthday. Max adopted me back in 1998 when, for some God only knows why reason, I wandered into the Philadelphia Humane Society Shelter on a snowy December night.
The nice ladies at the shelter told me she was 8 months old and I counted backwards and figured she'd been born in April.
In my imaginative/poetic/artistic/twisted mind, I decided that April Fools Day was her actual birth date. (Why the hell not?)

The nice ladies at the shelter put Max and I in a small room together for a little while and we buddied up right away. It was like we recognized each other from a previous life. (yeah, the concept of reincarnation is a real deal to me) I mean, think about it. . . a shaky homeless kitten and a leather jacketed punk driving a T-Bird. What are the odds?
I'd never had a feline life-form in my world before, with me it was always a dog or nothing. But somehow, on that cold December night, bringing this cat home felt like the right thing to do - so I did.

Of course at that point in our relationship, her name was not Maxine. Her previous owners and the "official" adoption paper-work called her "Kirby" which sounded like a brand of vacuum cleaner to me and I thought, really sucked. So for the next two months, while I waited for the divine inspiration, my new roomy remained nameless. Then one night in February, my state of the art sound system was playing Donald Fagan's collection called "The NightFly". The 4th track on that album is a very easy piece called "Maxine".
I knew right then it was gonna be all good and it has been
ever since.

So, that's my sappy story and I'm stickin' to it.
Happy birthday Maxine, you knucklehead.