blogging

Just to let you all know, NOT YOUR USUAL MISSIONARY POSITION will be leaving for a new site very soon. More about that as soon as I post the latest and last blog here. I'll be sure to include the name and address of the new blog "GAY AND FAY ON THE WAY"....for the NEXT chapter of life... oonie

Not In Seminary Anymore, But Wish I Were

ALLELUIA

I'm Not In Seminary Any More, But Wish I Was

Every year about this time, I begin to remember the new group of seminarians entering CDSP. At this time, you are not totally exhausted, have probably written one paper and been treated graciously, you've not hit THE WALL, and you still have time to brush your teeth more than once a day. This, too, shall pass. But, I, who never wanted to leave the GTU, find myself thinking of new and older seminarians and graduate students at the GTU. Do not let the great opportunities pass you by. Go to every service and liturgy all over, above, and around Holy Hill. Take plenty of classes outside your own school, particularly the classes at the Jesuit School and the Franciscan School. Take all the Louis and Lizette classes you possibly can. If Rebecca's still teaching and you are not totally intimidated by her brilliance, beauty, and thin-ness, then take her classes. (Remember, our class NEVER had Rebecca and we still want a percentage of return on our fees. We had that horrid but darling Chris King, that only dear RosaLee understood and I love her for it.) Go let J Alfred Smith Sr teach you how to preach without terrorising you. BUT while you are in CDSP, take the time to appreciate the Beauty of (Father Dazzling) Louis' liturgical gestures, "Father" HOLY MOTHER Lizette's grand laughter and good liturgy, the Power and Glory of BOTH their liturgy classes (one as disorganised as Lou-Lou's office; the other as organised as Thomas Aquinas) and love the holy laughter that comes from their classrooms. Not to mention delicious champagne on the last day of class! Invite yourself to Arthur Holder's office for his personal physical and spiritual gorgeousness and a lesson about Bede. His pastoral care for me knew no bounds and I thank him everyday for such lavish giving of himself. Roll around and slide off the pews in Bill Countryman's sermons. His shyness does nothing to hide his very hot and sexy self. I always imagined him in Knights Templar drag and power and had, as half the entire seminary, a huge crush after I'd survived almost a year of a Katercrush, and NO ONE has a clue as to J's gender ANYTHING! Plenty of crushes there, too, but he's so afraid that a good crush is not worth it. I would practice saying clever and smart things to Bill C. only to find myself blushing and stuttering and stammering and mumbling in his presence; could NOT extract a sensible sentence, could only say "Hi, Bill" and run away. Ahhhh and Jay Johnson was teaching and I swear he made me cry EVERY class. His class on the Holy Spirit literally blew me away. I still have an old VHS tape of a Jay class I listen to at least six times a year, just to see him and hear him (I am SUCH a voice slut). I've been blessed to have had some awesome teachers in my nearly sixty years on this earth but, honest to God, Jay Emerson Johson is the ABSOLUTE GREATEST. Thank you, good sir. I'm so glad you are doing what you are doing and I can read the news as opening a CDSP webpage sends me into dehydration of tears, I get so homesick. And thank you for the best line: "This is my body. Take it. Eat it. Get it." You are a hero to many in the struggling GLBT community here in Panamania on the eve of The Pineapple's release SOMEWHERE. Dont forget that the REAL ministry is with Steve and Ron--if the evil one, hired gun of the dean TS, has not fired them. Avoid him--TS-- as best you can. Avoid the dean, too. His boundaries aren't really good--should have been a priest with some stern Kibbey Ruth lessons! (I sat in front of said person at my husband's ordination and with my excellent dog hearing heard every single comment about him. Don't forget, good dean, that there are ALWAYS ears in the church. So did his relative to my right. The whole pew was passing along the words. We bypassed Lou-Lou, though.; no need to disturb the good Father Dazzling.) Margo is awesome. If you need workstudy, beg like hell to work for her. She is a joy; she'll tell you all about Junipurr; she knows ALL the secrets, knows where all the bodies are buried, and would not reveal a one. She also loves a good movie and lunch! Treasure her; surprise her; love her; let her love you back; it's a great gift to give yourself. New seminarians, you are forever in my prayers. Don't rush through these three years by allowing yourself to be formed as "cookie cutter, replacement parts for parish priests"--Jeremy Taylor, Starr King. Get a theological education; there IS a difference! And try to avoid sucking up; it's so obvious and tedious. If you're in a crisis and your life is falling apart (and your precious daddy 2000 miles away is dying a slow and horrid cancer death at 300 cells a day), the RC's will be more generous and caring and compassionate than the Prods, even CDSPers, we not Catholic AND BOTH catholic! (Some famous Jesuit might even tell you that you write like a dream and say that he was shamed by your social justice work. Thank you, John Ryan Donahue; I love you.) We still have that mean Protestant edge. So, too, with most classes at PSR, which is always a surprise. Mary Donovan Turner is a better preacher than Barbara Brown Taylor! And she has no Protestant edge; neither does Archie Smith. I can't say enough wondrous things about Fr. Eddie at JSTB and surely The King O'Neill will challenge and delight ye. Ah, the Celts and their kings. And the Multi-Cultural School and the juicy liturgist at FST and the good sister who, if you are from the US South, will call you "baby" and make you cry because she knows that you need to be called "baby" when your mama is losing her mind and your daddy is dead and knows because you KNOW N'awlins, you won't sue her for calling you "baby" and making you good cry. I can't think of a better place than the GTU for finding twenties and thirties--or even forties-- of the most incredible people in the world, people who will introduce you to God, yourself, others, and the wonders of the loves of their academic lives. Heady and bodily stuff where, even on the worst days, you won't find yourself in the heresy of disconnection. No wonder too many Episcopanglican priests spend their entire lives talking and talking and talking about their seminary years--because they didn't/COULDN"T get enough and for those who say "that once in the real world, you'll use less than ten percent of what you read or learned or heard about in seminary." That's total bullshit. At least for me. But then I wasn't in the Process of my first three years and sorta was under the radar and was CONVINCED I'd NEVER leave. So today, as most days, I miss CDSP, when I knew it. And it was magic and Robert Warren was in Trinity and Herb Caen was still alive and so was Princess Diana. NYC and the world had not blown up and no Bushes were in office. I was one lucky woman; I remain one blessed one. We didn't know what innocent times in which we lived...BOTH Berrigans were still alive, Louie was teaching and so was R3, Andrew was with us, Peach was cranking out papers long before they were due, Frank was still home back in Canada, Pace e Bene was un-corrupted, the Church hadn't threatened to kick us out, we had some hope for Rowan, Assinola was not a household word, Betty Bowers was still a novelty, the Episcopal Church had not broken my heart more than divorce and the deaths of both my parents, and even though WE NEVER HAD REBECCA, Goddammit! we had some innocence. Audie Lou was still around for life-lessons; LaVay was still a cult following; there was hope for peace in ALL the 32 counties of Ireland, the Roark was still alive, and a homeless man thought that Shannon could be my child. But these days, as much as I bitch, I have a honest and trustworthy, not-to-be-bought bishop, a grand husband, two fine cats own me. I have the best womanfriend in the universe who has a fabulous man/husband--thanks be to the God/dess! And I have a grand ministry all my own. I am loved by many great children. And Volcan is not overwhelmed with grinogas YET; and it is still terminally cool on that holy mountain of Mamatatda. I'm sorry I can no longer offer you sex and nudity with the Lutherans on Monday nights as Gerry Pence is no longer there. (It's a joke about a great class that used to be taught at the Lutheran School up there in the Wagnerian mist and fog). DO attend SKSM; they will push you into places you may never find yourself pushed. (While I, who'd been the designated driver of dozens of priests in my life as they drank me under the table and I was far from sober and heard THEIR confessions, I was not shocked to hear a priest and professor say "Fuck" in class as were far too many of my classmates--GROW UP! However at SKSM I was more than a bit taken aback to hear a professor say "pussy" and then I rejoiced because, really, here was someone VERY real and I could relax and get on with life and love this professor dearly. And, if you are like me, you will find your community and your best friend in the whole world--EVER! Dysfunctional dorm family...indeed! THIS was NOT my dysfunctional community, SKSMers in the dorm; it was my own school's pathology and our class's pathology. It was once said of the entering class of '96 "that our bright lights were only dimmed by our overwhelming Shadows." Never a truer word spoken. God, we were a handfull. Still long for Dora Gordon. And wonder about all of us with a true call who had to find another place to be who God has called us to be. Such a tragedy that formation meant all the women had the same haircuts by the second year and most everyone became tedious. One of the librarians with whom I worked could ALWAYS tell immediately when a woman CDSP student entered the door. He was right. We were so driven, so angry, and so afraid. And this, from the second most liberal seminary in the US! But then, I always forgot, that not everyone, including the faculty, came from CA. In fact FEW! Some of us took to CA like a duck out of water and wondered why "our flamboyant manner often offended the sensibilities of others"--this from my middler evaluation. If only the dorm could talk. Doesn't everyone know that everyone lies during the Process? JAYSUS! OOPS, outed us all! Too bad. Either lie or we suck up. Same tedious thing that has nothing to do with our incarnations, does it? Too bad we can't be formed into more of our genuine selves than into something and someone else where former physicians, scientists, musicians and people of great and tremendous talent fought like flies over spilled sugar for the position of sacristan, thereby reducing us to the level of kindergarten. Weird and wonderful at the same time...seminary at CDSP. I guess I came expected to spend my life reading and discussing theology not trying to cram in thousands of words a day and remembering something! Weird and wonderful. It gets better if you do an MA and have time to READ. Ahh. REALLY read something and linger for a while, even if you've got to get those gazillion words on paper. Still it's worth it. Sorry, too, that I cannot offer you Doug Adams, but I imagine his spirit still haunts PSR and the library. Let Art and Beauty soothe you. Let the library heal you (hopefully the mold is gone so it won't make mold-allergic people sick as the floods did me.) Go over to PSR at least once a day. See the chldren and the dogs playing. Things you could be doing, too, including getting pierced and tattoo'd if you had the time. Be sure that "The City That Knows How" still exists and that you COULD get to it to hear Lavay Smith if you just had the time or had friends who kidnapped you and forced you to sweet hot jazz on Friday nights. Ah, sweet Lavay. Some of the best church in eight years! We at CDSP seem to want to think we're Jesuits but because we do not raise up priests that way, we have to cram everything into three years. You'll often wish you were a SKSM student, too, because of Pass/Fail and all the free time they seem to have to actually have a life or even sex! AND if you're female, straight, even semi-smart (even if I was from MS, to quote a seminarian not from the US of another MS seminarian, "that, __, I can't believe you're so smart and come from MS," with me standing right there. WWJD? Smack her? It's what I wanted to do, no Pax Christi vow included.), older than 35, have something of a brain, have a libido, AND are in seminary with the godcard, don't come to Berkeley and the Bay Area expecting to find a man...anywhere! I mean a wife had to die and I had to import a man from MS to have sex with and then marry, even if our hours of sex got us kicked out of seminary housing. Tee hee hee. Tis grand. Other than that, be sure to buy two Hitachi wands at a time because there could be an Hitachi wand shortage as there has been in the past ten years. And one doesn't need the hum to stop before the cum. If you are even thinking about going to seminary EVER, start taking some kind of basic philosophy and bible classes NOW; it will save your ass in the long run. OH, all those years I wasted! It's one of the few things I regret. And attend every liturgy somewhere that you possibly can. On and off campus, because one day you might be in a place like Almirante, a town I have always loathed, in a country like Panama, a place I've always loved; and there IS no daily office; nothing is chanted; the Spanish Psalms are rushed and hurried and crazy-making you crazy if you are a contemplative and relish each word being savored (if you are a contemplative, be sure where you are going, that there IS a monastery for retreats, that there IS a Jesuit church, that there ARE Quakers and Benedictines--or you will lose your mind and half your soul--or you will become a recluse, a hermit, not a bad thing if you have a computer and silence.) And remember, the Third World is NEVER silent; it is always on the move! Dogs bark, women and babies scream, and trucks run 24 hours a day. It's enough to drive you mad, particularly without daily offices and daily Eucharist in a country where only RC's know anything about these. Their RC churches are at least beautiful; which is a comfort. If you plan to sit through a sermon in Spanish in an RC, homophobic country, move to a seat where you cannot possibly hear or just get up and leave the church until the sermon is over, then join the crowd for lliturgy; it's all you have; make the best of it. That and the Beauty of the Roman churches as Episcopanglicans in Panama have no lovely buildings. YAWN. And now while you are still innocent of all the true evil of the church--jealousy--and people who, in their first year, are friendly and nice and kind, BEFORE they turn into mean, focus'd monsters; and if you are not important to their future ministry, will no longer exchange anything but the peace with you--as if they mean it. MEOW! But DO, let the liturgy wash over you and try to avoid the CDSP chapel at the end of the semester; it gets very sick indeed, with current stuff and old stuff. You will NEED the Eucharist, but until the chapel is redone and blessed, go elsewhere, ANYWHERE! A good and thorough cleansing is called for. We tried to sage it but it doesn't last long enough, I am sorry to say. Do. Enjoy. Learn. Make a TRUE friend for a lifetime. AND for God's sake, be sure your spiritual director is NOT an Episco; the church is too small! Love to you all oonagh+ http://www.landoftheanxiousdog.com/files/12-iron_and_wine-the_trapeze_swinger-rtb.mp3 Please, remember me Happily By the rosebush laughing With bruises on my chin The time when We counted every black car passing Your house beneath the hill And up until Someone caught us in the kitchen With maps, a mountain range A piggy bank A vision too removed to mention But Please, remember me Fondly I heard from someone you're still pretty And then They went on to say That the pearly gates Had some eloquent graffiti Like "We'll meet again" And "Fuck the man" And "Tell my mother not to worry" And angels with their great Handshakes Were always done in such a hurry And Please, remember me At Halloween Making fools of all the neighbors Our faces painted white By midnight We'd forgotten one another And when the morning came I was ashamed Only now it seems so silly That season left the world And then returned And now you're lit up by the city So Please, remember me Mistakenly In the window of the tallest tower Calling passers-by But much too high To see the empty road at happy hour Gleam and resonate Just like the gates Around the holy kingdom With words like "Lost and found" And "Don't look down" And "Someone save Temptation" And Please, remember me As in the dream We had as rug-burn babies Among the fallen trees And fast asleep Aside the lions and the ladies That called you what you like And even might Give a gift for your behavior A fleeting chance to see A trapeze Swing as high as any savior But Please, remember me My misery And how it lost me all I wanted Those dogs that love the rain And chasing trains The colored birds above their running In circles around the well And where it spells On the wall behind St. Peter So bright with cinder gray And spray paint "Who the hell can see forever?" And Please, remember me Seldomly In the car behind the carnival My hand between your knees You turned from me And said, "The trapeze act was wonderful But never meant to last" The clown that passed Saw me just come up with anger When it filled with circus dogs The parking lot Had an element of danger So Please, remember me Finally And all my uphill clawing My dear But if I make The pearly gates Do my best to make a drawing Of God and Lucifer A boy and girl An angel kissing on a sinner A monkey and a man A marching band All around the frightened trapeze swingers Na-na Na-na-na Na-na Na-na . . . http://sobeanaggie.imeem.com/music/M17j57l7/hallelujah/

Funerals, Bomberos, Dirty Water, a DDT soldier, and a Dr Ray headache

Today is one for the blog, but let me just say, first of all, that I am sick and damned tired of homophobic anyone but especially homophobic priests and bishops who neeed giant tattoos on their foreheads that say: I'm a homophobe; praying for the sinner, hate the sin. Sick to DEATH that there are only TWO known priests in the entire Diocese of Panama who'd ever be seen in a gay bar, pride parade, or anything--not to mention a priest or a bishop who seems to give a flying fuck about the HIV/AIDS/SIDA that is killing people in this country--and if they DO give a flying fuck, then what good is it if they're not speaking out and DOING something. I, for one, must not be a good enough priest or a good enough Christian because while I DO pray for those homophobes, my hot Irish temper makes me want to say REALLY REALLY MEAN things about how mean they are and mostly call them noncarinighomophobicchickenshitratbastardcreeps. I don't know how much longer we will be here, especiallly after this blog, but I vow that I will spend the rest of my time here being as verbal and visible as I can, even to getting that AIDS ribbon tattoo I've always said I was going to get-and VERY visible! Today, 1030AM and one of THE biggest funerals this town will ever have was scheduled for 1PM-ish with viewing of the body (I know, I KNOW, Episcos don't open the coffin but no one apparently told any Episcopanglicans in Panama AND there are no funeral homes in ALL of Bocas so bodies come straight from the closest hospital morgue/cooler. Knowing Panama, I am always hoping for dry ice but there are things even I don't ask;like, for example, unembalmed bodies above ground in some pretty flimsy-looking houses of the dead. Don't even think about it. If the water wasn't drinkable already from cooties in it anyway, all over the Province, (one can't even rinse a toothbrush in Bocas water and one really needs to close one's mouth in the shower to prevent really nasty stomach cooties from getting you!), seeing a burial/graveside service would send me to the local store for bottled water anyway. But it was 1030 and we, at the rectory, have had no water for five plus days now. I've lost count my hair is so dirty. Tomorrow I try the clean tank of rainwater, boiling it on the stove, bathing, and washing my hair in it.I'm on my secone extra large bottle of witch hazel and my feet look like Ngobe feet, not a bad thing unless one is trying to seduce a husband and one's usual soft feet feet like some alligator hide before the processing into Pradas! Or maybe more like armadillo Surely it must be cleaner than the stuff from the water company. The padre HAD to have a shower; he NEVER smells, even after getting all sweaty, and he was stuffy smelling and his fine, chicken beautiful baby hair was plastered to his skull. It was nasty. So the grandfather of the dead 25 year-old, dead as a result of a tragic truck accident, who happens to be the chief of the firefighters/bomberos, had to be called to send over water for the padre to take a shower. Mind you, this is water that would put the fire out if your house was burning down, but Sweet Jesus, it was his baby darling grandson and his priest had to look good and even though the water was dirty, rank-smellling,and pretty foul, it was water and it was received as if it had come from the cleanest glacier in the world. Who canNOT love the bomberos? They are hunks--and now if we could just get a Lesbian bombero (closeted or not), I'd be a happy camper because I KNOW, deep in my heart of hearts, there is at least ONE gay bombero--otherwise, what good would the whole uniform thing be? And at least they are not homoerotic in THEIR uniforms; they are simply hunky, like any fire-fighters, maybe the last group of truly magnanimous people in the world--sure, sure, we know there are dirty politics in fire houses and throughout the system but one's heart and clit can't help but jump a little at seeing all those young, gorgeous menand women who broke our hearts during 9-11. I am no cop-lover, I can tell you, in spite of being a nurse; I have pretty much disdain for the whole process, especially in Panama and in the US. I can llive with bobbies without guns but I DO remember it was the Crown who sent the armored trucks and all sorts of military power to The Six Counties so there goes that theory of police without guns--especially when one remembers Bloody Sunday.Okay OKAY, so they were soldiers and I have disdain for soldiers, too. If we didn't have any soldiers, we wouldn't/couldn't have any wars and I may be a purist but it is just right and I'll say it again, what the fuck is the Church doing when the Crotch of Semper Fi is recruitiing like mad and it often works--and people say the Church has too much ritual. Now I don't know of any other group of folks with MORE ritual than the US military--look at all those homoerotic uniforms--don't ask, don't tell indeed--who HAS to ask, just look at the uniforms, stupid! And this ritual is based on murder and violence. And we say, we dont support the war, we support the troops. Well, at some level I understand that and I understand poverty's desperation, etc etc but again, I repeat, WHAT THE FUCK IS THE CHURCH DOING TO RECRUIT PEOPLE, GIVE THEM AN EDUCATION, AND FIND A PLACE FOR THEM TO WORK WITHOUT KILLING PEOPLE? Bring back the Beguines, a tiny reference to Cole Porter. But no, the Church is so mired in the mud of antiquity and bullshit and in turning out boring and cookie-cutter priests who wouldn't DARE disturb the status quo, that we can't begin to have sucha vision. I am eternally grateful for the independent churches who are slowly starting to shake up the status quo and long may they wave their rainbow banners and I am honoured to be one of their clergy. And yes, we have a military nurse in our congregation and I love him but I don't love his being in this stupid war. Sorry about the tirade and tangent. It's oonie on a rant. So back to yesterday's madness. Just at that very second, the whole world seemed to show up, only one of them I wanted to see: one was the bishop (NOT the person I'd wanted to see; in fact the person I was hoping to avoid now and forever--I'd prepared myself for a handshake but I was saved by DDT. More in a minute. The religious education director showed (he got a hug and a HUGE kiss 'cause he's true--he's probably homophobic, too but I don't want to ask because I love his other politics too much, I'd hate to have him on THE LIST for the tattoos, too. These folks weren't supposed to show up at the house, but show they did. I was attired in my oldest, coolest, thinnest cotton nightgown--the one so soft that it magically absorbs the eternal sweat and then whooshes it away in the merest breeze. PB would die as I was wearing not a stitch of undies. I do not care;it is hot and there were unannounced people in my house. The MOST unannounced person was wearing a SERIOUS breathing apparatus and carrying a big ole gun thing full of DDT and some sort of nasty petrochemical in which he DDT is dissolved. It seems we have Dengue (two cases of sicker than hell folks in the hospital already and who knows how many declining at home b/c they can't get to or afford a hospital) and that requires that EVERY home and every hard MUST be poisoned. I'm screaming NO NO NO NO about the gatos and since The Terminator was coming in anyway, I locked him out, put on some scrubs, got the kitties in their two in one carrier and got them to the car with the windows closed and the a/c going--after sedating them with Calms Forte while they were INSIDE the carrier--no mean feat as they HATE the bishop and were running to hide from him and they were outside and so was he and they were hissing and spitting and I wanted to be doing the very thing except with claws. THEN I had to run next door to be sure the baby was not in the house, so we threw her and her mom in the truck, too. Her family had planned her escape and were on their way. If they were going to Changuinola, personally I don't know the difference between DDT by crop-duster or DDT by one human, going house to house. Everyone runs around to find "THE BLAME" for Dengue when there is an outbreak. Yesterday it was the neighbor's boat full of water and the alleged drainage ditch-of which you do NOT want to hear, smell, or see, growing misquitoes like Chiquita grows bananas. What would it take to get rid of every banana in all of Panama without hurting a human, a gecko, a bee, a butterfly? AND speaking of which, how do geckos and my precious butterflies and dragon flies respond to DDT? Do they get killed, too? I'd go outside but it's raining today and there will be LARGE mudpuddles for enough days to begin growing misquitoes.OF COURSE, Dengue could NEVER be the responsibility of the government other than to kill us and expose us to DDT and Lord knows what else? We can't manage to fill up the potholes large enough to disappear a Volkswagen. Sweet Jesus, we've got enough rocks. This entire town was BUILT AND CREATED as an evil port and was built out of rocks and a wee bit of dirt. If it were cooler and beautiful and one could ear beatiful, sweet Irish voices, one might think one was in Ireland,but alas! one is in the hell hole of ugly Almirante. It's like the Pascagoula of MS in Panama. And getting to actual Beauty is practically impossible here. It takes hours and lots of money. The rebuilding and alleged restoration and outstanding debt (who knows where the money goes in Panama? even in the Church? I want to know where the bishop gets all his money to travael? Are the churches outside Panama paying so he can come for a day and say the pretty words and look gorgeous and seduce everyone and then leave with nothing done? Just to return to Panama for maybe four days a month. Perhaps I exaggerate; maybe it's six. But from a man I once trusted (estupido)--never trust a bishop should be the first rule of being an Episcopalian and I once was and have never been fond of them; they always seem slimy to me. But I thought plusJulio was different. Nope, same old, same old, just in a prettier package. But you still have to wonder about gayness with gold lame vestments. COMe ON, PEOPLE! Now, one must know that just before we arrived in this sweatbath of dirty water, no library, no theatre, no music, no intellectual stimulation--my mind is a total blank of idiotic Panamanian madness of constant bitching and Lord only knows what the nightly plastic fires have done to my body! But not three years ago, at the last big doo-dah funeral in which a church that holds less than fifty was filled with 3 to 4 hundred and there sat or rather, there lay the body. I'm glad I wasn't there b/c I'd have been obsessing about dry ice and one must remember usually the dead one has been dead for 3 to five or more days. OOh, ick and I'm a hospice person but disintegrtion and rot is never something you want to have anything to do with--we are SUPPOSED to be horrified by it; it reminds us that, honey, it ain't dust to which you originally return--it's fly-blown messiness that drips and leaks. So in the middle of the funeral, the ancient, termite eaten floor gave way and the body began seeking its own level of DOWN.. With all the superstition around here, it's a wonder St Jorge still has anyone to darken its door. I am afraid that when i heard that story, i burst into wild laughter--obviously there are NO hospice people in this country. I still find it hilarious. I am afraid i wouldn't find it hilarious at Mrs Brown's grandson's funeral until my 2nd drink. i love her so much, so much I couldn't even go to the funeral cause we have to save the water for the padre's showers. And I am NOT bathing in smellly, brown water. I mean what IS the point? Hopefully the sumbitch bishop won't be here tomorrow so I can live all day in my nightie, staying cool with two cats and cover reading a trashy book until I've had enough coffee to get me outside to work on the plants. I have planted lavender in Panama, which is THE most stupid thing anyone has ever done. I SHOULD have given it to my friend up in the mountains and if it comes up out of the ground, I will do that. In true Panamanian style, everything happens at once. In a third world madness that beats any NYC frenzy you've ever seen when stuff all happens at once and everybody goes into this gringo-like frenzy when minutes before it was all moving thru molasses. I don't get it. I'm a Celt; what the fucking hell am I doing here? Some penance. Yes, I KNOW, I was the one who started this go to Panama stuff. And Kenny took up the cry. How could Julio fool BOTH of us? Next bishop? I introduce to the cats first. Here's the nice thing. The DDT blaster emptied the cat bowls of their water, turned them upside down and covered them with thick towels; he also threw out their cat food and did the same with their food bowls. I was so touched. I did not know this until later AFTER Kenny's shower and after the bomberos left and I didn't even get a chance to thank him; I was too busy cussing the US and DDT. Here's someone who might even like or respect cats. The ministry of health people carried on over the gatos so they get pluses and we got no dengue demerits, thanks be to God I'd not cleaned out the bird waterer and bird bather and put in rainwater. The funeral started at one-ish and I've not seen cars going to the cemetery so I guess they are still in that teeny little packed church packed with people outside and the bishop still preaching-he can go on for 2 plus hours once he has a captive audience. I want the gong show.I thought the purpose of being an Episco was having a priest or bishop who was smart enough to sum it all up for you in under fifteen minutes. 12 is perfect; 10 is heaven. I've even heard three minute sermons that drew standing ovations. I thought the whole point was to get to the Table, which IS the point of the Mass, for X's sakes and then to get to the Bloody Marys and Mimosas and wine. Give me sweaters and thick wool socks and SAD lights and Vitamin D and every new antidepressant on the US market that MIGHT take this depression away someplace in cool, cold, windy, foggy Ireland, the home of my DNA and WITH the RCs. Yes, I'd become an RC in Ireland. How could I not? There are no more Wolf Tones, Maude Gonnes, and Yeats. I'm so ready to be outta here I could scream. I hope to NEVER see another tropical anything for the rest of my life. Remember we love Amsterdam in January! Just a totally disgusting day in a place I'd never call Paradise. Gimme the mountains and the cold and a fireplace and covers and the Ngobe and being three hours from PC NOT 12! My nails still have not chipped. But in spite of wearing a charcoal/coconut MCS mask I still had THE worst MCS/Dr Rhea headache I"ve ever experienced. I'd been swilling tons of water and Vitamin C yesterday but it took an ounce of olive oil and three hours plus Naprosen to even make it tolerable--from a 10 to a 7. This morning's poisoning number is a 5. I'm putting limon juice in my olive oil today. After all my bitching, I MIGHT could be convinced to return to the US if it were San Francisco and I never had to be hotter than 75 degrees more than about 7 days a year. I hate heat; why am I here? Besides, how does one ever known when it's the solstice, sitting on top of the Equator. I've lost my sense of time and even the Church calender is not anything I can remember because there are no seasons, just eternal heat. Honey, I've been in hell and I prefer Dante's version of being in ice than in this hot horrensous heat and humidity. Besides I need friends and movies and Rainbeau and Michellle and nail polish and a place where I do not HAVE to wear crocs just to keep my pretty shoes--either expensive or cheap as dirt--intact because I'm standing in 4 inches of rain for an hour waiting for a taxi, not to mention mucking through the mud here in town and taking worm and parasite treaetments every 6 months because I know what's in this alleged soil. Willl someone just pleasae GET ME OUTTS HERE!! I'm having a gringa meltdown. Maybe it will go away but the last straw was K's not having his ordination paperwork done and he's been ordained for 2 years now. There is no excuse for that irresponsibility with the excuse of "finding someone who does calligraphy." Just fill in the damned form, man, and get on with apostolic succession. Sheesh. And I WOULD like Church and Church in many forms with Quakers and Jesuits and Buddhists--all liberal--- and protestors and activitis and CODEPINK and Rainier cherries--organic. It matters not to me if I ever eat another pineapple, papaya, or mango again. I'm done. Could I just please have some radiccio and no more of this horrible Panamanian music? That plays even on Sunday morning and LOUD. It's too rude. And in a RC country, too. I"d like to tell them they are surely going to hell. This isn't even music one could fuck by, the seond best thing to do on a Sunday morning.

Panama Nail Polish Crisis

It may seem a little thing to many, something non-importnat. Well, all those folks would be wrong. And I know many will understand my plight and be pastoral. Here for the first time in my life, I have strong, growing, almost long REAL nails--my very own. As I have a great collection of red nail polish (Revlon Red, otherwises known as "screaming whorebitch red") is my favorite color). I have other colors, too, but they react the same. But there is some sorta climatic problem--or something-- here that prevents the stuff from staying on my nails for more than one entire day, even my LEFT hand, less used, as I am mostly right-handed. It doesn't matter, it seems, how much great, powerful base coat I use, how many coats of paint (2 to 4), then the strongest top coat I can find. I do ice and oil quick-dry and patiently sit and wait for all coats to dry. And even if I do absolutely Nothing in two days, the stuff starts chipping in the weirdest places. NOT chipping in the usual spots where one uses fingers and nails to open soda cans or knitting (I let thestuff dry forever; do all the things right, etc), the polish starts chipping. I do not understand. What is wrong? Is it the heat, the humidity?. Even if I use polish, base and top coats purchased here in Panama or from the US, the damned stuff doesn't stick. It is the most amazing thing.) Now, in the great scheme of things, it's not the Middle East crisis; it's not the need to impeach George Bush, i'ts not the atrocities of Chiquita and the homophobia of the Episcopal Church madness here--and every other church besides. I realise all of that. But in all this heat, in spite of it, I have great nails and I can't get polish to stay. It's a girl thing and it's important in that way as a priest of a gay church, the ONLY liberal gay positive church in the entire country! Is it an unconscious wish to take back my Pax Christi vow of nonviolence and slonk all the homophobes in the kneedaps? Maybe peacebang can help. Ill have to ask. But I want pretty sexy nails and it ain't happening! I'ts bad enough to have to bathe in dirty water, or to go without water for days (I've found that a total body bath in witch hazel on cotton swabs cleans one well enough but the topic of baby fine chicken hair that needs to be washed and can't be is another issue), or to be without power for days when Diablo Chiquita bananas have to be processed, the damn polish doesn't stick. I've tried cheap polish; i've tried expensive polish like Chanel. It doesn't seem to matter. Sure, makeup sweats off in my lap (bare essentials is the ONLY thing that seems to work for more than an hour) and spary on tanning products sweats off or washes off in the dirty water, But one woud think perfect nail care would produce results. Is there something I dont' know? Anybody got any suggestions? I've having a crisis here. And never mind toenaiil polish; I can understand that it all chips and falls off walking around in dirt and rocks and muddy water growing Dengue. But FINGRNAILS! what Is he answer? Totally disgusted--- not your usual missionary position is having a HUGe girly crisis! Enough is just enough! Living in a land without Quakers, Jesuits, UU's, and pagans is bad enough, but this is ridiculous! oonie in Almirante Thanks to peacebang's helps for the female ministers was just such a boost in understanding, I can't help but feel better.

4 August, 1976

Yesterday was Tommy Goodman's birthday. For many of you who know me, you've heard at least SOME of the "Goodman stories." Tommy was the first love of my life, my first passion, my first obsession (after chocolate), and the first person and especially man who gave me permission to be who I am; he is also the man who broke my heart and irrevocably destroyed much of my trust and all of any hope I'd ever had. Isn't this pathetic? But you'd have to have been there, in the magic year of 1976, when I first saw this darling little two year old by the pool of my apartment wearing this darling little bathing suit with fish swimming across the front and with "FISH" written through the swimming school. Then I looked up and saw his father. I was engaged at the time to a man in Salt Lake (who'd moved there to work, a plan I'd conspired to get him away from his very VERY sick parents. But a story for another day.) Without another thought, I went upstairs to my apartment, shaved my legs, took of my engagement ring, and went downstairs to meet my fate. You know, sometimes you just know. Now being a 22 year old virgin is a tedious thing but to be the lover of a 22 year old virgin, DES daughter who desperately wanted children and couldn't have them, and to be the lover of a 22 year old virgin who gave up ALL her trust to you is a scary thing. And yes, 31 years later, I still remember his birthday because that was our first date, my first drink of alcohol--Campari and if you can love cough syrup, you can love anything! I still find it refreshing on a summer day; hmm, everyday is summer here; I should drink more Campari! I was well and very blonde and very buffed (I swam every day and did yoga back before it was popular and did lots of exercising)--and very beutiful. T, being basically shy, chose an intermediary to ask me out before he came over to talk. Now I'm a voice slut and THIS VOICE made me wetter than the water I was in. I thought I'd dehydrate right there on the spot. I fell. Free-falling into love that knew not a boundary. Stupid. But I was so naive and such an innocent and such a spoiled only child. And, yes, God knows, Goodman loved me, too. I don't know; maybe he still does. I only wish today, fat, ugly, ill, and miserable in Panama's endless heat that we could at least talk, not necessarily be friends--although that would be heaven--but that he'd somehow communicate with me. I at least hope John P or someone calls me when he dies, if he dies before I, because I will need to grieve the loss of the body of this man, who was basically a chicken-shit coward, who sold out for his exwife, Caroline, from whom he was divorced at the time, a woman with huge breasts, almost magically fertile, who counted out loud to 40 during sex and if he was not done--too bad, but whose father and family had scads of money and she, too, was the only child. While I was white trash poor but younger and prettier,even without the huge boobs and fertile uterus. One look at me and suddenly the child who'd been her toy of an ugly divorce starting to appear at any day, any time; she'd just call and ask if Tommy wanted August for an afternoon, an overnight, a day. And I knew I was in trouble--because this was the same woman who'd had to be taken back to court so Tommy could see his child more than once a month and only for a few hours; as it was, he only got to see him every other weekend and WOE! beyond to T if we were 3 minutes late returning August. At Chirstmas, he asked me to marry him and I said no. (stupid, perhaps at the time). But Caroline's dad had died and I could sense T smelling the money and I knew that I could survive losing him THEN but ten years and three little girls later (if that had ever been possible; turns out it wasn't; and therefore I'd have broken his heart and who knows what dreadful atrocity would have destroyed our marriage), a divorce would have destroyed me. I don't want to bore you all with years of stories and tales of magic. And then destruction. But yesterday and today, wherever you are Thomas E Goodman, AIA, I want to thank you for teaching me that taking out the garbage can be an adventure, killing roaches with your Gucci flats is magical, and going to the 7-11 is the greatest fun in the world. You gave me something special--the permission to be who I am. Lord knows, I acted an utter fool and maybe could have had you if I'd not been so stupid in all my acting out. But some things are not to be. So I closed my heart until 1998--well really it first opened just a crack on Easter Day of 92 when we, Tommy and I, sat across from one another at St Andrew's and you introduced me to your new wife and I discovered that I REALLY LIKED HER, liked her more than you and SAID SO. How, my dear, did you explain all that? It does not mean I didn't have to leave just after communion and run down the street keening at the top of my lungs and keen for two more hours until I'd gotten it out of my system and I don't think I've cried for you ever since. But it WAS magic. It was magic having such great friends, Chuck and Joe, John and Char--the magic of companionship where you love the friends as much as you love the beloved. It was magic, making models of buildings and sticking in the trees, going to the Walter Anderson Compound in Ocean Springs--- and the bar with the wild and wonderful paintings; sailing and the Yucatan, and fucking in Eames chairs, and the first night of loving with "I Want To Marry A Lighthouse Keeper" playing on the reel-to-reel (only serious lovers had reel to reel in those days, as I recall. But maybe I'm wrong.) You were a marvelous lover and a giving one. Your bubble baths and pitchers of martinis after a long evening of work were always appreciated; when you dried me off, put me into one of your shirts, and tucked me into bed. Yes, I had a magical love of my 20's for less than 2 years, a Delta man, who really was a big coward and I say this so lovingly, even after you practicallly destroyed me (and I allowed you to even with all the therapy) after giving me who I am, the who I am who proved not good enough and unacceptable to you. Devastating. But sometimes what and who I miss the most are the friends--Sambo and Jackie (Sambo, God rest his soul. I still have a busted coccyx from whacking my back in a V when I hit the water while crossing the wake zooming on water-skis. I think of him every day. Oh, and Suzanne and Bob. And especially Chuck and Joe, and John and Charlotte. And all the magical car trips and adventures in light and buldings.) But in the middle of all those 18 years it took me to heal and all the AA meetings I attended because I was addicted to you and your pipe tobacco, I had one prayer: if God gave me a great love of my youth, wouldn't God please send me a greater love and Lover and greater passion of my middle and old age? And you know what? In 1992 and then for l in 1998, that prayer was answered--another Delta Man, my beloved Kenny. I'd not trade him for ten Tommy Goodman's even if I had the chance to do it all over again. I've lived through a lot of pain and heartbreak and unbelievable stuff of nightmares and horrors and some really scary stuff. And much of the pain and heartbreak I brought on myself because I had no idea how to handle the pain of my soul and heart. I've also had many wonderful adventures and experiences in Beauty. It brought me back to the Church, the only thing I'd loved more than Goodman and the Church broke my heart even more. How about that for irony? But I live with a good without being sappy man, a generous man, with a wicked sense of humor, a felllow activist, who may not have the same taste in architecture and wouldn't know Maier from Pei and doesn't drool over Eames chairs (that's only because he's never had the chance to have sex in one! But maybe we're too old.) He likes my mother's kind of furniture: antiques and Eastlake and San Francisco beautiful whorehouse uncomfortable furniture. But he had great taste and he loves me and I adore him. We are happy and we've had a painful and horrible 3 to 4 years and we've survived and our love is deeper and stronger. There are no old wife skeletons in his closet to come out and haunt me and I mostly feel pretty safe, as safe as an only child without her parents and no close relatives can feel when she thinks that she, one day, might have to live WITHOUt THE TRUE LOVE AND PASSION OF HER LIFE, when she's old and fat and falling apart. You'd never have survived that, Goodman, I don't think. No stomach for it. I am happy even as much as this place and this institution has broken my heart. I have love. I still have no hope but Eliot doesn't swear by it and anyone who wrote CATS who doesn't swear by hope is fine in my book. But I have faith; I have a loving bishop who is trustworthy; I have work to do that I love; and I have Love, an extraordinary lover and a leather sling! Menopausual sex is different and we are learning how to make it as hot as pre-menopausal sex. We just need some real cold for really great, really hot sex. And that will happen, too, I believe. For I have years of grand memories already with Kenny. Years of being best friends; years as lovers; years as husband and wife, man and woman. It just gets better. Kenny has Integrity and Great Courage and I admire him tremendously. Those things I could never say about Goodman. Even though singing "Chatanooga Choo-Choo" is a fond memory, too, and I still love the song. Desperado can still make me cry a wee bit but sometimes I can smile. And if I hear it, I HAVE to play "The Pretender" to take away the ache. Now my love songs are happy, beautiful Van Morrison and opera and Irish music and Hallelulah, which is an aching ballad of life's mistakes--and that I understand. But a house filled with beautiful, wonderful, loving music is better than Desperado anyday. So there. NAH! Sadly, even as much in love as I am, there is a part of me that is still closed and precious and me and safe. I don't know if I'll ever be able to open that place of TOTAL trust again; maybe I shouldn't. But I sure would like to learn how to do that some day with Kenny because it would be the TOTAL GIFT. You destroyed that, TEG, and I let you. Goodman, I hope you are as happy as I. I hope your life is good. I hope you think of me fondly sometimes. I remember all the wonderful dancing and dancing and dancing--anywhere, anyplace, to anything on the jukebox or in the house or on the street. I still have ONE gift you gave me and I love it early, a scarf. I hope you remember that you were loved by a beautiful young girl with stars in her eyes and a ferocious Irish temper when hurt. Thank you for giving me gifts I can give myself and can give to Kenny because he deserves even more love than I can give him and that's a lot. But, hopefully, we'll have time to learn how to love more and more and better and better. I wish you all the best and HAPPY BIRTHDAY. You were 30 on our first date; I was 22 two weeks later. We'll all do the math. And Kenny, if you read this, know that are loved more than I have ever loved anyone or anything, even the Church, although it took me a while to see and understand this one. And I have Plus Rusty and St Savior to thank for that, for giving my soul a home and a life as a priest, my firsts calling in this world. My second and equal calling is as your spouse, your life-partner, your friend, your Lover, and soul-mate. I have been blessed with two great loves and the greatest of these is the one of my middle years. I have great friends and now have a best friend with a spouse who I call my brother-in-law. Our other couple friends are Robert and Ann,who have taught us so much about love and life and God and Church and laughter and good food and good wine. I have a son by marriage that I adore who has a wife I love so very much. That child was loved by my mother and is the apple of my eye and the mango of my heart. We used to say we'd adopt a child when Kenny was 60 but I don't think I want to share him with all the headaches of nights without sleep and old parents who will die early and leave her alone--I know that tune and it is awful. Thanks be to God, whoever and whatever that is, for the life I life in a wild place with a wild and wonderful man. I am so blessed. It was all worth it.

Ugly Americans and Liberal White Guilt

Today I had to try to explain Disneyland and Epcot, etc. to my Ngobe friend who is in school with a double major of education and tourism. This is one extraordinary feat of courage over culture; I can't explain how amazing an experience this is. It is as difficult to explain how extraordinary this is, to overcome everything of a culture that is against you to go to university as it is to explain Disneyland to one who's never seen or heard of a tilt-a-whirl. Thank God for computers--that our friend does not have and even her university lacks adequate computer education--to show these strange sights of the "First World." Plus I've never been to a Disneyland or any of these theme parks and have never had any desire to go. So I was limited. Thank God for a husband with children and a husband who had money to take his children to such places. (I just wanted to see Tinkerbelle and go on Mr Toad's Ride; that's the extent of my desire. But Baja is still at the top of my list of places to go and any Disneyland thing is not on the list at all.) After looking at such "experiences" as SITTING in a car like place or on a seat in a train-like thing--just to sit--and see these "amazing" things as Thunder Mountain (Isn't that the "ride" that shows mining? I doubt they explain the atrocities and evils of mining on these adventures.) And while I can understand a planetarium and long for their pieces of the sky, I have no understanding of a Lucas Star Tour, as much as I love R2D2 and C3PO. Capitalism has never looked so evil as looking at the millions of dollars it takes to create one of these places when my friend lives in a house without a door, without screens, and who lives over a semi-tidal body of water that, by all accounts, should be a festering swamp of endless tropical diseases. Did I mention the rats that live in her community? And that her beloved cats not only catch the rats but are adored and sleep with her, despite her husband's protests? Having me for a friend who also has two cats who sleep piled on top of me has only helped her argument for sleeping with cats. Might they not keep the rats at bay? Seems only practical to me. Why are there BILLIONS of dollars to build theme parks all over the world when millions are not spent in the Third World to provide safe homes, education, safe food, medicines and health care? Why are those billions not spent on providing the Third World, particularly the Panama of my home, with condoms, dental dams, lube, and meds for HIV and AIDS when the Virus is killing the Ngobe and the Kuna and unknown thousands of Panamanians? Why are millions not being spent for liberal, open, accepting churches to welcome GLBT folks--rather than ALL the churches here who are soo conservative that only the "old" bad theology is taught? Does Disneyland in Paris make ANY sense? When does Paris, the City of Lights, need a theme park, for Christ's sakes? Isn't Paris enough? Doesn't it contain enough magic of its own without the evils of Disney? Yes, I think Disney is evil; so does John Donahue, SJ. SO THERE. And I've now seen another reason to consider Disney evil. Magic bolts and lights don't seem to help children with imagination; they seem, to me, to HAMPER an imagination. Aren't stars and planets and black holes magical enough? Why aren't we building more planetariums and observatories all over the world so children can see the real magic that inhabits the skies? Funny, I was going to write about our trip back to the First World, 4 glorious weeks of seeing friends in the cool, magic of fog and redwoods in San Francisco. Isn't it enough that we here have to deal with Evil Chiquita? And to add Disneyland to a syllabus of tourism in a land of such a fragile, magical, glorious, breath-taking eco-system without teaching classes in tourism that explain the DIRE need to hold on and protect this fragile eco-system? Why not start with the glories of one's own homeland before venturing out into the human-made "lands" where Cinderella and Snow White are not from a book fueling a child's imagination but people dressed up like Snow White and Mickey Mouse so children can say they've had their pictures made with "Snow White" and "Minnie Mouse?" How on God's green earth can one explain US fairy tales in a culture that MUST have its own, fairy stories or the like that I'd like to learn? Explaining the story of Snow White drew howls of laughter as much as the pictures we pulled up on the internet to show what Disneyland REALLY looks like? With all the gazillion dollar skyscrapers going up along Balboa Avenue at the expense of lovely old buildings and delightful little cafes and shops, I would not be surprised that, if one day, Panama does not have its own Disneyland. The idea makes me want to puke or cry or scream. As I look out my window and see the bit of sunset I can see, here in the town that Cristobel Colon and Chiquita built, I wonder at the greed of humankind's "white, Anglo, Western world" whose leaders have done nothing but take and seize and destroy the wild and wonderful places in out and of the Third World? Mount Rushmore is stupid enough in the sacred lands of the First Peoples; who knows what sacred sites are under the atrocities of Disneylands, the world over? What of Paris did we destroy to build DisneylandParis? One expects better of the French; I certainly do.

A Look In The Mirror

OH MY GOD I'm a priest. I am a priest. I am a priest forever. I look in the mirror; I am neither different and I am different. No, nothing magic happened with the warmth of my blessed bishop's hands; I didn't get zapped. But I WAS changed in a wonderful way. Changed because a group of people believed in my call, believed in me, believed in Love, believed in God to ordain me to do the work I have been put on this earth to do. That is how I am both different and not. It's not about the collar or the piece of paper. It's about the sacrament; that IS for sure. It's like getting married when I finally married the right man, all that sacramental stuff was there. And in this rite, it's right. To say and respond to the ancient words that send me AND us forward together in this world to do the work, to live the call. Yes, I am happy. Yes, I am terrified. And I am strangely exhausted, an unexpected emotional exhaustion. I think I was so keyed up before that I couldn't sleep. Now my darling is in PC and I still can't sleep! I have become one of those old ladies who can't sleep without her husband. And in one more day his pillow and his smelliest, sweatiest tshirt will no longer smell like him; then I guess I'll stay up all night and paint the house! I need to write about this and I will. But there is stuff I have to sort out for myself and some people to write and thank and share appreciation with. But I'll mention them right here, right now, in front of God and everybody: my beloved life-partner Kenny; my dear friends, Rusty and George, my bishop and our deacon who have believed in me, challenged me, and loved me to take time out of their busy lives to come to PANAMA to ordain me and to help me plan this and who walked the streets while I tried to sleep; to Ricardo and Ernesto and Ernesto and Ricardo and AHMNP and UNAIDS/SIDA for coming to this church thing because they love me and honour my work and because I love them and honor their work; and o! sweet Jesus, the great gift of the magnificent voice of Moizes, whose name I will never be able to spell--I will remember that voice forever; and for AHMNP and UNSIDA again for film and reporters. And for Sr Oliver and Miss Jean and Sr Arturo who dressed me so beautifully in fabrics and in tailoring. For precious Meri Elvia who cared for the min-chees and mee-sees while we were gone. For the love and belief and care and friendship of Michelle. For as they say on Sex And The City, our girlfriends are really THE ones and Michelle, thank you. HA! I feel like Miss America!!! And always and forever, thank you Robert Warren Cromey and Lady Ann for you are the two who truly raised up this priest. I miss you two soo very very much and love you soo very much. I'm sad for the ECUSA and the Anglican Communion because they don't get it and don't get me. I'm glad that no longer hurts me as much as my parents' death, not being welcomed and accepted by you. I feel sad and sorry for your fear and well ignorance. But more than that, I am glad to be a priest of "The New Church" as John Kater once said long ago, "O, oonie, how very New Testament of you!" I'm glad and happy that this is meet and right as we used to say, for me--and for Panama. NOW if someone could just get us out of this friggin goddamned endless eternal heat and humidity in this very ugly town a water taxi ride across from my beloved Bocas of years past, the one that didn't have gazillion dollar homes and a TGIF (gag), I don't think I'd have one blessed thing of which to complain! I mean I LOVE PC TAXI DRIVERS! I DO! And I will never HAVE to walk inside of an ugly church again because I have to; thank you, Obispo Rusty and George! And still, fuck you Diablo Chiquita for that hideous siren sound about "work" and death. Sorry, Pax Christi, for that moment of violencia. Oh NOT the fuck you Chiquita but the less than 3 seconds of a feeling of violence against your violence of this gorgeous place. Even Almirante and Changuinola MIGHT have a chance at beauty without you. Madre Uni and still just oonie