God is the April Fool.
He gives us snow in undo season.
He makes men with strong jaws and covers them with thick fur.
He gives women beautiful legs and then puts knees in the middle of them.
He makes toes.
He made me.
He made Canada.
God made the principle of the swerve. The Atomists weren’t crazy after all. Almost.
Everything falls in an almost straight line. Almost.
God made man. God made monkeys.
Darwin wasn’t crazy after all. Almost
God made us similar enough to apes to give Darwin an excuse.
And different enough to damn him.
God make fat men the best singers.
Asians the best cellists.
Thieves the most generous.
Liars the best storytellers.
God made my brother and I together.
He the son of Vulcan, I the son of Bacchus.
Both sons of Mars.
Both Sons of Jeff.
God is the Mad Prankster.
He made this mortal temple.
This gas expelling, hair growing, ass scratching temple of the Holy Spirit.
He made Moscow.
He made it wet.
He made it snow in the end of March.
God is the April Fool.
We are April fools for not seeing it.

Hey... he's alive.

The Travel Post

Sorry for the Late Great Blog Silence. The mind is weak and the body is busy. I’ve finished my third term at New Saint Andrews and I’m happy to report it went well, quietly even. No broken bones were had, a rarity, respectable grades and good fellowship aplenty. I’ve begun singing at several nursing homes this past term that have made me laugh to the point that I nearly shared my entertainer’s incontinence. Between Wild Bill (from over the hill, who never worked a day in his life and never will), Evelyn who openly criticizes our singing, and my friend who has told me about her granddaughter who wore a little bathing suit on the grass at least once a visit, I think I’ve found a favorite: I was talking with a woman who will be turning 96 in April. After exchanging a few pleasantries about the weather (freezing rain and snow) she asked my name.
“Tyler Antkowiak, ma’am.”
They all really like being called ma’am.
“And what type of a name is that?”
“Its Polish, ma’am.”
Long pause.
“And how have you enjoyed your time in our country?”
“Oh just fine, ma’am, America is a beautiful place.”

My Question:
If movies are the modern equivalent of novels, are trailers the modern equivalent of poems? Watch a few for cinematographically charged dramas, or emotionally charged (ha!) action movies.
My Book: The Supper of the Lamb By Robert Capon. This book reminded me what it is to be human. I recommend it particularly if you have no culinary interests.
My Food: Corned Beef Reuben (best I’ve ever had) from Nana’s Irish Pub in Newport, Oregon.
TyTunes: Stevie Ray Vaughan: Live Alive. Great live album especially the tracks Superstition, and Willie the Wimp.

Uncle George

His hands were like gloves, filled with rocks and sticks. They were oil stained and rough and brown. His hands pulled trees up by the roots, mashed potatoes out of bowls, and new believers out of the baptismal font. His hands held me while we both fell asleep watching figure skating during the 96 Olympics. His hands scratched everything. His hands threw a wicked wiffle ball. His hands held Kathy tight every time she cried. His hands patted Randy on the back every time he was proud. His hands gave noogies. His hands operated hammers and trucks and guitars. Its easier to remember his hands. They drew cartoons that I still keep. They called strikes and threw ignorant coaches out of games. They showed me how big Boog Powel’s forearms were. They missed buttons, wiped stains on jeans, and grabbed more chips than he could fit in his mouth. Those hands worked harder than mine ever will. They will always be stronger than mine. The world will never know better hands. Those hands now play catch with the greats. Those hands now hold pierced hands. I’d give anything to hold those hands again.

It is certainly curious that “The Poets have been oddly silent on the topic of Cheese.” This most glorious invention of man and gift from God, I hardly dare speak of. How could I in a mere 250 words, words that could never convey the reality that is cheese, tell you of the joy of Jarlsberg, the richness of Ricotta, the marvels of Mascarpone, the pleasure of Parmesan, the greatness of Gouda? To make cheese is Covenant fulfillment. God sent the Israelites into the land of Canaan, the land of milk and honey, to subdue it. Surely God did not merely want Joshua to subdue the land and the pagan people. God wanted him to subdue the milk. The Israelites would have known this and most assuredly began making Brie and blessing it with the bees’ hard labor. Cheese also bears a redemptive message. Limburger reminds us of the odiousness of our sin, while a Danish blue cheese, like an ancient Ebenezer, can remind us of the bitterness of the cross. A tart Lorraine Swiss reminds us of our need to be holy. We learned last week that the blessed curd is an allegory of our total depravity and justification. If you can get something as noble as cheese from something as ignoble as a cat, then God surely is strong to save. After all if cheese is not noble and praiseworthy sustenance, why would the God of goats and grapes have so perfectly married it to wine which makes our hearts glad?

Wet Snow. Sick House. Week Six.

There you lay bright as death
cold and blue
Angelic eyes cracking the window
you move
our eyes cannot touch
yours are closed and mine are open
Its no fair exchange for you to look out and let nothing in
you fall again
your messianic pose strewn across the madonna couch
The snow fell but it didn't stay
Somehow it turned the couch and you and everything blue.
These sham winters and false springs leave us could and wet.
They freeze our hearts and melt our heads.

Sitting in the back at Trinity

Little shrieks punctuate the constant humm
of infants mewling and puking in their mothers arms
little damnations landing on wrists
little salvations entering mouths
These have tasted the heavenly gift
These rejoice in singing all the more
they can't sing parts
they spill juice
they shift in their seats
they push their sisters
They unite us to Christ
Become like the least of these and enter rest
These little cries are the sounds of the covenant
They reverberate of the roof of heaven
They batter down the doors of hell

Goodwill, Laundromat, Basement

There’s a place I go in hopes that giants have died.
That I may plunder the treasure which they have cast beside.
To clothe from the cold my pale Polish hide.
And in style and comfort to the sunset I’ll ride.

There's a place where I take my stains.
Where I take my clothes for a spin and a drain.
With cameras and guitars we tickle our brains.
Then we leave in silver trains.

Heavy on my feet I land
In the room where I cannot stand.
We play at cards and food and band
me and the friends I find so grand.

Nominae Sanctorum

I thought I would get to watch the funeral. It threw me a bit, but then again I don’t know why I thought I would. So much for stereotypes. There probably isn’t even an escalator. The line is long and its getting longer. I shouldn’t have expected an immediate audience, but I didn’t expect to wait so long. This is worse than the DMV.
The line stretches far in front of me but suddenly I feel a jerk underneath my feet and I’m flying toward a white light. Imagine a friend a foot taller and a hundred pounds heavier than you lifting you up to hug you. There is a mild discomfort, not derived from the friends imposing bigness but from your shrinking smallness. The unseen embrace dragged me up and suddenly I was before the face of… something. I don’t know if it was God… I don’t think they let you see God that easy. Suddenly I heard a voice. Not with my ears. I don’t think ears work as well in heaven… If this is heaven. I heard the voice with my teeth; it was in my head. It asked me what my name was. I told him. Or it. Or her.
“My name is Mark.”
“No it is not.”
I’ve never hid from a disagreement, but to be disagreed with in my own head was a little galling. And what right had it to be in my head anyway?
“Really, then first why the Hell did you ask? And second, what do you think my name is?”
“I do not think your name is anything. I know what it is.”
I was having Lion King flashbacks.
“Then what is it?”
“Lee.”
Heaven is random.
“Why is that?”
“For the same reason your smile happens more to the left side of your face, hair will not grow on your upper lip, and one of your arms is a half inch shorter than the other. It is how our Father made you.”
I wouldn’t have minded giving up my crooked smile, barren lip or asymmetrical arms, but I really liked my name. It was actually my middle name, but as soon I could talk I asked that everyone called me Mark. I busted a friends lip when I was twelve because he promised he would never call me Mark. Before I got married I had my name legally rearranged to have Mark as my first name. Who wants to be Timothy anyway?
“You must have me mistaken for someone else.”
“Do you think I could be in your head and mistake you for someone else?”
It had me there.
“Well, I assure you my name is Mark.”
“That does not suit you. The name Lee fits you. Your name is the essential tooth on the key that will allow you into heavenly rest. Surely the name you have given yourself is not worth the alternative.”
“What if I think it is?”
Suddenly I was rushing down. A different embrace drew me down this time. This was the hug of a child exactly half your height slamming into you, doubling you over, making your stomach hurt. I was in hell. It was just how I pictured it. Or at least how Gary Larson pictured it. Finally something expected. Amid the stalagmites there was a small receptionist desk and behind this desk sat a shedevil who looked startling like my high school sweetheart. She looked at me with a knowing smile.
“Angela?”
“Mark?”
“Yeah, how are you?”
She didn’t reply, but smiled again and after a moment told me that I was expected. I noticed a door that may not have been when I arrived. She asked if I wanted something to drink, and as I began to answer she poured me a scotch. I couldn’t see where the bottle came from.
When I entered the office, a ruddy man with dapper clothes and slick hair stood to greet me. He had the characteristic twin bumps on his forehead. Just like I wanted. His manner reminded me of my favorite uncle. He grabbed my hand gave it two solid pumps and asked me how my scotch was.
“Smooth.”
“Oh, how rude of me, I am the Morning Star.”
“I’m Mark.”
“Wonderful name… He tried to take it didn’t He?”
“Yeah… how did you know?”
“He tried to take mine as well.”
I liked him. He spoke to me, not in me. He liked my name.
“I thought it would be hotter.”
“Celestial subterfuge. I can make it warmer if you wish, but we try to keep it as comfortable as possible.”
He walked to a thermostat on the rough stone wall that I’m almost sure was not there when I entered. It didn’t bother me for some reason. My perception of Hell must simply be more fluid than I expected. It was warm and soft; not at all like the sterile fixedness of heaven, or wherever I just was.
“No its fine.”
“I’ll tell you what, Mark, why don’t you come work for me. Angela isn’t working out so well, and I could use a good man like you around.”
My mother had no idea what Hell was like. She couldn’t possibly understand that Father O’Toole was off his little Irish rocker.
“I’d love a job. I couldn’t imagine standing around singing for the rest of my life.”
I always hated singing.
“And anyways, who wants to spend eternity as Lee.”
At this the Morning Star burst out in uncontrollable laughter.
“Lee? They tried to name you Lee? Those sneaky bastards didn’t pull the ‘key’ bit on you did they?”
I nodded my assent and he responded with another great peel of laughter.
“Listen Mark, keep your name, stay with me, you can’t imagine how quickly you can progress through the ranks down here.”
“Deal.”
As our hands touch I again felt the warm oversized embrace and the rush upwards. I landed in the white realm that I hand grown to hate and before me stood a rough wooden door. In the door there was cut out a silhouette as though a man exactly my size had just run through it. Through the Mark (or Lee) shaped hole I could see bright sunshine and green fields. My side of the door felt like a dentists office. The voice suddenly appeared this time not in my head but separate from me. It was covered in wings and eyes and had the rainbow shimmer of oil on pavement.
“Welcome back Lee.”
“My name is Mark.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. It’s my name, damn it!”
Something in me twitched and I made a mad charge at the door. I bounced off my hole as if it were a semi-truck.
“Lee, this is your last chance. What is your name?”
I hated him. I hated him so much I wanted to rip out every feather, gauge out every eye, burn off his glimmer.
“My name is Mark!”
With that came another head-butt to the groin and I was falling, like a comet, burning up, smoldering. I collapsed in a heap on the cave floor. Angela and her desk were gone. I longed for a glass of water much less scotch. I wasn’t on fire. I was fire. I wasn’t in pain. I was pain. I was eternally separated from anything good. I looked up and saw standing over me the Morning Star. Everything I loved about him was now odious to me. He was changed. Grotesquely huge, his horns were gone, and he had become ghostly pale. With a feverish giggle he looked at me with a glint in his eye.
“Welcome back, Lee, we’ve been waiting for you.”

I'm Alive!

So I am alive, and here is some art to prove it.

This, my friends, heralds a new direction for this bog. I believe I will use it to also regale you with my food adventures. Once I recover from my food coma I will tell you all about a fantastic place called Fogo de Chao.
T