'Jesus Died for Somebody's Sins, but Not Mine ' - P. Smith

I do not own a pair of snowshoes. They would come in handy today. Chicagoland is a blizzard of white. More is on the way. I'm wavering between hunkering in, or strapping on my trail runners and taking on the elements for a little physical exertion. I believe in 'positive stress,' subjecting my body to a little hard living. It may be my Catholic upbringing, the idea that suffering is a necessary condition: I must pay for sins earned and unearned, kind of like paying taxes on my income. Sister Mary Aquanata (third grade) made it clear that I too helped kill Jesus. Damn, every impure thought I can come up with, (Paris Hilton?) is just another thorn in Jesus' crown! I know I'm gonna have to account for it all in the 'Great Whatever!'

I cracked Carla up a couple of days ago with this line: 'I live in my own private hell too.' It is funny, especially coming from me. Her response: 'Yeah, well, why do you always have that smirk on your face?' Good question. Maybe the idea of hell is funny? (Jean Paul Satre - hell is other people). Anyway, let it snow. Let all this whiteness come down and obliterate all the guilt, all the pain, all the fear. This moment, right now, this is hell, this is paradise, this is it all rolled into one.

So, anyway, I've decided, I'm hunkering in, I'll save the exertion for another day. I'm thinking another pot of coffee, a hot bath, a good book (Samuel Fulllers 'A Third Face'), rock and roll on the cd player (Neil Young, Drive by Truckers, Elvis - he died for our sins too) plus some editing, and writing. FDR: 'we have nothing to fear but fear itself.'