Published October 31, 2003 | 
An Update on St. Maria Goretti: Virgin. Martyr. Rape Victim
Girls pummel man who exposed himself
PHILADELPHIA, Pennsylvania (Reuters) –A man described by authorities as a known sexual predator was chased through the streets of South Philadelphia by an angry crowd of Catholic high school girls, who kicked and punched him after he was tackled by neighbors, police said Friday.
Rudy Susanto, 25, who had exposed himself to teen-age girls on as many as seven occasions outside St. Maria Goretti School, struck again on Thursday just as students were being dismissed, police said.
But this time, a group of girls in school uniforms angrily confronted Susanto with help from some neighbors, police said.
When Susanto tried to run, more than 20 girls chased him down the block. Two men from the neighborhood caught him and the girls took their revenge.
“The girls came and started kicking him and punching him, so I wasn’t going to stop them,” neighbor Robert Lemons told The Philadelphia Inquirer.
Susanto was later treated for injuries at a local hospital. Police said he would be charged with 14 criminal counts including harassment, disorderly conduct, open lewdness and corrupting the morals of a minor.
Copyright 2003 Reuters. All rights reserved.
Additional irony: St. Maria Goretti, virgin and martyr, was a little girl who died from an attempted rape.
From her website: Official Prayer to St. Maria Goretti
Oh Saint Maria Goretti who, strengthened by God’s grace, did not hesitate even at the age of twelve to shed your blood and sacrifice life itself to defend your virginal purity, look graciously on the unhappy human race which has strayed far from the path of eternal salvation. Teach us all, and especially youth,with what courage and promptitude we should flee for the love of Jesus anything that could offend Him or stain our souls with sin. Obtain for us from our Lord victory in temptation, comfort in the sorrows of life, and the grace which we earnestly beg of thee (here insert intention), and may we one day enjoy with thee the imperishable glory of Heaven. Amen.
And from her bio:
Lured by the passions of his day and nurturing the dark side of his soul with impious reading and thoughts, Alessandro Serenelli had been a thorn in lovely Maria’s side. He propositioned her on several occasions and harassed her with impure suggestions. On July 5, 1902, he would be denied no longer. As she once again rebuffed his sexual advance, shouting, “No! It is a sin! God does not want it!”, Alexander lunged to the deed, stabbing Maria 14 times.
You know, I really prefer the modern version.
Published October 30, 2003 | For My Friends in the North
Go outside. Look at the sky. The solar flares are sending you northern lights.
You can skip this if it’s raining.
Published October 29, 2003 | YES: I Am Writing
After the writing exercise, I’d found my pace and flow. Ideas and words poured forth — the natural result of all my preparation and effort, but still feeling miraculous. I’ve got a clear set of ideas to work with, and I know the structure I’m going to use now. It’s exhilarating, but it’s also the outgrowth of work, discipline, and persistence. Let’s not forget that; it’s all too easy to treat writing as a gift of the muse, as opposed to something I build with my hands and heart and guts.
Tonight I took my laptop to the pre-NaNoWrite-in at Dana Street Coffee Shop in Mountain View. There were at least 8 of us there — a couple of new writers, plus five or six who were with us last year. And NaNovember hasn’t even started yet.
Now, I’m disposed to like Dana St. Coffee Shop. I bought my laptop there (and in fact saw the seller tonight and thanked him again for such a wonderful machine). I also snagged a wide-lapped wooden chair to sit in.
However, we are not going back — ever. They have free wireless Internet access, but no working electrical outlets. They turned them off, if you please, to chase people away; apparently some folks were staying too long and not buying anything. Have they never heard of just talking to the deadbeats?
There was also no food, no air-conditioning, and they closed early. I told the counter guy that they’d lost a stack of customers who would have been there weekly, buying coffee and food and tipping generously. Idiots.
I still got a lot of work done, but I came home relatively early.
Then Michele called. Our rector has just announced that she is retiring. Michele knows how I love Margaret. I was sad enough to cry at the news. I’ll have to show her somehow what she has meant to me.
But I’m OK. And I’m still writing. That’s what matters, after all.
Published October 28, 2003 | Published October 28, 2003 | Published October 28, 2003 | NO: I Am Not Writing
Spent the morning doing a small proofreading job, so I’m not feeling writerly. Under the ferocious proofreading/editorial gaze, ideas shrivel like banana slugs in a salt mine. (It took me five minutes to write that, and I’m not satisfied with it.) (And now I’m thinking it would be funnier if I showed the changes with strikethroughs. Ah hell. And a gaze isn’t comparable to a mine. Fuck it.)
Think of this as a writing exercise.
Likes:
colors: Nature colors. Purple loosestrife (yes, I know what damage it does). The watercolor skies, cloud melting into air, of March. Fall in Pennsylvania. The softened, bleached tones of November before the snow falls. The fading of green to blue to slate of mountain ranges on a grey day. The molten, almost hallucinatory green under basswood trees on a sunny day. Old stone, old brick. Blue shadows on snow, rusty iron, smoke, slate, lichen, moss, turned earth. The palomino hills of California. The bone-colored moon rising in daylight, the golden moon rising just past sunset.
smells: And you thought I was overwriting about color. You poor sucker, you.
Lilacs in the rain. The iron tang of snow in the air. (Yes, you can really smell it coming.) Burning leaves, burning wood. (Not a romantic smell to me so much as a homey one.) Fresh ginger, nutmeg, vanilla, basil in the sun, and all the spices I’m not allergic to. Tomato vines. California’s thousand fragrances, from rosemary to redwood to eucalyptus. Miso soup – it smells like Grandma’s house, though it shouldn’t. The flesh and sweat of my lover. Hot tea. My own hands after I’ve been peeling lemons, limes, oranges. Plowed fields. Barns. Yes, I like the smell of cow manure, especially when it’s been spread on the fields on a March day – when it’s starting to warm up, but there’s still snow in the sheltered places. Vetiver, oakmoss, sandalwood, petitgrain, all the essential oils I use in making soap. The first whiff of salt in the air when you get near the ocean. Rising bread, baking bread. Dusty old stores, the kind with wooden floors. Especially if they’re selling hardware or used books.
sounds: “Hi, honey, you’re home” from any of my housemates. Gabriel’s purr of recognition. Most church music. Lots of other kinds of music. The wind. That sweet thunk when a bat connects perfectly with a ball. Someone I love reading aloud. Someone with a good voice reading aloud. Thunder – I love thunderstorms, and I miss them. A friend or family member’s voice on the phone.
art: “It’s a stunning exploration of negative space. Do you know why it’s a stunning exploration of negative space?”
“No, why?”
“Because Jesus wants it that way.”
(Five extra points to anyone who can identify the film.)
interests: (Alphabetized for your reading pleasure; not exhaustive by any means) Arthurian legends, baseball, brain/mind link, bread baking, California, cats, cross-stitch, depth psychology, dream landscapes, edges, fat, feminism, gender, geology, ghost stories, God, grief, herbs, history of war, home, intentional communities, labyrinths, landscape, mythology, nanotechnology, nanowrimo, occasionally getting enough sleep, old houses, overdyed silk, psychology, PTSD, publishing, reading, rebellion, religion, ritual, rocks, sacramental theology, sacred places, semiotics, soapmaking, textiles, theology, trees, true crime, used book stores, vampires, Victorian era, writing, writing the disaster.
stuff: Books. Things with sentimental value. I never threw anything away until I moved out here, and I’m still wading through boxes.
lit: Almost any genre – but it must be well-written.
dislikes/allergies: Not the same thing at all. (That wasn’t what I meant at all.)
Dislikes: Sloppy craftsmanship. The refusal to see, grow, think, or feel. Emotional manipulation and nonconsensual power games.
Allergies: Damn near everything.
OK, now I’m writing.
Published October 28, 2003 | From a Poem by Mary Oliver
Yes.
Published October 28, 2003 | Published October 27, 2003 | Published October 23, 2003 |