At Geghard monastery there was a tree out by the Goght river that was covered in torn pieces of cloth, one for each prayer, one for each suffering or desire. In Lost in Translation I noticed that when Charlotte went to Kyoto she tied a white ribbon to a tree covered in such ribbons. This highlights both the unity of faith--trees, prayers, beauty-- while also illustrating how the Japanese are clean and uniform and scrappy Armenians rip up whatever they have. I went for torn fabric printed with kimonos--oh, meaning out of nothing!-- and tied four strips to a tree on Logan Blvd. One for each of the women I am praying for these days, one of whom is me.

Which is ridiculous. While I am unemployed, very nearly broke, and heavily in debt, my blessings would choke a tree. I got to go to the Lake County fair with three beautiful boys, their Top Tier Nanny, their useless father, and their Bulgarian housekeeper. We saw the monster truck races. During the car-crushing portion of the show, when you think that the monster truck will NOT be able to crush the minivan and will, in fact, tip over and kill the brave driver, the monster called Nemesis met his match in a Monte Carlo. His back crumpled, the ginormous tire exploded, it seemed as though all was lost for Nemesis and brave driver Tom. He managed to right the truck and emerged from the cab like a returning astronaut. I went with the crowd, the screaming, the jubilation; I threw my elephant ear on the court; we all knew that Man had finally conquered Beast--the beast man had made for $100,000 of his retired parent's money.

I am a dumbass and forgot my camera, so to commemorate our day I took a picture of the oldest beautiful boy in his monster truck PJs. There was nothing of fashion note at the fair; just good people eating fried cheese dipped in ranch dressing and getting hustled by carnies. Useless Dad (from Toronto, the city-sized version of a desk zen garden) felt that the people were trashy. He is wrong, and after the whole Ironic Mullet craze of the past few years, I'm not about to take pictures of a rat tail or a Calvin-peeing-on-something shirt. Leave poor white folk to be, I say. You have your own troubles.

Mere hours ago I was deep in it. I was at St. Sabina church, holding out my hand and calling to Jesus, whose name is hung in neon over the alter. All the themes--connectedness, truth, suffering--they were all touched on; I was where I needed to be. Next time, however, I will know to take a snack, maybe do as Sister recommends and come in a few hours late, thereby skipping part of the first song. There were lots of choruses, many things said that drew lines between ideas in my lonely heart; Pastor had us all yelling at each other that It Is Coming Down The Block. The miracle we need. It is on our street; now I am doubly glad that my ribbons are on that tree, so that my miracle knows where to turn off Logan.