Remember, o man, from dust thou art, and to dust thou shalt return

This evening, in the pellucid February sky, high in the west, the goddess Venus rules, while beneath her, the crescent Moon scarcely clears the hills. At first I thought the planet was a plane, she was so bright. The President gave a good speech last night, the Dow was only down by 80 points today, and the bridge traffic wasn't too bad. As Quist used to say, "Be thankful for the world you're given."

And yet so many people today were rushin about, on the road, on the sidewalk, in the A & P, wearin those little black smudges of ash on their foreheads. Skeptics must be thinkin it's a scandal how those ashes don't change behavior, how church-goers fuss and fight like everybody else. They crinkle up their noses and marvel at the frailty of the human will, how quickly we revert to worryin over the cares of the day, and how badly we try to screw our neighbors, even though we know it's wrong. Mebbe the Skeptics are the ones who wanna believe those ashes are magic.

Big Father Dom talks about forgivin ourselves first. "Only then can you forgive others." Even though I know what he's sayin -- at least I think I do -- I haven't figgered out how to do it. So I stopped gettin those ashes some time ago. I know what's in store for me. Same as everybody else. You think it helps to wear that knowledge on the outside of the head, poot?