Stream of consciousness

Why did Jack jump over the candlestick? I wonder if he knocked it over and inadvertently started the Great Chicago Fire. And all this time poor Mrs. O'Leary's cow got blamed.

I wonder if God is dead.

No, actually, I wonder how we can claim to know anything about God, really. Many of the self-evident characteristics of God are self-evident only because we are accustomed to seeing them, from a particular vantage point of faith. A skeptic, or even a believer with a different perspective of faith, will see other self-evident truths.

Even a person of faith has to admit that there is a progression of revelation about God's nature and personality in the Bible. Although there are psalms and passages in the prophets that bear out the same transcendent qualities of God that Paul writes about in his epistles, there's no denying that by the time of Christ, Judaism (and Christianity, its offshoot) have arrived at a very different understanding of the nature of God than was held by the ancient Hebrews at Mount Sinai. God had a moral quality even then, but he was far more nationalist and comes across as far more vindictive than he does by the time of later writers, such as 2 Isaiah.

Was God drawing us to a greater understanding of himself all along, or have we been making it up as we go along and feeling ourselves drawn toward a "higher consciousness" or some such other popular psychological bullshit?

Why is "Peter Peter Pumpkineater" such a morbid tale? It sounds like "Boxing Helena" or something else just twisted and sick, where Peter keeps his wife locked up in a pumpkin shell. Did he kill her and hide the body, or is he doing this because he's a small man who suspects his wife of infidelity and therefore asserts total control over her?

I think my oven is seriously messed up. This bread was supposed to be done in 45 minutes. I just checked ten minutes ago, close to the 8-minute mark, and the crust is only just starting to brown.

I love sourdough baking. So does my daughter Rachel, apparently. Yesterday she asked to start her own sourdough "pet," so we poured a little of the main starter into an empty peanut butter jar, fed it some flour, and let it sit in the fridge. Last night I added about half a cup of flour and some water, left it out all night, and this morning we made sourdough pancakes. She loves her pet, and named it Coma. She even wants to give her pet a birthday card when Coma turns 2.

My Uncle Dick died about a week ago. I'm going to his funeral tomorrow. Today, actually. Friday morning. I'm making that loaf of bread for his widow, my Aunt Barb.

Why doesn't anyone read nursery rhymes any more? I tried reading Mother Goose to Rachel last year, and they sucked. Maybe I should wonder why anyone ever read them.

I hate it when my computer crashes. I had a great, funny piece yesterday on how stupid it is to buy topsoil, and I lost the whole thing when the computer crashed.

Damn you, Bill Gates.

My brother complained that he doesn't like political jokes. I said, "Don't blame me. I voted for Kerry."