Letters from Narya, Part II

Dear Blame-It-on-the-Hippies Child-Abuse-Apologists in the Catholic Church:

You are shameless at best, and possibly evil.

I am part of the so-called baby boom. The tail end of it, to be sure, but I was born before 1960 and I remember where I was when both Kennedy brothers were shot. I also remember what has been called the "sexual revolution," and, indeed, I would say that I benefited mightily from it. (And I don't mean in the objectified and pronulated way that young women today supposedly "benefit" from some changes in sexual mores that have the net effect of requiring that said women spend even more time and energy pleasing men.) While patriarchy was by no means overthrown--not even close--there were a couple of whiffs of fresh air before the megatheocraticcapitalist system clamped down again. In this somewhat fresher air, people--ALL people, not just people with a penis--felt more free to experience themselves as sexual beings for their own benefit. At no time was anyone encouraged to molest children.

This was never, and will never be, an acceptable expression of anything. The only institution that seems to regard sex with children to be acceptable is the Catholic church. Please do not protest that you do not find it acceptable, because your actions speak much louder than your words. For decades, you have turned a blind eye to its occurrence in your ranks, and you have protected members of your association who commit these crimes. It looks and sounds like a criminal conspiracy to me.

And it's not the fault of hippies, or of people having sex without a patriarchal institution giving its seal of approval, or of Woodstock. Stop blaming others because you have bred and nurtured a group of child molesters.

Thank you--
Narya

Letters from Narya, Part I

Dear Piano-Playing-with-the-Windows-Open Neighbor:

You suck.

I understand that you may be playing for your own enjoyment, and, on some level, I applaud that. If there are deities, they could could certainly attest to my own amateur status in nearly everything I do. I have played sports--and, for that matter, an instrument, many decades ago--and I never achieved a level of competence that would cause someone to mistake me for a professional. I had fun, though, and, while I was doing those things, I tried not to inflict my fumbling efforts on people who weren't similarly fumbling.

You, however, play--badly!--for hours and hours on end, and you subject unwilling others to your efforts. If I sit in my sunroom--possibly my favorite spot in the whole place--during the months of the year the windows can be open, I am forced to endure your tuneless banging away. Even the Loaner Cat sleeps with her paw over her ears so she doesn't have to listen. Stop it, please. Close the windows when you play, or I may be forced to figure out in which apartment you dwell--across the street, I believe--and come visit you with an implement of destruction in hand.

Thank you--
Narya