"And My Heart, Isabella.."

It's not like I usually experience any particular shivers in the early afternoon hours of Good Friday, though in previous years I'd try to participate in the Way of the Cross walk for justice. It's not like I care about Pope Benedict's scandals or the stages of Catholic guilt, particularly being a mediocre Protestant for whom guilt is worth little more than a punchline or two. But the sky clouded over at 1 p.m. April 2, and I could feel every effort at trying to slice through the grief experienced by proxy when I heard about Matthew Perry dealing with his Alzheimer's mother in Michigan. Grief is the dragon that unconditional joy is called upon to slay, and this shit's hard.

This was the kind of week that required One Great Big Conspiracy to be resurrected from the dead, to slay Guardians of the Free Republics while keeping one eye out for the Hutaree cult. This was the kind of week that required a rage against the iPad and all the fetishism it implied. This was the kind of week when I sat quietly listening to Bill Callahan sing mournful songs about "no love without obstacle." Obstacles are speedbumps or brick walls to route around or dragons to slay or the schism that makes the difference, and they are blessed. The straight line is the cheat, the obstacle is the path to love.

So stand by for a few hours of grief, no doubt to be followed by a weekend of sunshine and unconditional joy. Isabella, we are rising.